From time to time we see, hear, read, or experience things that make us smile. Sometimes, we actually guffaw.
The source usually comes uninvited and occasionally it's as simple as witnessing a little toddler who just recently learned to walk without falling.
Now, he or she is taking on "the run" in your local mall. As the child approaches you, their body moving like jello, and leaning forward or backwards a little too much at times for your comfort level, you almost expect the word "TILT to light up their happy faces.
When they finish the run successfully, ending up in the open arms of a grateful parent or grandparent, it makes us smile. To me, who is old enough to get pretty sentimental at times, it's reminiscent of eavesdropping on a child's bedtime conversation with God.
We love their innocence and enthusiasm.
Recently while cleaning out the library's reading sources (think bathroom) I glanced through a well read copy of Reader's Digest before making a final decision as to whether or not to pitch it.
This magazine has been a favorite of mine for years and I still enjoy reading it. It was even the topic of a class lecture in my Freshman year of college. The course was American History 101 - one of my favorite subjects - and the year was either late 1955 or early 1956.
It was a time when the subject of communism, including witch hunts, preening politicians, ruined reputations, Edward R. Murrow, Joe McCarthy, etc. was fresh in everyone's mind. Too often our local media appeared a mite too anxious to see communist infiltration in everything from labor union strikes to movies and TV dramas, like Studio One, when they didn't have happy endings.
Our History professor was obviously a learned man who spoke with few notes, if any. He could do so as he occasionally repeated lectures he had given to previous Freshman classes.
The day of the lecture I referenced he was explaining to us, the "new frosh", how the Reader's Digest was tied in with the Communist Party. His reasoning as to the Party sponsorship was that the Digest had no advertising in its issues, yet it's circulation continued to increase every year.
A wide awake student raised his hand. The professor, a fire and brimstone sort of guy, who was short, wore horn rimmed glasses, and favored tweed jackets with patches on the elbows, was obviously displeased to be interrupted.
He glared at the male student hoping the latter might drop his hand and shrink through the floor cracks in the classroom before arriving at his appropriate resting place.
The student persisted. Finally, the professor called upon him, allowing the young man the privilege of being able to address an obvious scholar who also had an unusually strong opinion of himself.
"Professor", the student started, "you apparently are not aware that Reader's Digest has had advertisements in their issues for some time now."
It was a good day for all of us. Class was dismissed early and I smiled as I sought out a cold Coke before heading to my next class. I could smile as this writer wasn't the male student.
When I was young, ambitious, and working , the Digest came in handy. With all the reading you had to do on the job, sometimes you couldn't always find time to wade through the long articles in the various periodicals like "Time","Newsweek","US News and World Report", and " The Wall Street Journal".
Reader's Digest often provided me with the Cliff's Notes version. It was important for all of us young white collar stiffs to be up to date on current events. You could pretty much expect to receive a question in this area from someone if you were lucky enough to be scheduled for a promotional interview. It could also arise in a conversation at a uncomfortable and unscheduled luncheon with an "exec" from the regional office.
You could only say, "How about them Steelers?" so often.
Occasionally I did get to read for fun. One such example was the book, "The Day Lincoln Was Shot", by Jim Bishop. I even committed April 14, 1865 to memory, though I doubted a lack of that particular information would be injurious to any promotional ambitions or come up at lunch unless I forced the issue.
Today, in the course of my glancing, I found the unread "Life" section of the July 2009, Reader's Digest and this story:
A reader wrote, "Putting down my riveting book on the Lincoln assasination, I turned to my wife and explained how after shooting the president, John Wilkes Booth leaped onto the the Ford's Theatre stage, raised his knife, and shouted the Virginia State motto.
My wife crinkled her eyebrows and asked, "Virginia is for lovers?"
Now, that's humor folks. I didn't just smile. I laughed out loud and thought it was also a delighful follow-up to the most recent blog on the subject of husband/wife communication.
Now, it's time to follow the advice on a local business sign I saw recently:
"levity, brevity, and longevity".
Two out of three ain't bad.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Getting it on!
The other day my wife Phyl & I were discussing our favorite memories of when we were children. The stimulus for the discussion was a book our daughter Beth gave me for Father's Day.
The book, entitled "Between me and you, Dad", is sub-titled "A few things I've been meaning to ask."
The first section asks Dad to respond to various questions regarding his life as a kid. It is followed by five other sections, each containing more fascinating questions.
Phyl & I would recommend it to anyone who would like to communicate with their kids in an organized format - an ability I've lacked for most of my life.
Of our memories as kids, we both enjoyed talking about the times when you could dip your face in a stream and drink the water without fear. The clown in me insisted this was also the way I used to catch salamanders.
Phyl was not amused either.
When we got back on track and revved up the long time memory apparatus we really had a good time.
One thing led to another as we shared stories both old and new. We found both of us enjoyed going to a favorite remote spot by ourself to think about a heck of a lotta things. During those sojourns, usually within a mile from our respective homes, we would enjoy lying under a tree and making cloud pictures. Sometimes it would be just enjoying the solitude while tuning in to the serenity a stream flowing over small stones and objects can provide.
We did this in locales far from each other.
I'm curious if we ever saw the same cloud pictures. Phyl was doing her cloud watching in Harrisburg, PA - while I was equally occupied in Pittsburgh. Surely, the mountains between the two cities broke up the really good clouds. Naturally, I'm sure I had the best ones.
They say that too often, a married couple can forget how to talk to each other and that may be a major cause of them growing apart. Sometimes the meaningful topics get overlooked because of differing philosophies and a couple can linger too long without a "timeout" on the sensitive subjects.
If you doubt this argument, try "people watching" older couples the next time you're out at a favorite restaurant. A friend of ours used to comment about us when my wife and I were first dating, "Here's a couple who will never run out of conversation material," and you know, she was right.
Unfortunately, sometimes the conversations aren't always as much fun.
Sometimes, as we grow older, we find we have too much heaviness in our lives due to outside influences, such as the editorial pages, the negativity of others, and the various TV programs featuring "expert" panels.
We find a need to "turn off the tap" and just relax with each other; however, if you're not talking about the economy, someone's illness, the Florida heat, home improvements, chores that need to be completed, etc., what's left?
In a family with two very strong-willed people, it's been our experience that topics such as cool, clear, drinkable spring water, cloud pictures, Grandma's bosom(s), gettting those large ice chunks from the milkman, and the many funny things our respective kids did when they were young, can do much to close the gap between two people who love each other.
It's a lot like dating.
It's amazing how the gift of a simple book from our daughter could promote the reflection of so many wonderful memories.
But, that's for another Phyl & Barry conversation.
The book, entitled "Between me and you, Dad", is sub-titled "A few things I've been meaning to ask."
The first section asks Dad to respond to various questions regarding his life as a kid. It is followed by five other sections, each containing more fascinating questions.
Phyl & I would recommend it to anyone who would like to communicate with their kids in an organized format - an ability I've lacked for most of my life.
Of our memories as kids, we both enjoyed talking about the times when you could dip your face in a stream and drink the water without fear. The clown in me insisted this was also the way I used to catch salamanders.
Phyl was not amused either.
When we got back on track and revved up the long time memory apparatus we really had a good time.
One thing led to another as we shared stories both old and new. We found both of us enjoyed going to a favorite remote spot by ourself to think about a heck of a lotta things. During those sojourns, usually within a mile from our respective homes, we would enjoy lying under a tree and making cloud pictures. Sometimes it would be just enjoying the solitude while tuning in to the serenity a stream flowing over small stones and objects can provide.
We did this in locales far from each other.
I'm curious if we ever saw the same cloud pictures. Phyl was doing her cloud watching in Harrisburg, PA - while I was equally occupied in Pittsburgh. Surely, the mountains between the two cities broke up the really good clouds. Naturally, I'm sure I had the best ones.
They say that too often, a married couple can forget how to talk to each other and that may be a major cause of them growing apart. Sometimes the meaningful topics get overlooked because of differing philosophies and a couple can linger too long without a "timeout" on the sensitive subjects.
If you doubt this argument, try "people watching" older couples the next time you're out at a favorite restaurant. A friend of ours used to comment about us when my wife and I were first dating, "Here's a couple who will never run out of conversation material," and you know, she was right.
Unfortunately, sometimes the conversations aren't always as much fun.
Sometimes, as we grow older, we find we have too much heaviness in our lives due to outside influences, such as the editorial pages, the negativity of others, and the various TV programs featuring "expert" panels.
We find a need to "turn off the tap" and just relax with each other; however, if you're not talking about the economy, someone's illness, the Florida heat, home improvements, chores that need to be completed, etc., what's left?
In a family with two very strong-willed people, it's been our experience that topics such as cool, clear, drinkable spring water, cloud pictures, Grandma's bosom(s), gettting those large ice chunks from the milkman, and the many funny things our respective kids did when they were young, can do much to close the gap between two people who love each other.
It's a lot like dating.
It's amazing how the gift of a simple book from our daughter could promote the reflection of so many wonderful memories.
But, that's for another Phyl & Barry conversation.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Bella - Feeling Chipper
In an earlier blog I alluded to the fact that Bella, our 2 pound/2 year old Chihuahua was not all that she seemed.
She is the very picture of class - hardly ever makes any noise in public - and greets everybody graciously. She will even bestow kisses on your bod should you proffer her a french fry or two.
Yet, the truth be known, Bella acts one way when she's out and another when she's home. In the latter environment she can be very demanding and quite sarcastic.
I know you're saying, "Hold it Bar - how can a dog be sarcastic?"
Well, let me try to explain as I pull out some 0ld journal entries regarding previous "Father & Dog" conversations Bella and I have conducted.
Here are some excerpts from one of the first:
"So, when did you learn you could talk?" I hesitantly asked. This was not too long after learning Bella could communicate with something other than bites and barks.
"Well, I was pretty suspicious for a while", she replied. One day, I heard a female like voice being critical of you - didn't see mommy's lips moving - and realized it must be me. But, really, I've been speaking ever since the "doc" inserted the chip."
"OK, hold it right there. You're saying that when we had the microchip inserted in your neck for protective reasons, you suddenly gained the power of speech?"
"That's about it Rollo" - she countered, while pointing a tiny paw toward my ever expanding - but now "smokefree" - tummy.
"Oh, by the way", she continued, "I also receive the NFL network now - something else you're lacking, big guy. For the exchange of a few shekels I could let you know how your precious Steelers are doing when they're not playing on network TV. We all know you're too cheap to go out and find the game at a bar . I believe, that's ever since being told you had to order something other than ice water with lemon, if you wanted to watch the game ."
As usual, she was starting to get to me already. Now she's attacking my sports teams and my budgetary acumen What's next? Why is it that females have this ability to immediately hone in on your insecurities? I glared at her, one of my best offensive weapons at my age.
"You know pal, if you don't curb that newly discovered voice, I'm going to get a scrambler and all you'll be receiving is re-runs of The Gong Show."
"Ha! You, of all people, are going to try and install a scrambler? That should be fun to watch. You still can't program the Ipod the kids gave you!"
"Look I'm making real progress", I said somewhat defensively. "It's just that sometimes I prefer to listen to many of my old CD's through the full glorious sound provided by my Advent floor speakers. They bring out the rumbling bass - and the ultra fine treble of my favorite's singers."
"In other words, you still can't figure out how to turn on the Ipod, right?"
"That's not the case. Since Bruce came down and worked with me, I've been able to play Bruce's over 1100 music selections through the computer."
"Whatever. Which reminds me Bar, don't you have any 'favorite' singers who, you know, are like still breathing?"
She wasn't done yet. "You've turned the lanai into a 'musical mausoleum' for dead singers. I live a lot of my life out here and am sort of a captive Chihuahua. All I want to do is to lie by the window and try to embellish my tan. I really don't need all that syruppy stuff and the big band sound hurts my delicate ears."
I was indignant. "You're saying you don't appreciate Frank, Ella, Nat, Dean, Sammy, Bing, Sassy, Dinah, Mario, and Pavarotti?"
"Whoa, how did you leave out Dezi Arnaz serenading Lucy with his bilingual version of 'Bubaloo'?. Let me make you a deal. I'll give you a 'Franklin' for every "new" CD those guys have recorded recently."
"That's ridiculous, I replied. You don't even have a job my Latin American friend"
"Look who's talking - 'ole retired and waiting for rigor mortis'. Isn't it about time for you to bring your life into the twenty-first centurey? You could start by going out and getting a little exercise? Seriously, what exercise do you get besides hunting for the TV remote? You're starting to block out the sun, Porky!"
"I do exercise. Are you forgetting that I take you out in the basket on the bike for our weekly ride around the development?"
"Oh, yeah Speedo, and the way you pedal gives a whole new meaning to the term 'stationary' bike". I just don't get you. You're totally different from my Mommy. Man, they're not kidding when they say opposites attract."
She wasn't done yet . "You ever notice she walks around fully erect, is younger, better looking, and she plays live music by live artists? I don't get it. Explain what you could possibly have ever said to have convinced her to choose you for her lifetime companion?"
"Go, talk to your Mommy."
(I departed the lanai for the solitude of the back yard. I even took my Ipod. It has earphones.)
She is the very picture of class - hardly ever makes any noise in public - and greets everybody graciously. She will even bestow kisses on your bod should you proffer her a french fry or two.
Yet, the truth be known, Bella acts one way when she's out and another when she's home. In the latter environment she can be very demanding and quite sarcastic.
I know you're saying, "Hold it Bar - how can a dog be sarcastic?"
Well, let me try to explain as I pull out some 0ld journal entries regarding previous "Father & Dog" conversations Bella and I have conducted.
Here are some excerpts from one of the first:
"So, when did you learn you could talk?" I hesitantly asked. This was not too long after learning Bella could communicate with something other than bites and barks.
"Well, I was pretty suspicious for a while", she replied. One day, I heard a female like voice being critical of you - didn't see mommy's lips moving - and realized it must be me. But, really, I've been speaking ever since the "doc" inserted the chip."
"OK, hold it right there. You're saying that when we had the microchip inserted in your neck for protective reasons, you suddenly gained the power of speech?"
"That's about it Rollo" - she countered, while pointing a tiny paw toward my ever expanding - but now "smokefree" - tummy.
"Oh, by the way", she continued, "I also receive the NFL network now - something else you're lacking, big guy. For the exchange of a few shekels I could let you know how your precious Steelers are doing when they're not playing on network TV. We all know you're too cheap to go out and find the game at a bar . I believe, that's ever since being told you had to order something other than ice water with lemon, if you wanted to watch the game ."
As usual, she was starting to get to me already. Now she's attacking my sports teams and my budgetary acumen What's next? Why is it that females have this ability to immediately hone in on your insecurities? I glared at her, one of my best offensive weapons at my age.
"You know pal, if you don't curb that newly discovered voice, I'm going to get a scrambler and all you'll be receiving is re-runs of The Gong Show."
"Ha! You, of all people, are going to try and install a scrambler? That should be fun to watch. You still can't program the Ipod the kids gave you!"
"Look I'm making real progress", I said somewhat defensively. "It's just that sometimes I prefer to listen to many of my old CD's through the full glorious sound provided by my Advent floor speakers. They bring out the rumbling bass - and the ultra fine treble of my favorite's singers."
"In other words, you still can't figure out how to turn on the Ipod, right?"
"That's not the case. Since Bruce came down and worked with me, I've been able to play Bruce's over 1100 music selections through the computer."
"Whatever. Which reminds me Bar, don't you have any 'favorite' singers who, you know, are like still breathing?"
She wasn't done yet. "You've turned the lanai into a 'musical mausoleum' for dead singers. I live a lot of my life out here and am sort of a captive Chihuahua. All I want to do is to lie by the window and try to embellish my tan. I really don't need all that syruppy stuff and the big band sound hurts my delicate ears."
I was indignant. "You're saying you don't appreciate Frank, Ella, Nat, Dean, Sammy, Bing, Sassy, Dinah, Mario, and Pavarotti?"
"Whoa, how did you leave out Dezi Arnaz serenading Lucy with his bilingual version of 'Bubaloo'?. Let me make you a deal. I'll give you a 'Franklin' for every "new" CD those guys have recorded recently."
"That's ridiculous, I replied. You don't even have a job my Latin American friend"
"Look who's talking - 'ole retired and waiting for rigor mortis'. Isn't it about time for you to bring your life into the twenty-first centurey? You could start by going out and getting a little exercise? Seriously, what exercise do you get besides hunting for the TV remote? You're starting to block out the sun, Porky!"
"I do exercise. Are you forgetting that I take you out in the basket on the bike for our weekly ride around the development?"
"Oh, yeah Speedo, and the way you pedal gives a whole new meaning to the term 'stationary' bike". I just don't get you. You're totally different from my Mommy. Man, they're not kidding when they say opposites attract."
She wasn't done yet . "You ever notice she walks around fully erect, is younger, better looking, and she plays live music by live artists? I don't get it. Explain what you could possibly have ever said to have convinced her to choose you for her lifetime companion?"
"Go, talk to your Mommy."
(I departed the lanai for the solitude of the back yard. I even took my Ipod. It has earphones.)
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Visionary
I love Florida. It is a State of many contrasts. Huge mansions look across the road at homes that are less than mansion type structures. On one main thorofare near our home the zoning appears to be somewhat like a cabbage patch. There are businesses interspersed with private dwellings and a lot of "For Sale" signs.
On the road I reference there is what appears to be a fortune teller who is attempting to drum up business. Outside of the business location is a promotional sign announcing what I'll refer to as "today's special".
While it appears to always be the same special, who's to question it's still not special that day?
The economy has been tough for everyone, so it seems that from time to time there are also vehicles for sale at the location.
Recently, there appears to be a fishing boat with motor for sale. I hesitate to go any further with my attempt to categorize it.
My expertise with identifying boats is mainly limited to rowboats I've rowed in circles at Edinboro Lake and Kennywood Park.
At the latter facility, I was pulling to my right with my dominant arm, as I attempted to entertain my picnic date seated at the other end of the boat. In the center of the small boat pond was a tower from the top of which emanated various public address announcements.
I had never been that close to the tower and when the announcer's voice boomed out: "This is the Voice Of Kennywood" - I promptly dropped the weaker arm's oar into the water.
I can't recall if my date swam to shore or not. Not a good boating story.
However, I do somewhat recall touring the Queen Mary, in Southern California . I hesitate to detail this experience as all of us were "partying hardy". My memories of the day are somewhat diffuse. You see, I also seem to recall that Howard Hughes's airplane was located inside the ship. So, my reliability may be in question here.
Anyway, the sight of this boat of unknown classification got me wondering. Suppose a man stopped and inquired about the price of the boat and motor?
Upon hearing the asking price he decides it is way out of his price range. Not to be discouraged, as he is a frequent flea market and garage sale attendee, he counters with an offer of roughly one-third the stated sales price.
The seller becomes outraged and threatens to throw the man off the lot.
The prospective buyer runs back to his car but, as he flees, he shouts over his shoulder: "I don't know why you're so upset. You should have seen it coming!"
Now keep in mind - this never happened as far as I know. It all took place in my imagination. But, maybe, I'll stop over there some day just for the heck of it.
On the road I reference there is what appears to be a fortune teller who is attempting to drum up business. Outside of the business location is a promotional sign announcing what I'll refer to as "today's special".
While it appears to always be the same special, who's to question it's still not special that day?
The economy has been tough for everyone, so it seems that from time to time there are also vehicles for sale at the location.
Recently, there appears to be a fishing boat with motor for sale. I hesitate to go any further with my attempt to categorize it.
My expertise with identifying boats is mainly limited to rowboats I've rowed in circles at Edinboro Lake and Kennywood Park.
At the latter facility, I was pulling to my right with my dominant arm, as I attempted to entertain my picnic date seated at the other end of the boat. In the center of the small boat pond was a tower from the top of which emanated various public address announcements.
I had never been that close to the tower and when the announcer's voice boomed out: "This is the Voice Of Kennywood" - I promptly dropped the weaker arm's oar into the water.
I can't recall if my date swam to shore or not. Not a good boating story.
However, I do somewhat recall touring the Queen Mary, in Southern California . I hesitate to detail this experience as all of us were "partying hardy". My memories of the day are somewhat diffuse. You see, I also seem to recall that Howard Hughes's airplane was located inside the ship. So, my reliability may be in question here.
Anyway, the sight of this boat of unknown classification got me wondering. Suppose a man stopped and inquired about the price of the boat and motor?
Upon hearing the asking price he decides it is way out of his price range. Not to be discouraged, as he is a frequent flea market and garage sale attendee, he counters with an offer of roughly one-third the stated sales price.
The seller becomes outraged and threatens to throw the man off the lot.
The prospective buyer runs back to his car but, as he flees, he shouts over his shoulder: "I don't know why you're so upset. You should have seen it coming!"
Now keep in mind - this never happened as far as I know. It all took place in my imagination. But, maybe, I'll stop over there some day just for the heck of it.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Dad
Recently, Craig Wilson, one of my favorite writers, completed a USA Today column on his father. - or "Dad" - as he referenced him.
It was similar to his previous fine efforts . As usual, it appeared to be designed around one recurring theme. Here, it was a recently published advice book for dads. He weaved the theme in and out of his writing and brought it to it's usual amusing conclusion - tying everything together in one neat package.
His column caused me to examine what I would write about my late dad if asked to do so.
I lack Craig Wilson's talents, and also suffer fom a near fatal case of loquaciousness. Thus, I realized that a blog regarding my Dad would lack a central theme. So, I decided to use my usual "flow of the moment" approach.
This is the one where my more charitable friends and family members listen to me and conclude , "There must be a nugget in there somewhere, but I'll be darned if I can find it!"
Anyway, here goes:
There were so many different "Dads" in my lifetime; which is the one I seek to capture here?
Was it the one in the story I heard about Dad who often walked through the house in the middle of the night , carrying on his shoulder his young asthmatic son who had passed out from the lack of breath?
Could it be the same 5' 8" man, later, in his 70's who could still shake your hand with a bonecrushing grip - while looking you in your eye as he had instructed you to do?
Maybe it would be the Dad of that 3rd grader who had just dropped his Dad's expensive binoculars from the "crows nest" of the local Atlantic Avenue School's playground "monkey bars" , and watched them bouncing from rung to rung, finally striking a flat stone at the bottom?
The boy came home and sat rocking on the couch. He sobbed aloud to his unseen father who was ensconced in the bathroom, his usual hiding place. The boy , through copius tears, attempted to explain what had happened. He did this for what seemed like an eternity while Dad apparently was deciding upon the appropriate punishment for his son's careless act.
Dad finally emerged, pipe tucked in the usual place in the corner of his mouth and, a newspaper rolled up in his right hand. He stopped briefly in front of his cowering son still sobbing on the couch and stated: "It was my own dumb fault. I should never have given them to you to play with."
With that, he walked out of the room and never did mete out a punishment.
Perhaps it was the Dad who immediately prior to leaving the driveway, with his wife seated to his right in the family car, called out to his son who was resting on the porch over the garage ,"Could you bring me down a hankerchief from my sock drawer?"
In searching for the hankerchief, the son found the hankerchief/underwear pile. He also located 2 basic instructional manuals, in brown wrappers, on the subject of sexual terms and positions. The boy was thrilled and couldn't wait to return to the book's hiding place. Little did he know at the time it was Dad's unassigned reading assignment.
My wife, a well-educated Registered Nurse, still laughs at my mispronunciations of words gleaned from the two training manuals. I had only the written words in my education process.
Would the Dad we are seeking be the one who hit "flies" to me and my next older brother Jim, night after night in the softball field across the street? A photo of the three of us following the completion of one of our fielding practices remains one of Jim's favorites.
Could the real Dad be the one who, in his late 50s & early 60's - would stand out on the street in front of the house and catch ball with me? That is, until he wildpitched one over my head and I ran after it, attempting to stop the path of the ball with my foot before it reached the steep part of the hill.
As I chased - my Dad rested.
Dad wasn't about to admit he was tired, or that the wadded up hankerchief and sponge he hid in his glove needed to be adjusted to better absorb the strength of his rapidly maturing son's curveballs and "in-shoots" his father had taught him how to throw.
Could this also be the same dad who insisted that Jim and I had to accompany him to our little brother Tom's midget league football game, in the event he was able to get down to the weight limit and be allowed to play?
As you can see, there were many sides to my "Dad". These are the ones I chose for my rambling Father's Day message.
As I was growing up, my dad was my hero, idol, confidant, and best friend. My goal was to someday be just like my Dad ; someone who would take my side and protect me from my adversaries.
Later in life I found that Dad, despite all his strength, power, and wisdom, had to occasionally do battle with his own demons - just like most of us do.
It was not until the time of this progressive discovery that I started to do battle with my father. We never came to blows. That handshake still frightened me.
Some times the battle technique du jour was nothing more than the Irish male's second greatest weapon - "the silent treatment" - a technique my Dad had mastered to perfection, and at whose feet I studied vigorously.
He didn't seem to mind my growing displeasure and anger.
In fact, I had the feeling Dad was waiting for it.
Happy Father's Day, Dad
It was similar to his previous fine efforts . As usual, it appeared to be designed around one recurring theme. Here, it was a recently published advice book for dads. He weaved the theme in and out of his writing and brought it to it's usual amusing conclusion - tying everything together in one neat package.
His column caused me to examine what I would write about my late dad if asked to do so.
I lack Craig Wilson's talents, and also suffer fom a near fatal case of loquaciousness. Thus, I realized that a blog regarding my Dad would lack a central theme. So, I decided to use my usual "flow of the moment" approach.
This is the one where my more charitable friends and family members listen to me and conclude , "There must be a nugget in there somewhere, but I'll be darned if I can find it!"
Anyway, here goes:
There were so many different "Dads" in my lifetime; which is the one I seek to capture here?
Was it the one in the story I heard about Dad who often walked through the house in the middle of the night , carrying on his shoulder his young asthmatic son who had passed out from the lack of breath?
Could it be the same 5' 8" man, later, in his 70's who could still shake your hand with a bonecrushing grip - while looking you in your eye as he had instructed you to do?
Maybe it would be the Dad of that 3rd grader who had just dropped his Dad's expensive binoculars from the "crows nest" of the local Atlantic Avenue School's playground "monkey bars" , and watched them bouncing from rung to rung, finally striking a flat stone at the bottom?
The boy came home and sat rocking on the couch. He sobbed aloud to his unseen father who was ensconced in the bathroom, his usual hiding place. The boy , through copius tears, attempted to explain what had happened. He did this for what seemed like an eternity while Dad apparently was deciding upon the appropriate punishment for his son's careless act.
Dad finally emerged, pipe tucked in the usual place in the corner of his mouth and, a newspaper rolled up in his right hand. He stopped briefly in front of his cowering son still sobbing on the couch and stated: "It was my own dumb fault. I should never have given them to you to play with."
With that, he walked out of the room and never did mete out a punishment.
Perhaps it was the Dad who immediately prior to leaving the driveway, with his wife seated to his right in the family car, called out to his son who was resting on the porch over the garage ,"Could you bring me down a hankerchief from my sock drawer?"
In searching for the hankerchief, the son found the hankerchief/underwear pile. He also located 2 basic instructional manuals, in brown wrappers, on the subject of sexual terms and positions. The boy was thrilled and couldn't wait to return to the book's hiding place. Little did he know at the time it was Dad's unassigned reading assignment.
My wife, a well-educated Registered Nurse, still laughs at my mispronunciations of words gleaned from the two training manuals. I had only the written words in my education process.
Would the Dad we are seeking be the one who hit "flies" to me and my next older brother Jim, night after night in the softball field across the street? A photo of the three of us following the completion of one of our fielding practices remains one of Jim's favorites.
Could the real Dad be the one who, in his late 50s & early 60's - would stand out on the street in front of the house and catch ball with me? That is, until he wildpitched one over my head and I ran after it, attempting to stop the path of the ball with my foot before it reached the steep part of the hill.
As I chased - my Dad rested.
Dad wasn't about to admit he was tired, or that the wadded up hankerchief and sponge he hid in his glove needed to be adjusted to better absorb the strength of his rapidly maturing son's curveballs and "in-shoots" his father had taught him how to throw.
Could this also be the same dad who insisted that Jim and I had to accompany him to our little brother Tom's midget league football game, in the event he was able to get down to the weight limit and be allowed to play?
As you can see, there were many sides to my "Dad". These are the ones I chose for my rambling Father's Day message.
As I was growing up, my dad was my hero, idol, confidant, and best friend. My goal was to someday be just like my Dad ; someone who would take my side and protect me from my adversaries.
Later in life I found that Dad, despite all his strength, power, and wisdom, had to occasionally do battle with his own demons - just like most of us do.
It was not until the time of this progressive discovery that I started to do battle with my father. We never came to blows. That handshake still frightened me.
Some times the battle technique du jour was nothing more than the Irish male's second greatest weapon - "the silent treatment" - a technique my Dad had mastered to perfection, and at whose feet I studied vigorously.
He didn't seem to mind my growing displeasure and anger.
In fact, I had the feeling Dad was waiting for it.
Happy Father's Day, Dad
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Techophobe?
Technophobe is a term that sends chills up and down my spine.
My problem: My definition of the term as it applies to yours truly is that I am woefully inadequate when it comes to reading and interpreting technological information and terminology.
I do not know if that is because I fear technology? I don't think so. I enjoy my computer, my blog, my music, etc - all things I would not have access to if not for technology.
I simply lack the ability to interpret the various help sources when attempting to resolve a problem I have with any of the above.
Perhaps I simply need a well referenced "Technology For Dummies" that is written in basic Dick & Jane logic, with many, many annotations.
Years ago some people wrote a book regarding the building blocks of knowledge. It was so long ago I have forgotten the title or details of the concept.
I do recall the authors were addressing how one may continue to acquire knowledge. However, a prominent subset was why a person might not be able to experience the learning he or she desires in order to move on with their life.
The writer's answer suggested you might not be able to do so if you do not understand the underlying concepts or examples for which you are attempting to use your building blocks to improve your education.
For example, if you are reading about English history and the writer continues to refer to Oliver Cromwell, or simply Cromwell, as the individual who is allegedly responsible for the current status of British politics, you would appear to need one basic tool to proceed further.
You need to know who the heck Cromwell was/is, when and why he came to be this important person, and how he did so. Otherwise anything that follows in the writers text building on that knowledge is simply gobbledygook. That is, assuming the author fails to provide you with the requisite information.
Leet's assume someone is illustrating their interpretation of the Bible with you by referencing a woman named Sarah. You find you have no idea why or who Sarah was. Therefore, your knowledge will definitely be an impedance in understanding why the orator insists his position on birth control is defensible because it is biblical in nature.
Your first thought may be, "I know I've heard her name", and then you may wonder whether or not Sarah was a major character in the Clue game. You then forget the subject matter and try to recall the location of the room where she met her death.
You see?
You're a game player and your thought process immediately took you back to this affliction. Future questions or discussion about various board games would probably pique your interests - presumably, as long as they didn't involve characters from the Bible.
My technical challenges are well know by my friends and relatives. This is not supposedly because I am a dolt, suffer from a lack of concentration related to being hyperactive, or due to the fact that no matter where we lived in a variety of locations in Western Pa - we continued to be serviced by the same milkman whose given name was known only by my mother.
This (and I know you'll be glad) brings me to my point:
I have had various individuals comment via E-mail that the readers could not enter the comments section after reading my posting in order to give me some feedback. (This is important to me if you'll recall my prior dissertation regarding radio comedians.)
For over two and one-half hours now I have tried via printing and reading Blogger's help pages or going back on-line in a miserable attempt to find the correct site on my computer that will enable me to resolve this problem.
It sounds to me to be a fairly basic conundrum which could be answered and fixed quickly.
However, in order for me to resolve it I need to be proficient in understanding the terminology that apparently supports my search efforts as well as the explanations of the technologically well informed who are attempting to lead me in the right direction vi their writings and videos.
The terms I am encountering in trying to use the "help"may as well have come from some foreign scribe in the middle ages. I sometimes wonder if the people who came up with them every played any outdoor sports, but, that's a prejudice I will have to deal with at another time.
Should there be one among you who can resolve my problem by doing so in a simple "Barryese" ( the emphasis is on "simple") way, I welcome your reply.
Thank you.
My problem: My definition of the term as it applies to yours truly is that I am woefully inadequate when it comes to reading and interpreting technological information and terminology.
I do not know if that is because I fear technology? I don't think so. I enjoy my computer, my blog, my music, etc - all things I would not have access to if not for technology.
I simply lack the ability to interpret the various help sources when attempting to resolve a problem I have with any of the above.
Perhaps I simply need a well referenced "Technology For Dummies" that is written in basic Dick & Jane logic, with many, many annotations.
Years ago some people wrote a book regarding the building blocks of knowledge. It was so long ago I have forgotten the title or details of the concept.
I do recall the authors were addressing how one may continue to acquire knowledge. However, a prominent subset was why a person might not be able to experience the learning he or she desires in order to move on with their life.
The writer's answer suggested you might not be able to do so if you do not understand the underlying concepts or examples for which you are attempting to use your building blocks to improve your education.
For example, if you are reading about English history and the writer continues to refer to Oliver Cromwell, or simply Cromwell, as the individual who is allegedly responsible for the current status of British politics, you would appear to need one basic tool to proceed further.
You need to know who the heck Cromwell was/is, when and why he came to be this important person, and how he did so. Otherwise anything that follows in the writers text building on that knowledge is simply gobbledygook. That is, assuming the author fails to provide you with the requisite information.
Leet's assume someone is illustrating their interpretation of the Bible with you by referencing a woman named Sarah. You find you have no idea why or who Sarah was. Therefore, your knowledge will definitely be an impedance in understanding why the orator insists his position on birth control is defensible because it is biblical in nature.
Your first thought may be, "I know I've heard her name", and then you may wonder whether or not Sarah was a major character in the Clue game. You then forget the subject matter and try to recall the location of the room where she met her death.
You see?
You're a game player and your thought process immediately took you back to this affliction. Future questions or discussion about various board games would probably pique your interests - presumably, as long as they didn't involve characters from the Bible.
My technical challenges are well know by my friends and relatives. This is not supposedly because I am a dolt, suffer from a lack of concentration related to being hyperactive, or due to the fact that no matter where we lived in a variety of locations in Western Pa - we continued to be serviced by the same milkman whose given name was known only by my mother.
This (and I know you'll be glad) brings me to my point:
I have had various individuals comment via E-mail that the readers could not enter the comments section after reading my posting in order to give me some feedback. (This is important to me if you'll recall my prior dissertation regarding radio comedians.)
For over two and one-half hours now I have tried via printing and reading Blogger's help pages or going back on-line in a miserable attempt to find the correct site on my computer that will enable me to resolve this problem.
It sounds to me to be a fairly basic conundrum which could be answered and fixed quickly.
However, in order for me to resolve it I need to be proficient in understanding the terminology that apparently supports my search efforts as well as the explanations of the technologically well informed who are attempting to lead me in the right direction vi their writings and videos.
The terms I am encountering in trying to use the "help"may as well have come from some foreign scribe in the middle ages. I sometimes wonder if the people who came up with them every played any outdoor sports, but, that's a prejudice I will have to deal with at another time.
Should there be one among you who can resolve my problem by doing so in a simple "Barryese" ( the emphasis is on "simple") way, I welcome your reply.
Thank you.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Bella
Writing the blogs and exploring the possibilities for future postings is enjoyable. I suspect our dog will probably become a fixture in these blogs.
Approximately two years ago my wife and I purchased a Chihuahua whom we named Bella. We purchased her from a woman in the area who buys entire litters from various select breeders.
The woman's role in the adoption process reminded me of a "broker" as she served as a intermediary between the breeder and us. I will refer to her as such in the following paragraphs.
We had never owned a Chihuahua. Bella turned out to be the best purchase we have made as a couple. We acquired her when she was 8 weeks old.
Bella was the smallest of the litter but, per the broker, she was the boss of the other puppies. In short, she had "spirit". This is a requisite quality if you intended to survive in our family. It has been suggested that neither my wife nor I are "inclined to hide our candle under a bushel basket".
My wife, Phyllis, hereafter to be referred to as Phyl (unless we're in the middle of a disagreement), had wisely purchased a book about Chihuahuas before we took delivery of Bella. It was our second best purchase.
The author instructed us to take charge of the dog immediately - or the chihuahua would take charge of us. She was a former breeder and judge of this breed. She advised that Bella's breed didn't have to be the typical nervous, snapping, barking, whining, snarly dog you associated with the name Chihuahua. She stated new puppy owners needed to immediately start to socialize the dog by getting it around people as quickly as was practical. In that way, they became used to having people around.
We went immediately from the broker to a bar!
It had been a long time since either of us had brought a baby home and definitely no baby as small as this "paramecium" we were going to have to insist was a real dog, despite the fact I first transported her in a pocket of my jeans.
It is not true that, in our panic upon realizing the responsibility we had taken on via this purchase, our intent in going to a bar was to become familiar with Bella's heritage by downing several Margarita's while she lie at our feet, sucking on a Corona. We drank responsibly and wanted to make a good first impression on our new family member.
Actually, the bar was a local restaurant, Geckos, which is close to our home and has a fair sized patio where you can take your pets as you enjoy their spirits and epicurean delights. It was a perfect place to introduce Bella to our friends.
As the author had suggested, it was love at first sight when the restaurant managers, servers, and customers were first introduced to Bella.
She is now 2 years old, weighs a whopping 2 pounds (soaking wet) and is fully grown, per our veterinarian. She is also spayed and has an appropriately named "micro-chip" installed in her bod. She is smaller than a teacup so some breeders refer to dogs her size as "micros."
The lady "knew her Chihuahuas". Most people, upon meeting Bella two years later, still comment about her calmness and "un-chihuahua" like demeanor.
What they didn't know about Bella, and about which we later learned quite unexpectedly, changed the pecking order of our family forever. Bella is not always as she appears.
But, we'll save that for a future blog.
Approximately two years ago my wife and I purchased a Chihuahua whom we named Bella. We purchased her from a woman in the area who buys entire litters from various select breeders.
The woman's role in the adoption process reminded me of a "broker" as she served as a intermediary between the breeder and us. I will refer to her as such in the following paragraphs.
We had never owned a Chihuahua. Bella turned out to be the best purchase we have made as a couple. We acquired her when she was 8 weeks old.
Bella was the smallest of the litter but, per the broker, she was the boss of the other puppies. In short, she had "spirit". This is a requisite quality if you intended to survive in our family. It has been suggested that neither my wife nor I are "inclined to hide our candle under a bushel basket".
My wife, Phyllis, hereafter to be referred to as Phyl (unless we're in the middle of a disagreement), had wisely purchased a book about Chihuahuas before we took delivery of Bella. It was our second best purchase.
The author instructed us to take charge of the dog immediately - or the chihuahua would take charge of us. She was a former breeder and judge of this breed. She advised that Bella's breed didn't have to be the typical nervous, snapping, barking, whining, snarly dog you associated with the name Chihuahua. She stated new puppy owners needed to immediately start to socialize the dog by getting it around people as quickly as was practical. In that way, they became used to having people around.
We went immediately from the broker to a bar!
It had been a long time since either of us had brought a baby home and definitely no baby as small as this "paramecium" we were going to have to insist was a real dog, despite the fact I first transported her in a pocket of my jeans.
It is not true that, in our panic upon realizing the responsibility we had taken on via this purchase, our intent in going to a bar was to become familiar with Bella's heritage by downing several Margarita's while she lie at our feet, sucking on a Corona. We drank responsibly and wanted to make a good first impression on our new family member.
Actually, the bar was a local restaurant, Geckos, which is close to our home and has a fair sized patio where you can take your pets as you enjoy their spirits and epicurean delights. It was a perfect place to introduce Bella to our friends.
As the author had suggested, it was love at first sight when the restaurant managers, servers, and customers were first introduced to Bella.
She is now 2 years old, weighs a whopping 2 pounds (soaking wet) and is fully grown, per our veterinarian. She is also spayed and has an appropriately named "micro-chip" installed in her bod. She is smaller than a teacup so some breeders refer to dogs her size as "micros."
The lady "knew her Chihuahuas". Most people, upon meeting Bella two years later, still comment about her calmness and "un-chihuahua" like demeanor.
What they didn't know about Bella, and about which we later learned quite unexpectedly, changed the pecking order of our family forever. Bella is not always as she appears.
But, we'll save that for a future blog.
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