Sixty-something years had passed since that night on Amagansett Beach but the twins and their younger sister had never forgotten.
Their cousin, Susie, had been with them that night. She was the only one who didn’t run from the strange fluorescent orbs as they hovered above the shore. She was imprisoned, locked in place, arms reaching heavenward.
Susie was never the same after that night. Only ten years later, she died of unknown causes.
Now there were new reports of luminous globes suspended over the waters of Amagansett Beach; the twins and their sister felt an inexplicable compulsion to return.
Author’s Note: This story is based on true events experienced by my husband, his twin brother, their sister and their cousin when they were pre-teens. After that night, they never again discussed the mysterious and frightening incident. Quite a few years later during the course of conversation, they were shocked to discover they all had the same disturbing recurring dreams.
Ever since he was a small boy growing up in Fairfax, Missouri, Will Horton was obsessed with baseball. Every chance he had he’d play ball with his friends and when no one was around, he’d spend hours bouncing a ball off the old shed behind the house.
In 5th grade Will was one of the starting pitchers for his Little League Team, the Badgers. They practiced three or four days a week after school and played a game every Saturday against the rival team – the Coyotes. By the time Will entered 7th grade, he qualified for the traveling team playing both home and away games.
Most nights during baseball season, Will and his dad Tom would hunker down in front of the TV and watch the local major league baseball team, the Kansas City Royals. Will dreamed of one day playing with the Royals in Big K Stadium; he longed to go to a game but tickets weren’t cheap and Kansas City was 100+ miles from Fairfax. “Some day” Will would whisper to himself and fall asleep every night clutching his mitt.
On his 10th birthday Tom surprised Will with two tickets to the Royals game. Will talked nonstop all the way to the game, quoting all the Royals stats. Arriving at the Big K, he swore it was the biggest building in all Missouri. Will was the happiest he’d ever been. The smell of peanuts and hot dogs filled the air and the crowd was anxious for the game to start. Finally the Royals ran onto the field to cheers from the fans. They played a great game and won with a staggering score of 16 to 2. All the way home Will and Tom talked about the game.
That night at bedtime Will made himself the biggest promise ever – to one day be starting pitcher for the Royals against the most famous baseball team in the world: The New York Yankees.
Time went on, Will graduated high school and was recruited by the University of Miami as pitcher for the Miami Hurricanes. In the evenings he delivered pizza, saving what money he could. He was living his dream. One night that dream abruptly turned into a hellish nightmare when Will’s delivery car was sideswiped by a truck and slammed hard into the side of a building. Will lost consciousness and woke up in the hospital; his pitching arm had been amputated just above the elbow.
Will was devastated; his baseball days were over before they even started. Needing to get away from Miami and reminders of the crash, he transferred to a college in Cincinnati which happened to be located across from The Great American Ballpark, home to the Cincinnati Reds. On game nights he’d go up to the school’s rooftop alone to watch the games.
One particularly dismal night about eight months after his accident, Will pushed himself up onto the ledge of the roof and inched his way to the edge. Hugging the stump of his right arm, he stared at the twinkling lights coming from The Great American. Will swayed slightly; there was nothing to hold on to. He looked straight ahead at the stadium, then closed his eyes and slowly lifted his right foot off the ledge. What did he have left in his life?
In the heavy silence of the night, Will was aware of a barely imperceptible click as the door to the roof quietly closed. A soft voice by his side asked “You don’t really want to do that, do you?”
“What’s it to you? You don’t even know me.“
“That’s true” came the reply “but if you jump, who’s gonna go to tomorrow’s game with me?“
Planting his foot back on the ledge, Will glanced out of the corner of his eye. There stood a petite figure wearing a baseball cap. From the back pocket of her jeans she produced two tickets and placed them down on the ledge.
The shadow of a smile crossed Will’s face; this girl had spunk. Offering her hand, Will reached out, grabbed hold and climbed off the ledge.
“Hey, I’m Kate.”
“Will Horton” he replied.
“Well, Will Horton. Do we have a date?”
He paused for just a second. “Yeah. Why not?”
“If you play your cards right, Will Horton, there’s a couple of good games coming up in June and July. Ever hear of a little team called The New York Yankees?”
Will suddenly realized he was still clutching Kate’s hand. It felt really good having someone to hold on to.
It’s October – World Series month here in the USA and the games begin in just 10 days. Unfortunately for us here in NY, the Yanks fell short again but if you’re a diehard baseball fan like me, you’ll watch any game that’s on TV. Here’s a great song in honor of America’s Favorite Pastime – “Centerfield” by John Fogerty. Play ball!
I hope you’ll join me today as we continue our musical journey In The Groove. Hold onto your baseballs! ⚾️ https://rhythmsection.blog/
Since publishing my story Honeysuckle and Provolone, I have received a few requests for my lasagna recipe. I’m happy to share a great Italian dish which I’m sure will become a favorite of yours. I’ve been making lasagna for more than 50 years and I have a few tricks that will prevent major headaches for anyone who is making lasagna for the first time.
The most difficult part about preparing lasagna is handling the boiled pasta sheets; they can be delicate and I always suggest cooking them al dente as they will continue to cook while in the oven. I know some people who prefer to skip the boiling step altogether since the sheets will cook and soften up in the tomato sauce while baking.
Another option is to place the lasagna sheets in a pan, cover with boiling water and let them sit for 30 minutes before rinsing in cold water. The people at Barilla make traditional lasagna sheets as well as ones that are oven-ready and do not require boiling; I have never tried making lasagna without first boiling the pasta sheets so I’m not an authority on the oven-ready method. However, I do know enough about cooking to know that the pasta will soften up sufficiently while baking as long as you use enough tomato sauce to cover it entirely.
I prefer to use Barilla pasta; I believe it is a superior product – lighter and tastier than other brands. That’s just my preference; please use whichever brand you like.
This is the tradition Barilla lasagna I use. One box (1 lb) is sufficient for one 9×13″ lasagna.
This is what the “no bake” or “oven-ready” lasagna sheets look like. They are much smaller, the package is smaller and you will need to buy several boxes to make one 9×13″ lasagna.
If you’re making a traditional lasagna and boiling the pasta first, it’s very important to use a BIG pot. The lasagna sheets are long and wide and need plenty of room to move around in the water; I prefer to cook six sheets at a time for less crowding in the pot. Also, it’s extremely helpful to add a splash of oil to the pasta water; this will keep the lasagna sheets from sticking together. Once lasagna sheets get stuck together, it’s extremely difficult to separate them without tearing. A little oil in the cooking water will prevent a big sticky problem. Boil the lasagna sheets for the amount of time indicated in the cooking directions on the box. And don’t forget to salt the cooking water.
Boiled lasagna sheets should be rinsed and separated in a colander under cold water immediately after cooking and kept in a pot or plastic tub of cold water while the meat is cooking and the cheese filling is being prepared. Just as you would use an ice bath to stop vegetables from overcooking and to retain their color, use a cold water bath for the cooked lasagna sheets.
Here’s another trick a lot of cooks ignore. When assembling lasagna in a baking pan, the direction of the lasagna sheets should be alternated every other layer. The first layer of pasta should be placed lengthwise in the baking pan with the edges slightly overlapping; the next layer should be placed widthwise in the pan. Since the width of a standard lasagna pan is shorter than the length, the lasagna sheets will need to be trimmed to fit the pan. This is easy to do with standard kitchen scissors. Alternating the layers will make for a firmer lasagna that will not fall apart when cut into; this is the best assembly method to use regardless of the size of the pan and you will always have neatly cut squares of lasagna.
Here is an image of layering lasagna sheets; there’s no sauce or other ingredients in this image so you can clearly see what I mean by alternating the layers:
First layer is lengthwise; 2nd layer is widthwise and trimmed to fit the size of the pan. Easy!
This may seem like a lot of information but don’t let it scare you; it’s basic reference info only. If you refer to it as you cook, you shouldn’t have any problems.
Now, let’s take a look at the ingredients:
1 lb sweet Italian sausage 1 lb ground chuck 80/20 ½ cup diced onion 1 teaspoon minced garlic 28oz can crushed tomatoes (+see below) 12oz can tomato paste (+see below) 15oz can tomato sauce (+see below) ¼ cup water 2 tablespoons granulated sugar ½ cup freshly chopped basil 1 teaspoon Italian seasoning (*see below) 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon black pepper 4 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley 12 lasagna pasta sheets 15oz whole milk ricotta cheese 1 lb whole milk mozzarella, shredded (reserve a handful to sprinkle on top layer of lasagna) ½ cup grated Romano cheese (reserve a handful to sprinkle on top layer of lasagna) ½ cup grated parmigiano cheese (reserve a handful to sprinkle on top layer of lasagna) 1 large egg dash nutmeg
+ I am not a fan of tomato sauce in a jar. My mother taught me to make her tomato sauce and that is the only one I use. On a day when I have nothing to do, I’ll whip up a few batches, portion it out into Tupperware and freeze it. It’s nice to know it’s there whenever I need it; however, canned tomatoes for this recipe are fine.
* Using a store-bought mixed jar of Italian seasoning is perfectly fine but you might want to try making your own. Combine 2 tablespoons each of dried basil, cilantro, marjoram, oregano, parsley, red pepper flakes, rosemary and thyme. Store in a tightly sealed spice jar. Using store-bought Italian seasoning for this recipe is fine.
COOKING INSTRUCTIONS
This recipe makes a large pan of lasagna. I use a deep dish Pyrex lasagna pan or a deep 9×13” baking pan.
In a large saucepan, cook the sausage, ground beef, onion and garlic until cooked through. Drain the fat..
To the cooked meat add the tomatoes, paste, sauce, water, sugar, basil, Italian seasoning, salt, pepper and parsley. Stir well.
Simmer, covered, over low heat for 1 ½ hours, stirring occasionally.
While meat is cooking, boil the lasagna sheets; drain and keep cool in cold water.
In a medium bowl mix together all the cheeses, egg and nutmeg
LET’S PUT OUR LASAGNA TOGETHER! (I suggest reading through before starting)
Heat oven to 350ºF.
Lightly cover the bottom of a 9×13″ lasagna pan with a small amount of meat sauce.
Spoon approximately ¼ of cheese mixture over lasagna sheets and spread to cover.
Spread 1/2 cup of meat sauce – or enough to cover the cheese mixture.
Cover meat sauce with 4 lasagna sheets widthwise, cutting to fit pan.
Continue layering cheese mixture, meat sauce and lasagna sheets, alternating the direction of the sheets, until all ingredients are used. Reserve some meat sauce for the top layer. Top lasagna with meat sauce and sprinkle with grated cheese and mozzarella.
Cover pan with with aluminum foil and bake for 25 minutes; remove foil and bake an additional 30 minutes uncovered.
Allow the lasagna to cool for 15 minute before slicing.
Serve with a side salad and warm Italian bread.
That’s all there is to it! You’ve made lasagna! 👩🏼🍳
It’s been a pleasure sharing with you the recipe for one of the most popular Italian dishes. There are many different variations of lasagna – meatless, wholegrain, vegetable, béchamel, kosher, etc; don’t be afraid to experiment and make whatever changes you like. Google is a chef’s great friend! If you’re not a fan of sausage, this recipe can be made using all ground beef.
More important that anything – enjoy your cooking experience. Cooking should be a joy – not a chore. To that end, I’ve added a full concert video by Il Volo to accompany you while you cook.
This week Jim at Song Lyric Sunday is asking us to write about a song that mentions a food suggested by Christine of Stine Writing and Miniatures. Here is a unique little ditty just about as old as bread itself.
“Bread and Butter” is a 1964 song by the American pop vocal trio Newbeats; it was the group’s first and most popular hit. The song served as the Newbeats’ demo in an effort to obtain a recording contract with Hickory Recording.
The opening two-chord piano riff and the lead falsetto of Larry Henley are the most notable features of the song.
“Bread and Butter” was the inspiration for the advertising jingle of Schmidt Baking Company used in the 1970s and 1980s; it went like this:
“I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam, I like Schmidt’s Blue Ribbon Bread, It’s my favorite brand”.
Catchy, isn’t it?
The song has been featured in numerous movies and TV shows as well as a variety of television commercials. It is part of music compilations found on Billboard Top Rock’n’Roll Hits: 1964 as well as Classic Rock (Time-Life Music).
Let’s have a listen to this quirky hit from 1964:
Lyrics
… Ah, he likes bread and butter Ah, he likes toast and jam Ah, that’s what his baby feeds him Ah, he’s her loving man
… Well, I like bread and butter I like toast and jam That’s what baby feeds me I’m her loving man
… Ah, he likes bread and butter Ah, he likes toast and jam That’s what his baby feeds him Ah, he’s her loving man
… Well, she don’t cook mashed potatoes She don’t cook T-bone steak She don’t feed me peanut butter She knows that I can’t take
… Ah, he likes bread and butter Ah, he likes toast and jam Ah, that’s what his baby feeds him Ah, he’s her loving man
… Well, I got home early one Monday Much to my surprise She was eating chicken and dumplings With some other guy
… No more bread and butter Ah, no more toast and jam He found his baby eating Ah, with some other man
… No, no, no No more bread and butter Ah, no more toast and jam I found my baby eating Ah, with some other man
… No, no, no, no No more bread and butter No, no, no, no Ah, no more toast and jam
… No, no, no, no Ah, no more bread and butter No, no, no, no Ah, no more toast and jam No, no, no, no Ah, no more bread and butter
As Jim pointed out to me, the big surprise in this song is when the guy comes home early and finds his lover eating chicken and dumplings with some other guy! What a great ending!
Well, I gotta run; I think I smell toast burning! 🍞 🧈 🥫
Went to the farmer’s market yesterday. Lots of pitting ahead of me but this isn’t my first rodeo.
Toss all the pitted cherries into a saucepan with some sugar and lemon juice. Let that cook over a medium heat just until the juices are released. Scoop the cherries into a bowl with a slotted spoon. Mix some of the cherry sauce with cornstarch until dissolved, then return it to the pot to cook until thick. Pour over the cherries and set aside while preparing your pie crust.
I love working with dough; it’s very therapeutic. After years of practice, making the perfect pie crust is a piece of cake! And don’t forget to save any dough remnants.
Line a pie plate with your crust and add the cherry filling. Here’s where you can get fancy. Remember the crust trimmings you set aside? Ball them up, then roll out the dough into a circle but not too thin. Cut strips out of your dough to lay a lattice top crust across the cherry filling. If you’re new to this, just place the whole, uncut circle of dough over the pie filling and poke a hole in the top for the steam to escape while your pie bakes.
Don’t forget to crimp the edges of your crust. Finish it off by brushing a thin layer of beaten egg over the top. We all like a bit of sweetness; sprinkle some sugar on it! 💋
“Justice of the Peace? You wanna elope, Gina? Our parents haven’t even met to discuss the wedding!”
“Exactly, Taylor, and it’s gonna stay that way!” said Gina Mezzacappa in her irresistible Marisa Tomei voice. “You know why that is, Taylor? Because my parents have had my wedding all figured out since I was a baby. You saw the Godfather so you know that I know what I’m talking about! There are two things you gotta face right off the bat: number one, our parents are about as different as you can get and number two, left in my family’s hands, our wedding will rival a motion picture extravaganza under the direction of Francis Ford Coppola. Let me ask you a question, Taylor. Have you ever been to an Italian wedding? No? That’s what I thought. Remember my cousin Rosellla’s engagement party? Well, picture that only ten times worse. There will be no elegant ceremony in your parent’s country club like your sister had, with one maid of honor, one best man and a string quartet. There will be no dainty hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne served by an attentive, white-gloved waitstaff followed by dinner of Beef Wellington, fingerling potatoes and haricots verts. The delicate wedding cake with gold leaf flowers? Ain’t gonna happen. Our romantic wedding night in the country club honeymoon suite overlooking the lake? Fugetaboutit! My parents are old school, Taylor, and only want a real Italian wedding. My father would rather swim through the shark-infested Straits of Messina than go against tradition. Now picture this: the ceremony will be held at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope Church with my mother’s cousin, Monsignor DelFino, officiating. There will be at least ten bridesmaids and groomsmen, four junior bridesmaids, a couple of flower girls and a ring bearer in addition to the maid of honor and best man. The reception will be held at The Villa Barone catering hall where my brother-in-law Carlo, the newly-elected fire chief, had a sweet sixteen birthday party for his daughter, my niece Anna Marie. The cocktail hour will consist of a cash bar and a buffet of hot and cold antipasti, sausage and peppers, potato croquettes, stuffed artichokes, prosciutto with melon and garlic knots. The reception dinner will be Italian wedding soup, manicotti, salad, lemon intermezzo followed by a choice of chicken marsala with penne, prime rib or filet of sole with string beans almondine and mashed potatoes. There will be fennel, mixed nuts and assorted fruit on each table along with bottles of wine. The cake will be five, maybe six tiers and for the kids a chocolate fondu fountain with Twinkies, brownie bites, cheesecake cubes and marshmallows. There will be a live band with traditional Sicilian folk dancers and my cousin Vinny will play the tarantella on his accordion. Finally, the pièce de résistance – the floating Viennese Dessert Hour and flaming cherries jubilee served with spumoni, gelato, espresso and anisette. Our wedding night will be spent sitting around my parent’s kitchen table with you, me and my mother counting the money we got as wedding gifts while my father records everything in an accounting ledger like Matthew the Tax Collector. OR ….. we go to City Hall, just you and me, get hitched and spend two glorious weeks alone in sunny Aruba. Your call.”
“Organized? You call this organized? I see books not positioned correctly on the shelves and why is there a bottle of Coca Cola sweating on your desk? There better not be any water rings on the wood. Now finish up in here; we haven’t got all day and my patience is wearing thin!”
More anger and criticism rained down on me by my long-suffering mother. Living with her was neither fun nor easy – it just was what it was.
Mother was a strict, in-control-at-all-times perfectionist who rarely let her guard down or her emotions show, which is why what happened that ordinary day in August left both me and my sister bewildered, squinting our eyes, skewing our faces and scratching our heads wondering who this imposter was in my mother’s place.
Mother raised her arm above her head. Suddenly the sky parted, angels sang and a brilliant stream of light shone down upon an envelope in her hand. My sister and I stared in disbelief as realization struck. We hugged each other, jumped up and down, screamed and cried tears of joy for peeking out of that envelope were three yellow tickets that looked exactly like this:
Three passes into a world we only dreamed of, a place greater than any national treasure, a fantasy land more majestic than any shrine in the universe, tickets more precious than gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Clapping her hands twice, Mother brought us back down to earth. “Hurry and get dressed. The show starts in four hours and traffic will be a nightmare. Dresses only, girls. No blue jeans and no shorts. And for heaven’s sake, wear your bras; you are not animals and this is not a free-for-all!”
Oh, really?
Sacred tickets in hand, we jumped into Mother’s 1957 Ford Fairlane 500. It seemed to take forever to arrive and we sang one Beatles song after another. In the distance we caught our first glimpse of Shea Stadium glimmering in the glow of the setting sun like the Land of Oz, and the four wizards were there waiting to play just for us. Well, us and approximately 56,000 crying, screaming, hyperventilating fans.
We found our seats and finally had our first real chance to look around. Our eyes widened in awe; surely this was even more spectacular, more jaw-dropping than The Colosseum in Rome which we had visited just one month earlier. Finally, after waiting for what seemed a lifetime, television host Ed Sullivan appeared on stage and tried to speak over the roaring mass of adoring fans. These were the words he spoke that night: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, honored by their country, decorated by their Queen, and loved here in America, here are The Beatles!”
Pandemonium, a mania the likes of which was never witnessed before broke out as the most beloved musical group of all time ran onto the stage.
My sister and I grabbed our binoculars and raced to the bottom of our tier for a closer look. Hearing anything over the cacophony of the audience was almost impossible and we screamed and cried right along with everyone there. At one point I looked back, stunned to see my mother laughing and singing and dancing in the aisle! Whatthefuckedness?!
That night my world was changed; my greatest dream came true. I had reached Mecca, climbed Everest and walked on the moon. Being there was beyond surreal. It was the most electrifying and exhilarating experience of my life. That night remains etched in my mind and on my heart for all eternity.
“Great! Just great! First I drop my phone in the toilet; now I can’t find my Magellan! Where is that dang GPS? I coulda sworn I put it in the glove box a couple of years ago. This aughta be fun, trying to figure out how to get to my sales meeting without directions. Lemme take another look.
Nope, it’s not in here but there’s my jumper cables. Thought I lost them the time my engine died on me the night of the office Christmas party. Hot damn, that was a wild shindig! Who woulda guessed Uptight Tina from R&D could be such a temptress?
Let’s see what we got here … napkins, ketchup packets, pencils, pencils, more pencils, a menu from Panda Pavilion, a roach clip. No GPS. Now hold on just a second. What’s this? Oh man, do my eyes deceive me? A cassette tape! Right on!! Ah, that explains all the pencils!Oh man, from the days when music was good.
Hmm, looks like one of my old homemade jobs. I wonder what’s on it … writing’s all smudged so could be anything. Well, I’m good and lost but at least I’ll have some company on the road. I’m just gonna slip this baby in and see what develops.
My son David is a librarian by vocation. Then there are the times he moonlights as lead tenor with the Taconic Opera Company and as a church singer for special holy days. He has a God-given talent and is quite brilliant. I like to think he inherited some of my musical skills as well. His brother Bill was there that night some 20+ years ago when David blew the roof off a karaoke bar singing an Iron Maiden song; at that point in time no one in the family knew David could sing. He also plays the bass trombone. Did I mention he has perfect pitch?
David’s wife Jessica is a doctor specializing in making chemo for cancer patients – an intense and demanding job. Somehow she also manages to be a super mom – part Wonder Woman, part Energizer Bunny. She is a beautiful woman, a stunning mezzo soprano with a wondrous soul and a remarkable mind. She has performed alongside David and is also a church singer often called on for weddings and funerals. Jessica plays the piano and cello and was chosen for All County Choir and All County Orchestra while in school. I’m not sure if she has perfect pitch; if not, then damn close.
(I’d like to take a second to mention a bit of serendipity: When Jessica was with the All County Orchestra, David was, too, though they did not know each other at that time. They did not officially meet until 15 years later. Funny how that works. Now, back to the story.)
David and Jessica have a 3 ½ year old daughter named Colette – my granddaughter whom I mention frequently when writing personal posts. She’s a joy, an absolutely glorious child. Colette loves music and is taking ballet lessons. She can also dig her heels in like nobody’s business. Colette is a spitfire who obviously inherited equal amounts of her parent’s Sicilian-Irish-Italian genes. Add a splash of a Mt Etna temper when pushed beyond the breaking point, courtesy of yours truly, and you have the total package. A real “testa dura” or as we say in slang “gabadost”.
As you can see, this little family of mine is extremely musical. David and Jessica sing around the house and now Colette has begun singing along … and she’s not shy about it. Recently, while singing “Puff the Magic Dragon”, David and Jessica exchanged looks, bit their lips and tried not to laugh. With eyes rolling heavenward, they wondered “Is there any chance on God’s green earth that we created a child who can’t sing in tune?”
Her parents were good people; they were just too damn young to be raising a family. They didn’t do anything wrong unless you call falling in love wrong. Should they have had unsafe sex? Of course not, but listen – we’ve all gotten caught up in the heat of the moment for many reasons. Their passion resulted in an unwanted pregnancy.
For two 14 year old kids, they made a very mature decision: they put their baby girl up for adoption. They could have chosen any other avenue but they chose the right one for them and their daughter. There are so many good options available to pregnant girls and women who are not ready, not willing, not able to keep their babies. Then there are also illegal abortion mills with doctors willing to rip a fetus from the mother’s womb for a price. How do those people sleep at night?
My husband and I weren’t looking for another child; we already had three, all strawberry blondes with dove-like skin and blue eyes. Just like us. It was my sister who wanted to adopt. Desperately. When she got the call, she wept for joy … until she learned Zoe was black and not a newborn but three years old. My sister said no. Flat refusal. I couldn’t believe this was the girl I grew up with. What happened to her open mind and arms, her loving heart. They’re still there but only for babies that look like mine.
Zoe hid behind the skirt of the lady at the adoption center. When I kneeled down and opened my arms, she looked at me very tentatively. I smiled, nodded my head and she took off like a little rabbit running straight into my arms. And we hugged like our lives depended on it; in a way, they did.
She is our daughter now and the fit was seamless, like those lovely Russian nesting dolls. Our biological children love Zoe and she loves them. And us. We’re crazy about all our kids and wonder why we didn’t do this sooner. Zoe is our fourth daughter; we already decided we’re going for five.
One very large bedroom with three sets of bunk beds. It’s messy and noisy and all over the place but it’s a happy, beautiful thing.
Damn! Have you seen the upper body on Michael B. Jordan? He’s the fine young actor who plays Adonis Creed in the new “Creed” movies.
And when I say ‘fine’, I mean fine.
Whether his goal is to get into shape, make award winning movies, encourage young athletes to get in the best shape possible or to leave a trail of panting women behind him, he has succeeded in all those endeavors.
Like his father Apollo Creed, he is one incredible specimen. Just saying.
Originally published in 2020 when times were very different.
Originally I was considering letting nature take its course and stop dying my hair. After all, being in isolation all this time because of the Coronavirus has kept me from going to the salon and now my grey roots are prevalent.
I asked my husband for his opinion. Regardless of the situation his answer is “You always look beautiful!” Liar! I adore him but he tells me what he thinks I want to hear. Give it to me straight! Contrary to what Jack Nicholson declared in “A Few Good Men”, I CAN handle the truth!
Time to weigh my options. First, I look young for a woman in her seventies; will going grey age me or will I look chic? My husband’s light brown hair is sprinkled with grey with look more like blonde highlights; I much prefer looking like his youthful wife as opposed to his older sister! Second, I’ll save beaucoup bucks at the salon if I go au naturel; just need to pop in for the occasional trim. And last but not least I’ll leave myself wide open for a good-natured lampoon offered up by my oh-so-witty friends.
Since my hair is professionally dyed brown with golden highlights, I was reluctant to pick up a box of Clairol and give it a go at home. I recalled the one and only time I tried to dye my hair. The color was called “Iced Mochaccino”’ which sounded like a delicious shade and the model on the box look dazzling. What could go wrong? My hair came out an unattractive shade of dull cocoa so ixnay the home dye job.
Let’s try this: I consulted Google and found a site where I could see what I’d look like with grey hair. I had no idea there were so many shades of grey – everything from silky white to smokey charcoal, even some with hints of purple or green. I was starting to get very confused. Then I downloaded a copy of “Forget the Spa and Salon: Custom Hair Color at Home” – a literary masterpiece guaranteed to “help you find the perfect hair color”. It did not.
Suddenly I had a brainstorm. Click on good old reliable Amazon for a hair product specifically designed to cover roots, something easy? You can get anything on Amazon from an air fryer to zinc ointment. I typed in “root” and abracadabra, there it was – L’Oréal Magic Grey Root Concealer – the answer to my prayers (unless in turns out to be like the infamous “Hair in a Can”)!
Just as I was about to place an order for the root cover up I got an email from my hair salon:
“In accordance with the guidelines of Phase 2, we are delighted to announce the reopening of “We’re Hair For You” on Monday, June 15.”
The email went on to welcome their clients back and describe changes in the salon. I immediately grabbed my cell phone to call my stylist (she’s on speed dial!) and make an appointment for the following week. Goodbye drab grey roots! Hello luscious brown hair with golden highlights! I was thrilled.
The next day I received a sobering email from the salon:
“Your appointment is confirmed. Please call the salon from the parking lot upon your arrival. You will either be told to come in or asked to wait until we call you back. Clients are required to wear a mask at all times and will have their temperature taken before entering the salon. Please come to your appointment alone as we have eliminated our waiting area. We apologize for any inconvenience. The safety of everyone concerned is of utmost importance. Thank you.”
Every day I make my way north on the Cross Island Parkway heading for the Throggs Necks Bridge and home to Westchester County. And every day I see this same fellow slowly pedaling his tired old bicycle. We are riding parallel to one another. He is on my right; further right and out of view is the Little Neck Bay. When the bay is in view, it is stunning.
His shock of silver hair is startling and, together with his tissue-white skin, it is obvious this fellow doesn’t get much sun. I had him pegged for an elitist-type, a retired executive who drinks very dry martinis and lathers himself in SPF 80.
This one particularly splendid day I found myself stuck in traffic; all arteries clogged with nothing getting through. I turned off the engine and relaxed.
At that very moment along came my pale horseman and as I glanced over, he waved and rang the bicycle’s bell. CHING!! I waved and he half-rode, half-walked his bike to my car. I rolled down the window and a very unlikely friendship blossomed.
This fellow was not at all what I imagined. He was a transplant from – of all places – Scotland by way of France! Said his name was Brian Duff-something (strong but utterly enchanting accent).
Did you know there’s one place in all of Scotland where palm trees grow? It’s true! My friend Brian Duff-something told me.
Now every day we wave “Bonjour” and I pray for another traffic jam.
Deep Purple has been my go-to rock band for as long as I can remember. I saw them perform live twice and am a devoted follower of both Deep Purple and their “spin-off” group, “Rainbow”. What better song for Jim’s prompt today than “Smoke On The Water”?!
The lyrics tell a true story: on December 4, 1971, Deep Purple was in Montreux, Switzerland to record the album “Machine Head”.
On the eve of the recording session, a concert with Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention was held in the casino’s theatre. This was the theatre’s final concert before the complex closed down for its annual winter renovations, which would allow Deep Purple to record there.
At the beginning of the Mothers’ keyboardist Don Preston’s synthesizer solo on “King Kong”, the place suddenly caught fire when somebody in the audience fired a flare gun towards the rattan-covered ceiling. Although there were no major injuries, the resulting fire destroyed the entire casino complex, along with all the Mothers’ equipment.
The “smoke on the water” line that became the title of the song referred to the smoke from the fire spreading over Lake Geneva from the burning casino as the members of Deep Purple watched from their hotel. Deep Purple’s Bassist Roger Glover said “It was probably the biggest fire I’d ever seen up to that point and probably ever seen in my life. It was a huge building. I remember there was very little panic getting out because it didn’t seem like much of a fire at first. But when it caught, it went up like a fireworks display.”
What a phenomenal classic rock song this is! All the lyrics from the song explain the event vividly. Listen closely and follow along with the written lyrics as the musical story unfolds:
Lyrics
We all came out to Montreux On the Lake Geneva shoreline To make records with a mobile, yeah We didn’t have much time now
Frank Zappa and the Mothers Were at the best place around But some stupid with a flare gun Burned the place to the ground
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky (Smoke) on the water, you guys are great
They burned down the gambling house It died with an awful sound Funky Claude was running in and out He was pulling kids out the ground now
When it all was over Find another place Swiss time was running out It seemed that we would lose the race
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky Smoke on the water
Burn it down
We ended up at the Grand Hotel It was empty, cold and bare The Rolling truck Stones thing just outside Huh, making our music there now
With a few red lights and a few old beds We made a place to sweat No matter what we get out of this I know, I know we’ll never forget
Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky Smoke on the water (I can’t hear anything)
This is a work of fiction. In no way is it meant to be derogatory or insensitive to any peoples’ ethnicity. I do not share any of the disparaging words or sentiments within this story. NAR
It was a blazing hot day in August of 1971. Sweaty air conditioners were working overtime, filling the streets of Manhattan with an unrelenting drone. I was in the elevator of my apartment building having just returned from physical therapy. There were four other people in the elevator – a plumber, a mid-twenties hippie chick I knew only as “Rain”, elderly and bitter Abe Morris and a very pregnant Asian woman I didn’t know.
Abe made a big show of moving away from the Asian woman, spitting out the words “savage gooks!” Abe was angry and grieving the recent death of his son in Vietnam. Someone had to pay; why not the only Asian in the elevator? Abe always had some wise-ass comment about the fact that I’m black and relished every opportunity to say something hurtful about my missing arm. Today his vitriol was directed elsewhere. Ignorant, bigoted man.
The doors closed and we began our slow ascent. Old buildings, temperamental elevators and a heatwave – a bad combination. Somewhere between floors 3 and 4 the elevator jolted to a stop. Before Abe could utter a curse word, the elevator churned back to life, coughed and stopped again with an ominous screech. Except for a few groans no one said anything. I pushed the alarm button and reached for the elevator’s emergency phone. Halfway through my call the electricity went out, the AC shut off and my phone connection died. Blackness engulfed us and it started getting uncomfortably warm.
Abe started cursing and banging the walls, all the while ranting “goddamn fucking dinks – I hate them!” The plumber was praying in what sounded like Russian while Rain softly hummed “Let It Be”. I tried unsuccessfully to pry open the doors and reminded everyone that at least part of our emergency call went through so help had to be on its way. It was then that I became aware of low guttural moans coming from the Asian woman; in a language I recognized as Vietnamese, she gasped that the baby was coming.
I asked the plumber if he had a flashlight, which he did. Turning it on, he handed it to me and everyone calmed down just a bit. Amazing what a little ray of light can do. With her back to the wall, the pregnant woman slid down and eased herself onto the floor. I told her I understood Vietnamese from my days as a medic in Nam. I said my name was Jim; her name was Thanh. We talked softly as Abe carried on about his son who died in the war – “And for what?? This slant??” he screamed. The plumber became more agitated and Rain sat by him holding his hand.
With ragged breaths and dry lips, Thanh told me she married an American soldier in early November 1970 and he brought her back to live in the U.S. with his parents. After two weeks he returned to Vietnam; he was killed November 21st in Operation Ivory Coast. Thanh soon learned she was pregnant. Relations with her in-laws became strained and she moved into my apartment building with her cousin.
As we sat waiting, I thought of that November day. I remembered a soldier who flung himself on me as I worked in the MASH unit. He was blown to bits while I only lost my arm. That young hero was someone’s son, a friend, perhaps a brother; he could have even been Thanh’s husband.
Suddenly Abe lost it; he stood and yelled racial slurs at both me Thanh. The plumber sobbed while Rain tried to calm him. I yelled for everyone to “shut up!” And that’s when we heard faint voices.
“Anyone in there?”
“Roger that! We’re down here! Five people, one woman in labor!” I shouted and was rewarded with a resounding “HUA!”
Haltingly the doors were pried open and a rescue ladder was lowered into the elevator. Abe headed straight for the ladder; I stopped the selfish bastard in his tracks.
“The pregnant lady goes first.”
Abe called me “a no good spook” and blindly took a swing at me; even with my disability I was able to easily block him. I grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to the floor where he sat, head in hands, repeating what must have been his son’s name. I pitied the man but he was not the only person in pain.
With my assistance, Thanh gingerly made her way up the ladder; she was pulled out of the elevator and the EMTs rushed her to the hospital. The rest of us slowly climbed to safety.
When I emerged into the lobby of my building, I found one of Thanh’s shoes. Call it whatever you want but in that moment I knew I had to get to her.
“No, they are not! They’re hydrangeas, Ben. Don’t you remember we had snowball bushes in the backyard of our first house? These are not them!”
“Yes, of course I remember having snowball bushes in our backyard and they looked just like this! I also remember we have a roast beef in the oven right now and if we don’t get home and take it out, it’s gonna be pot roast!”
“Merciful heavens! My roast beef! I forgot all about it! We’ll come back tomorrow to admire the hydrangeas.”
Reposting this from January ’22. Some of you have read it, many have not. Hope you enjoy another favorite of mine as much as I do.
It was raining when Kate Sullivan left Mercy Hospital. She was exhausted after her 12-hour shift, a bit short-tempered and very sweaty. All she wanted was to get home, peel off her scrubs, shower and go to sleep.
Usually Kate walked the seven long city blocks to her apartment in Soho just to clear her head, grabbing a donut on the way. Even after a nightmare of a shift, walking was better than riding the New York subway with the pervs and melancholy drunks spilling out of Joe’s Bar. Her Crocs and scrubs had been splattered with enough bodily fluids at the hospital; she had no desire to be subjected to the lascivious Neanderthals who rode the train.
But walking home this morning in the pouring rain was not an option. Stepping out from under the protective awning of the hospital, Kate hailed a taxi. As if by magic, one appeared almost instantly. “Thank God” she sighed, praying the cabbie wasn’t one of those chipper talkative types. She just wanted someone to drive her home in silence.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, miss. And where might ya be goin’?” The cheerful driver’s greeting sounded like Irish angels singing.
Kate groaned quietly and rolled her eyes. “I might be going home if you’d just start driving’’ was her clipped response.
“Yer wish is my command! Where to?” the cabbie asked, undeterred. In a matter-of-fact voice Kate gave the driver her address.
“I’ll have ya there in a jiffy!” he replied and began humming a tune, one which was vaguely familiar to Kate but she couldn’t place it.
How could anyone be so cheerful at the ungodly hour of 5:00 AM? Kate glanced over at the cabbie’s ID card taped to the tinted plexiglass that separated the front and back seats. She read his name was Declan O’Murphy; could it be any more Irish? His photo depicted a rather handsome man, probably early-thirties with tousled brown hair and a shadow of a beard. He wore a somewhat serious expression but there were deep dimples threatening to break out, almost as though he had a private joke to share. His eyes stared back at Kate and she felt goosebumps doing a jitterbug up and down her arms.
Kate sat back in her seat, took out her phone and quickly checked her schedule. Damn! Another 12-hour shift tomorrow night. She peeked over the top of her phone to steal a glimpse of the driver and immediately looked away when she saw he was looking at her in the rearview mirror. He grinned broadly showing dazzling white teeth. He looked extraordinarily handsome.
“Are ya a doctor, then?” he asked, eyes dancing.
“Pfft!” Kate exclaimed. “No, I work a lot harder than most doctors I know. I’m an ER nurse; just came off an all-nighter and have another one tomorrow.”
Declan whistled and pushed his cap back a bit. “ER. That’s pretty heavy-duty stuff now, ain’t it? Well, I’ll leave ya be; just relax. OK if I put on some music?”
Kate shrugged and mumbled “whatever”; she found herself smiling slightly at Declan’s charming accent.She was surprised when rock music filled the taxi. Kate recognized the song as the same one Declan was humming and found she really liked what she was hearing. She was sure she’d heard it before but just couldn’t place it.
She leaned forward a little, talking over the music. “I like this song a lot. Who is it?” she asked.
Declan jokingly gasped and smacked his hand across his chest as though mortally wounded. “Ya can’t be seriously tellin’ me ya don’t know the best rock group to come out of Ireland? Why, this is the one and only Thin Lizzy. Here … take a look at this” and through an opening in the plexiglass he passed Kate the jacket for the CD ‘Jailbreak’. “That there’s the great singer Phil Lynott, gone too soon like so many before and after him.”
Kate really enjoyed the CD and before she knew it they had arrived at her apartment building. Was that disappointment she was feeling?
“Here ya are, safe and sound”. Declan offered to walk Kate to the front door with an umbrella but she said that wasn’t necessary and asked how much she owed him for the ride. They settled up and Kate made a dash for the front door. Declan watched her disappear into the building, then drove off in search of another fare.
It wasn’t until Kate was in her apartment that she realized she still had the CD jewel case. She frowned wondering how she’d be able to get it back to Declan. He only had her address, not her name or apartment number and she didn’t notice which cab company he worked for. “Well, I’ll think of something” she thought. “Right now I need a shower and sleep.”
When she was done, Kate got into bed, reached for her phone and clicked the YouTube app, searching for Thin Lizzy. She fell asleep listening to ‘Jailbreak’.
The following night her shift was just as hectic as the night before. At 5:00AM, dog tired, achy and hungry, Kate left the hospital for her trek home. No rain today and the pre-dawn streets were still deserted except for an occasional car and the lights from a 24/7 donut shop. She was about to stop for a sweet chocolate glazed when she heard two short honks from a nearby car. Looking over her shoulder she recognized Declan’s taxi and immediately smiled.
The window slid down and Declan’s sing-song voice rang out: “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya, lassie. Might ya be lookin’ fer a ride home?”
Kate laughed and walked to the cab. Easing into the back seat, she teased Declan a bit, asking if he was hoping to find her or his CD case. Now it was Declan’s turn to tease. ”Could be I was hoping to find both.”
They exchanged friendly banter all the way to her building; there was even a little flirting going on. Kate asked herself if she could be falling for this guy after only two short rides in his cab. What was really weird was she never got a clear look at Declan but she realized to her amazement that didn’t matter. For once she was attracted to a guy for his personality, the things he said, his sense of humor and his appealing Irish accent – not his looks. Usually that was the first thing that drew her to a man but this was different.
“Hey, Declan, you know what I just realized? You don’t know my name!”
“Well, I was hopin’ you’d tell me cos I have something to ask ya” he replied.
“My name is Kate. Kate Sullivan. What do you want to ask me, Declan?”
“Ah, a wee bit o’ the Irish in ya, is there? I knew it! Well, Katie, there’s a Thin Lizzy cover band playing tomorrow night at Paddy Maguire’s and I was thinkin’ it would be grand if we went together.”
Kate didn’t hesitate for a second. “I think it would be grand as well. I’d love to go, Declan. I want to get to know more about you.”
“Aye, Katie, that you will. I’ll pick you up right here tomorrow night at 8:00. And, Katie – my friends call me Murph.”
No one ever called her “Katie”; she felt little butterflies in her stomach when Declan called her that.
Kate wanted to look great for her date but didn’t want to look like she tried too hard. She chose a sunny yellow camisole, her favorite pair of skinny jeans and dangerously high-heeled sandals. She hoped Declan would appreciate her look.
At that same moment Declan sat in his taxi waiting for Kate; he was so nervous he got there 20 minutes early. This was a bold move for him, rarely acting so impulsively, but he felt he and Kate clicked after spending only half an hour riding in his cab. He thought about his grandparents who met on a train in Belfast and were madly in love by the time they reached Dublin. He hoped Kate wouldn’t be disappointed.
When Kate spotted Declan’s cab, she stopped for a minute to compose herself; she hadn’t been this excited about a date in eons. It was crazy – she barely knew the guy. Declan saw her standing in the doorway of her apartment building and his heart started pounding; she looked amazing, so understated yet elegant.
Kate started approaching the cab. “Well, it’s showtime, boyo” Declan whispered to himself as he got out of the cab and walked around the front to greet Kate.
“Wow! You’re a fine thing tonight, Katie!” Declan said breathlessly.
Kate stared at Declan in disbelief. “And you’re … you’re …”
“Ah, so you’ve noticed I’m a little person, have ya? All 4 foot, 5 inches of me.” Declan gave her a crooked smile. “Achondroplasia; I’m sure yer familiar. Katie girl, if this is a deal-breaker, I understand.”
All Kate could do was stare. Neither one spoke. Kate laughed nervously and said “Yeah, this is quite a surprise. Oh, damn! Sorry! I just remembered something.”
Before Declan could respond, Kate ran back inside her building. “Well, I suppose that’s it then, ya eejit! Shoulda said something before now!” he chastised himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking back to his side of the cab.
“Murph! Wait!” It was Kate calling out to him. Declan turned around to see Kate running back to the taxi. Catching her breath she said “Here. I forgot your CD case.”
Taking the case from her outstretched hand, the first thing Declan noticed was Kate had switched her 6″ high heels for flat sandals. He looked up at her and she smiled broadly.
“Declan O’Murphy, if you think a little thing like this is going to change how I feel about you, you’re dead wrong. Now drive. Our night is just beginning.”
Dedicated to my sister for her ceaseless loving care.
My elderly mother stood by the window, her hand pulling back a section of curtain. “Mom, what are you doing up? It’s nearly 3AM.”
Without turning to look at me, she replied. “I’m waiting for my husband. He’s returning from the war and will be home any minute.”
I closed my eyes and sighed in resignation. One moment she was lucid, the next her mind clouded over like wintry days. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth again.
My father never paid me much attention. It was no secret he wanted a son, not me. Years later, my mother died and Dad took up with Paulette Gardner, a nurse with a taste for Marlboros and Rheingold.
Right around Fourth of July weekend, Dad brought Paulette back to our place. She said “Hi, honey” to me and started making herself right at home. I was looking forward to a barbecue and fireworks but Dad and Paulette only came out of the bedroom for beer and cigarettes. That Sunday night I packed a few things in Mom’s old suitcase, took her address book, whatever money I could find and softly left my home in Schenectady.
I was 13 years old.
When I arrived at Grand Central Station, I called Mom’s cousin Trudy in Brooklyn. She didn’t hesitate for a second, taking me into her home and caring for me like I was her own daughter. She also gave me a job in her bakery on Nostrand Avenue. When Trudy retired she put me in charge and I eventually became the owner.
A dozen years went by when I got a call out of the blue. It was Paulette letting me know my dad had died. There was no love lost between us but I felt I should drive up to say farewell.
I stood just beyond the honeysuckle-covered arch and silently watched my father’s funeral; only Paulette was in attendance. I felt nothing but the cool breeze on my face.
After months of being in cramped quarters with the 7 dwarfs, Snow White and Doc started having feelings for each other.
It all began when Snow White developed backaches from stooping to get through the front door and hunching over whenever inside the house. She even had to curtail dancing with the dwarfs at their weekly hoedowns, something they all enjoyed.
There wasn’t enough room in the dwarf’s bedroom for any more beds, especially one large enough for Snow White, so she continued sleeping on all seven dwarf beds pushed together while the little men found places to spend the night downstairs. It was not ideal, however, and soon Snow White started complaining of pains in her neck, too.
Doc began to treat Snow White’s aching back and neck with warm compresses, deep massage and ice packs which Dopey gleefully retrieved for Doc whenever he requested them.
All the dwarfs had a deep affection for Snow White and she felt the same way about them but the more time she spent with Doc, the more their feelings became harder to ignore … and resist. Soon their relationship was obvious to the others.
Doc’s twice-daily massages were a relief and Snow White looked forward to them. She began to yearn for the feel of Doc’s small but mighty hands on her body. Doc, too, tingled with delight whenever his hands came in contact with her soft skin.
Snow White and Doc started spending more and more time together; chores went undone and Doc rarely spent time with the guys like he used to. One night none of the other six little guys got any sleep because the sounds of pleasure emanating from upstairs kept them awake. That’s when they decided to take action. As much as Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Sneezy, Bashful and Dopey all loved Doc and Snow White, the time had come for the paramours to move out. Besides, the dwarfs wanted their beds back.
Grumpy, as the unofficial leader of the pack now that Doc was otherwise occupied, met with a group of forest friends who ran the real estate business “Gnome Sweet Gnome”. He explained the delicate situation to the gnomes and they set out immediately to find the right house for Doc and Snow White.
When Rumpelstiltskin’s little cottage went on the market after he was banished from the forest, the gnomes quickly acquired it and put the good fairies Flora, Fauna and Merryweather to work sprucing up the place with their special magic touch. In no time the romantic hideaway was ready for Snow White and Doc; they bid farewell to the 6 dwarfs and took up residence in their very own love shack.
And there they lived happily but not ever after as Snow White’s eye caught a glimpse of the handsome stranger on a white horse and he was just her size. 😉
It was a beautiful day for a ride through the city; a double decker was something new for them. The idea was appealing and romantic.
But now the excitement of the ride was eclipsed by the thrill of a rendezvous. They shared the same thought: once in the bus they would find each other.
The bus was crowded, difficult to see the other passengers. He moved up while she came down; they crossed paths unnoticed.
People got on and off and at the end it was just them, alone at last.
Sirens tore through the silence of the crisp fall night as police responded to a robbery on Corsa Avenue, a quiet street of middle class two story homes in The Bronx, NY.
Police officers Ralph Taylor and Mario DeMarco were the first to arrive at the scene. Jasper Gardner, an eye witness, told the officers he was out walking his dog when two guys came running down the front steps of the house in such a hurry, they practically knocked him over.When asked for a description, Mr. Gardener said it happened so fast, he didn’t get a good look at them, just that they were wearing dark hooded sweatshirts.
The homeowners, Drew and Chloe Bennett, apparently arrived home from work while the intruders were still inside their house. Tenant Albert Farrell who occupies the first floor of the Bennetts’ house was home at the time. When questioned, Mr. Farrell stated that he was playing video games all evening with his headphones on and didn’t hear anything. The police speculated that the rumbling noise of the Bennetts’ electric garage door scared off the intruders.
The police determined that the perps didn’t have much time; only the bedroom had been ransacked. They probably knew the Bennetts’ regular work schedule and got spooked when the couple came home early. There were also muddy footprints in the backyard and on the fire escape leading to the second floor. No doubt the intruders gained access through a bedroom window.
When police asked the Bennetts what was missing, Chloe Bennett pointed to her suede coat on the floor. “Look at this” she told the police. “They left my expensive suede coat behind but ripped off the faux fur collar and took it with them, probably thinking it was real fur.”
When asked if any valuables were missing, Drew Bennett said that other than the jewelry his wife was wearing, everything was in an armoire in their bedroom. “These guy are idiots and have no idea of the value of things!” he exclaimed. “My wife’s collection of Lenox and Lladro figurines hasn’t been touched. And my original John Lennon drawing is hanging right there. I’ll bet this was all done by those no good, lousy punks Chucky Green and Bobo Bulfamente! What a couple of losers!”
The police were well acquainted with Charles “Chucky” Green and Roberto “Bobo” Bulfamente, small time thieves who grew up in the neighborhood. Bobo was currently staying with his sister and brother-in-law; Chucky lived with his mother, Althea. Both had been picked up several times for petty thefts but were always released. Police never found anything on them; they couldn’t even charge them with breaking and entering.
Chucky and Bobo worked as a team, entering houses and apartments when the homeowners were out; they scored a few items which Bobo stashed in the trunk of a rusted-out car in his brother-in-law’s garage. When they collected enough stuff to hawk, Chucky and Bobo were going to take off for Miami to try their luck in new turf. The one thing Bobo never told Chucky about was the pair of diamond earrings he pocketed one night. Bobo figured if Chucky ever got nabbed, those earrings would be his ticket out of The Bronx, even if it meant turning his back on Chucky.
By now a crowd of people had gathered near The Bennetts’ house. One man quickly walked over to the cops to report seeing Bobo racing down Given Avenue. Officers Taylor and DeMarco jumped into their car and sped to Given where they came upon an accident. Getting out to investigate, they spotted Bobo craning his neck for a better look. Bobo wasn’t even aware of Officer DeMarco until he was right on top of him. DeMarco nabbed Bobo, handcuffed him, tossed him into the back of the police car and locked the doors. It was only a matter of time before the cops would discover Bobo’s stash in the rusted-out car, including the diamond earrings. His string of breaking and entering would be over and he’d be shipped off to the slammer … if only temporarily.
Meanwhile Officer Taylor approached the accident scene. A bus and a truck had collided; pinned between the two vehicles was a very unfortunate Chucky Green. His run of small time thefts had come to an end … permanently. On the ground lay a pillowcase containing a few items, including Chloe Bennett’s faux fur collar. Charles “Chucky” Green got pinned last night but not the way the police expected and certainly not the way they hoped.
“Alright folks. The excitement is over. Go on home now” announced Officer Taylor. “Ok, Mario, let’s bring Bozo Bobo down to the station. And get a squad car over to Chucky’s house; someone’s gotta break the news to his mother. No matter what a screw up Chucky was, he’s still her son. Poor woman.”
We’re old school …. well, at least my husband is. There are some things he simply insists on doing the old-fashioned way. One of those things is paying bills. Most people I know use online banking; it’s quick, easy and from what I’ve heard, safe. My husband Bill (how appropriate) is extremely reluctant to put his faith in online financial transactions. Oh, he’ll place orders online but that’s different, he says.
So how do we pay our bills? By writing checks by hand and maintaining a record in the checkbook register. That was always Bill’s job until a few years ago when he underwent emergency surgery after falling off a ladder. While he was in the hospital and rehab, I took over the task of paying the bills and I still do it.
I don’t mind, really, but sometimes the bills all seem to come at the same time and it turns into a project. One thing that saves time is all bills now come with a return payment envelope; no more hunting through the rolltop desk in search of my own envelopes. But everyone once in a while we’ll get that one rogue bill with no return envelope. There I am, ensconced at my desk, pen and a fresh cup of coffee at the ready and I have to stop what I’m doing to dig around for an envelope. That really burns my cookies.
The biggest offenders are the dentist and the gardener. Why? Human error. Both are small businesses set up in the same fashion: there’s one person who manually prepares the invoices for mailing. Sometimes they remember to include a return envelope, sometimes they don’t. And when they do remember, it’s alway one of those smaller envelopes, not the letter size. Funny, they never forget to bill me; I wonder if it would be ok if sometimes I remember to pay them and sometimes I don’t. I’m only human, after all. No, I doubt that would fly.
Is it a coincidence that both the dentist and the gardener mail out a typed invoice on a standard 8 ½ “ x 11” sheet of paper which has no perforated line at the top or the bottom? That’s the line that easily allows me to separate the portion of the invoice that gets returned with my check from the portion that I keep for our records. No perforated line means I have to use scissors to separate the two parts of the invoice or, if I don’t feel like getting up, repeatedly fold one section of the invoice in the same place until there’s a sufficient crease to neatly tear the the invoice into two sections. Mostly neatly; sometimes it looks like I used my teeth, which seems quite fitting for the dentist’s invoice.
And another thing. I think all return envelopes should be prepaid with no postage required on my part. I mean, let’s get real. Isn’t it enough that I’m sending these businesses my money? Now I have to affix a postage stamp. I have been given the privilege of paying to send them my money. Let that sink in. Not only am I giving them my money – I’m paying to do so.
And then we still have to take all our envelopes to the post office!
That, my friends, is “The Old B.O.H.I.C.A.” – Bend Over; Here It Comes Again.
You know, I really need to have another serious conversation with Bill about online banking.
The insistent knocking on our apartment door at 4AM roused us from our sleep. We had many friends who were ‘night owls’ but no one came calling at this early hour.
When it became clear the person on the other side of the door was not going away, my husband Sean groggily slid out of bed, pulled on his jeans and walked to the door. Placing his eye against the peep hole revealed who interrupted our sleep and he quickly opened the door.
“Michael!” my husband greeted our friend. “C’mon in, man. What’s up and what’s with the suitcase?”
“I got a problem, bro”, words I never heard the ever-confident Michael declare. He eased past Sean into our apartment and the two friends walked straight into our spare bedroom and closed the door.
Flashback two years ago when we first met Michael. We were newlyweds when we moved into the apartment building where he lived; we became instant friends. Michael was the coolest guy we knew – good-looking, great dresser, incredibly smart, confident to a flaw, magnetic personality and sexy as hell. His bigger-than-life persona and ebullient laugh were contagious. He was the epitome of the cliché “Women want him and men want to be him”.
We got caught up in a whirlwind lifestyle and were soon speeding in the express lane of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. Michael was fun, wild and fearless; he had all the right connections. We went to all the best parties and got into the hottest clubs. We partied every night, went to work the next day and did it all over again.
Oh yeah. There’s one thing I failed to mention. Michael was a narc working undercover for the NYPD’s Special Narcotics Division, a fact that saved our asses more times than I care to remember. We had plenty of close calls but all he had to do was whip out his badge, flash that smile, talk the talk and we were golden.
Somehow Michael always managed to toe the line at work – except for that night when temptation won out, that same night he showed up at our place. Behind closed doors, Michael opened the suitcase to reveal the contents to Sean: hundreds of plastic bags stuffed with quaaludes.
My husband stared at the suitcase incredulously for a moment before turning to Michael.
“What the fuck, bro?” Sean declared, part of him hoping some of the white pills marked Rorer 714 were meant for him.
“It was in the evidence room, undocumented”, Michael explained. “I just picked it up and walked the fuck out. I need to stash it here for a couple of days until I make a plan.”
“Sure, man. No prob. Do what you gotta do.”
They hugged, slapping each other’s backs, and Michael said “I’ll be in touch, man.”
Michael went back to work and nobody – not one single crackerjack detective in the precinct noticed the suitcase was missing. After a few days, he returned to our place with a backpack. Taking out the suitcase he’d left with us, he dumped half the ludes into the backpack and gave the rest to Sean. “Here you go, brother – courtesy of the NYPD!”
My husband draped his arm over our friend’s shoulders as they walked to the door. Michael turned and flashed me that amazing grin. “See ya ‘roundthe campus, people.”
He took off into the night, never to be seen again.
The Elephant's Trunk 
