Category Archives: New York City

Gallery 636

[The Woman. Photo is mine.]

We sometimes encounter people, even strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight. Somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.

~~Fyodor Dostoyevsky

I’d seen the El Greco, the Tiepolo and the Manet. But, what I really needed was a bench, so hard to find sometimes in certain rooms of a certain Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue in New York City. It was three weeks and a few days since I came home from the hospital following a spinal fusion. I was taking a risk by wanting to walk through a few galleries of the newly reopened European Paintings 1300–1800. Mariam and I strolled through the rooms, I’d stand for as long as I could, then I would scout the terrain for the much-needed bench. And that’s what brought me to Gallery 636. I positioned myself opposite a large canvas. I soaked up the art. Furthermore, I did what I usually do when I’m viewing a pastoral landscape–I put myself in the scene. I would walk the leas, sit beneath the Lombardy Poplars and listen to the brooks and the birds and the laughter of distant souls. I leaned slightly (my back, remember) to look beyond a woman who has stepped in front of the painting.

Then it happened.

She turned to me, her red hat breaking the monotony of the white walls, and smiled. Not a “sorry, am I in your way?” kind of smile. It was something different. A knowing smile.

Whoa. At this point, I need to interject something in this narrative. I am seventy-six years old and walking oddly, even funny. Grey hair. Scruffy beard. I could be her grandfather. Let’s go back… There was a time, in my mind, not so long ago, when I was datable. (I’m happily married, so this is a memory of a life I lived prior to 1990).

All those years ago… I would have followed her, stood next to her, talked to her, bought her a wine, sat beside her on the steps of the MET, gone somewhere with her. In my present life, I rarely, and I stress, rarely get a compliment from a woman, a stranger.

Crossing Amsterdam Avenue sometime in the 1990s. I stood on the curb. Light changed. I walked out. A woman turned to me and said: “Excuse me, but you have beautiful hair”.

I happened to look to my left, toward the exit. She turned and smiled. Mariam saw the whole thing. “She certainly noticed you,” she said. “Guess so,” I said.

Which brings me to my whole point. Why did she smile at me? Did she recognize me? I have taught hundreds of New York City kids in my twenty years of being an educator. A former student? Perhaps. Someone I once dated? No, she was too young.

Rested. A gallery away. The El Greco. Storm Over Toledo. One of my favorites. There she was. And, and she smiled again. Again, the knowing smile. The faintest hint. The tiniest hint…of what? She saw Mariam. Maybe her smile was for her too. She saw Mariam, so it wasn’t a flirty smile. It wasn’t a come hither kind of thing. So, what was it? Why was this young, attractive woman smiling at me through several galleries of the MET, on a bustling Friday evening. I noticed that she didn’t smile at anyone else.

Only me. Or maybe that’s what I let myself believe. That a woman saw something in me that made her comfortable enough to acknowledge my existence. Many men live for that sort of attention, especially men at my age. Our faded charms are now erased by wrinkles and furrows and a stooped posture. Once we were heroes, knights, mountaineers, doctors, lawyers, walkers, poets and writers. Now, we are old men who sit and think.

Just before the final door that would be our exit, our way back to the real world of a chilly February evening and taxis, buses, and people. But, did I want to lose this moment? I snapped a quick photo of her contemplating a Vermeer-like woman, in oil, on a 20″ x 30″ canvas.

I turned and walked to the Grand Staircase. The steps that would return us to the evening.

I knew I would never see this woman again. That’s a strange thought when you look closely. You see another human. A connection of sorts is made. Then back into nothingness.

As I made my way down the stairs, I tried to find something in the encounter. Is there such a thing as meaningful coincidences, serendipity and chance encounters that aren’t really chance? Why did our paths cross? What did she have to say to me that was left unsaid?

We settled into the taxi and I braced myself for a bumpy ride through Central Park and up Broadway to our apartment. I thought about the woman, and I wanted to keep this memory (it was becoming a memory as soon as I walked down the granite steps to Fifth Avenue) fresh and in my mind. I thought about the woman.

I thought about a red hat.

The Last Quarter Moon Gives A Pale Wintry Light/Late Night Thoughts Following Spinal Surgery

{Author’s Note: This blog post contains a photograph of an x-ray of my lower back taken six days after my spinal fusion. If the image of hardware screwing together two of my vertebra is irksome to you, my gentle readers, then feel free to search for another fine read. I have 645 in the bank. Find a good one and enjoy, just…please don’t check out A Brief History of Chains and Chain-making. It’s good, but there are other good ones out there, and far, far too many people have checked that one out. I have put this graphic at the end of the post for obvious reasons. The lead image is a generic photo taken from Google. Be warned. Enjoy.}

[A surgical room. Place: unknown. My room was more densely packed with instruments that went “Ping”. Source: Google search.]

An idea that fixed him to one spot was that life was a death dance, and that he had quickly passed through the spring and summer of his life and was halfway through the fall. He had better do a better job on the fall because everyone on earth knew what winter was like.

–Jim Harrison “Farmer”.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

–Dylan Thomas “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”.

I removed my Bluetooth earphones and shifted my body up against the pillows that were packed hard against the headboard of our bed. No relief. The pain was white-hot. Intense. Bitter. Sharp. I reached for the small plastic amber bottle of painkillers. I shook it. Not a lot left. I put the bottle back and stared out at the patio. The half disk of the moon lit the patio with a soft light. Enough to see the BBQ, the umbrella, the covered table and the sturdy English Ivy, hanging out, wanting to grow, waiting for the spring warmth.

I had been listening to a podcast called A Voice From Darkness. The narrator, a young man on a road trip, described driving through New Mexico and suddenly finding himself in a city that appeared out of nowhere. He told of becoming hopelessly lost in a labyrinth of passages, streets, tunnels, sidewalks and dark lanes. He was filled with panic. Where did the city come from? It wasn’t Santa Fe. No indeed. And it wasn’t Albuquerque, either.

I looked out at the pale light and the patio.

I pondered what I had heard.

What the guy in the podcast (Category: Fantasy/Horror) was describing was uncannily familiar. I had the exact same experience, in many dreams, of being lost and confused in an endless series of false paths and empty halls and deserted passages. Often, it was set in New York City. I began having these dreams after moving to northern New York State in 2011. Sometimes the landscape was post-apocalyptic in nature. Sometimes it was a version of my hometown of Owego, NY. It was all too close to me. Too close to my own experiences. How did this storyline emerge from me and find its way into a podcast?

Recently, I have found myself having an abundance of reemerging thoughts and memories that I have not felt in decades. Tiny memories of tiny events–if any events in life can be thought of as tiny. In some weird Proustian way, I can smell a little bit of food and find myself back in 1954. I can hear music of a sort that takes me back to the sweet smell of a fifteen-year-old girl in high school. She’s in my arms, and I’m dancing with her in the gym after the big game. It’s 1964. A woman on Amsterdam Avenue is wearing retro bell-bottoms. It’s 1977.

Was I being set up for something? Why was a trickle of long-buried experiences flowing through the levee in my mind that separates the past from the present? Is this what happens to all people as they age? As they see less of the light and more of the twilight?

I reflected on my memories.

Wait! Do I want, really want to expose my inner fears and seemingly morbid thoughts and force them into the minds of my loving readers? They have their own problems. I can’t add to anyone else’s anxiety. That’s not what I do these posts for. I’m here to entertain and amuse, not deflate and depress.

I mulled over my thoughts.

The solution is likely in the extent of my pain. Pain can do odd things to one’s psyche. It can energize and it can terrify. It can lay you low, and it can cattle-prod you to attention. Make you laugh while you cry out. Run when you want to stop running, and get up when you’d rather sit. And sleep in quiet repose instead of writhing in a pool of nerve endings.

And it can remind you of your mortality. Slap you upside the head and say: You’re not twenty-one anymore. “You’re not thirty-three or forty-seven. You’re seventy-six, soon to be…well, do the math”.

Walt Whitman wrote something…

I paraphrase.

Grass. The beautiful uncut hair of graves.

One of my avocations is being a volunteer for Find-a-Grave.com. I get a request to photograph the headstone of someone. The request may come from a relative who lives somewhere on the map but west of New Jersey, who will never plan to make the trip to New York State to visit Aunt Polly’s grave. So, I do the deed. And, more often than not, I get a thank-you email. They are grateful. I am happy. Their family tree fills out, and I had a chance to walk through the uncut hair.

The uncut hair. As I searched for the requested headstone, I often thought of grass as a shroud. But not hair. I get the analogy now. The earth is so very old that perhaps there are only a few places where we do not tread on a forgotten grave.

I mused over these thoughts.

The patio is still bathed in that pale light. I’m tired, but I have a plan. I will listen to one more song by Nanci Griffith: Late Night Grande Hotel.

“I’m just learning to fly away again.”

I will take my headset off and play one game of solitaire on my iPad.

Then I will go on Reddit and read an article I saw earlier:

A Cool Guide To Escaping Killer Bees

Only then will I pull the covers to my chin. Sip ice water and fluff my squishy pillow. Close my eyes and look out at the pale light on the patio.

And as I fall into sleep, fall hopefully into a sweet sleep… I find myself thinking of my hometown. Owego.

It’s that old blue line that you can never go back home…

I don’t know why I always come here in my dreams…

I only come here to remember my dreams.

–Sarah Jarosz

[R-Before. See the offset? L-After. See the Titanium screws? Photo is mine.]

The Gravity of Manhattan: Three Worlds

[Upper East Side Buildings. Photo is mine.]

Do you know what the sounds of this city are? Screams. All those buildings are gray with sadness.

~~ Soji Shimada

As I walked down the street from Broadway, I paused to listen…

When I secured a teaching position in New York City in the very early 1990s, I was working as a temp at IBM in Endicott, NY. I did not like the job testing circuit boards very much, so I was quite pleased to be moving to the City. I shared my news with a fellow temp, expecting a “good luck” or “good for you”, but instead I saw him scowl and heard him say: “Do you know how many people were murdered in that cesspool last year?”

I walked away from him and his rude remark. But I took solace in the fact that in a few months, I would be living in the Big Apple. And, months later, I was looking south toward the WTC and the Empire State Building from my 26th floor studio. I was lucky.

I never did find out how many people were killed.

Yes, I paused to listen. The truth is that I didn’t hear any screams. But the buildings are gray and there is a certain sadness inherent in this city. It’s not new. It’s been here since the Dutch had a colony. (Some people I’ve talked to over the years held a firm belief that the WTC, Ground Zero, the Freedom Tower seemed to have a certain negative energy. Cold, malevolent. I’ve felt it myself.)

The city exerts a certain gravity that is more profound than many of the world’s densely populated centers. I’ve heard a woman crying in the building where I first lived. I’ve seen angry people on the streets, in the subways and in the parks.

Furthermore, I’ve listened. There are three different (maybe more) levels of life buried in the city’s quiet roar.

Dawn. The sun, rising over Queens, sometimes reflects off windows and makes it appear like multiple sunrises. It’s quiet. A few Uber’s picking up couples, head east to JFK or LGA. Students are heading to the nearby schools, are not loud yet. They sip lattes and gently jostle one another. It’s quiet.

In the brightness of the day, the taxis roar up and down Broadway. The school kids, loud and rough with each other (boys) or reaching a high C with their exuberance (girls). The smell of cannabis drifts along the avenues. The rap music blares too loud for my seventy-six-year-old ears.

On chilly nights in January, when the mists hang over the Hudson River and the sun sets too early, a special melancholy pervades the air. Sometimes I fear it. Sometimes I enjoy and absorb the quiet world of the dark streets and empty alleys. Cats screech. Distant dogs bark. A siren.

But what else does one expect in mid-winter? Scarves of wool, coats of down, can not hold back the river winds. The survival mechanism is to be found in the heart and the belief that spring is not far away and a new cycle of hope and joy. Love, forgiveness, warmth, laughter and a kiss or two can do wonders to hold back the shadows.

There are no screams, unless you really, really listen. But they are voices from a history that began so many yesterdays ago and extend back in time. The sounds, the voices, the humanity can, if you put your ear to the pavement, can take us back to the forests and farms of a pre-colonial Manhattan. Keep listening, and you will find yourself back to the primordial sea, from which we all were born.

I’ve heard the surf at Coney Island. I wonder how intense the quiet was on the shores of that ancient sea.

{A postscript: A few hours ago, I walked out of the 5th Avenue door of Mount Sinai Hospital after a routine endoscopy (I’m okay, thanks). We hailed a Yellow. The ‘hired’ light on the roof was not lit. He pulled up and asked Mariam where we were going. I thought he was going to pull to the corner and let the woman out. She was sitting in the backseat. Then he would take us to the west side. Mariam opened the back door. I stood back for the woman to get out. I was not a little shocked to find the seat empty! But I saw her through the window. Inside, I told Mariam about the woman as we crossed Central Park. I anticipated her comment. It was not a reflection of you, I said. You have a red parka. She didn’t show any red. Besides, I said, you were at the wrong angle for a reflection to be possible (I was a science teacher for years).

So, who was this woman? I did see her. I have an idea about this, but that’s another blog for another day.}

[Nighttime cityscape. Photo is mine.]

Better Late Than Never: A Fairy Tale of New York

[Shane MacGowan. Photo by Martyn Goodacre/Getty Images]

Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.

~~Edward Bulwer Lytton

I love music. The older I get, the more varied my tastes have become. Spotify is my second home. But, I have a problem.

Many times I have forged new trails in the snowy slopes of the Juneau Icefield, Alaska. I led the way. When my friend, Greg, and I began rock climbing near New Paltz, NY, I led the way. When I X-Country Skied across a frozen lake in Pennsylvania, I was alone, so I led the way.

But, with music, I never led the way. I was, most often, following someone else’s lead. A perfect example was some time in the early 1960s. My friend, Jimmy, came over to our house one day holding a vinyl LP.

“You should hear this guy,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll put in on our Hi-fi.”

“Whoa,” I said a few minutes later. “This guy can’t sing at all. He’s no Fabian. Who is this?”

“Bob Dylan,” he said.

The rest is history. Dylan became my #1 Poet/Hero/Songwriter/Philosopher. I am Dylan’s Influencer. Back in the day, Jimmy, was the Influencer. But I never learned my lesson. I never seem to discover new talent by myself. For many years my working philosophy was that if it wasn’t Dylan, the Stones or the Beatles, then it somehow wasn’t worthy of my time. But, that’s history. Now, on Spotify, I find an artist and download a song or two. I see who they are playing with, and I continue following leads. I’ve rarely been disappointed where my wandering has taken me.

In the last dozen years, I’ve had a musical Library of Congress-person enter my life. His name is Bob Goldstein, and he is the loving husband to my daughter, Erin. His musical knowledge is the stuff of legend. After every visit to Orting, WA, I came away with a list of CD’s to buy or artists to download. If the State of Washington had a law that sets a limit on the number of CD’s one person can own, Bob is clearly guilty. I stand in awe of Bob. He is truly a leader when it comes to finding new talent.

So, in the spirit of the recent holidays, I found a playlist titled: Indie Christmas. Indie artists are among the most cutting edge but underrated talents out today. Today’s music, by the way…?? Try going into a Starbucks on any given day at any given time. [The company used to provide an ambience that was suited for conversation, writing, reading or just thinking. Like the cafés of Paris or London.] The music is the most insipid and relentlessly awful noise that could, if you don’t take care, make your ears bleed.

So, don’t ask me about modern pop music. My glare of pity will be your answer.

Well, on this Indie Christmas list was a band I had heard about several decades ago. The Pogues. My first impression, at the time, was that they were much too punk for me. Indeed, they are punk but with a mix of Irish/Celtic melodies. I gave them a long listen. They gave me gems. I was sold.

Now I have a new artist to follow. The lead man for the Pogues is Shane Macgowan. His style and energy is something to behold. I finally found someone of note, all by myself. I was not out there alone, though. My daughter, son, son-in-law, all know of the band. Yes, I found him/them, but I had to run to catch up with that once elusive bandwagon. That part wasn’t hard.

What is hard is that I won’t be able to follow Shane’s newer music. The man died a month and a day ago.

I love 99% of the songs I’ve heard, but the one that keeps me awake at night and thinking and listening during the day, is Fairy Tale of New York. Was it the holidays? Perhaps. Was it the lyrics? Yes.

It’s dark and heartfelt. It’s bawdy and chaste. A playful duet. A cutting accusation.

I read a comment: “This song can make you cry and dance with joy at the same time.”

That’s an achievement. So, to welcome in the New Year (and I hope a far better year than last), here is a link for you to enjoy. I strongly suggest googling the lyrics and following along so you can get the full measure of what Shane is saying.

Do enjoy and have a great New Year !

The Pogues – Fairytale Of New York (Official Video) – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com › watch

Dark Night/Dark Happenings

[A British tabloid. Photo: Google Search]

I can’t Imagine…

~~ Patrick Egan

It was 1980. I was teaching Oceanography and Earth Science at the Ridgefield High School in Connecticut.

Monday, Dec. 8, was a normal day of classes. Late that afternoon, Parent/Teacher Conferences were scheduled. I was a new faculty member and somehow I scored The Conference Room near the Main Office for my appointments. Parents came into the room, we discussed their child, I held the reports and we talked.

Me–“Oh, your student is doing just fine.”

Them–“Are you sure? She/He seems to distrust me now. Am I the enemy?”

Me–“No, it’s just hormones. You child will rediscover you in a few years.”

Them–“Oh, thank goodness.”

Then the darkness descended…

The parents came in and left. The dinner hour passed. The final dozen or so waited in the hall. A father and mother came in. He had a bandage on his forehead. We sat for a few minutes and I politely asked about the bandage.

Father–“You heard about the Stouffer Fire?” {Conference Center in Westchester Co. A fire broke out while a Corporation was have sessions. Twenty-six people were killed.}

Me–“Yes, of course.”

Father–“I was the last one out. The guy behind me died.”

I sat in silent shock. The academics of his (really good child) was suddenly put into a new perspective. The upcoming holidays, the father/husband and child flashed through my mind. There were more important things in life for this fortunate man than his child’s Earth Science grade.

Me–“I’m sorry. We’re done here. Go home. Have a special holiday.”

Father-“I most certainly will.”

My mood darkened…

After conferences, several teachers from the Science Department met in the Parking lot. The decision was made to go to a nearby pub and have dinner. So, we did…

We had nachos, tacos, refried beans and a few beers. Then the lights came on. The night manager told the crowd to please leave. There was a bomb scare. Get out!

So we did. In another parking lot, there were three of us left.

My co-teacher, Jeff and his house mate whose name I can not recall, said: “Hey Pat, why don’t you come over to our place for a dessert? It’s on your way home.”

I said: “Lead the way, Jeff.”

And things got even darker…

At Jeff’s house (Jeff was a musician with an album or two out there. It was his avocation. He taught Biology.) I plopped myself on the sofa and opened a final beer. Jeff went for a bowl of popcorn, some cheese and not a few crackers. His house mate, sat and ate with us and retired to bed. Jeff and I sat on the sofa and talked about the next day, and the upcoming holiday vacation. It was 10:30 pm. I began to think of going home to my room in the house of a teacher from the Ridgefield Junior High School.

In New York City, at the entrance to the Dakota Building, something very very wrong was about to happen…

I sat for a few minutes longer then found my coat. Jeff was in the kitchen attending to something. I stood in front of the TV. A news break.

On the screen, a news stringer from one of the City’s stations, was standing in Central Park West holding a mic. His update…

“John Lennon has been pronounced dead.”

I called Jeff. He stood in front of the screen. I never saw a person turn so completely white, so fast and so pale, in my life. He called his friend.

Ten minutes later I was driving home, just a few miles, but it took me ages.

I was somehow less innocent than I was at the start of my day. So many tragic things, so much pain, so much confusion. But, in a sense, the world became less innocent that night. The spirit of the 60’s, the excitement of the Beatles–it all seemed to die when Chapman pulled the trigger. He is sitting today in his cell at Green Haven Correctional Facility, probably unaware of the chain of events he set in motion. But, perhaps he is aware. And, if he is, is he sorry?

It doesn’t really matter, though.

It’s a “day the music died” again. In the years to come, there will be many days when someone’s music will die.

We’re all sorry.

[The last photograph of John. Taken by Annie Leibovitz on the afternoon of Dec. 8, 1980. He was also photographed naked, in the fetal position, on a bed, next to his beloved wife, Yoko Ono. Photo: Google Search.]

The Land of the Lost

Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?

Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?

Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

~~Elvis

[Source: Google Search]

Thanksgiving Day, 2023. New York City.

I volunteer to deliver meals to home-bound and health-compromised people on the Upper West Side. This is not about me, though. Normally I don’t say much about this, but without my sharing it with you, dear readers, I would have no context for my narrative.

I go to people’s apartments with the food. They open their door, sometimes wide and sometimes only a crack to take the bags. The rooms are warm, often cluttered, sometimes crowded, but usually empty. The old faces look at me with anticipation, never fear. They smile, they want to talk but they know you have to continue on to others.

A caregiver or a son or daughter wants the client to meet me, wave to me. I wave back. But the people who are alone are the ones who get the most attention from me. I want to make sure they hear my words. See me try to smile. Hear my holiday greeting.

[The bags of Thanksgiving dinners. Photo is mine]

There are many difficult things in life that must be endured. A painful ankle can be mitigated. A headache? Take a Tylenol. A sore neck requires a message or a blop of Ben-Gay (or something that really works). Lower back pain needs a great deal of care, but a good stretch or hot soak with Lavender Epsom Salts may take a bit off the edge.

But being alone is a dark place to dwell. I’m not speaking of a 30-something person who seeks quiet to escape the madness of life in this world. I’m talking the 66-year-old widow. The 75-year-old widower. The divorcee, the illegal immigrant, the homeless, the frightened, the mentally ill, the afflicted and the disenfranchised.

These are the people I cry for.

I was a teenager walking along a street in my hometown. 1964? Seems about right. I was heading for the Cookie Jar, the teen hangout. Cherry Phosphate, Ice cream and coke, french fries and the juke box…for a nickle. I passed the house of one of my classmates. There was a party. Music. Laughing and talking.

I wasn’t invited. But the sight took the wind out of my sails. Who would be at the Jar to talk to me? A few people sat in the booths. I didn’t really know them well. I left.

But I had a home to return to. A family and a warm bed. I was lucky. And I was young.

These days I seem to see the lonely people everywhere.

Ah, look at all the lonely people

Where do they all belong?

~~Lennon/McCartney. Eleanor Rigby

A pill won’t relieve loneliness. The hopeless feeling of knowing you have few or no friends is one of the real truths of life for many people.

But, it’s New York City, you may say. There’s 8.4 million people living here. How can one be alone? It’s not easy and it’s not hard. But one can be impossibly lonely in a massive crowd.

Call someone. Write to someone. Listen to someone.

Help another person to be less alone.

[Photo source: Google Search]

Have a warm Thanksgiving…

Another Day Another Something To Upset Me

[Sometimes I wish this was my life. Quiet, serene, contemplative and domestic. Myself, Mariam and, of course, Lassie. But, I’m not in this photo. It’s not 1949. It’s 2023. Source: Google Search.]

Late morning on this day. It’s November 14 and I had just left my surgeon’s office. He saw my foot, two and a half months after he replaced a joint, he saw my swelling but he couldn’t feel my reluctant pain. Its hanging on and won’t go away, like a bit of dandruff on a jet-black dinner jacket. I was with my wife who helped me from the curb to the street and then back up again. Where did we go? To Starbucks, of course. Where else do you go to stand with your cold brew and try to eat an Impossible Breakfast Sandwich? Where else do you go when you head to the restroom (caffeine is a diuretic), find a keypad, go back to the barista for the code only to be told the code was taped to the door above the keypad. The gods of ancient coffee houses smiled on me. We found a table.

I bit into the plant-based burger and sipped on my cold brew. I’d like to say that I was content…

The music in the store was playing great big band tunes, for about four minutes. Then it switched to something else entirely. The relentless ‘beat’ and the unintelligible song began to make my ears bleed. To say that was mindless, insipid and boring would be kind. None of these songs had human musicians backing them up. The synthesizer beat is relentless and boring enough to crush your mind. I then did what I always do when I’m stressed. I stare out of the large window to 6th Avenue. I looked for relief in the bustling crowd. People watching. A great way to spend lost minutes or missing hours. I was fairly content, until my eyes fell to a cardboard box just outside the window. A man was sitting next to it. I snapped a photo:

[The street from Starbucks. Sixth Avenue. Photo is mine.]

I read the words written with a blunt point Sharpie. No Family/Friends.

Maybe it was the chilly weather. Maybe the barometric pressure. Maybe the headlines and the lead stories on CNN, but my mood went down the toilet I had just peed in. (The one with the useless keypad). I felt a deep pain for the man on the sidewalk. Loneliness is cruel in a city of ten million. It’s cruel in the company of two. The more I looked at the hopeful hands of the man, the more my heart broke.

Where were his friends? Avoiding him? Dead? Moved away to Akron? Where did he go when he went home? Did he have a home? Was anyone there? How does one survive loneliness?

Up and down the river, so many boats do arrive.

But precious few deliver the goods we need to survive.

~~ Maria Muldar “I Never Did Sing You a Love Song”

Now look what I’ve done. I managed to squeeze two blogs into one. Not with intention. I would never shortchange you, my readers.

Both sentiments are bitter.

And both made me sad.

[Note: Pay attention to those who are unhappy. And, listen to music that enriches you, not confuses you.]

Word Games In The Time Of Cholera

It’s only words and words are all I have

To take your heart away.

~~The Bee Gees. Lyrics by Henry Priestman & Sean O’riada

[A Wordle puzzle from the N. Y. Times. Sometime in September, 2023]

If you backed away from your device while reading this post, its okay, rest assured. There is no Cholera pandemic. The last one (Covid) was hard enough. So, why the Cholera thing? I used it to grab your attention. The power of certain words is frightening. Once, while chaperoning a week-long field trip to Cape Cod in the 1980’s, I was the Person-in-Charge. We always had a teacher drive their own car in the event of an emergency. The motor coach wasn’t on site. A 7th grade girl had to make a visit to the local hospital for nothing really serious. No worries. Upon our return to the school in Stamford, CT., I was asked by an administrator if everything went without incident.

“Yeah, no problem. We just had to take a girl to the ER for Smallpox,” I said.

I had to help the admin up from the floor.

“S..S..Smallpox?” she managed to blurt out.

“Oh, sorry, I meant a flare-up of measles.”

Believe it or not, I continued to teach there for another few years. So why am I telling this to you? Its the power of words. Smallpox–Measles…for a moment they were the same to me. It may not have been measles, I just don’t recall. So, pardon my liberties with this narrative.

But, I digress.

I have been a crossword player for as long as Rome had Popes (hyperbole). When I began my teaching career in Pennsylvania in the 1970’s I lucked out with my schedules for several years in a row. My lunch period abutted a planning period which gave me more than ninety minutes to get in my MG Midget, buy a New York Times, drive across the river to Wilkes-Barre, go to a McDonald’s for a cheeseburger, fries and coffee. Armed with a sharpened #2 pencil, I would find a hidden booth and get down to work. This was my life for several years.

Before long I moved onto the harder stuff. The Sunday Times crossword. This is a notorious graveyard for word people. I’ve seen grown men reduced to tears, marriages broken, bargains made at lonely crossroads with Satan, farms mortgaged and rings pawned for the power to solve the Sunday Killer. I recall taking my daughter to Quebec City in the 1980’s. We were driving through Maine. At our campsite, after dinner and a short evening walk, she would retire to her little pup tent with a flashlight to read The Witch of Blackbird Pond. I would adjust the Coleman lantern so the light was on the picnic table. A small campfire sent a fragrant scent my way once in awhile, obeying the shifting breezes. I popped open a can of Moosehead Ale, got two #2 pencils, folded the Sunday magazine section to the puzzle and lost myself for an hour. An hour later, I sensed movement near me, beyond the glare of the Coleman. I looked up. A large, furry thing strolled between me and my daughter. It was a black bear. I froze. It passed by and vanished into the woods. I called to Erin. “We just had a bear come through”. She got back to her book. I finished the puzzle.

But not before the word BEAR resounded throughout the campground. It had been heading for the refuse cans. Lights were lit. People scurried about.

The power of one word energized the sleepy campers.

~~

Several years ago, I noticed everyone was talking about SUDOKU. I thought it was a type of sushi, which I don’t eat. When I found out that it involved numbers, I was not interested. I’m very weak in math and arithmetic (is there a difference?). But its not my fault. The nuns didn’t teach it right. (I’ve dined out on that excuse for my deficiencies more than once.)

~~

So, a short time ago I was half sitting/half lying on my bed with my surgalized right foot elevated. Helps the swelling, I was told. I stared out of my bedroom window and surveyed our patio. It was overcast, gloomy actually. The monsoon that swept through the City today had abated, a little. On Alexa, my Spotify was playing Indian Love Song by Slim Whitman. Man, that guy could yodel. My eyes fell on a paperback lying on the window shelf. It was a Crossword Dictionary. I grabbed it and leafed through a few pages. How did there get to be so many words in the English language? It was awesome. I was familiar with many of these. Who can forget EMU or GNU after you’ve spent years doing the crossword? Other words I use a lot danced before my eyes. ERICACEOUS, SALACIOUSNESS and the oft used PINNATIPARTITE. And there was one words I use nearly everyday, if not every hour…NYMPHOMANIACAL.

[The book. Photo is mine]

I should mention that I was an avid Scrabble player. Not so much the board game, but the one you get as an app. The same goes with Words With Friends. I stopped playing them for several reasons:

1–I don’t have a lot of friends.

2–I got sick of the ads. This is where I got smart. Bear with me, my readers. I got so annoyed by having to view hours of ads for online games that I would never play. Games where I get to mow down advancing Zombies with a gun that Rambo would have trouble holding. Or, waifs with a bundled baby who is thrown out in the snow by her cheating husband. And how many times should I have to click NO, or an X to indicate I’m not interested? Five clicks to convince the word-game-people that I don’t want to play Candy Crush Saga. I cried ‘Enough’! I walked away from them like a bad date. But, I came back to those two games out of boredom. The kind of boredom that creeps in at 3:00 AM. Only other insomniacs would understand. But I figured out a way to block those stupid, inane ads…I would outsmart those ads people. I would pay $3.99/month to have them removed! Am I clever or what?

~~

I lived in England for a year in the 1980’s. I used to read the Guardian newspaper every day. I tried to solve the British-style of crosswords and I failed horribly. In the last several years I tried again to conquer them…then success. It takes some getting used to, but that’s because the Brits are far better at English (and words) than we Yanks.

[Order the book if you’d like a challenge. Photo is mine.]

Now where are we? I read via Google that Wordle is the most popular word game today. I had a few friends post their results on FB. I thought it was just another fad…until I tried it. Now, of course, I can’t make it through the day without playing. Kind of like my need to watch TV commercials about Beet Nuggets and ED medication.

As I draw this blog to a dramatic cliff-hanging end…one that will make you await my next post with an eagerness beyond the desolate corners, wilderness areas, unexplored regions, secluded hideaways and uncharted realms. Wait. Just now, at the finish, I noticed a Post-It attached to the edge of my laptop. It’s a note to myself, scribbled during the night. A prompt to help me make my point. It simply reads:

Don’t say gay

What was DeSantis thinking when he made that statement? If I say that, can I be arrested?

It boggles the mind. It is without a doubt beyond doubt and veritably factually…stupid.

My Premonitions?

“If we learn nothing else from this tragedy, we learn that life is short and there is no time for hate.”

~~Sandy Dahl, wife of United Flight 93 pilot, Jason Dahl

[Split images. Photo: New York Times.]

The memory of that Tuesday morning is still very clear in my mind. That crisp autumn-like day when the sky was deep blue. It was September 11, 2001. I was crossing Central Park in a Yellow taxi on my way to school. As I was about to emerge from the Park onto 5th Avenue, I had something of a premonition of sorts. But I also had a similar feeling the evening before.

I don’t really believe that one can see the future, but whatever it was that happened to me is certainly very curious.

On the evening of Sept. 10th, I was sitting in a taxi heading down 9th Avenue to an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen (now called Clinton). I had been taking the Fiction Writing course with the Gotham Writers Workshop. The classes had ended but a handful of us didn’t want it to be over so we agreed to meet at our various apartments. As the cab sped downtown, I looked to the west. Dark clouds from an approaching cold front were heading toward Manhattan. As I stared at the grey cumulus masses, as each street went by, I remember thinking of an invading army…from the west. It rained hard and furious while we discussed and critiqued each others work. The front passed over, and set the tone for a clear and sunny Tuesday.

As I approached 5th Avenue on Tuesday morning, I had a silly thought. I was looking up at the deep blue sky. I imagined I was inside the movie The Wizard of Oz. I imagined the Wicked Witch, on her broom, sky-writing SURRENDER DOROTHY across the heavens, across the blue sky. I imagined these things, but I could never imagine what was going to happen about an hour later.

[On my way back to the Upper West Side in the afternoon I looked down an avenue. This photo is not exactly what I saw, but it’s very close. Source: Library of Congress.]

I spoke with my wife who was at work at Mt. Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side. I told her to go home and wait for me. I couldn’t leave until all the students had been picked up and after attending a quick faculty meeting.

My usual ride home was with the school nurse. Normally I was the only passenger she had, but on this day, there were six of us. The NYPD had closed all the transverse roads in Central Park, so we were rerouted to 110th St. I got out of her car on Central Park West. A single bell was tolling from St. John the Divine. The streets were quiet. The skies were empty except for a sole F-16 flying around Manhattan Island.

I got home and found Mariam riveted to the TV.

“Look at this,” she said.

I had not seen any images of the Twin Towers falling until 6 PM. What I saw put me into a shock that lasted for months.

I called the school in Binghamton, NY where my son, Brian was in class. I asked if someone from the office could find his classroom and tell him that his dad was okay. I spoke to my daughter, Erin who was living in Arizona.

Your dad is safe. He’s okay, I told them. Sadly, that wasn’t the message thousands of children were to hear in the days that followed.

What I remember the most about walking home in the weeks that followed were the countless notes, posters, letters and photos pasted to utility poles and windows.

PLEASE HELP ME FIND MY DADDY!

MY HUSBAND IS MISSING. PLEASE LOOK FOR HIM

I HAVEN’T SEEN MY WIFE IN DAYS. PLEASE HELP ME!

I LOVE YOU, DADDY!

I LOVE YOU, SWEETHEART.

I have these images on a photo chip in a box, in a corner, in the dark. I’ll find them someday.

But I don’t need to review my camera’s history to verify what my eyes saw in the days and weeks after that bright blue Tuesday. That Tuesday in September of 2001.

So, were those visions–those ominous feelings I had the night of Sept. 10 and in the minutes before the planes on that Tuesday morning–really premonitions? Was there something in the air of Manhattan that I was breathing, a collective crying out, an over-soul of loss and pain?

I’ll never really know, will I?

How To Bond With Your Grandson Whilst Assembling a Leonardo da Vinci Ornithopter Kit

[The kit in question. Photo is mine.]

As Mariam and I were sitting on our teal sectional in our comfortably down-sized apartment in New York City, we began planning for a trip.

It seems like we just got back from two months in Europe, but this was a special trip indeed. Due to factors out of her control, my daughter, Erin, was unable to travel east and visit us in our new apartment. She lives in Washington State, just south of Seattle. Now, since I wouldn’t have a chance to take my grandson to the Museum of Natural History and show him the big dinosaurs and the whale hanging from the ceiling, it was up to us to fly to Seattle and visit my family there. My daughter had planned to take us to Northwest Trek to view bald eagles, snowy owls and bobcats.

But, what was I, the grandfather, going to do to make our visit really special for my grandson? How could I find a real ‘bonding experience’ to help him remember me between the long time between the visits?

Like a good Grandpa hoping to solve this issue…I googled.

I knew whatever I chose had to involve glue, pieces of wood and some string. He’s is a very bright ten-year-old so my choice had to be somewhat challenging.

Several clicks into my search, I struck gold. It was a wooden kit, taken from a da Vinci design, of a flying machine. I looked closely at the product description. These photos are taken from the box:

[Take note of the first line. I will come back to that later in the blog. Photo is mine.]

[Take note of the Age 9+ box. I’ll be referring to that later in the blog. Photo is mine.]

[Note the simple Step by Step Instruction Manual. I will be referring to this later in the blog. Photo is mine.]

Where was I? Okay, since there were time restraints, I had the kit mailed directly to my daughter’s address. I’m pleased to say that it arrived the day we landed. {Side note: One of The Jet Blue in-flight movies was My Sailor, My Love. I recommend it. Food was so-so but the leg room was enough for my chronic restless legs, but that’s a different blog for another time.}

On the way back from the airport, my daughter stopped at the Post Office. There it was! I brought the box home to my grandson. He looked it over and approved it. Age skill level was correct. And, the time to complete the model fit in with our schedule of things to do and see…here in the shadow of Mr. Rainier.

That very afternoon, grandpa and grandson opened the box, sorted the pieces, looked over the instructions and settled at the dining room table to begin our bonding/construction experience. He was great at finding the right pieces in the plastic bag full of pieces. I handled the glue. When his dad came home from work, we were half-way through Step 1 (that would be completing 50% of the first page.) We had been at work for about three hours. Undeterred, I set everything aside for dinner. The next day would be pretty much free to finish the model.

Midway through the second day, the word glitch kept coming to mind. I didn’t say anything to my grandson for fear of upsetting him. But, I couldn’t find him. He was busy in his bedroom playing with his cat and iPad and reading a book. Here, I will admit that I went out into their backyard, behind the spare room, beside the tomato plants and beat my fists against the wall. No one could hear me scream.

“Hey, dude,” I said, grandfatheringly. “I need help in finding the thing that has three slots and two holes.”

“Be right there, grandpa,” he said. He gave the cat a final stroke and whispered: “I’ll be right back, Arlo, grandpa is in trouble”.

Progress on the model got worse and then went downhill from there.

But, I had a few aces up my sleeve. 1) My wife. She has a Master’s degree. And, 2) My son-in-law. He’s an architect. He knows about these things.

[My son-in-law, Bob. He knows about these things. Photo is mine.]

We came to the conclusion that ‘spacers’ were different from things that looked like ‘spacers’, and that the bottom was unclear, unclear until I glued the base. The ‘front’ and the ‘back’ became problematic.

I kept eyeing the wings. I can do those, I thought to myself.

My wife and had reservations to fly back to JFK on Monday. I contemplated letting her go on and I would stay another week or two to finish the model, but my daughter had a trip planned, so that wouldn’t work.

My dear wife kept saying something to the effect of:

“Remind us never to order another kit again.”

“But, this isn’t like the last time. I will never leave them with something like that ever again. I was referring to a project from several years that…never mind. “I will do this, I promise.”

Soon, four of us gathered around the table and tried to sort out where this piece was to slot into that piece.

[This is the situation as of three hours ago. Approximately 2:00pm on August 12. Photo taken by my daughter, Erin.]

So, tomorrow, Sunday, is our last full day here. I don’t plan on spending too many hours completing the model. I will not, can not and would never leave them with another kit. That was a small metal dinosaur kit, “Easy and Fast to Assemble” purchased from the Natural History Museum in NYC. When that trip ended, there was a pile of metal bits and microscopic screws & nuts in the corner of the dining room. I went to the airport with tiny bits of blood on my forefinger and thumb.

Never again.

Next visit? A small backyard-sized working kit of small Colliding-beam Storage Ring Particle Accelerator Unit.