Daniel Terelmes's Blog
November 21, 2022
Thanksgiving Memories
As a kid I knew that we would never go “Over the river and through the woods” to get to grandmother’s house because we were already there. We lived with my grandparents for the first thirteen years of my life while my parents were saving to buy a house of their own.
I loved living there. My grandmother, who we called Baba, made some really basic but really good food; cheese blintzes, sour dough blintzes, homemade kielbasy, rice soup, potato soup, raisin bread, jelly desert, etc. Travelling through Europe to escape Russia to get to the US made them make the most with the least. Everybody would always comment on how good Baba’s kitchen smelled.
Holidays were always special, especially Thanksgiving. My mom would make a turkey with stuffing. She’d boil potatoes and my older brother Frank would mash them adding butter and milk to make them really creamy. She would chop all the ingredients of the potato salad into a big stainless-steel bowl, and I would be the one to add the mayonnaise to make it taste just right. My dad would make some kind of hot vegetable like green beans. My grandmother would make her kielbasy and her kapusta, which was a cabbage dish with bacon and carrots that sweetened the taste a little. We’d also have tossed salad, mushroom salad, Lithuanian rye bread from the European Provision store. Speaking of which, we’d also have smoked kielbasy with a fresh jar of horseradish on the table. It truly was a feast.
I always thought white meat turkey was dry and tasteless even with gravy and a ton of pepper on it. I was more of a dark meat kid. I’d opt for a crispy wing, and if no one claimed the other wing by the time I was done with mine, I’d claim that too. My grandfather, who we called Dzied, always got a leg.
Also on my plate was a huge pile of mashed potatoes, an equal-sized portion of stuffing, Baba’s kielbasy with some kapusta, and a few of the hot vegetables because my dad would make sure we ate some. Salad was in a small bowl in front of us and we got to choose from three or four different bottled dressings.
About halfway through dinner my mom or dad would remember the cranberry sauce. They’d go to the pantry to retrieve the can, open it, and pour it out onto a small plate where is slowly melted away. My older brother, Frank, was the only person I knew who really ate any of it. Sometimes my mom would take a slice, especially if she was the one that remembered about it, and then after a bite or two it sat on her plate slowly melting away. I just didn’t like the stuff. I thought the sweetness ruined everything it touched on the plate. And the killer thing about cranberry sauce was that I could SEE everything it touched, and I just knew it was not going to taste good.
Dessert was usually a few store-bought pies or Baba’s cheese blintzes. If there was a choice of only one, cheese blintzes won every time. Heated up or cold, it didn’t matter, they were delicious.
Sometimes we’d have family come over to eat as well. After all, it was my grandparent’s house. All their kids (my aunts and uncle) lived in town, so they were pretty much obligated to stop by and they all had kids.
My Aunt Tosia and Uncle John had five: Maria, Vera, Tina, Sandi, and Stevie.
My Aunt Kasia and Uncle Serge had three: Natalie, Lena, and Kathy.
My Uncle Stanley and Aunt Annette had four: Judy, Paul, Lisa, and Mark.
Naturally they didn’t all visit at the same time. It was a small railway house with a kitchen at one end, a living room at the other end of the house and two bedrooms in between. The bathroom and pantry were off the kitchen.
When I got older I visited my grandparents and as I sat at the kitchen table I couldn’t imagine how we fit that many people into that house all those years ago. The rectangular kitchen table that we were sitting at had enough room for four people comfortably, six with two people squashed together at the longer sides. But… there was an extension that made the table about a foot longer. Back then, Dzied would bring in a bench that he built from outside by the clothesline and that would go along the kitchen wall freeing up the other two chairs to be distributed along the other three sides of the table. Corner place settings at this table were normal.
On the other wall they set up the smaller “kids table.” I think I sat there until I was four. At five I graduated my way to the adult table due to my conversational abilities and was thus able to hang with the adults, even if I didn’t understand half of what they were talking about.
Some people would make a plate and then go eat in the living room. That was a two-seater couch that you could cram three to four kids on. There were two chairs that were limited to one person each. Dzied’s rocking chair was the best chair you could sit on. We would call sitting on it just like calling “shotgun” in a car. And then there was the floor. Factoring all this in, I still don’t know how we fit all those people in the house. But we did and we were happy. We were together and that’s all that mattered.
As I kissed Baba and gave Dzied a hug goodbye, the ghostly sounds of adult conversations, clanging dinnerware, and screaming kids echoed in my ears. I may have even moved slightly to avoid the memory of a running toddler crashing into me. I took one last whiff of her kitchen locking in those glorious smells and headed out to my car forever thankful for my entire family, the great times we had, and the great memories we had created together all those years ago.
Please check out my books available here: https://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Terelme...
I loved living there. My grandmother, who we called Baba, made some really basic but really good food; cheese blintzes, sour dough blintzes, homemade kielbasy, rice soup, potato soup, raisin bread, jelly desert, etc. Travelling through Europe to escape Russia to get to the US made them make the most with the least. Everybody would always comment on how good Baba’s kitchen smelled.
Holidays were always special, especially Thanksgiving. My mom would make a turkey with stuffing. She’d boil potatoes and my older brother Frank would mash them adding butter and milk to make them really creamy. She would chop all the ingredients of the potato salad into a big stainless-steel bowl, and I would be the one to add the mayonnaise to make it taste just right. My dad would make some kind of hot vegetable like green beans. My grandmother would make her kielbasy and her kapusta, which was a cabbage dish with bacon and carrots that sweetened the taste a little. We’d also have tossed salad, mushroom salad, Lithuanian rye bread from the European Provision store. Speaking of which, we’d also have smoked kielbasy with a fresh jar of horseradish on the table. It truly was a feast.
I always thought white meat turkey was dry and tasteless even with gravy and a ton of pepper on it. I was more of a dark meat kid. I’d opt for a crispy wing, and if no one claimed the other wing by the time I was done with mine, I’d claim that too. My grandfather, who we called Dzied, always got a leg.
Also on my plate was a huge pile of mashed potatoes, an equal-sized portion of stuffing, Baba’s kielbasy with some kapusta, and a few of the hot vegetables because my dad would make sure we ate some. Salad was in a small bowl in front of us and we got to choose from three or four different bottled dressings.
About halfway through dinner my mom or dad would remember the cranberry sauce. They’d go to the pantry to retrieve the can, open it, and pour it out onto a small plate where is slowly melted away. My older brother, Frank, was the only person I knew who really ate any of it. Sometimes my mom would take a slice, especially if she was the one that remembered about it, and then after a bite or two it sat on her plate slowly melting away. I just didn’t like the stuff. I thought the sweetness ruined everything it touched on the plate. And the killer thing about cranberry sauce was that I could SEE everything it touched, and I just knew it was not going to taste good.
Dessert was usually a few store-bought pies or Baba’s cheese blintzes. If there was a choice of only one, cheese blintzes won every time. Heated up or cold, it didn’t matter, they were delicious.
Sometimes we’d have family come over to eat as well. After all, it was my grandparent’s house. All their kids (my aunts and uncle) lived in town, so they were pretty much obligated to stop by and they all had kids.
My Aunt Tosia and Uncle John had five: Maria, Vera, Tina, Sandi, and Stevie.
My Aunt Kasia and Uncle Serge had three: Natalie, Lena, and Kathy.
My Uncle Stanley and Aunt Annette had four: Judy, Paul, Lisa, and Mark.
Naturally they didn’t all visit at the same time. It was a small railway house with a kitchen at one end, a living room at the other end of the house and two bedrooms in between. The bathroom and pantry were off the kitchen.
When I got older I visited my grandparents and as I sat at the kitchen table I couldn’t imagine how we fit that many people into that house all those years ago. The rectangular kitchen table that we were sitting at had enough room for four people comfortably, six with two people squashed together at the longer sides. But… there was an extension that made the table about a foot longer. Back then, Dzied would bring in a bench that he built from outside by the clothesline and that would go along the kitchen wall freeing up the other two chairs to be distributed along the other three sides of the table. Corner place settings at this table were normal.
On the other wall they set up the smaller “kids table.” I think I sat there until I was four. At five I graduated my way to the adult table due to my conversational abilities and was thus able to hang with the adults, even if I didn’t understand half of what they were talking about.
Some people would make a plate and then go eat in the living room. That was a two-seater couch that you could cram three to four kids on. There were two chairs that were limited to one person each. Dzied’s rocking chair was the best chair you could sit on. We would call sitting on it just like calling “shotgun” in a car. And then there was the floor. Factoring all this in, I still don’t know how we fit all those people in the house. But we did and we were happy. We were together and that’s all that mattered.
As I kissed Baba and gave Dzied a hug goodbye, the ghostly sounds of adult conversations, clanging dinnerware, and screaming kids echoed in my ears. I may have even moved slightly to avoid the memory of a running toddler crashing into me. I took one last whiff of her kitchen locking in those glorious smells and headed out to my car forever thankful for my entire family, the great times we had, and the great memories we had created together all those years ago.
Please check out my books available here: https://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Terelme...
November 17, 2022
My Dad's Cooking
My dad is a pretty damn good cook.
He’s no Gordon Ramsey, but I’m pretty sure even Gordon couldn’t match making one of my dad’s dishes. By the way, if you ever happen to be over and my dad asks if you want breakfast, take him up on it. You will be treated to the fluffiest eggs you ever had, along with bacon, onions, and peppers. I usually skip the peppers. I like peppers, but then I’m burping up and tasting peppers for the rest of the day. I’d rather be burping up bacon or eggs but that doesn’t seem to work that way.
His egg concoction, as my mom likes to call it, isn’t really an omelet. With an omelet you pour the egg in the pan, add your other ingredients, and then fold it over. My dad starts by frying the bacon in the pan and then removing them to a paper towel. Then he sautés the onion and pepper, adds the bacon back in, and pours the scrambled egg mix over everything. Once done, it’s put on a plate. And it’s fluffy and delicious and very non-diet. If he remembers to offer you toast, it’s going to be Lithuanian Rye Bread. It’s pretty much a staple in his house.
Coming from Hungary we were introduced to many different foods that most people never even heard of. While most kids were eating mac and cheese, we were dining on egg noodles with butter, cottage cheese and sour cream. I still prefer that to mac and cheese any day. My dad also served us egg noodles with a poppy seed and powder sugar mix or with strawberry jam. Looks weird, sounds weird, but don’t knock it until you try it. If I remember correctly, the egg noodles were allowed to cool down before those ingredients were added.
My dad also made a killer polyczenta (blintz) that stood toe to toe with my grandmother’s. They were filled with a mixture made of farmer’s cheese, egg yolk, and sugar. Once put together you fry them up in a pan and stack them on a plate. You can eat them while they’re hot. Some people put powdered sugar or sour cream on them. Those that weren’t eaten were put in the fridge or left on the stove to pick at during the day. They were good hot out of the pan, room temperature on the stove, and even cold out of the fridge.
My dad also makes some killer fried chicken cutlets. The secret ingredient is love. That’s the only way to explain it. My nephew, Nate, was a kid that grew up on McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets. When he would stay with my parents, he’d ask for McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets.
One time my dad told Nate he was going to make his own chicken nuggets. He made him a plate with some mashed potatoes and Nate curled his nose, pushed his body against the back of the chair in repulsion and asked, “What’s that?” The size was odd. It was bigger pieces of chicken breast and not the processed, formed, and stamped little nuggets that he had grown used to.
Long story short, he refused to eat. My dad took the plate away and told him he doesn’t have to eat anything. Later, towards evening when a growing boy’s belly is grumbling, he told my dad that he was hungry. My dad made him another plate with his chicken nuggets. Nate picked one up and cautiously bit into it. He slowly starting chewing the portion in his mouth when his face perked up and said, “Hey, these are good!”
“Of course they’re good,” my dad told him.
Besides being the King of Breakfast and King of Chicken Cutlets, he was also the King of Soups. Starting with a base of oil and sautéed onions he would add other ingredients and a short time later… Soup!
His most famous soup is something you won’t ever find in any cookbook because it doesn’t exist. It also varies depending on the ingredients that he may have on hand at the time of cooking. The consistency varies also depending on how he chooses to thicken it up. I guess it could be The Soup That Can’t Be Explained, but I’ll try.
Back when I was still in single digits, my mom must have been working because it was up to my dad to feed us. So he made this soup. He called us to the kitchen for lunch, and my older brother Frank and I stared into a bowl of something we’ve never ever seen before. It was an off-white, thick-based soup with small chunks of potato (similar to New England clam chowder which we never had up to that point in our lives), slices of Hungarian kielbasy, and green beans poking through the surface. Being kids, we cautiously dipped our spoons and moved the ingredients around, while curling up our noses and going, “Ewwww!”
“What’s wrong?” my dad asked us.
We told him that the soup didn’t look good. One of us took a whiff to see what it smelled like. The other shouted out, “What kind of soup is this anyway?”
My dad, not skipping a beat said, “It’s Superman Soup.”
In unison, we looked at him, “Huh?”
“Yeah, that’s Superman Soup. It’s what Superman eats so that he stays big and strong here on earth.”
As you can imagine we dove right in and the soup was delicious. He then added a little bit of white vinegar into the soup bowl; maybe just shy of a tablespoon and mixed it around. That made it even better. We even asked for seconds.
Years later after my younger brother Karl was born, my dad was making what we thought was Superman Soup. Unbeknownst to us, he ran out of green beans, so he put peas in the soup instead. He called us to the table and as we looked at the contents of the bowl, one of us asked somewhat disgustingly, with our noses curled up in the air, “What kind of soup is this?”
Without missing a beat he said, “It’s Batman Soup. It’s what Batman eats to stay strong.”
We looked at each other, our BS detectors sounding the alarm, “No way. This is just Superman Soup with peas in it. We hate peas.”
“Just eat it,” he said sternly.
And we did. And it wasn’t bad. He used sweet peas which are a lot better than the bland tasteless peas you sometimes get. But it wasn’t as good as Superman Soup.
To this day, if we come down to visit and he asks us if we want him to make anything special, all three of us ask for his fried chicken cutlets and Superman Soup! If we have the choice of one, it’s Superman Soup.
Nate just asks for chicken cutlets. I don’t know if he’s ever had the soup.
Check out my books here: https://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Terelme...
He’s no Gordon Ramsey, but I’m pretty sure even Gordon couldn’t match making one of my dad’s dishes. By the way, if you ever happen to be over and my dad asks if you want breakfast, take him up on it. You will be treated to the fluffiest eggs you ever had, along with bacon, onions, and peppers. I usually skip the peppers. I like peppers, but then I’m burping up and tasting peppers for the rest of the day. I’d rather be burping up bacon or eggs but that doesn’t seem to work that way.
His egg concoction, as my mom likes to call it, isn’t really an omelet. With an omelet you pour the egg in the pan, add your other ingredients, and then fold it over. My dad starts by frying the bacon in the pan and then removing them to a paper towel. Then he sautés the onion and pepper, adds the bacon back in, and pours the scrambled egg mix over everything. Once done, it’s put on a plate. And it’s fluffy and delicious and very non-diet. If he remembers to offer you toast, it’s going to be Lithuanian Rye Bread. It’s pretty much a staple in his house.
Coming from Hungary we were introduced to many different foods that most people never even heard of. While most kids were eating mac and cheese, we were dining on egg noodles with butter, cottage cheese and sour cream. I still prefer that to mac and cheese any day. My dad also served us egg noodles with a poppy seed and powder sugar mix or with strawberry jam. Looks weird, sounds weird, but don’t knock it until you try it. If I remember correctly, the egg noodles were allowed to cool down before those ingredients were added.
My dad also made a killer polyczenta (blintz) that stood toe to toe with my grandmother’s. They were filled with a mixture made of farmer’s cheese, egg yolk, and sugar. Once put together you fry them up in a pan and stack them on a plate. You can eat them while they’re hot. Some people put powdered sugar or sour cream on them. Those that weren’t eaten were put in the fridge or left on the stove to pick at during the day. They were good hot out of the pan, room temperature on the stove, and even cold out of the fridge.
My dad also makes some killer fried chicken cutlets. The secret ingredient is love. That’s the only way to explain it. My nephew, Nate, was a kid that grew up on McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets. When he would stay with my parents, he’d ask for McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets.
One time my dad told Nate he was going to make his own chicken nuggets. He made him a plate with some mashed potatoes and Nate curled his nose, pushed his body against the back of the chair in repulsion and asked, “What’s that?” The size was odd. It was bigger pieces of chicken breast and not the processed, formed, and stamped little nuggets that he had grown used to.
Long story short, he refused to eat. My dad took the plate away and told him he doesn’t have to eat anything. Later, towards evening when a growing boy’s belly is grumbling, he told my dad that he was hungry. My dad made him another plate with his chicken nuggets. Nate picked one up and cautiously bit into it. He slowly starting chewing the portion in his mouth when his face perked up and said, “Hey, these are good!”
“Of course they’re good,” my dad told him.
Besides being the King of Breakfast and King of Chicken Cutlets, he was also the King of Soups. Starting with a base of oil and sautéed onions he would add other ingredients and a short time later… Soup!
His most famous soup is something you won’t ever find in any cookbook because it doesn’t exist. It also varies depending on the ingredients that he may have on hand at the time of cooking. The consistency varies also depending on how he chooses to thicken it up. I guess it could be The Soup That Can’t Be Explained, but I’ll try.
Back when I was still in single digits, my mom must have been working because it was up to my dad to feed us. So he made this soup. He called us to the kitchen for lunch, and my older brother Frank and I stared into a bowl of something we’ve never ever seen before. It was an off-white, thick-based soup with small chunks of potato (similar to New England clam chowder which we never had up to that point in our lives), slices of Hungarian kielbasy, and green beans poking through the surface. Being kids, we cautiously dipped our spoons and moved the ingredients around, while curling up our noses and going, “Ewwww!”
“What’s wrong?” my dad asked us.
We told him that the soup didn’t look good. One of us took a whiff to see what it smelled like. The other shouted out, “What kind of soup is this anyway?”
My dad, not skipping a beat said, “It’s Superman Soup.”
In unison, we looked at him, “Huh?”
“Yeah, that’s Superman Soup. It’s what Superman eats so that he stays big and strong here on earth.”
As you can imagine we dove right in and the soup was delicious. He then added a little bit of white vinegar into the soup bowl; maybe just shy of a tablespoon and mixed it around. That made it even better. We even asked for seconds.
Years later after my younger brother Karl was born, my dad was making what we thought was Superman Soup. Unbeknownst to us, he ran out of green beans, so he put peas in the soup instead. He called us to the table and as we looked at the contents of the bowl, one of us asked somewhat disgustingly, with our noses curled up in the air, “What kind of soup is this?”
Without missing a beat he said, “It’s Batman Soup. It’s what Batman eats to stay strong.”
We looked at each other, our BS detectors sounding the alarm, “No way. This is just Superman Soup with peas in it. We hate peas.”
“Just eat it,” he said sternly.
And we did. And it wasn’t bad. He used sweet peas which are a lot better than the bland tasteless peas you sometimes get. But it wasn’t as good as Superman Soup.
To this day, if we come down to visit and he asks us if we want him to make anything special, all three of us ask for his fried chicken cutlets and Superman Soup! If we have the choice of one, it’s Superman Soup.
Nate just asks for chicken cutlets. I don’t know if he’s ever had the soup.
Check out my books here: https://www.amazon.com/Daniel-Terelme...
November 15, 2022
Sometimes Older Brothers Suck
For a while, it was just me and my older brother, Frank. My younger brother didn’t come around until a few years later and even then it took a few years before he was up to speed to be able to hang out with us.
It was the mid-1960s and we were all living in my grandparent’s house at the time in South River, NJ. We were right in the heart of this small blue-collar town where the houses were packed in pretty tight. In our neighborhood you took care of your lawn with a reel mower-the old ones where you push the mower, and the blades would rotate. Anything more than that was overkill.
At that time, the streets were lined with trees. We had chestnut trees along our street at the Division Street side of the house and maple trees on the Stanton Street side.
One day while playing I noticed that someone had nailed a roofing nail (aluminum with a wide flat head) into the tree in front of our house. I was trying to pull it out with my fingers, but it wasn’t budging. Frank came over and asked what I was doing, and I told him I was trying to pull the nail out of the tree.
He got this look of fear on his face said, “No, don’t do that!”
“Why?,” I asked.
“Because if you do all the sap will run out of the tree, it will flood the earth, and we’ll all drown and die.”
My fingers immediately stopped and then backed away from the nail. I think I might have even given it a push back in (that did nothing) to make sure it wouldn’t accidentally pop out.
Now, I know it sounds silly. But look at how old you are as you’re reading this. I was in my low single digits. I might not have even started kindergarten yet. My classroom was the outdoors and Saturday morning cartoons-and some strange shit happened in those cartoons. So, while I was still wondering how the sap of one single tree could come rushing out and flood the entire earth to a point that would rival Noah’s high sea adventure, I wasn’t taking any chances. I mean, I had a lot of life to live. I’ve never kissed a girl at that point or even driven a car, and both were on my bucket list.
Move forward a couple of weeks. We’re out in front of the house playing baseball in the street. We didn’t have much car traffic running through town back then and only had to stop occasionally for a passing car. As we wrapped up the game and our friends went home Frank went over to the tree and when he saw me coming over he started playing with the nail.
“What are you doing?” I asked with fear in my voice.
“I’m gonna take the nail out,” he replied.
“No! Don’t do it. You’re gonna flood the earth and we’re all gonna die!”
“I don’t care. I’m ready to die.” he said.
I shot back, “Well, I’m not.” I went to push him away with all the strength I had. Being two years younger, I only managed to budge him a little. He went back and started fiddling with the nail. A sick, demonic smile spread across his face.
I pleaded with him to stop. I begged. I cried.
He looked over at me and stopped. For the rest of the day I made sure that we didn’t go anywhere near that tree. I suggested taking our bikes and going to see our cousin Stevie who lived on Kamm Ave, pretty much the south edge of town.
That summer was hellish. From time to time we’d wind up playing in front of the house and when the muse hit, Frank would go to the tree to watch me squirm.
It wasn’t until weeks later, when I had to good sense to ask an adult if what my brother had told me about the sap rushing out of the tree and drowning the world was true. I remember laughter, a swig of beer they had been holding, following by a decisive, “NO.”
And then it all made sense. My instincts were right. There was no way a tree can hold that much sap to drown the entire earth. Sap was also thick and sticky – thicker than pancake syrup. There was no way that it was going to come rushing out before someone could go over and plug it back up if it did indeed have the potential to flood the earth and kill everyone.
Sometime later, we were playing out front and my brother starting taunting me with the nail again. He laughed as I ran into the house. A few minutes later I emerged with the hammer from the kid’s tool set that we received for Christmas the previous year. I walked to the tree and using the claw side of the hammer, yanked the nail right out of the tree.
As you can see, since you’re reading this, the world did not get flooded with a sudden rush of tree sap. Humanity did not perish. But something did die; Frank’s demented hold on me. I still love him though. He is my brother after all.
It was the mid-1960s and we were all living in my grandparent’s house at the time in South River, NJ. We were right in the heart of this small blue-collar town where the houses were packed in pretty tight. In our neighborhood you took care of your lawn with a reel mower-the old ones where you push the mower, and the blades would rotate. Anything more than that was overkill.
At that time, the streets were lined with trees. We had chestnut trees along our street at the Division Street side of the house and maple trees on the Stanton Street side.
One day while playing I noticed that someone had nailed a roofing nail (aluminum with a wide flat head) into the tree in front of our house. I was trying to pull it out with my fingers, but it wasn’t budging. Frank came over and asked what I was doing, and I told him I was trying to pull the nail out of the tree.
He got this look of fear on his face said, “No, don’t do that!”
“Why?,” I asked.
“Because if you do all the sap will run out of the tree, it will flood the earth, and we’ll all drown and die.”
My fingers immediately stopped and then backed away from the nail. I think I might have even given it a push back in (that did nothing) to make sure it wouldn’t accidentally pop out.
Now, I know it sounds silly. But look at how old you are as you’re reading this. I was in my low single digits. I might not have even started kindergarten yet. My classroom was the outdoors and Saturday morning cartoons-and some strange shit happened in those cartoons. So, while I was still wondering how the sap of one single tree could come rushing out and flood the entire earth to a point that would rival Noah’s high sea adventure, I wasn’t taking any chances. I mean, I had a lot of life to live. I’ve never kissed a girl at that point or even driven a car, and both were on my bucket list.
Move forward a couple of weeks. We’re out in front of the house playing baseball in the street. We didn’t have much car traffic running through town back then and only had to stop occasionally for a passing car. As we wrapped up the game and our friends went home Frank went over to the tree and when he saw me coming over he started playing with the nail.
“What are you doing?” I asked with fear in my voice.
“I’m gonna take the nail out,” he replied.
“No! Don’t do it. You’re gonna flood the earth and we’re all gonna die!”
“I don’t care. I’m ready to die.” he said.
I shot back, “Well, I’m not.” I went to push him away with all the strength I had. Being two years younger, I only managed to budge him a little. He went back and started fiddling with the nail. A sick, demonic smile spread across his face.
I pleaded with him to stop. I begged. I cried.
He looked over at me and stopped. For the rest of the day I made sure that we didn’t go anywhere near that tree. I suggested taking our bikes and going to see our cousin Stevie who lived on Kamm Ave, pretty much the south edge of town.
That summer was hellish. From time to time we’d wind up playing in front of the house and when the muse hit, Frank would go to the tree to watch me squirm.
It wasn’t until weeks later, when I had to good sense to ask an adult if what my brother had told me about the sap rushing out of the tree and drowning the world was true. I remember laughter, a swig of beer they had been holding, following by a decisive, “NO.”
And then it all made sense. My instincts were right. There was no way a tree can hold that much sap to drown the entire earth. Sap was also thick and sticky – thicker than pancake syrup. There was no way that it was going to come rushing out before someone could go over and plug it back up if it did indeed have the potential to flood the earth and kill everyone.
Sometime later, we were playing out front and my brother starting taunting me with the nail again. He laughed as I ran into the house. A few minutes later I emerged with the hammer from the kid’s tool set that we received for Christmas the previous year. I walked to the tree and using the claw side of the hammer, yanked the nail right out of the tree.
As you can see, since you’re reading this, the world did not get flooded with a sudden rush of tree sap. Humanity did not perish. But something did die; Frank’s demented hold on me. I still love him though. He is my brother after all.
November 14, 2022
Veteran Memories
I served in the US Navy from 1980 to 1984. My best friend Tommy and I joined under the buddy system which only guaranteed that we’d go through boot camp together. But we both chose to be Radiomen, which put us in San Diego for a year learning that and Morse Code.
Tommy graduated first and I followed shortly thereafter.
While everyone was receiving orders to go on a ship, my orders were for UNITAS XXII. I had no idea what that was. I arrived in Norfolk during a hurricane and was walking aimlessly in my crackerjacks, in some neighborhood, with my seabag on my back, getting soaked to the bone, when an angel from heaven appeared in the form of a bus driver and gave me a free ride to base.
I had to wait two weeks for my passport to be processed so that I can fly out to UNITAS XXII. What was that? Nobody could tell me.
On the day I shipped out, I was told to make sure I had a button-down shirt because I was going to be on liberty in Rio de Janeiro. No way!! Talk about “Join the Navy and see the world.” This was a great place to start.
I only had t-shirts at the time having spent almost a year in sunny San Diego. I rushed to the base exchange and bought a new shirt.
Taking off in Norfolk with stops in Atlanta and Miami, I finally made it to Rio, which turned out to be a two-hour layover where I wasn’t even allowed to leave the airport. My only memory of the white sand and blue water of Rio is the view I had from the window seat of the airplane flying in and flying out.
I met my ship, the USS Plymouth Rock, in Montevideo, Uruguay. I was processed and introduced to the rest of the radiomen, who in time introduced me to the rest of the ship. One guy asked where I came aboard. I told him Montevideo.
He said, “Oh man! You JUST MISSED Rio. We were only supposed to spend three days there. The captain liked it so much we wound up staying ten. Too bad you missed it, everyone had a good time.”
Yay me.
Tommy graduated first and I followed shortly thereafter.
While everyone was receiving orders to go on a ship, my orders were for UNITAS XXII. I had no idea what that was. I arrived in Norfolk during a hurricane and was walking aimlessly in my crackerjacks, in some neighborhood, with my seabag on my back, getting soaked to the bone, when an angel from heaven appeared in the form of a bus driver and gave me a free ride to base.
I had to wait two weeks for my passport to be processed so that I can fly out to UNITAS XXII. What was that? Nobody could tell me.
On the day I shipped out, I was told to make sure I had a button-down shirt because I was going to be on liberty in Rio de Janeiro. No way!! Talk about “Join the Navy and see the world.” This was a great place to start.
I only had t-shirts at the time having spent almost a year in sunny San Diego. I rushed to the base exchange and bought a new shirt.
Taking off in Norfolk with stops in Atlanta and Miami, I finally made it to Rio, which turned out to be a two-hour layover where I wasn’t even allowed to leave the airport. My only memory of the white sand and blue water of Rio is the view I had from the window seat of the airplane flying in and flying out.
I met my ship, the USS Plymouth Rock, in Montevideo, Uruguay. I was processed and introduced to the rest of the radiomen, who in time introduced me to the rest of the ship. One guy asked where I came aboard. I told him Montevideo.
He said, “Oh man! You JUST MISSED Rio. We were only supposed to spend three days there. The captain liked it so much we wound up staying ten. Too bad you missed it, everyone had a good time.”
Yay me.
November 9, 2022
Halloween Reflections 2022
October 31, 2022, marked twelve years of marriage for Colleen and me. We chose to celebrate the way we always do; by scaring the crap out of trick or treaters.
The yard was set up with an archway of pumpkins that Colleen had airbrushed on some corrugated board and taped in place on a metal frame. We placed four gargoyles along the driveway path and set up the lighting. At the beginning of the driveway, to the left Colleen set up a projection screen that had hands trying to claw their way out.
As the little kiddies walked up to our house they saw me sitting under the archway with a small table in front of me. They continued up the driveway bypassing Colleen who was out of sight on the other side of the projection screen.
When they were close enough I told them that we were going to play a game. (I failed to mention that this was a con game.) I showed them three skulls and a little white ball; the skull’s eyeball. Lifting each of the skulls to show nothing underneath, I explained that their job was to keep track of the eyeball. If they can correctly pick which skull the eyeball was under, then they win the big candy (full sized candy bars that lined the back edge of my table). But if they lose, they have to go see her (I pointed behind them where Colleen was now standing at the edge of the driveway) for the smaller candy.
All the kids lost. (I did mention that this WAS a con game, right?) If there were a group of kids I told them to pick one to play for the group. When they lost I gave someone else a chance to pick one of the remaining two skulls. Damn if they still couldn’t win!
One kid shouted to his friends that he was going to play because he had seen this on YouTube. “I know this! I know this! We’re going to win!” He was smiling and jumping around in full-sized chocolate enthusiasm.
He lost.
Then he cried foul by saying this was a trick. “Of course this was a trick,” I told him, “And if you ever see this game being played in real life, don’t play because you’ll lose all your money.” (An educational public service announcement courtesy of EvilDan.)
So that was their “Trick” and now they had to go see Colleen dressed as a clown with two big gashes in her face for their “Treat.” As they walked away, I picked up my Aztec Death Whistle and when they were about two thirds of the way to Colleen, I blew into it. For those of you not familiar with an Aztec Death Whistle it sounds like a shriek of death – like someone about to be brutally murdered and screaming at the top of their lungs in a last-ditch effort to survive.
Oh they joy I experienced as I watched the little legs tremble and shake and then quickly turn around to see what caused that hellish sound. And all they saw was me, casually looking up at them from my skulls and shrugging my shoulders, “What?”
Now there was this one cute little princess that came up with her parents. I explained the game to them, and the little princess was eager to play. She guessed wrong on the first try. She cried out, “Oh, darn!” and quickly turned around knowing that she now had to go see “her” for the little candy and didn’t want to waste any time because there was still a lot of Trick or Treating to do before the night was over.
I stopped her and told her I’d give her another chance.
Wouldn’t you know that she picked the correct skull on her second try!
I pointed to the four full sized candy bars and asked her which one she wanted. Without any hesitation, she pointed to the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, my favorite right after Chunky. As she walked away, I looked at what remained, a Kit Kat, a PayDay, and a Hershey’s Chocolate Bar. As she approached Colleen I chose not to blow the Aztec Death Whistle. Chose? Well, maybe not chose. Perhaps I was too lost in my thoughts second-guessing myself and thinking, “Maybe I shouldn’t have let her win.”
The yard was set up with an archway of pumpkins that Colleen had airbrushed on some corrugated board and taped in place on a metal frame. We placed four gargoyles along the driveway path and set up the lighting. At the beginning of the driveway, to the left Colleen set up a projection screen that had hands trying to claw their way out.
As the little kiddies walked up to our house they saw me sitting under the archway with a small table in front of me. They continued up the driveway bypassing Colleen who was out of sight on the other side of the projection screen.
When they were close enough I told them that we were going to play a game. (I failed to mention that this was a con game.) I showed them three skulls and a little white ball; the skull’s eyeball. Lifting each of the skulls to show nothing underneath, I explained that their job was to keep track of the eyeball. If they can correctly pick which skull the eyeball was under, then they win the big candy (full sized candy bars that lined the back edge of my table). But if they lose, they have to go see her (I pointed behind them where Colleen was now standing at the edge of the driveway) for the smaller candy.
All the kids lost. (I did mention that this WAS a con game, right?) If there were a group of kids I told them to pick one to play for the group. When they lost I gave someone else a chance to pick one of the remaining two skulls. Damn if they still couldn’t win!
One kid shouted to his friends that he was going to play because he had seen this on YouTube. “I know this! I know this! We’re going to win!” He was smiling and jumping around in full-sized chocolate enthusiasm.
He lost.
Then he cried foul by saying this was a trick. “Of course this was a trick,” I told him, “And if you ever see this game being played in real life, don’t play because you’ll lose all your money.” (An educational public service announcement courtesy of EvilDan.)
So that was their “Trick” and now they had to go see Colleen dressed as a clown with two big gashes in her face for their “Treat.” As they walked away, I picked up my Aztec Death Whistle and when they were about two thirds of the way to Colleen, I blew into it. For those of you not familiar with an Aztec Death Whistle it sounds like a shriek of death – like someone about to be brutally murdered and screaming at the top of their lungs in a last-ditch effort to survive.
Oh they joy I experienced as I watched the little legs tremble and shake and then quickly turn around to see what caused that hellish sound. And all they saw was me, casually looking up at them from my skulls and shrugging my shoulders, “What?”
Now there was this one cute little princess that came up with her parents. I explained the game to them, and the little princess was eager to play. She guessed wrong on the first try. She cried out, “Oh, darn!” and quickly turned around knowing that she now had to go see “her” for the little candy and didn’t want to waste any time because there was still a lot of Trick or Treating to do before the night was over.
I stopped her and told her I’d give her another chance.
Wouldn’t you know that she picked the correct skull on her second try!
I pointed to the four full sized candy bars and asked her which one she wanted. Without any hesitation, she pointed to the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, my favorite right after Chunky. As she walked away, I looked at what remained, a Kit Kat, a PayDay, and a Hershey’s Chocolate Bar. As she approached Colleen I chose not to blow the Aztec Death Whistle. Chose? Well, maybe not chose. Perhaps I was too lost in my thoughts second-guessing myself and thinking, “Maybe I shouldn’t have let her win.”
November 8, 2022
Road Warrior
I bought my first car when I was in the Navy; a 1976 Ford Econoline 150 van. It was one of those customized/conversion vans that were popular in the 1970s. It had four captain’s chairs, a small table with drink holders in front of the back chairs, a bed in the back, and it was carpeted throughout with a multi-hued blue shag rug. The bed framework was created out of 2x4s and plywood. The walls were particle board with the rug glued onto it. Plywood was laid on the floor with the rug glued over that. The van was hauling a lot of weight.
But it was fast as hell.
Under the hood was a 351 Windsor engine with a C6 transmission. I once took in to get serviced and the mechanic who took it out for a test ride came back smiling while turning the steering wheel with one finger and remarked that it drives like a Cadillac, and just wants to go fast.
When I was stationed in Patuxent River, Maryland I would drive home to New Jersey every other weekend or so to visit family and friends. One weekend while driving home along a stretch of highway in Maryland I stopped at a red light. A souped-up Chevy Nova SS pulls up next to me and the driver starts revving it’s engine and inching forward like they were staging the lights at a dragstrip. I looked over at the car and the driver made eye contact with me taunting me with his forehead to race him.
Come on, you're driving a modified Chevy Nova SS. That’s a muscle car. Light and fast and built for speed. And… you want to race me in a conversion van? Was I supposed to be the bottom rung of your confidence-building ladder so that perhaps one day you might get the balls to take on a Volkswagen Beetle?
The light turned green, and the guy took off reaching speed limit faster than I cared to at the time, especially knowing that there were speed traps along this stretch of highway having driven it many times in the past. Sometime later I caught up to the Nova while driving up a hill. I looked over at the driver, smiled, and then stepped on the gas passing him and watching his car get smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror until I crested the top of the hill where I resumed to my regular cruising speed – about five miles per hour over the speed limit.
This turned into a pattern that repeated itself.
Stop at a light – Nova pulls next to me taunting me to race.
He takes off fast. I let him go.
I catch up to him going up a hill and blast past him.
Repeat two more times.
That Nova had no balls.
Years later, and with many more mile on the odometer I was coming home from my girlfriend’s house in South Brunswick, NJ. I turned onto Cranbury road and there was this big car in front of me that was driving 25mph in a 45mph zone. I went to pass them and to my surprise they sped up not allowing me to pass. I dropped back due to oncoming traffic at which point they slowed back down to turtle pace. This happened twice.
Now I’m pissed. I quickly realize that I’m in a van.
They’re in a car.
My headlights sit higher and will shine right into their back window to their rear-view mirror reflecting back to the driver blinding them.
I turn on my high beams and tailgate the bastards – which looking into the car with my bright high beams on looked like a forty-something mom at the wheel, another adult in the passenger seat, and some older kids in the back.
Still nothing. So I lay on my horn. This stretch of road was mostly an industrial complex. So other than passing cars you didn’t see any people. To that driver I must have seemed like a crazed lunatic out of a horror movie, or at least I thought so.
They finally pulled over and let me pass.
Once I passed them, they sped up, put THEIR high beams on, and started laying on THEIR horn while tailgating me.
Touché!
I still didn’t understand why they had to be a dick about it. I just wanted to pass them, and they wouldn’t let me, and they wouldn’t drive the speed limit when I was behind them.
But they didn’t know who they were dealing with. I had been driving this van for years now. It was my baby. I knew what it could and couldn’t do. It was dark outside and time to make them shit their pants.
The van was an automatic, no clutch. The back of my van had old school heavy metal bumpers that gleamed of shiny chrome. I felt fearless.
I positioned my left foot above the brake pedal. I became highly aware of my right foot on the gas pedal. In a delicate choreography that would rival a classic ballet production, my right foot briefly let off the gas. My left foot tapped the brake, which caused the brake lights on the van to turn on, which signaled to the tailgating car behind me that I was slowing down and hopefully striking fear into their racing hearts. In my rear-view mirror I could see the windshield of their car quickly move closer to my van at which point I punched the gas pedal and sped forward before we could make contact. I never saw a car drop back so far, so quickly. With their horn silenced, they turned off their high beams and resumed their snail’s pace knowing better than to mess with a silver van that just wants to pass them.
But it was fast as hell.
Under the hood was a 351 Windsor engine with a C6 transmission. I once took in to get serviced and the mechanic who took it out for a test ride came back smiling while turning the steering wheel with one finger and remarked that it drives like a Cadillac, and just wants to go fast.
When I was stationed in Patuxent River, Maryland I would drive home to New Jersey every other weekend or so to visit family and friends. One weekend while driving home along a stretch of highway in Maryland I stopped at a red light. A souped-up Chevy Nova SS pulls up next to me and the driver starts revving it’s engine and inching forward like they were staging the lights at a dragstrip. I looked over at the car and the driver made eye contact with me taunting me with his forehead to race him.
Come on, you're driving a modified Chevy Nova SS. That’s a muscle car. Light and fast and built for speed. And… you want to race me in a conversion van? Was I supposed to be the bottom rung of your confidence-building ladder so that perhaps one day you might get the balls to take on a Volkswagen Beetle?
The light turned green, and the guy took off reaching speed limit faster than I cared to at the time, especially knowing that there were speed traps along this stretch of highway having driven it many times in the past. Sometime later I caught up to the Nova while driving up a hill. I looked over at the driver, smiled, and then stepped on the gas passing him and watching his car get smaller and smaller in my rear-view mirror until I crested the top of the hill where I resumed to my regular cruising speed – about five miles per hour over the speed limit.
This turned into a pattern that repeated itself.
Stop at a light – Nova pulls next to me taunting me to race.
He takes off fast. I let him go.
I catch up to him going up a hill and blast past him.
Repeat two more times.
That Nova had no balls.
Years later, and with many more mile on the odometer I was coming home from my girlfriend’s house in South Brunswick, NJ. I turned onto Cranbury road and there was this big car in front of me that was driving 25mph in a 45mph zone. I went to pass them and to my surprise they sped up not allowing me to pass. I dropped back due to oncoming traffic at which point they slowed back down to turtle pace. This happened twice.
Now I’m pissed. I quickly realize that I’m in a van.
They’re in a car.
My headlights sit higher and will shine right into their back window to their rear-view mirror reflecting back to the driver blinding them.
I turn on my high beams and tailgate the bastards – which looking into the car with my bright high beams on looked like a forty-something mom at the wheel, another adult in the passenger seat, and some older kids in the back.
Still nothing. So I lay on my horn. This stretch of road was mostly an industrial complex. So other than passing cars you didn’t see any people. To that driver I must have seemed like a crazed lunatic out of a horror movie, or at least I thought so.
They finally pulled over and let me pass.
Once I passed them, they sped up, put THEIR high beams on, and started laying on THEIR horn while tailgating me.
Touché!
I still didn’t understand why they had to be a dick about it. I just wanted to pass them, and they wouldn’t let me, and they wouldn’t drive the speed limit when I was behind them.
But they didn’t know who they were dealing with. I had been driving this van for years now. It was my baby. I knew what it could and couldn’t do. It was dark outside and time to make them shit their pants.
The van was an automatic, no clutch. The back of my van had old school heavy metal bumpers that gleamed of shiny chrome. I felt fearless.
I positioned my left foot above the brake pedal. I became highly aware of my right foot on the gas pedal. In a delicate choreography that would rival a classic ballet production, my right foot briefly let off the gas. My left foot tapped the brake, which caused the brake lights on the van to turn on, which signaled to the tailgating car behind me that I was slowing down and hopefully striking fear into their racing hearts. In my rear-view mirror I could see the windshield of their car quickly move closer to my van at which point I punched the gas pedal and sped forward before we could make contact. I never saw a car drop back so far, so quickly. With their horn silenced, they turned off their high beams and resumed their snail’s pace knowing better than to mess with a silver van that just wants to pass them.
November 2, 2022
Facing Death for the First Time
When I was a kid and outgrew my tricycle, my grandfather took me to the bike shop in town and bought me my first two-wheeler: a green Kent, not sure of the model.
I literally rode that bike to the ground. One day my older brother, Frank, and I were about to head off to the playground. We got on our bikes. Earlier in the morning I removed the top tube. It was a hollow piece designed something like a motorcycle gas tank. It had no structural qualities to it and over the years had gotten loose and was just rattling around making noise as I went from place to place.
I rode off the curb and my bike split in two right at the bottom bracket. It was the craziest thing. I remember thinking that it's a good thing I wasn't flying off the curb after going down one of the many hills in town or I could’ve gotten seriously hurt.
So, the bike went in the trash and my grandfather gave me one of his bikes. He had two. It was a one speed adult bike, a little big for me but still manageable, and a manageable bike beats walking any day of the week.
By manageable I mean that most people throw one leg over the bike and then take off. With this one, I had to put the bike on the street and get on it while I was standing on the curb. To stop, I slowed down and then tilted the bike to my left side so that I could stop with my left foot on the ground supporting myself.
One day my mom sent me for milk. Krauzer's was about three blocks away; two blocks with little to no traffic until you get to Charles Street, which wasn't a heavily traveled road, but it did have local car traffic on it. You then make a left on Charles, a quick right on Willet Avenue, another quick left on Willet Lane, another right onto Jackson Street and Krauzer's was there on the right.
I arrived with no problems and stopped in at the big ice machine to the right of the front door. I dismounted and went inside and bought the gallon of milk.
Since this was the first time I rode this bike to pick up milk, I quickly discovered problems I didn't anticipate, like how to get back on the bike while holding a gallon of milk. I tried putting my leg over the bike frame and then leaning to pick up the milk off the ground but that didn’t work at all.
Thinking quickly, I stepped on parking block giving me enough height to get on my bike while still holding onto the milk bottle. I started to pedal and the weight of the milk along with the built-in momentum caused the handle bar to jerk erratically making my ride less than smooth.
Why didn't I just walk?
As I continued to pedal the bike began to steady itself out. I was pretty much home free.
As I turned the corner from Willett Lane to Willet Avenue I knew I had to get across Charles Street without any cars passing by. The block approaching Charles Street was short, only one house in length. With no cars in sight, I started to pedal faster to get across the road when a car turned the corner and began approaching the intersection. Knowing that I couldn't cross the road in time and knowing that I was bound to fall, scrape myself along the road and possibly drop and bust the container of milk, I eyed the area for alternatives. I needed a place to stop. And no, I couldn’t just stop because the weight of the milk threw me off balance.
To my right was a house with a fenced-in yard. I headed to it thinking that I could slow down and stop at the fence without getting off the bike. I was almost at a full stop when I put my right hand out to grab the top of the fence which jerked me to a full stop as the car passed the intersection.
My sense of relief was overshadowed by the sudden dull pain in my right palm.
So here I am on top of a bike that's too big for me, alongside a fence, my left hand holding a gallon of milk while maintaining contact with the left side of the handlebar. I look to my right hand and for the first time ever I notice that the top prongs of that fence are not bent downwards. Instead, they're pointing up to the sky and have chiseled ends.
I noticed that my palm rested below the sharp points of the fence tops. Unsure of what to do (I was just a kid) and with no other recourse, I pulled my hand up and saw a gaping, bloody gash that looked like the stigmata of Christ.
I panicked. I got off the bike, pushed it across Charles Street and started walking up the Willet Avenue my left hand holding the gallon of milk that was sloshing around while maintaining grip of handlebar. My right hand was bleeding, the essence of life draining out of me, and I was crying (remember, I was just a little kid).
Halfway up the road I saw two kids. I stopped them, show them my hand, and said, "Help me." One of the two took a look at my hand, looked at his friend, looked back at me and said, "Yeah, you're gonna die."
And then they left me there
in the middle of the road
to die
alone.
I freaked. I had to get home. My mom was a nurse. She'd be able to save me. I think adrenaline and self-preservation must have kicked in because I somehow made it home. I left the bike on the porch, walked into the house, put the milk on the kitchen table, and started to cry. (Remember, I was a little kid and that's how little kids get the attention of adults.)
Both my parents ran into the kitchen to see what's wrong. My mom took me into the bathroom and put my hand under the bathroom faucet to clean out the wound. I remember the feeling of the water rushing into the wound and then hearing my dad say, "Do we need to take him to get stitches?" I began to feel woozy and was about to pass out.
I think my mom poured rubbing alcohol into the wound and then bandaged it up. My dad put the finishing touches to immobilize my hand so I wouldn’t reopen the wound with some duct tape.
My mom asked me if I wanted to go get stiches. (Remember, I was a little kid. I knew what stitches were, never had them before, and didn't feel that this was the right time to experience that for the first time ever.) I told her I'd be fine.
As you can see, I made it. The kids were wrong, I didn't die. But I still have that almost unnoticeable scar on my right palm to forever remind me of that day.
And I still hate those kids to this day.
I literally rode that bike to the ground. One day my older brother, Frank, and I were about to head off to the playground. We got on our bikes. Earlier in the morning I removed the top tube. It was a hollow piece designed something like a motorcycle gas tank. It had no structural qualities to it and over the years had gotten loose and was just rattling around making noise as I went from place to place.
I rode off the curb and my bike split in two right at the bottom bracket. It was the craziest thing. I remember thinking that it's a good thing I wasn't flying off the curb after going down one of the many hills in town or I could’ve gotten seriously hurt.
So, the bike went in the trash and my grandfather gave me one of his bikes. He had two. It was a one speed adult bike, a little big for me but still manageable, and a manageable bike beats walking any day of the week.
By manageable I mean that most people throw one leg over the bike and then take off. With this one, I had to put the bike on the street and get on it while I was standing on the curb. To stop, I slowed down and then tilted the bike to my left side so that I could stop with my left foot on the ground supporting myself.
One day my mom sent me for milk. Krauzer's was about three blocks away; two blocks with little to no traffic until you get to Charles Street, which wasn't a heavily traveled road, but it did have local car traffic on it. You then make a left on Charles, a quick right on Willet Avenue, another quick left on Willet Lane, another right onto Jackson Street and Krauzer's was there on the right.
I arrived with no problems and stopped in at the big ice machine to the right of the front door. I dismounted and went inside and bought the gallon of milk.
Since this was the first time I rode this bike to pick up milk, I quickly discovered problems I didn't anticipate, like how to get back on the bike while holding a gallon of milk. I tried putting my leg over the bike frame and then leaning to pick up the milk off the ground but that didn’t work at all.
Thinking quickly, I stepped on parking block giving me enough height to get on my bike while still holding onto the milk bottle. I started to pedal and the weight of the milk along with the built-in momentum caused the handle bar to jerk erratically making my ride less than smooth.
Why didn't I just walk?
As I continued to pedal the bike began to steady itself out. I was pretty much home free.
As I turned the corner from Willett Lane to Willet Avenue I knew I had to get across Charles Street without any cars passing by. The block approaching Charles Street was short, only one house in length. With no cars in sight, I started to pedal faster to get across the road when a car turned the corner and began approaching the intersection. Knowing that I couldn't cross the road in time and knowing that I was bound to fall, scrape myself along the road and possibly drop and bust the container of milk, I eyed the area for alternatives. I needed a place to stop. And no, I couldn’t just stop because the weight of the milk threw me off balance.
To my right was a house with a fenced-in yard. I headed to it thinking that I could slow down and stop at the fence without getting off the bike. I was almost at a full stop when I put my right hand out to grab the top of the fence which jerked me to a full stop as the car passed the intersection.
My sense of relief was overshadowed by the sudden dull pain in my right palm.
So here I am on top of a bike that's too big for me, alongside a fence, my left hand holding a gallon of milk while maintaining contact with the left side of the handlebar. I look to my right hand and for the first time ever I notice that the top prongs of that fence are not bent downwards. Instead, they're pointing up to the sky and have chiseled ends.
I noticed that my palm rested below the sharp points of the fence tops. Unsure of what to do (I was just a kid) and with no other recourse, I pulled my hand up and saw a gaping, bloody gash that looked like the stigmata of Christ.
I panicked. I got off the bike, pushed it across Charles Street and started walking up the Willet Avenue my left hand holding the gallon of milk that was sloshing around while maintaining grip of handlebar. My right hand was bleeding, the essence of life draining out of me, and I was crying (remember, I was just a little kid).
Halfway up the road I saw two kids. I stopped them, show them my hand, and said, "Help me." One of the two took a look at my hand, looked at his friend, looked back at me and said, "Yeah, you're gonna die."
And then they left me there
in the middle of the road
to die
alone.
I freaked. I had to get home. My mom was a nurse. She'd be able to save me. I think adrenaline and self-preservation must have kicked in because I somehow made it home. I left the bike on the porch, walked into the house, put the milk on the kitchen table, and started to cry. (Remember, I was a little kid and that's how little kids get the attention of adults.)
Both my parents ran into the kitchen to see what's wrong. My mom took me into the bathroom and put my hand under the bathroom faucet to clean out the wound. I remember the feeling of the water rushing into the wound and then hearing my dad say, "Do we need to take him to get stitches?" I began to feel woozy and was about to pass out.
I think my mom poured rubbing alcohol into the wound and then bandaged it up. My dad put the finishing touches to immobilize my hand so I wouldn’t reopen the wound with some duct tape.
My mom asked me if I wanted to go get stiches. (Remember, I was a little kid. I knew what stitches were, never had them before, and didn't feel that this was the right time to experience that for the first time ever.) I told her I'd be fine.
As you can see, I made it. The kids were wrong, I didn't die. But I still have that almost unnoticeable scar on my right palm to forever remind me of that day.
And I still hate those kids to this day.
September 22, 2022
My Third Book is LIVE!
I changed the name of the book.
My third book, 'The Little Book of F*cked Up Stories,' is a collection of short stories that will either warm your heart, make you laugh, make you cry, make you mad, make you think—or perhaps all of the above. The stories are a blend of fiction, fantasy, and social commentary. Included in this collection is Superhero Dreams where a young boy contemplates becoming a superhero patterned after Santa, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. Mr. Obvious’ Christmas Adventure spins the fantastical tale of a late-night holiday mugging in NYC. Death Quits explores life without death. Thirteen Doorways to Eternity takes on faith and the afterlife. And the soon to become classic The Monster Under the Bed explores a young boy's fear when he finds out the mice under his bed is actually a kid-eating monster. All these and more make for a block-buster book of stories that you’ll want to read again and again. - GET YOUR COPY HERE: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BFHNGK5J
My third book, 'The Little Book of F*cked Up Stories,' is a collection of short stories that will either warm your heart, make you laugh, make you cry, make you mad, make you think—or perhaps all of the above. The stories are a blend of fiction, fantasy, and social commentary. Included in this collection is Superhero Dreams where a young boy contemplates becoming a superhero patterned after Santa, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. Mr. Obvious’ Christmas Adventure spins the fantastical tale of a late-night holiday mugging in NYC. Death Quits explores life without death. Thirteen Doorways to Eternity takes on faith and the afterlife. And the soon to become classic The Monster Under the Bed explores a young boy's fear when he finds out the mice under his bed is actually a kid-eating monster. All these and more make for a block-buster book of stories that you’ll want to read again and again. - GET YOUR COPY HERE: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BFHNGK5J
July 19, 2022
Stories of Life and Death
Get ready for my latest book set for release before the end of this year and definitely in time for Christmas, Kwanzaa and Hanukkah.
"Stories of Life and Death" will contain 18 offerings from the deep recesses of my brain. If you like short stories. If you like short stories with a twist. If you like short stories that make you think. If you like short stories that you can go back and read over and over again, then this book is for you.
Included in Stories of Life and Death:
Superhero Dreams
- A young kid dreams of being a superhero but has unlikely role models.
Sibling Ambivalence
- A love/hate relationship between a brother and his sister and things that go boo in the night.
Mr Obvious
- A guy tries to do some last minute Christmas shopping in NYC and has to contend with a small band of muggers
More info coming soon.
"Stories of Life and Death" will contain 18 offerings from the deep recesses of my brain. If you like short stories. If you like short stories with a twist. If you like short stories that make you think. If you like short stories that you can go back and read over and over again, then this book is for you.
Included in Stories of Life and Death:
Superhero Dreams
- A young kid dreams of being a superhero but has unlikely role models.
Sibling Ambivalence
- A love/hate relationship between a brother and his sister and things that go boo in the night.
Mr Obvious
- A guy tries to do some last minute Christmas shopping in NYC and has to contend with a small band of muggers
More info coming soon.
October 26, 2020
Which Book Will Be the Third Book?
I'm in the process of writing three different books. One is a follow up to Tommy Stories which will be "Tommy Stories - The Navy Years." We both signed up for 4 years active (knowing what that meant) and 2 years inactive (not sure of what that meant) with only the guarantee that we'd spend 8 weeks in boot camp together. We wound up spending a year together going through schools before we got our orders that sent us to different ships. But we packed some adventures in that one year. You'll hear boot camp stories, stories during school, and some stories as Tommy went to his first USS ship, got busted down to seaman recruit, lost his rate and then took down a whole ship after he got booted out of the brig where he was sentenced for 3 days bread and water.
I'm also working on a follow up to "Stories for a Rainy Afternoon or a Sunny Day at the Beach" as well as a book of real-life ghost stories. The real-life ghost stories book is more about the journey and being scared than the ending where the lights come on and everything is fine. Otherwise, there would be a lot of dead people, cursed souls and who knows what else in the wake - I might even have wound up dead and not able to write about anything. So I'm just hoping someone will be interested in a book like that.
But right now I'm on writing hiatus as my wife and I perform at a local haunted attraction which is doing quite well despite Covid-19. We have one more day of performance left in our schedule then it's back to writing.
In the meantime, check out my first two books mentioned above.
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B08518Y433
I'm also working on a follow up to "Stories for a Rainy Afternoon or a Sunny Day at the Beach" as well as a book of real-life ghost stories. The real-life ghost stories book is more about the journey and being scared than the ending where the lights come on and everything is fine. Otherwise, there would be a lot of dead people, cursed souls and who knows what else in the wake - I might even have wound up dead and not able to write about anything. So I'm just hoping someone will be interested in a book like that.
But right now I'm on writing hiatus as my wife and I perform at a local haunted attraction which is doing quite well despite Covid-19. We have one more day of performance left in our schedule then it's back to writing.
In the meantime, check out my first two books mentioned above.
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B08518Y433
