The Rochester Season

THE STORY:

Sacred Heart Cathedral Church

I remember in grade school I played the trumpet in the band at Sacred Heart Cathedral School. Dad used to take me downtown for lessons at Levitz Music Store on South Ave. near Main St. We would walk up a steep flight of dark stairs to the row of small offices above the store.

All the office doors were painted black and had translucent glass on the top part. Inside there were a couple of chairs and a music stand in front of two of them. It was kind of scary and I really don't remember the teacher at all.

I think I was only there a few times for lessons but downstairs in the store with the instruments it was shiny brass, beautifully sculpted wood, dark oddly shaped cases and shelves full of sheet music books. Harmonicas, mouth pieces and other little accessories were stored in glass display cases. You could rent the instrument but you had to buy your own mouth piece. That was a magical place.

At some point in the early grades I was forced to make a choice between playing basketball for the school or playing in the band. I couldn't do both because there were too many scheduling conflicts. I had to make the decision all by myself.

On one hand playing music with my classmates wearing a blue button down shirt with a dark blue tie cinched around my neck. On the other hand two sets of shiny uniforms (home and away colors) with big bright numbers and a wonderful set of warm-ups to cover us in the cold gyms. Oh, and the basketball team had cheerleaders! The band, well not so much.

I did cry when I told the band leader though.


E-MAIL: 

Hi,
I don't know if its true or not but I always felt like I was hanging around with kids older than me and had to try harder to prove myself worthy of being included in their activities. I think I usually got included but still felt like I was a step behind.

Looking back, I think I had an extremely competitive edge to me on the sports/physical side and did not like being out done by anyone. Luckily there was some manner of coordination that allowed me to hang in with most challenges.

The same competitive spirit did not spill over to things academic however. In grade school at Sacred Heart I did pretty well without much effort but thats also where the idea of "not working up to my potential" started to settle in on the Conduct side of the Report Card. I don't think that was ever really explained to me but if it was I probably wasn't listening.

High school was a turning point. Aquinas was a very competitive school in academics, sports and on the social front. I had to work harder and actually apply myself to stay afloat and out of the way of the Basilian's swinging sticks and fiberglass rods. They called the corporal punishment "whacks" and detention was called "jugs". So I concentrated on the areas in which I could have success, sports and social stuff. The books well, not so much.

The social part had many layers to it but to simplify there was main stream, counter culture and hoods. There was some fluidity to participation in any of the layers and you could get caught by accident or intentionally playing in any part of it.

I found kinship in the counter-culture. Tell tale signs included listening to folk music (ala Pete Seeger, The Kingston Trio and Peter, Paul and Mary), WBBF or WSAY on the radio, playing Beach Boy LPs on the huge TV/Stereo Console in the living room and wearing tight pants to school. A short time later it morphed into mop top hair, The Beatles/English invasion music, beer blasts, dancing and being (or at least acting) generally "cool". For those of you that are younger, "The Hump" was a song by the Invictas and a dance as well. Probably one of the first US booty dances. I will demonstrate only if asked and the requester has to dance with me. Its not hard to learn ;- o Oh my.

The spirit of the poem morphs (my favorite word of the moment) through winter and summer. There is no sense of a real time sequence to it. Well, thats life I guess. BTW I think I've still got some summer in me.
Love Ya


THE POEM:

The Rochester Season

06/07/11

When I was a child I wanted to be like the older kids

and stay out after the streetlights went on

to see the light reflect off my breath in the chilled night air

I wanted to ride a two wheeler instead of a trike

and cross Dewey Avenue on my own

Kick the football over the telephone wires on Sunrise Street

hang out at Wallace’s, drink Vanilla Cokes and eat penny candy

Jump the fence for a football game at Marshall High

Take the bus downtown to the CYO for basketball, a swim

in the pool or a turn on the trampoline

Ride my bike to Charlotte Beach or Long Pond

bait my own hook and catch Sunfish and Perch

in the heat of summer

Walk all over the 10th Ward, drink beer

stay out all night, get a job

get a different job, chip in for gas to

follow “Wilmer Alexander Junior and the Dukes”,

“The Invictas” and “The Showstoppers” waiting in line

to dance my ass into a sweaty frenzy

with all the latest moves, being cool, not looking

doin’ The Hump Yea Yea

with fake IDs at Bristol Ski Lodge, Panorama and Clover Lanes, The 414 Club

getting a ride from dad to get to Tiny’s Bengal Inn

catching the last bus home smelling of soured Skip-And-Go-Naked

stopping late at Amiel’s for a fresh oily sub with sweet peppers

as the snow falls in the chill of the night air

I can see my breath

Summit Grove Park

THE STORY:

This is one part of growing up in Rochester, New York (circa. 1950-70) that seems to have a grasp on some fond memories of mine. Summit Grove Park is a narrow sliver of a neighborhood park when I see it today on Google Satellite view. It almost looks too small to do anything other than watch trees the grow.

However "back in the day" I believe it was a bit wider and the streets on both sides a bit narrower because it was the center attraction for a small army of baby-boomer kids to play tons of pre-teen games for hour upon hour. We seemed to have plenty of room and seldom broke any house windows (at least that we were caught for).

Yep, this was a time without computers, iphones/pads, x-boxes and most anything else other than a few basic "toys" and our own imaginations. We were outside running around, playing games, arguing and laughing most of our waking hours. Looking back I can say it was a glorious time to be a kid!




E-MAIL:

Yes - another poem from Jim -

I'm not sure why this boiled down to a poem about a game of marbles. I can't remember any specific game, but I do remember spending a whole lot of time in that small park playing tons of games with tons of kids. I recall capture the flag because the big tree at the east end of the park was one goal and the next big tree in the middle, down about 25 yards was the other. The center line was drawn across the park using two smaller trees almost exactly half way in between. That seemed to be a pretty hotly contested event.
I do recall risking my marble collection and sometimes coming home with a little bit lighter can from the losses. Marbles were quite beautiful and marvelous "toys" because of the colors, patterns and size variations and I hated loosing any of them.
I also remember playing "Movie Stars" on the steps in front of the McCarthy/Tracy house.

Do any of you remember special things about that park??
Love ya,


POEM:

Marbles For Keeps

for the Tracy, McCarthy and Pickworth families

05/20/11

Coffee cans rattle and click with each hurried stride

holding Aggie shooters and shiny Steelies inside,

cat’s eyes, solids and crystals colored orange, lemon and lime

all for two weeks allowance at Woolworth’s five and dime

a silent call to arms brings the neighborhood together

with similar glassy clanks and clatters.

A gang of broad ages behaving like family

at odds over game rules and results quite madly

In the dead center of Summit Grove Park

we played by street light ‘till well after dark

battlefield drawn where the grass wore away

by a thousand footsteps from kids at play

games of baseball, tag and capture the flag wars

between tall red oaks, maples and sycamores

no place for fresh brushed hair and neatly pressed clothes

just slit-knee jeans and Converse sneaks with flappy soles

The coarsely scratched circle in the most clear spot,

a hand full of treasured glass now a wagered lot,

throwing rock-paper-scissors to choose shooting order,

then down on two knees to watch the crude border

Taking turns to flick your Steelie on course

any marble bashed victims knocked out were yours

This was “Marbles For Keeps” as we used to say

Now I’ve lost my marbles but still want to play.

Ketchup On My Mind

E-MAIL:

Didn't start out that way but this turned out to be humor when I thought of our family's (especially mom's) penchant for ketchup on EVERYTHING. We really need to keep a sense of humor about life even if it needs some *ketchup on it every now and then. Our time together is too short.
* please substitute spice of choice here
Love you all


POEM:

Flavours

my mind is on full tilt

a leftover crammed refrigerator

rememberances stored in odd containers,

shapes and colors give clue to the keepsake inside

that I may rekindle a life-moment,

once again fill my senses

smell the aroma, feel the texture, taste the flavour

separate the spices on my palate,

a fine satisfaction deep inside.

Ah, what a meal

Pass the ketchup please!

Still Time

THE E-MAIL:

Hope you like this.
In the grand scheme of things we don't really have that much time together on this planet. That thought makes me more grateful for the moments we have together. It also makes me feel like I have been selfish with my time, not appreciated the connections we have as family and not invested enough effort in maintaining those connections.

(photo by Natashia Fuksman)

THE POEM:

Momentum

05/13/11

This moment is ours.

I wish it could last forever

but if not, I pray we will have tomorrow,

that tonight we will sleep with no concern and

by our embrace avoid the random sweeping grasp of time.

This moment is ours

yet I wish to awaken in the morning

as children and dreamers with no obligations to time.

Our new day, as our next breath passing over our lips,

holds all that will ever be

floating just above time itself.

Looking for Joy

Regardless of how you get there, joy, comfort and peace have to start and end in your own heart. I believe the thrill of it all is in the process itself. It is an endless process of self-discovery with every passing moment and change in circumstance. 

One point in time can never be exactly the same as any other and one's place in that moment can never be the same as anyone else. Ask and answer your own questions to find what you are looking for.

(Photo by Erin Decker)

Looking for Joy

07/10/11

“Hello, sorry to bother you right now

but maybe you could help me.

I have a question that has gone unanswered

it will only take a second of your time.

You see I am trying to find joy

and I wonder if you’ve seen it

I think it came your way

a friend told me, I believe.

He said you have been talking

about it for some time now.

He told me you were sure and

have all of the answers.

You know just where to find it

no mystery remains.

So I was wondering, if you did find it

would you share your joy with me?”

After a long pause in silence

a calm and soothing voice began to speak.

“I am sorry, I cannot do what you ask.

Its impossible to share whats mine alone.

Your friend was right, I have found joy

and I’ve been speaking of it for some time.

But don't despair, I can reassure you

The path to joy is in your own heart.

Ask your questions of yourself

and trust the answers your heart allows."

Blue Sky

Full Belly Sky View (photo by Natashia Fuksman)

Blue Sky

07/09/11

What about tomorrow will be new?

Will there be any time for me and you?

I can see today our sun does shine

and with you near me everything is fine

Our yesterday a game already played

we share this life in every single way

But what about tomorrow will be new?

Will the sky remember to be blue?

Will the sun come up for us once more

and lead us to a new day’s open door?

Who will hang the clouds high up above

to bring the rain and gently grow our love?

Will the bells in the church tower not ring?

Will music from our hearts forget to sing?

Will the sky remember to be blue

if I have to spend a moment without you?

Eat an Egg, Thank a Chicken

We take so much for granted as we go through our lives day to day. I think its nice (and sometimes fun) to stop and reflect on where our food comes from. We are so far removed from the origins of what we eat that most folks might say why bother?

I think there are few critters that are more productive and more a part of our diets than the chicken (Gallus Domesticus). So here is a shout out to all the hens out there and a big (tongue-in-beak) thank you. Your work does not go unnoticed. Oh boy, will this increase my flock of fowl-owers!

Chicken Pride

I thank the hens that on cue produce

their ovum for our dining use

Generous with their little peeps

knowing they are not for keeps

They pump them out with get up and go

every two to three days or so

Production at a break-neck pace

wing to wing, with little space

Lucky gals may have a loft

to let the egg settle soft

I hope to think they don't regret

their part to make my om-el-ette

If hens do have an emotional side

then may they feel some chicken pride

And when they settle for the night

dream of two eggs over light

These are the lucky ones!
(photo by Jansen Sterber, from his blog)

Justice For Caylee Anthony

O.K. So the state couldn't prove that Casey killed her daughter. They could only prove she lied to the authorities over and over again. I have to trust that justice was served, but I also know that Casey will never be "free" to live a normal life either (not that her life was normal to begin with).

When your own lawyer calls you a "liar and a slut" in open court and that works in your favor, where can you go from there in this world? Oh, she will probably make some big money off of this because we love a screwed up family, a good train wreck or accident scene and will pay to see it, but she is likely carrying a heavy load of shame right to her grave.

If not shame for the acts she carried out then shame for the burden of knowing the sick truths that lay at the bottom of that pit in the woods near her parent's house. A 2 year old does not get ACCIDENTALLY wrapped up with duct-tape, stuck in a garbage bag, carried to the woods and buried in a shallow hole without someone taking charge!

I have to believe there will be a reckoning for all those involved.

Some Assembly Required

So the USA did not come wrapped in a box with pretty colored paper and a long thick bow holding it together. There was no card attached with a meaningful heart-felt greeting for happy days. No booklet included with a list of packaged parts, required hand tools and step by step instructions on how to put it all together.

We the people did (and do) many of the atrocious acts that our founders spoke out and rebelled against and we speak out against today. In the name of our country, to "help" others find their way to believe what we believe in or to simply protect our interests, we have forced ourselves on other humans in ways that are at best uncomfortable for us to admit to or accept responsibility for. We are a flawed people.

We, like most any other country/government on this planet, are not perfect, but I do love being a part of this place and I am grateful for it. I am grateful for the freedoms we have and for founders that built a nation based on a voice for every person. Some assembly of the people is required and I hope we all know we are far from being done with the project.

The world is a vastly different place today than when the Declaration of Independence was created. The ability for any modern nation to be "independent" is being usurped by an ever increasing need for "interdependence" throughout the world.

I think it is time to realize and accept that peace and cooperation are necessary for the survival of all nations and all people. To do that , some assembly will be required.

This is the sound of me getting off the soap-box.

Dad's Birthday is Today

To celebrate what would have been dad's 86th birthday, (this is the first one we have reached since his passing), I offer this remembrance of him, in his honor and with all my love.

There were a few things dad did that may have bordered on excess. We are reminded by experts that almost anything in excess is probably not good for you and will catch up to you in "the end". In the end it was an early life excess that creeped in and took him from us (smoking), not the ones I write about here.

Dad loved to drink Manhattans sometimes by the hat-full. He would say, " The best Manhattan is made with cheap whisky and a splash of good vermouth." He found several kindred spirits in their retirement park and hardly a holiday, dance, pot-luck, "no reason" party and at times not even a day could go by without a serious buzz in the room by mid-afternoon.

He was a happy guy that loved to joke and laugh. The more the liquid courage flowed the jokier and laughier (and louder) he got. He was very entertaining. "The life of they party'" kind of guy.

Dad loved his family and would do anything at any time if asked. He frequently offered to help before being asked if he knew there was a need. I don't recall him ever looking for pay-back. I don't know if that constitutes an "excess" or not, but I am pretty sure it sustained him rather than hurt him. We have been blessed/lucky as a family to not have had too much tragedy. Drama we can do, on occasion, but for the most part, we have been beating the odds when it comes to deeply cutting unanticipated loss.

Moving on, dad loved to cook (particularly on the gas grill outside) but his favorite was breakfast. On any given Sunday he would make huge meals frying up a pound or more of bacon, eggs to order and toasting an entire loaf of bread, depending on the crowd (usually children and grandchildren). For himself however, he developed a morning ritual that lasted almost to his last day.

In advance he would grill up a big batch of blueberry pancakes. Each pancake was remarkably uniform in size (about the size of a teacup saucer) and in distribution of the berries. Not just a stack was grilled, but stacks and stacks. When he was done he would break them down, three to a pile, wrap them in that clear sticky wrap and pop them in the freezer. I think he liked them better out of the freezer and "nuked" rather than freshly grilled.

The breakfast meat he favored was hot Italian Sausage from Albertson's. Not the typical sweet little breakfast sausage links but the real deal you think of more in a tomato sauce over pasta. He would slice a link length-wise and slow fry it in a little butter, pressing it down in the pan to hold it's flat shape. I didn't see him do this, but I think sometimes he added a bit of crushed red pepper to ensure there was an undeniable spicy-fire inside each bite.

By the time the sausage was ready the entire house smelled of seared seasoned pork and would for at least an hour after he finished eating. He would "nuke" the pancakes for a minute, plate them with a pass or two of butter between each and lay the sausage across the top like a cherry on a sundae. Then he poured the Old Log Cabin maple syrup on, not just to coat the pancakes, but to cover the plate until the river of sweet goo almost ran over the edge. The act of pouring the syrup was usually accompanied by, "Ummm or Oooh!"

Mom would always say, "He eats like that (pointing at the plate in disgust) and I gain the weight!" That usually brought a smile to his lips, but didn't slow him down at all.

A half-teaspoon of sugar in his coffee and stir baby stir. Dad would work on the meat-topped stack like a surgeon. He made certain there was a piece of meat for every bite of pancake, no spillage of syrup over the edge and, as he made room from his progress, he would chase the dwindling lake of syrup around the plate to ensure adequate coverage per bite.

I remember at meals he used to be a very fast eater, said he learned that in the Army. This meal however, he took his time with and savored every single bite. There was never a morsel left.

I miss the smell of pan fried Italian Sausage and the sound of his spoon clanging and scraping across the inside of the cup. Ummm!

Hope you liked the story pop!

Reflection

I think taking time for yourself to just sit back and "empty the brain" for a moment is a terribly difficult thing for most of us to do. At least it is for me. I'm not referring to falling asleep at night or napping during the day. I'm talking about something like a relaxation therapy exercises or meditation.

I mean our lives are so full of things to do, places to go and people to see aren't they? So lets take a few minutes to really dig down and pull the plug. If you are really a task driven, "type A" go getter, super achiever, Energizer Bunny kind of a character, think of this as a personal challenge to enrich your psyche and make you stronger to race through everything else you do.

Yes, recharge your psyche! A reminder that your core is people too. Remember, the more you do anything the better you get at it. This is to be read slowly with a lot of pauses. Maybe even have someone read it to you as you go off. Think of this as a starting point and above all - Enjoy the trip!

Reflection

07/02/11

You are amazing, what you glean

when you hold still and breathe

It is wonderful, what you hear

when you fall silent and give ear

beautiful colors and magic unfold

as your eyes slowly close

Release your minds-eye away

from the trials of the day

Look beyond the shallows of now

past the depths of all you know

Lift up on the wings of your angels

give them full latitude, etherial trust

This is you, where you are

this is your place to be free

Embrace all you have of yourself

in these moments of splendid reprieve

Blind Butterfly

                                                                                                                   

THE E-MAIL:

All,
Prolific day trimming the bushes and palms out front. True - a beautiful yellow butterfly kept landing on our red Azalea bush as I happened to be sitting down taking a break in the shade with some cold water to drink.

I thought, "what an excuse to go in the house and write a poem!" It is a hot hot day. I did go out and do some more work but now I'm officially beat. By the way, Vicki is the blind butterfly of my life in so many ways, but I'm not letting go of her.

Mom and Donna coming over for chicken salad and/or Grilled Stuffed Salmon before I take D. to the airport.
Love Ya

THE POEM:

Blind Butterfly

06/11/11

Little butterfly do you not have eyes

beautiful yellow wings

so delicate as you fly

a purposeful route around me

What could I be to attract such attention

from one with marked time

and fine feature definition

I am not special like you

my life has no symmetry

nothing to cause a glance

for such a gem to pause

You make me think I’m a flower.

The butterfly spoke, Oh yes I have eyes

I can see where the wind takes me

and it brought me to you

I depend on the wind for my life

it finds me sweet flowers

and places to rest

and it brought me to you

You are my flower or my shelter

I do not know which

but I trust in the wind

It only matters that we have each other

Letting Go of My Shorts

We've all got something we just can't let go of because we just love it so much, right? Whether its pants, shoes, a jacket or a favorite old blanket, no matter how ragged it gets or how hideous it may appear to others, you just know you will keep it close by FOREVER!

I have a problem with letting most anything go and as I get older it becomes a bigger issue. Why, you might ask? Great question. Because if you don't throw anything away it accumulates rapidly and you run out of space to keep your treasures. Like the old George Carlin routine about "Stuff", things just seem to keep piling up.

Sometimes the culling out process becomes a topic of discussion around the house. Usually when there is a need to make room for newer, better fitting or possibly more important stuff. Dresser drawers is where this one comes from as my beautiful, loving and task oriented wife, who is now on a vacation from her job, starts to "organize" my mix of clothes. Please do not get me wrong. I appreciate every single thing she does. It is just a little bit of a challenge when it comes to parting with my things.

Daisy Dukes of Hazard

Locked in a dilemma, what should I do

with my raggedy jean shorts of faded light blue

A touch beyond frayed, the hem stitching gone

a fringe of bleached denim hangs jaggedly long

thin strands from the wear creep up on my thighs

like strings on a cute little lute or a harp, I surmise

I’m afraid my boxers would show through the strings

I’m too old for man-thongs and other snug things

I do like the freedom when I wear the old pair

there’s also the memories they hold and the air

I abide with a slight bit of danger you know

as I slip them on and they catch my big toe

I’ve taken to sitting to lessen the risk

but my daughter just offers a sigh and tisk tisk

Then rolling her eyes up into her head

I get a clear message, I’m causing her dread

“When you’re old its all about comfort,” I say

but it falls on deaf ears, I can tell right away

Still I can’t toss them out, you all know how I feel

I think I’ll save them for a dream trip to Rio

Dream "To My Children"

This is a dream I had back in March and the poem that resulted.  It is coming up now because my father's birthday is near and my thoughts return to his memory. He would have been 86 years old. There were a few stressors at the time that were likely contributors to the vivid nature of the dream and the intensity of the emotion I felt.

My dad, Earle, passed away at the end of November last year after a difficult encounter with cancer. It was, it has been and it continues to be a tough time for my family. One very good and comforting thing that happened was that all my siblings (and some of the grandchildren) were able to be with my mom and him at their home that night.

At this time in March my daughter Erin was about to go through a complicated medical event herself. I had no power or ability to protect her from it or take it on myself. All my wife, Vicki, and I could do was be as supportive and positive as we could for Erin and one another, but this was huge!

I had the dream one night as Erin's operation drew near, wrote the poem the next morning and then sent it out in an e-mail to my family. I think this helped me cope and I hope it touches home for someone else that needs to find a similar deep breath and a rope to hold as they walk into steamy dark places.

THE DREAM:

The rooms were steaming and hot, all white metal walls with different elevations. We really couldn't see beyond a couple of feet on any side. I was wearing a white smock and had a thick rope tied snugly around my waist. I couldn't see them but I knew my children and wife were hanging on to the other end of the rope to keep me from harm. I also understood that I had to get something or reach something in another room I didn't know what or who it was that I was going after but time was of the essence.

I started to inch my way forward feeling for the walls and floor with my left hand out-stretched and my right hand holding onto the taut rope that trailed off into the steamy void behind me. The walls and floor were slippery from the damp steam and hot, very hot to the touch.

The metal floor was at a slant and then there were steps and a railing like you might imagine on a submarine. I held the railing and moved my feet very cautiously down one step, then another. My right hand moved from a tight grip on the rope to the floor that I had just left and back to the rope, over and over again.

Finally, when I thought I had gotten to a good point on my descent, I extended my left arm and hand as I leaned my chest over the slanted railing as far as I could, barely balancing my weight without falling over into the dankness. I suddenly noticed the arm I was extending wasn't mine but my dads thin bruise mottled arm, not my hand but my dads long age gnarled hand. As startled as I was with this realization, at the same moment I made contact with something or someone in the fog and was immediately relieved and elated!

Thats also when I woke up.

So I'm thinking this is about family supporting one another as, together, we face the difficulties, trials, tribulations and things that go bump in the night that life spins our way. On another level it is also about how we are each instilled with and bolstered by this connection we have to family that is no longer with us but has had such a profound effect on us becoming who we are as individuals today. They are part of our fabric and we will be part of our children's fabric after we are gone. For better or worse we are joined forever, like a big beautiful Decker quilt!!

Erin & Dad

THE E-MAIL:

Hi All,
Below is a poem I wrote a short time ago with a lot of things going through my mind about how full our lives have been, especially lately. In particular I had a dream about Erin's surgery and in general I have been thinking about dad and us (The Big Us) as a family. Loving and missing The Big Us, yet at the same time being at peace knowing that we will survive because we have Us.
OK, enough explaining. I hope you feel it maybe a little cleansing, a little empowering.
Love YA'LL

THE POEM:

To My Children

words are not enough

03/12/2011

Child hold the line,

I’ll be doing fine.

You stand firm now and don’t let go,

no matter what goes on

no matter no.

It will be hard sometime,

but you are strong,

I have faith in you,

you’re one of mine.

When you can’t see me and I can’t see you

know in your mind, this is true

That I am up ahead

holding on the other end.

I’ll get it done what I’ve got to do

trusting you and knowing you

have got the strength you need

from the life you lead.

All of the work you’ve done,

the things you’ve been through,

There is no distance between me and you.

All connected, one big chain

linked together we share the strain.

We cannot fail, we will not fall,

it is impossible, we will stand tall.

When you can’t see me and I can’t see through

child hold the line and I will too.

We will get done what we’ve got to do

It is all possible,

It all is You.

Free Samples

I do like grocery shopping when the free sample carts are moved out into the aisles. My favorite is Costco and then Publix. We really don't shop anywhere else, mainly because of location. We have a Publix within one mile of our house in three directions.

As for "big box" store shopping, there is a Sam's Club closer than Costco but we like the selection at Costco better and they have more carts out on cart days. Like the products they offer, the "cart people" come in all shapes, sizes and attitudes. I will describe a few of my fav's.

First you have "The Show". "The Show" is the infomercial character. Usually only one to a store, above the shoppers on an elevated platform, wearing a hands-free microphone, wielding several deadly kitchen instruments and electrical appliances simultaneously. "The Show" attracts a big crowd just like a demolition derby or monster truck event. "The Show" prattles on with a well rehearsed monologue of product features interlaced with inflections, moot questions and jokes intended to hold the audience for the 4 - 6 minutes it takes to get the point across. A professional.

"The Show" is my least favorite. If there is an edible result, the mass of people standing by suddenly turns into a mosh (maybe nosh) pit of starving zombies and by the time I get near the front of the mess only the dregs in the blender remain. They do not allow access to the dregs, I asked.

Next is "The Eeyore", aka. the annoyed. These people do not know why they are there, work under a dark cloud, wish they were fishing or home reading a book and are generally displeased that they have fallen so far from grace. They are usually out of samples and in no hurry to replenish their little cups, napkins and tiny plates.

"The Eeyore" does not know where anything is in the store, including their own product. Luckily there are not many "Eeyores" in the store and they do not last very long, unless they are related to one or more of the managers, then you are stuck, "woe is me".

Saving the best for last, "The Mother Teresa" is my personal favorite. When I think of the concept of "aura", these people come to mind. They love people and want to help them find their way. You cannot look at a "Mother Teresa" and just walk off. Their words are like a continuation of a discussion with a long lost friend. Their sample's display is always filled without any effort or apparent rush on their part and there is seldom a long line waiting for a goodie.

When you are released from "The Mother Teresa's" glowing tractor-beam you see there are a couple of containers of their product in your cart plus a box of the crackers they used to serve it on. Such a pleasant encounter. When you get to check-out you see the same stuff in several carts and you just have to smile.

Free Samples

I don't want to be offensive or rude

when they catch my eye with a nice attitude

as I peruse all the aisles of Publix

"Our product is not that expensive,"

he says, "a really good deal," as I try to sneak by,

but our eyes are now locked and I cannot move,

"find our display and coupon on aisle six."

"Here, have a sample, take a little white cup.

I'm sure you'll agree it is tasty enough.

It will be a house favorite, don't you agree?

So don't miss this offer you better take three."

And on cue like a dance with a smile and a nod

I'm handed six litres to put in the cart.

I reach out and take them to not disappoint

the familiar old man in apron and gloves.

But just when I thought we had made a nice start

to a kinship and neighborly repartee,

he spins and locks on to three passing ladies.

"Our product is not that expensive...," I hear

as he walks off and directs them to all come near,

I guess we were done with his moment as planned

but someone is calling me from the next stand.

No Hurry for Curry

I am an easy date for restaurant choices. There are not many foods that turn me off and even fewer that disgust me completely. The only totally rejected dinner would be one that is still moving. Most flavors are acceptable from bland to pretty spicy stuff, but I have a mental block against pesto and curry.

I think I do not like curry as a flavoring in general. There have been one or two occasions that I have eaten a "curried" dish and was able to easily tolerate it. I don't know if it was the curry blend, the amount of it in the dish, that I didn't realize it was curry or the fact that I was so hungry at the time it didn't matter.

It might just be the smell that turns me off, but the idea of it conjures up thoughts of unsanitary preparation, meat sources that may be found around the home (with names like fido and boots) or local trash dump scavengers and critters that I've only seen in National Geographic or at the local zoo. I know that is totally unfair, untrue and slightly exaggerated, but there you have it.

No Hurry for Curry

The jury is out on curry as a spice to cook in my food

after one dish in a cafe that completely ruined my day

I promised myself with an oath not to go down that road I now loath

I discovered there is no little plant, bush or tree

that produces a nut, fruit or root called curry

It takes a village of spices to make the foul smell

with some of my favorites mixed in as well

Its a taste that only a mutton could love

a good spice too for a dish of tofu roux

or a lean cut of Yak from down on the back

As you can see I think its just not for me

but I'm not in a hurry to lock out curry

as long as I have tabasco nearby

The Semi-conductor Rag

I am definitely NOT what I would call a fluid user of the computer. I can do just enough to create a document and probably not in the best or most economical way, as far as use of software goes. A couple of reasons/excuses - I used a PC wherever I worked and a MAC at home and never really had to do  extremely creative stuff at either place. Let's just say I didn't push the limits of software capability.

I think I am able to get by because I have just enough patience to work through what are simple issues to most people and get a project completed. In the world of today's amazing hardware/software capabilities I am less than PONG. Vicki (mi esposa), does not (repeat: DOES NOT) have the patience and is generally impressed with what I can do and I love her for it.

Quick example in MAC-speak:
When deciding to write poetry I used Keynote (PowerPoint) but couldn't figure out how to have just an unformatted plane page, so I use a top box - title, a middle box - text and even though its there, I don't use the bottom box. When I want to copy and paste I have to do each box separately and, depending on where I want to paste it, I have to look out for little extra symbols and stuff that sometimes will show up (I think they are HTML commands). So I copied and pasted into Pages (Word) to have the poems on one page each. Fine. But now when I try to copy and paste into the blog from either, the blog will not save it! I have to re-key it, I mean holy shnikies really!!

OK, so it wasn't so short, sorry.  So I was sitting at the computer thinking about words that make me smile because they can be misinterpreted at times and "semiconductor" fell into that category. Whenever I start thinking of twisted words my mind seems to wander to politics. This is a look at it in a Roseanne Roseannadanna kind of way - "Never mind."

Semi-conductor Rag

These people are in the wrong line of work

why they are allowed to drive trains is a quirk

How can we let this get by

is there no test to duly certify

Is it work passed from fathers to sons

this half-way position atop two hundred tons

and thats just the weight of the engine I hear

then there's speed and breaks, but not much to steer

whistle control is most critical

proper tooting is almost rabbinical

we must have a full fledged conductor

not a semi or half wit impostor

someone who we all know

will be true to the great B&O

who delivers a hundred car load

and keeps all of it off of our roads

its frustrating for us common folk

we should hold elections for this valuable post

then we could sleep well at night

knowing we vetted them and they're alright

Why "The Dog-Eared Pages"?

Mr. Frisky

 "Why" is never a simple question to answer as anyone who has been a 4 year old or spent any time around kids can understand. Very often it ends up being a question of motive and less often a question of scientific fact. It becomes even more complicated when the "Why" question is attached to feelings because, depending on where you are emotionally in your life, the answer may be different at any given moment.

So in part, at this moment, I can say dog-eared refers to the old practice of turning down the upper corner of a page in a book to indicate your place or a particularly important passage. Since I do not read books much any more, I thought I would give props to the memory of that practice and try to invoke a little bit of subliminal smell-a-vision hoping that the readers might recall the slight musty smell of thick paged older books or the chemical/antiseptic smell of a newer glossy paged text book (one of the big heavy ones that had to be toted around in school). The purpose being to give a bit of weight to the posts in this blog thing.

Another part of "Why" is to give a little tribute to our dog Frisky. He is getting older and I wasn't always very nice to him as he was growing up. In truth I am still not very nice to him. He is a pig-dog! He will eat most anything that falls on the floor or that he can find outside on the ground. Particularly things that are not good for him, like the little dryer sheets that inevitably fall off a load of clothes on the way to be folded and chicken bones he finds on the side of the street on trash day.

With Frisky there is no reaching in to save him from swallowing once he has glommed onto a perceived treasure. When he gets a grip its a goner for sure. At breakfast or dinner he whines terribly while it is being prepared, eats it in less than 10 seconds and then looks at you like it is time for the next meal or treat! He is a fatty for a Shih Tzu Poodle mix, at about 26+ lbs. He has a hard time walking, laying down, sitting up, getting up, running(forget it!) and he snores, but I do love the little pig-dog bugger anyway.

So part tribute to our boy and part implication that, at least to me, some things I say may be humorous  and possibly insightful.

"When you're creating your own shit, even the sky ain't the limit." —Miles Davis