Hi, kids! I’m still here … a little worse for wear but hanging on.
It’s been just over one week since my spinal fusion surgery and I’ve asked myself the same question a few dozen times:
“WHY DID I DO THIS??”
I was talking to a friend today about back surgeries and, since my incision is centrally located on my lower back, I feel the pain everywhere regardless of my position or what I’m doing … and it hurts a lot.
Having gone through this herself a few times times, my friend reminded me that back surgery is a major deal and to cut myself some slack. I did what was necessary and recoup is going to be hard but I also need to remember it’s only been one week. I feel pretty dreadful right now but I realize that’s the norm.
“You’re strong … you got this” she said, and she’s right.
Well, on the bright side, I walk around the house with my walker every 90 minutes, then apply ice. I was walking every hour but by the time I finished walking and icing, there was little time to do anything else!
There’s no point in trying to play catch-up with your posts; once I start blogging regularly, I’ll begin reading your posts as well. But I’m not back yet; this is just a note to say “Hi” and to let you know I’m still here! And big hugs to those of you who scoped out my email address. It was really nice to hear from you.
I didn’t want to end this message with a downer of a song so here’s one of my favorites … a classic R&B tune by Booker T. & The M.G.s to help us chill out. It’s called “Green Onions”.
Well, kids, the possibility has become a reality. First thing this morning I will be having back surgery. It’s time; I can’t put it off any longer. Hopefully it won’t be too much of an ordeal but one never knows with these things. I’ll be off WordPress while I recuperate. Comments on this post have been disabled simply because I won’t be able to respond to them as quickly as I’d like and I apologize for that. I’m sure you understand.
That’s the story, my friends. See you on the flip side. 😎
Best always
~ Nancy
This is the R.E.M. song “Everybody Hurts” performed by Joe Cocker.
LYRICS
When your day is long And the night, the night is yours alone When you’re sure you’ve had enough Of this life, well hang on
Don’t let yourself go ‘Cause everybody cries Everybody hurts sometimes
Sometimes everything is wrong Now it’s time to sing along
When your day is night alone (hold on, hold on) If you feel like letting go (hold on) If you think you’ve had too much Of this life, well hang on
‘Cause everybody hurts Take comfort in your friends Everybody hurts
Don’t throw your hand, oh no Don’t throw your hand If you feel like you’re alone No, no, no, you are not alone
If you’re on your own in this life The days and nights are long When you think you’ve had too much Of this life to hang on
Well, everybody hurts sometimes Everybody cries Everybody hurts, sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes So hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on
Gemelli pasta. Gemelli is the Italian word for ‘twins’
Resemblance can be a freaky thing. Supposedly everyone has a doppelgänger; someone out there is a duplicate of you with your mother’s eyes, your father’s nose and that annoying mole you’ve always wanted to have removed. We might even have several pairs of clones walking around, each totally unaware of the other’s existence.
It’s been said the longer people have a pet, the more they begin to resemble that pet. Dogs have been matched by strangers to their owners time and time again. The same is true for people; have you ever seen a long-married couple who now look like a set of bookends?
I have many relatives in Italy and Sicily; my family has always said one particular cousin and I have looked like each other since birth. We were born days apart and are called “I Gemelli” … “The Twins”. The first time my cousin Franco and I met, we just stared at each other in fascination. I think Franco and I do bear a strong resemblance however his eyes are blue while mine are green and he’s got a lot more facial hair than I do! LOL! And we have the same Sicilian nose!
My cousin Franco and me
The other day I wrote about my best friend Debby and how alike we are, not just our personalities but our physical appearance as well. One of my WP friends was quite interested in my story and left several comments and questions. I promised I’d write a little bit more about me and Debby … two unrelated women who could pass for sisters, perhaps twins at times.
I can’t explain how these things happen but events at my son’s wedding a few years ago proved the old saying true: fact is stranger than fiction.
There were a lot people at the wedding … family, friends, coworkers. My sister, Rosemarie, was there as was my friend Debby. The time arrived during the wedding reception for a family photo session. The music was playing, people were dancing and milling about. Janet, the wedding photographer, was scrambling around trying to wrangle immediate family members for photos. Craning her neck for a better look into the crowded room, Janet turned to me in surprise and said, “You’ve been holding out on me!”
I had no idea what Janet was talking about and asked her what she meant. She replied, “I know your husband has a twin brother but I had no idea you have a twin sister!”
This conversation went back and forth for a little while … me trying to convince Janet that I didn’t have a twin sister and Janet insisting I did! Of course, Janet was talking about Debby! I laughed and said to her “I really hate to burst your twin bubble but she’s not my sister; she’s my best friend.” When I spotted Rosemarie on the dance floor, I said to Janet, “See the woman in the cream-colored dress? She’s my sister.” I guess I really couldn’t blame Janet; even my new daughter-in-law’s relatives thought the same thing. To make matters more confusing, Debby and I were wearing the same dress (totally unplanned)! Mine was deep purple while hers was dark blue.
It took a lot of convincing for Janet to finally accept the fact that Debby wasn’t my sister and that Rosemarie was. I guess the idea of two sets of twins in the same room was just too exciting for Janet … a missed photo op! I wonder if the same people who matched the pet owners with their dogs would match me and Debby as sisters?
You be the judge.
Me (L) and Debby on Halloween
At the wedding.
Two brunettes with summer tans.
Twins? Maybe, maybe not, but the resemblance is strong….
Eastern-most Long Island, New York. A little village called Montauk. “The End”, according to locals. Drive to the tip of the peninsula, walk a few steps and you’re in the Atlantic Ocean … literally.
1984 was our first visit. “Let’s go out for a weekend. If we don’t like it, we won’t go back.” Famous last words. We stayed at a no frills family motel on the beach; it was paradise.
Step outside the motel and watch your toes disappear into the sand. Big pool filled with sunburned families having the time of their lives. Huge towels and colorful umbrellas cover the beach.
An old salt regales us with tales about the first German U-boats arriving off Montauk in June, 1942. Psyched, we ride our bikes to the lighthouse where we discover WWII bunkers buried deep in the woods.
Montauk’s pizza place and ice cream joint are constantly busy. Drive five minutes west on ‘the stretch’ to a place known simply as “LUNCH” for a mouth-watering lobster roll or puffers and chips.
At night little fires dot the beach, glowing and crackling. Kids stab marshmallows with long sticks and plunge them into the flames for a gooey sweet treat that won’t be eaten again till next summer. Our boys’ hair is sun-streaked, skin bronzed, feet perpetually coated in sand. They’re happy as clams.
In time we started renting a house with a pool; vacations lasted six weeks; 35+ years of unforgettable family memories made, Montauk style.
The Memory Motel has been a fixture in Montauk since the mid-1920s. When the Rolling Stones were out at the east end, they would visit the bar at the motel for some heavy drinking, dancing, shooting pool, tussling, scuffling, and playing the only piano in town until sunrise.
It was 1965, a big year – my sister’s graduation, the Beatles concert and our trip to Sicily.
We spent a day at Mom’s cousin Concetta’s farmhouse outside Agrigento. Goats, sheep and a donkey grazed in the field among the olive trees. Chickens scurried around the barnyard like drunken spinning tops. They were extremely entertaining – our favorite.
We hung out with the animals all morning. In the afternoon we drove to Agrigento to explore the shops.
Upon returning to Concetta’s, we sat down for dinner. Pasta to start, of course. When she brought out the roast chickens, we burst into tears.
Here are three ridiculously talented Sicilian guys from Palermo playing a tune called “The Chicken”. They are Matteo Mancuso (guitar), Riccardo Oliva (bass) and Salvatore Lima (drums). Enjoy this one.
Sometimes in life you make a connection with another person and you know right away it’s special. That happened to me 40 years ago on the day we moved into our new house.
We weren’t moving very far – just about a quarter mile from where we were living. That’s the wonderful thing about this little town; no one wants to leave! It’s quaint, friendly, clean and quiet with it’s beautiful harbor full of ships bobbing peacefully on small waves.
Moving day arrived and the crew was busy getting our boxes loaded for shipping to the new house. My husband stayed behind making sure all went smoothly while I headed over to the new house with our two small sons to wait for the moving vans.
We were sitting on the floor of our empty house playing a game when someone knocked on the door. It was our new neighbor, Debby, who came over to introduce herself. When she saw us sitting on the floor, she insisted we go over to her place which was right next door. When I explained that I was waiting for the moving vans to arrive, Debby said I’d have a clear view of my house from her comfortable sofa. I didn’t need any more convincing and agreed to go over.
When we walked into Debby’s house, the first thing I noticed were the numerous framed photos of large fishing ships, most of them with her husband grinning and displaying a huge fish. I thought how nice it would be for my husband to have a fellow fisherman living next door.
Debby and I started talking and it was as easy and natural as rain. We had so much in common, it felt like we’d known each other all our lives. She also had two young sons and my boys had instant friends. We talked non-stop while I waited for the movers to show up; by the time the vans arrived, a great friendship had been formed and is still going strong. We’ve been through bad hair days, secrets, laughs, tears, vacations, runs to the emergency room, weddings, flooded basements, missing cats, birthdays, Covid, lots of wine, illness, school fairs, Christmases and devastating deaths.
It’s so nice when you have neighbors you get along with; it’s priceless when you have a great relationship like mine and Debby’s. We’re very close and so much alike, people think we’re sisters. If I need to cry or share a laugh, Deb’s the first one I call. The same is true for her. We are each others best friend, two women lucky to have this amazing “soulship” to carry us through the calm and choppy waters of life.
This ovi poem is based on a horrible rollover accident from 2001 in which my husband and I were involved. The photo above is what was left of my car. I believe in God and I’m sure he was watching over us. It’s been 23 years but I still have dreams of that day.
So, I was on the road early this morning and there was a good deal of traffic. Fortunately, the long version of “Light My Fire” came on SiriusXM followed by a Rush yawn-athon. I won’t inflict Rush on you but here are the Doors. Knock yourselves out, kids!
Today at Song Lyric Sunday, Jim has asked us to choose a song that begins with the same letter as our first name. For me that would be the letter N. Here is my song.
L-R Nancy Sinatra Jr, Frank Sinatra Sr, Nancy Sinatra Sr, Frank Sinatra Jr; in front Tina Sinatra, 1948
When I say “here is my song” I really mean MY song. From the time I was a baby and able to understand a few words, this song was special to me. As I got older it became even more special … particularly when my dad would sing it. There are a lot of memories attached to this song; I honestly thought it was written for me and that Frank Sinatra was singing it directly to me. You may recall from another of my posts that my dad hated Sinatra; this may be the only song by Frank that Dad liked. My sister Rosemarie really hated my song because she didn’t like any of HER songs; she’d whine that her songs weren’t as pretty and personal as mine and she’d get annoyed every time it was played. But the thing she hated the most was the line “sorry for you, she has no sister”! I guess I can’t blame her for that!
Have you figured out what my song is? Since it was made popular by Frank Sinatra most people wrongly assumed the song was composed specifically for his daughter. Well, that was a pretty big clue so you must know the answer by now! My song choice for today’s Song Lyric Sunday is “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)”.
The music for the song was composed in 1942 by Jimmy Van Heusen with lyrics written by comedian/lyricist Phil Silvers; it was originally called “Bessie (With the Laughing Face)”. Bessie? Who the hell was Bessie? Well, back in 1942 there was a famous lyricist named Johnny Burke who was married to our mysterious Bessie. Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers wrote the song for their friend Johnny Burke as a surprise for his wife Bessie’s birthday.
All the women at Bessie Burke’s birthday party loved the song so much, they started requesting that it be sung at their parties as well. Apparently Frank Sinatra wasn’t at any of those parties because when his friends Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers sang the song as “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)” at little Nancy Sinatra’s birthday party, Frank broke down and cried, thinking it had been written especially for his daughter! Johnny Burke, Jimmy Van Heusen and Phil Silvers wisely didn’t correct him.
In 1944, Frank Sinatra recorded the song as “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)” and it became a fan favorite. When I was born several years later, the song became a favorite in our house as well.
This is “Nancy” by Frank Sinatra
Lyrics
If I don’t see her each day, I miss her Gee, what a thrill each time I kiss her Believe me, I’ve got a case On Nancy with the laughin’ face She takes the winter and makes it summer But summer could take some lessons from her Picture a tomboy in lace That’s Nancy with the laughin’ face Did you ever hear mission bells ringin’? Well, she’ll give you the very same glow When she speaks you would think it was singin’ Just hear her say hello I swear to goodness you can’t resist her Sorry for you, she has no sister No angel could replace Nancy with the laughin’ face
Keep Betty Grable, Lamour and Turner She makes my heart a charcoal burner It’s heaven when I embrace My Nancy with the laughin’ face
Today’s theme at Song Lyric Sunday is all about songs that feature great guitar riffs. Here’s my response. 🎸
My featured song today has one of the most recognizable and oft-played riffs in rock ’n’ roll history – solid, simple and catchy as hell. And yet, as Deep Purple singer Ian Gillan once said, “Smoke On The Watermight never have been released”, because initially the band didn’t think of it as anything special.
In the winter of 1971, when Purple began work on the Machine Head album in Montreux, Switzerland, guitarist Ritchie Blackmore played the riff in their first jam session, and as Gillan recalled: “We didn’t make a big deal out of it. It was just another riff. We didn’t work on the arrangement – it was a jam.”
But by the end of the recording sessions they came up short of material, and so, in Gillan’s words, “We dug out that jam and put vocals to it.” Blackmore played his Strat and was plugged into – as far as Gillan could recall – “a Vox AC30 and/or a Marshall”. Over that mighty riff, the singer told the true story of how the Montreux casino – where Purple had been scheduled to record – burned down in a fire that started during a Frank Zappa concert. The lyrics “someone stupid with a flare gun burned the place to the ground” were born and with that, a deathless rock classic was created.
This is “Smoke On The Water” by Deep Purple.
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)
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are encouraged to write something creative in 250 words or less, using the photo below as inspiration. Here’s my story.
Covered in filth and mange, the horde of dogs and cats that survived the hurricane were crammed into military vans. Those once long-haired canines with soft billowy fur now resembled stone creatures encased in a shell of thick crust. Scrawny, flea-ridden cats no longer purred contentedly but howled in fear. Muscular pit bulls were reduced to skeletons, the outlines of ribcages clearly visible in emaciated bodies.
The relentless rain caused the levees to burst, resulting in flooding; homeowners lost everything. Many scrambled to their roofs in a desperate attempt to save themselves while others tried swimming to safety. Those lucky enough to own a rowboat floated on the flood waters, dragging people into their boats along the way.
A state of emergency was declared; first responders worked ceaselessly. Overlong, the levees were rebuilt and people relocated.
Tragically, family pets were forgotten in the frenzy or deliberately left behind. When the waters subsided weeks later, they were found chained to fences and porch railings. Some had climbed up trees or hidden themselves away in the attics of abandoned houses. They were scared, starving, sick. Innumerable were dead.
Helpless, hopeless pets were brought to makeshift hospitals. With unbelievable patience, veterinarians treated every surviving animal, gently cutting away matted crusty fur, administering antibiotics and vaccines, providing food and water, bringing those nearly dead back to life. The doctors never rested; they desperately hoped to save more than they did but the struggle was too great. Too many innocents didn’t stand a chance.
Written for Friday Fictioneers where we are encouraged to get creative by writing a story of no more than 100 words using this photo as our inspiration. Here is my 100 word story.
It was the summer of ’59 and I was going to spend July and August with my cousins at the shore. I’d been packing since my last day of school, finishing two days before taking off.
The following morning I awoke with fever, sore throat, bumpy tongue and a facial rash. Scarlet fever, the doctor said. The disease was highly contagious. I was prescribed antibiotics and my parents were warned to keep me home.
My summer plans were abruptly cancelled; I was dejected. All I could do was watch my friends playing, my nose pressed up against the window screen.
When I was a very small child, one of my older cousins was suffering from a case of consumption, also know as tuberculosis. She was 16 years old and literally wasting away from this disease once called the “Great White Plague” due to the extremely pale complexion of those afflicted.
My cousin was always cold, requiring multiple blankets to keep warm, and time outside in the sun and fresh air, especially during the spring and summer. She was either in bed or reclining on a chaise lounge near the window in the parlor.
She looked like death. To the school age children in the house, this was a frightening time and they glanced at her with pity and wariness. They also avoided her, which was not very kind; some of them stayed away by spending extra time practicing their penmanship lessons and math sums.
At least twice each week my great-aunt Chesaria would stop by to administer her special “tonic”, light a candle and leave her mark on my cousin. The ritual never changed: first a dose of the safe-for-human-consumption red berry juice from the sumac plant. Next, Aunt Chesaria would draw a birdcage in blue ink on both of my cousin’s earlobes. The door to the birdcage was always drawn in the open position which allowed the evil spirits in my cousin’s body to find their way out. Finally, my great-aunt would light a tea candle and place it on my cousin’s chest to draw out the congestion. She would close the curtains and leave my cousin in the darkened room to allow her potions to do their magic.
Who knows if any of this strange “medicine” worked; our parents clung to the phrase “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”. My cousin eventually recovered, because of or in spite of Aunt Chesaria’s administrations. She was never a robust woman after her ailment but she married and was healthy enough to give birth to nine children in just 12 years. She welcomed more than 40 grandchildren and a batch of great-grandchildren before passing away at the age of 86 just two years ago.
As a rule, Aunt Chesaria was summoned whenever anyone in the family or immediate vicinity became ill. She drew birdcages on my own earlobes during every childhood malady. But the question that remains unanswered is “Who took care of Aunt Chesaria when she became ill?” No one is around to fill in the blanks so I can only assume there was a witch doctor of sorts living in my neighborhood …. perhaps a black magic woman from Sumatra residing in the unassuming borough of The Bronx!
Presumptuous? Possibly. But fascinating, nonetheless.
The idea of Father’s Day was first conceived by Sonora Smart Dodd, a loving daughter from Spokane, Washington. It was also inspired by Mother’s Day as Dodd wanted a day to honor her father as well. William Jackson Smart was a Civil War veteran and single-handedly raised Sonora and her siblings after the death of their mother.
My dad was a Sicilian immigrant who came to the US by boat in 1930 at the age of 15. He arrived with his father and two brothers … one older and the other younger. His mother and sister remained in Sicily for another few years; according to my grandfather, “America is no place for a woman”.
None of them spoke a word of English.
My father was an apprentice shoemaker in Sicily who took up barbering after getting settled in Brooklyn, NY. His good looks and charm endeared him to many people and he was liked by everyone.
It was my dad’s boss at the barbershop who gave him a brilliant piece of advice. As was his habit, my father bought the Italian newspaper every day to read during his down time at work. One day the boss said to him in Italian “Hey, Vito! If you ever hope to speak English, do yourself a favor and start buying the New York Times every day and read it from front to back.” My father realized the importance of that advice and started buying the NY Times the very next day. With the added help of his English-speaking customers, he became fluent in English and lost his accent with no formal schooling. One of the proudest moments in his life was completing the NY Times crossword puzzle … in ink!
Dad became a US citizen and eventually landed a job with the post office. He was a US Army veteran who drove a jeep throughout Europe during WWII without ever having earned a driver’s license. He never did get his license and never drove again after his stint in the army.
My father loved music, especially opera, and I was exposed to classical music and opera at a very early age. The basics in life were Dad’s tenets … family, God, country, his job, providing a roof over our heads, food on the table and a good education. He was also the fun-loving one, with Mom always busy “cleaning up his messes”.
Dad loved people and entertaining in our home. He would often invite people for dinner without clearing it with Mom first. No wonder she was always pissed off! Dad was often in trouble for that and I found that devilish quality one of his most endearing traits. He truly meant no harm. He was a good and decent man who loved and was loved in return. And in the end can any of us want more than that?
Happy Father’s Day to all my guys on WordPress. I hope your day is as special as you are.
There was a boy named Danny who sat directly in front of me in 5th grade. He had a perpetual case of ringworm which fascinated and repulsed me at the same time.
His beautiful black hair had been shaved to expose the circular rash on the back of his head. I imagined microscopic critters chasing each other around that stubbly maze.
The theory was that Danny caught the fungus while hunting frogs in the boggy bullrushes; somehow that didn’t make it any less gross.
I never could understand boys and their frog fetishes. Everyone knows that’s where warts come from!
Yesterday was our anniversary, wed 52 years. No partynecessary.
None of our friends who married around the same time are still together. How sad is that?
People have asked “What’s the secret to a long and happy marriage?” For us it’s pretty simple: respect, communication, honesty, having a sense of humor.
When you combine those ingredients, love happens. You can manage the lows and celebrate the peaks, watch the dawns and the sunsets, walk hand-in-hand through the ordinary and make it extraordinary.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday where we are asked to start our piece with a question. Bonus points have been hinted at if we also end our piece with a question. Here is my questionable stream based on a conversation I had with my husband.
“What would you say if I decided to let my hair go natural? You know, go grey?”
“I’d have to ask why you would want to do that. You always take great pride in looking younger than you are. Wouldn’t grey hair make you look older?”
“Well, I’m not sure we can toss a blanket over all women with grey hair and say they look older. There are other factors that come into play. I’ve always had great skin. Won’t I still have great skinif I go grey? How can I just arbitrarily assume I will look older?”
“Ok, I’ll give you that much. You can’t assume you will definitely look older. You’ve told me how much you like the color of your hair. I’m surprised you’re suddenly considering changing it. Where is this coming from?”
“Honestly, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. It would be so much easier not having to color my hair and get highlights every couple of months. Besides, when we were at your sister’s house the other day, I was the only woman who still colors her hair.”
“And you were the best looking one at the table!”
“You have to say that; I’m your wife! Your sister’s grey hair looks gorgeous. I know women who’d kill to have her color.”
“But there’s no guarantee you’ll end up with the same color, is there?”
“Well, no …. I suppose not. But my colorist is so talented, I just know she’d do a great job transitioning my hair.”
“Now I’m confused. If you want to stop coloring your hair, what does your colorist have to do with any of this?”
“My colorist will add some grey to my hair …. like getting highlightsonly they’d be grey instead of blonde. She’d gradually add more until my hair is completely grey, then I can naturally let my grey roots grow out.”
“Seem’s like an awful lot of work to me. Why not just stop coloring your hair and let nature take it’s course?”
“That’s a terrible idea! It’ll take forever and look awful growing out!”
“Well, if you’re convinced this is what you want, I’m not going to stop you.”
“I’m not at all convinced this is what I want; that’s why I asked you in the first place.”
“Ok, then my answer to your question is ‘Don’t go gray. I love your hair color the way it is.”
“Well, I’ll have to give that more thought. What do you think about me cutting my hair?”
But …. let’s get real! Where did the time go and how did she get so big?
Our youngest grandchild, 4-year-old Colette, is not a wee one any longer. Of course, we’ve noticed some of the clothes we keep for her at our house have gotten snug but now she can help herself to anything in the refrigerator, open the latch on the gate leading to the front yard without any assistance and we’ve had to make some adjustments to her car seat. However, nothing brings home how much she’s grown in nine months like these two side-by-side photos.
Back in September on the first day of nursery school, she was a giddy little tyke bubbling with enthusiasm and now she’s a beautiful little girl looking so very mature and confident, pictured on the last day of school on June 5.
Colette’s on a steady course to independence …. dressing and showering by herself (with some careful supervision), using a “grown up” drinking glass instead of one with a lid and straw, calling her parents “Mom & Dad” instead of “Mommy & Daddy”, and a bunch of little changes we see on a regular basis.
Our son drops her off for us to babysit each week on Tuesdays, Thursdays and the occasional Saturday; now that she’s able to do so much on her own, it’s a lot easier for us but sometimes we sure do miss that giggly, squirmy toddler! Time is going far too fast.
She’ll always be our little Kukla, no matter how old she gets; that’s something no amount of time will ever change!
Written for Six Sentence Story where Denise encourages us to get creative in just six sentences incorporating the word “engagement”. Here’s my six.
The idea of my parents chaperoning me to the beach that night was mortifying but I figured I had to suck it up if there was a ghost of a chance of having any fun during this vacation in Surf City, so that night my mother, father and I went for a stroll on the beach, me hanging back about ten feet or so hoping the cool bonfire kids would think I was by myself; music was playing and marshmallows were roasting on long sticks …. everyone was tan and blonde and beautiful …. and that’s when I saw him …. he looked just like Edd ‘Kookie’ Byrnes from ’77 Sunset Strip’ and when he glanced up as we walked by and smiled, I fell hopelessly in love.
Thankfully, my parents quietly observed the group without their usual compulsion to make conversation and, satisfied what they saw wasn’t a remake of “Reefer Madness”, sat for a while high on a dune delighting in the reflection of the moon on the water; when it was time to go, the three of us walked back to the beach house …. but not before I had a chance to look over my shoulder and give Edd a little wave; he grinned and waved back (I was in heaven) and I knew I had to go to the next bonfire – alone.
I guess being out in the sun all day must have fried my parent’s brains because, when I nonchalantly asked them the next night if I could walk down to the bonfire by myself for a little while, they actually agreed; all I could think about was seeing Edd again and how relieved I felt that my older sister considered herself “too mature for ateeny-bopper beach party” and didn’t want to tag along.
The group was friendly and waved me over so, as casually as possible, I headed straight for Edd and sat down next to him and someone handed me a cold beer …. my first ever .… which I liked quite a bit; the kids were into Jan and Dean and The Beach Boys …. I was a Beatles girl but I wasn’t going to let that get in the way …. and by the end of the night, Edd and I were holding hands and agreed to meet again the following night.
That was the most blissful week of my young life …. lots of kissing and petting …. professions of love …. an “engagement ring” fashioned from a Bud Lite pull tab …. but we didn’t go beyond 2nd base; in all my 16 years, I’d never been as happy or excited to be with someone as I was with Edd.
At the end of the week we exchanged phone numbers and promised to call each other but that didn’t happened and it’s ok …. I never really thought it would …. I’m content with the memory; one thing I’m sure of is none of my friends will ever be able to say they spent a week making out on the beach with Edd ‘Kookie’ Byrnes.
Written for Glyn’s Mixed Music Bag Week #23 where the theme is ‘songs by a group or solo singer beginning with the letter K or L’.Here’s my group.
Photo: GAB Archive/Redferns
Wickedly satirical, wryly observant and fiercely independent, the Kinks ran counter even to the counterculture! While other major 60s bands were on drug-fueled psychedelic jam sessions, the Kinks kept their focus close to home. They dissected England with witty, literate lyrics set to pop-rock that gained them a cult following that only grows.
While we could never be called cult-followers, Bill and I are huge Kinks fans and saw them perform in concert more times than any other group. The Kinks have left an unimpeachable legacy of classic songs, many of which formed the building blocks of popular music as we know it today.
Founded in 1964 in Muswell Hill, North London, by brothers Ray and Dave Davies, the Kinks first gained prominence on the heels of the well-received and highly influential single “You Really Got Me”. The group originally consisted of lead singer/guitarist Ray Davies, lead guitarist Dave Davies, bassist Pete Quaife and drummer Mick Avory. Quaife left [twice] in the late 1960s and Avory left in 1984 as the result of a long-running dispute with Dave Davies, leaving only Ray and Dave as the core of the original group.
With Ray’s songwriting skills, Dave’s impressive guitar work and Mick Avory’s tight and steady drumming, the band became one of the best and most significant groups of British pop and the “British Invasion”, lasting longer than any of their peers, apart from the Rolling Stones. Their catalogue of songs has been covered by Van Halen, The Pretenders, The Black Keys, The Stranglers, Queens of the Stone Age and many more.
So, what about all those concerts we went to? Bill helped me with this list as I didn’t think I would have remembered all the dates …. and I didn’t! The 1st time we saw the Kinks was in October, 1969, at our old stomping grounds, the Fillmore East. The 2nd time was June, 1970, at the Capitol Theater in Port Chester, NY; that was a great show which also featured Grand Funk Railroad and Mott The Hoople. In November, 1971, we saw the Kinks at Carnegie Hall and then again at Stony Brook University where they shared the stage with Yes. Our 5th Kinks concert was again at Carnegie Hall in March, 1972, and later that year we saw them two more times …. once with the Beach Boys at the Nassau Coliseum (fun!) and again at the Felt Forum of Madison Square Garden. The 8th time seeing the Kinks was with Argent in March of ’73 at St. John’s University. In 1974 we saw them for the 9th time, again at the Felt Forum. Our 10th and final Kinks concert took place at Hofstra University in May, 1977. I was pregnant with our first child and we decided it was time to settle down and act responsibly. That’s 10 performances in 8 years; not bad!
As you can imagine, it’s very difficult to choose one Kinks’ song as my all-time favorite …. so I won’t. Here are three songs I really like a lot so turn up the volume and settle in.
#1 – Ray Davies claimed that he was inspired to write “Lola” after Kinks manager Robert Wace spent a night in Paris dancing with a cross-dresser. The lyrics to this one are so deliciously clever and can be interpreted a couple of different ways. “Lola” reached #1 on the UK Singles Chart and #9 on the Billboard Hot 100. The track has since become one of the Kinks’ most popular songs and was ranked #386 on Rolling Stones’ 2021 edition of “The 500 Greatest Songs Of All Time”. This is ”Lola”:
#2 – There’s not a single thing wrong with this beautiful and melancholy tribute to the stars of Hollywood’s Silver Screen. Record World called “Celluloid Heroes” one of Ray Davies’ finest compositions, however it failed to chart. That doesn’t matter one bit to me; it still is a fabulous song! This is “Celluloid Heroes”:
#3 – Released in August, 1964, “You Really Got Me” went to #1 on the UK singles chart and later in the year to #7 on the US charts. The track is taken from the Kinks’ self-titled album The Kinks. This is “You Really Got Me”:
My husband is as easy going as can be, so when he makes a request, I try my best to oblige. Last night he asked for Sunday pasta with meatballs. How could I refuse?
Homemade pasta with all the trimmings is something I can do with my eyes closed but when I first started out in the kitchen as a new bride, I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I had watched my mother cook for years but it’s a whole different ballgame when you’re on your own.
I’ll never forget the first time I tried to make Sunday pasta. Reading my mother’s recipe was no help. This is exactly what she wrote:
For your pasta dough mix flour and eggs, water when you need, pinch salt, oil maybe.
That’s it. No measurements, no amounts, nothing definitive. Her meatball recipe was no better:
Chopped meat, eggs, some salt & pepper, handful parmigiano, another handful breadcrumbs, dice onion, parsley, oregano, glass of water.
A GLASS OF WATER! Which glass? What size? At this point my eyes were frantically scanning the kitchen for a glass! I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. I’m sure my mother never referred to a recipe in her life so she had no idea how to write one!
Just then it hit me and I had a vision of my mother in her kitchen. She always used a Flintstone’s Jelly Jar as her water glass when cooking; she said it was the perfect size. All I had to do was find an equivalent measure and I’d be good.
I eventually mastered the art of Sunday pasta with meatballs but I sure do wish I had my mom’s jelly jar .… for old times’ sake, you know?
Written for Six Sentence Story where we are given a word, in this case ‘lift’, and asked to incorporate it into a story of no more than six sentences. This is my true story of family.
“Mangia il cibo sul tuo piatto, Concetta, o lo mangerai dal pavimento” – (“Eat the food on your plate, Concetta, or you will eat it off the floor.”)
Without changing her expression or taking her huge brown eyes off her father Domenico’s face, three year old Concetta picked up a meatball, extended her arm over the side of her highchair and very calmly let it drop to the floor.
Silence.
Everyone sat in suspended animation as Domenico deliberately put down his knife and fork and removed the napkin which was tucked into the neck of his shirt; slowly he stood up, walked behind Concetta’s chair, grabbed the back of her dress and lifted her up.
Holding her feet with his other hand, Domenico lowered Concetta’s face to the floor until her mouth touched the meatball; she tried to turn away, but Domenico pushed her face into the food, forcing her to take the meatball into her mouth, then, satisfied, he sat her back in her highchair, returned to his seat and resumed eating while Concetta languidly chewed what was in her mouth.
Hesitantly, self-consciously, everyone resumed eating and talking except Concetta’s mother Rosa who sat watching her daughter closely; at the end of the meal as the women cleared the table, Rosa placed a napkin over her defiant daughter’s mouth so she could spit out the uneaten meatball and whispered in her ear “Mai più, Concetta; obbedisci a tuo padre!” – (“Never again, Concetta; obey your father!”)
Growing up, it was just me and my sister – two girls doing girl things. And while we weren’t always best of friends, it was just the two of us. It wasn’t my fault that my mother went into labor smack in the middle of my sister’s 4th birthday party; after making a hasty departure for the hospital, my mother arrived just in time for me to be born …. on my sister’s birthday …. and she’s never really forgiven me. I mean, she says she has but deep down there’s resentment. But I digress.
Bitterness for being born on her birthday aside, we managed to get along ok. And we both had a bunch of little girlfriends who’d come over the house to play and swim in our pool. There’s a definite advantage to having the only pool on the block – even if it was inflatable and barely three feet deep. We always had lots of friends over but there were never any boys around and, if an interloper did show up, he was quickly shown the way out before he had a chance to dip his you-know-what in our pool!
For the first six years of my life, I had very little contact with boys .… except for my cousins and they didn’t count. In elementary school boys were just tolerated; they were looked upon as excess baggage. Of course, that all changed when I hit my teen years and realized boys had potential. I had a couple of crushes early on but nothing earth-shattering. Then, at the ripe old age of 17, I went on a blind date with a guy named Bill and together we learned all about boys and girls, how they were so wondrously different and incredibly well-made for each other. I was stunned by how much I didn’t know about boys.
So, wouldn’t you just know it! God, in his infinite humorous nature, decided to bless me with only boy babies. All those years of playing with my baby girl dolls, changing their diapers fashioned from paper napkins, powdering their petite girlie bottoms, all that didn’t come close to what these boys were packing! It didn’t matter how well I knew Bill’s anatomy; he didn’t wear a diaper and I had never changed one …. at least not a boy’s. Talk about a rude awakening!
Let me just explain something very quickly here. When infant girls are getting their diapers changed, sometimes they pee but it’s a dainty little trickle that gently disappears into the absorbent pad under them. When infant boys are getting their diapers changed, parents put on a hazmat suit because that nozzle has a mind of its own and it is gonna spray wherever it wants.
Oh sure, parents can buy little wee-wee teepees to hold over the wee-wee while their baby boy giggles at them, but most times that thing is flying around like an errant garden hose and the pee goes everywhere. And, of course, that’s where men first learn to pee with no hands – yawning and stretching and placing their hands behind their heads in a very satisfied “look-what-I-can-do” sort of way. Usually in those situations, there will be spillage. I have found, for the most part, the male species is not very discriminating and is quite happy to just “hitsomething“.
Which brings me to the heart of this story.
I love my boys and, in all humility, Bill and I did a good job raising them. BUT, nature will take its course no matter what we do. And let me tell you, there is nothing …. and I mean NOTHING …. like the overwhelming musky, barn-like odor that punches you in the face when you open the door to a boy’s bedroom. For the love of all things holy, what is going on in there? How is it possible for boys …. little or big …. to ravage so many briefs, boxers or tighty-whities in one day, not to mention the now-fossilized face cloths (and sometimes my good hand towels)?
We’re all adults here and you know exactly what I’m talking about.
Well, I finally reached the end of my rope. It became unbearable for me to do my teen sons’ laundry, let alone keep up with it, so I threw down the gauntlet. I led the boys to the laundry room where I proceeded to write on my washing machine with a Sharpie. In all the corresponding receptacles were the words “DETERGENT GOES HERE.” “BLEACH GOES HERE.” “SOFTENER GOES HERE.” I’m sure they didn’t believe me when I said I was done doing their wash. After two weeks of their laundry piling up and them running out of clean clothes and their sheets desperate enough to literally walk off the bed and leap into the washing machine, they finally got the message!
As the old saying goes, boys will be boys, and I never had a problem with what was going on in my sons’ bedrooms …. within reason; if I thought something dangerous was happening, I’d be in there in a flash. I’d just had enough of cleaning up their messes. Now they’re grown men, good men, married with children, and they get to deal with their own kids’ smells, sprays, spills and secretions.
And when I see them lugging a basketful of laundry to their washing machines, I chuckle and know I did them a huge favor.
Did you ever find yourself in a situation that was so intense, everything around you ceased to exist? It’s an extraordinary feeling, one that’s difficult to explain without using every adverb and adjective and superlative in the English language.
The date was October 5, 1995 – a most inauspicious day – and yet I remember every detail of the events of that evening almost 30 years ago. At the time I was quite active in my church as a choir member, leader of song, and director of the children’s choir. Our adult choir was one of the best in the county and we were selected by Cardinal O’Connor of New York to sing for His Holiness Pope John Paul II during his visit to St. Joseph’s Seminary in Yonkers, New York. When the Cardinal requests someone’s services, it is an honor and should be treated as such.
For those of you old enough to remember Pope John Paul II, he was universally beloved and is now Saint John Paul II after his beatification on May 1, 2011. He possessed a spirituality that is rare among men, a divine nature of love, peace, kindness and forgiveness.
On that October day in ‘95, in the evening after vespers, it was arranged for John Paul II to have a walkabout around the grounds of the seminary. It was then that I had the greatest honor of my life .… to meet His Holiness and to receive his blessing. The moment I placed my hand in his and looked into his most serene and forgiving blue eyes, I knew I was in the presence of a divine being. There is no other way to describe how I felt other than to say it was rapturous; I had never felt that way before or since.
I have led a charmed life when it comes to meeting famous people …. just a matter of being in the right place at the right time …. but there is nothing that will ever surpass this encounter.
Time and events have a way of changing our perspective and I am no longer a member of the Catholic Church; however, my break from Catholicism has not and never will change the events of October 5, 1995 nor how I felt that day. It is something that will remain with me until my final days on earth.
Written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt #361; we are asked to get creative in exactly 57 words and include the word “classic”. This is my response.
“Oh, baby, you gotta see her! She’s a real beauty! What curves, what style! And the color is perfect …. it’s called Marina Blue and the paint job is amazing! Brand new dash, broad grille, quad headlights and a tail sporting a fan-shaped alcove on both side panels. I’m telling you, honey …. this one’s a classic!”
Author’s Note: That’s what my husband sounded like when he called to tell me about his ‘new’ vintage car …. a 1958 Chevy Bel Air. That was back in 1969 and he was still my boyfriend at the time. He was crazy about that car and took such good care of it. After about 8 months, someone stole it right off his driveway; that was one of a handful of times I’ve seen my husband cry.
Have you ever roller skated? As a child I had the type of roller skates that attached to my shoes and tightened with a key. I would skate in my neighborhood with my friends; since the number of cars on the road back then was much less than now, it was safe for us to take over the whole street and skate for hours. I never had a pair of professional-type skates with the beautiful wood wheels, the ones that laced up like ice skates, nor did I ever go to a roller skating rink. My experience was limited to street skating in strap-on skates with my friends … and lots of skinned knees!
2. Have you ever ridden a horse (or donkey) Yes, I’ve actually ridden both. When I was a young girl in The Bronx, I remember there was a truck that would travel around the area making stops along the way. It was not a very large truck, similar to the vehicles belonging to private landscapers you see today. The truck traveled around and played music like an ice cream truck but instead of ice cream, it carried two ponies and offered rides to children whose parents were lucky enough to have an extra 5¢ to spend. The rides didn’t last long, just up and down our street with the truck driver/pony handler holding the rein and leading us around. For city kids such as myself, this was an exciting and memorable event! One summer my sister-in-law and I took our young children horseback riding while on vacation in Montauk. It started out nice but as the day progressed, the weather became increasingly hot and humid and we were all extremely uncomfortable. Since it was a half day tour for beginners, we weren’t exactly galloping bareback down the beach on wild horses which would have provided a cooling breeze. At the end of the day, we were all sweaty, sunburned and covered with mosquito bites … not to mention that we walked like John Wayne for the next two days! There are quite a few horse stables where I currently live and it’s not unusual to see people on horseback crossing the local streets going from one trail to another. It’s a lovely way to spend a few hours but horseback riding isn’t anything I see myself doing again. While in Sicily I rode donkeys fairly often. Many of the streets in my father’s home town are so narrow, the only way to go from one place to another is by foot or on a donkey. Riding a donkey is nothing like riding a horse. Donkeys are much slower than horses; they are approachable and lovable, overall non-reactive and less likely to go into a flight response. Even though I rode horses several times, I did not grow up around them so it was natural for me to feel safer being around a donkey than a horse. You’re also much closer to the ground should you take a tumble! Our donkeys were always saddled, a much more comfortable and safer way to ride.
3. What was your favourite ride at a fun fair? The rollercoaster, without a doubt. I love rollercoasters – the good old-fashioned ones with lots of steep climbs and drops – none of this crazy upside down nonsense you see these days. Just give me an old rollercoaster and I’m a happy camper. All the rides that spin and twist and twirl and go upside down make me terribly nauseous and I steer clear of them. Also I will never go on any ride that involves a free fall; to me that is just insanity. I also used to love water parks and riding the huge twisty-turny slides into the giant pools. They were great fun and an instant way to cool off but these days I can’t walk around theme parks for hours on end because of my arthritis. As my husband always says, “I’m too old for this crap!”
4. Choice of fun fair prizes: coconut, cuddly toy, £10/$10 cash prize. Well, money is always nice but I’d say a cuddly toy to give my granddaughter (unless it’s an elephant which I’d keep for myself! 🐘). We don’t have coconut as a prize here which is too bad because I love coconut. But we do have cotton candy and what’s a day at the fair without the sweet fluffy clouds of pink cotton candy? The legendary Coney Island is an hour’s drive from my house and Palisades Park (made famous by the video below) is only 30 minutes away in New Jersey across the Hudson River. We went to both places often when we were younger. For my UK friends, our Coney Island in Brooklyn was inspired by your seaside resort of New Brighton. We now live about 10 minutes away from Playland Park in Rye, NY, an old and very well-known amusement park/beach. I’m a fan of the Dragon Coaster and the arcade but we spend most of our time (at least for now) in Kiddie-Land where our little 4 year old granddaughter can have fun on the kid rides and play mini-golf, which is the only type of golfing I’m into! And let’s not forget the Tunnel of Love for me and my mister!
A rare alternate album cover of Heep’s “Demons and Wizards”
It was the early 1970s and the four of us scored tickets to see Uriah Heep in Allentown, PA. It was the dog days of August … the kind of sun that blisters your skin in minutes … and the concert was outdoors. The drive was 3 hours each way in scorching temperatures but we were going to that concert come hell or high water. Allentown became our Mecca and the road trip our personal hard rock pilgrimage. The details of that day are a little sketchy but the concert was freakin’ awesome.
The Elephant's Trunk 