I have a birthday coming up in a week or so and I’ve been reflecting upon my life, as we all do from time-to-time. It’s just that after a certain age those times occur more frequently … especially as you near the annual celebration of your parents’ fecundity.

It occurs to me that I’ve had three great women in my life: One who taught me what was possible, one who showed me what I didn’t want, and one that helped me find what I really needed. Most guys are lucky to experience even one great woman, so I guess I’ve been blessed with more than my share! They were all significant influences in making me the man I am today so if you have any complaints, in a few paragraphs, you’ll know who to blame.

About the time I started closing in on the ripe old age of five, my mom thought about enrolling me in parochial school, so I could get a healthy dose of religion along with my readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic. Fortunately, she was a very smart lady and well ahead of many of her contemporaries in the kid-raising category. Before surrendering me to the nuns, she sat in on a couple of classes to see exactly how and what the other crumb-crunchers were being taught.

The wee folk were busy working their crayons, little tongues clenched between teeth, intent on fine tuning their sense of security by staying inside the lines on the page. Suddenly one of the Sisters snatched some poor kid’s paper out from under his Crayola and held it up for everyone to see, laughing loudly with a distinct note of mockery in her tone. “Look at this class … a purple monkey! Who ever heard of a purple monkey?” Apparently my mom not only heard of one but had no problem with seeing one. She was so horrified at the Nun’s behavior that she marched me straight over to the nearest public school and signed me up for a lifetime of secular education.

Heck, back then we used to say The Lord’s Prayer and The Pledge of Allegiance right there in the classroom … right there in front of the flag and God and everybody! I guess that was good enough for her. It was certainly good enough for me … although I stumbled around this planet for thirty-three more years before I figured out that, not only were purple monkeys okay, but it was actually preferable to color outside the lines! If you’ve ever wondered why I frequently talk about taking such bold liberties, while the rest of the world is merely content to ‘think outside the box’, now you’ve got the inside skinny. It’s more than just an expression. It has become a way of life.

Shortly after making the transition from puberty into adultery, I met a young woman who appeared to be perfect in every way. I passionately pursued her until she caught me. Unfortunately, people change, and over the next nine years she developed a rather annoying habit … every time I’d pick up a purple crayon, she’d remove it from my grasp, replace it with a brown one, and hand me a new coloring book! You know, I’ve never figured out where she was able to buy so many boxes of crayons that were all the same color.

Eons seemed to pass, and I had almost begun to believe the nuns might have been right, when a new lady sashayed into my life with a ginormous box of Crayolas. She handed me a big blank sheet of paper and said, “Let’s draw some pictures!” I brought her home and even Mom said I could keep her, especially once she saw my purple monkeys. That was nearly thirty-four years ago and Vigi is still showing me colors that weren’t in that original box. Now, that’s a ‘born day’ reflection that keeps on shining … and the only thing about her that has ever been brown is a backless dress with white polka dots she reserves for long walks on sunny summer afternoons.

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As you tread the long road between first tooth and last, you stumble into some things that most of us are never really ready to do … you just do them and work out the consequences along the way. Getting married, having kids or buying a house are a few of the ‘just do it’ things that leap to mind. If you examine them too closely or too logically, you’ll end up lonely, childless and renting a one room flat where the bed folds out of the wall, because you won’t do any of them. I believe retirement ranks high on that list.

My concept of retirement was to be able to do all the things I’ve always wanted, without worrying about being successful at them or having to impress anyone. That included working at my own pace, not someone else’s. I’m amazed at how many of my friends are working longer and harder in retirement, ‘gratis’, than back when they were collecting a pretty decent paycheck for their labor!

My friend Bob volunteered for the Coast Guard Auxiliary, became some sort of high-ranking VIP and works twice the number of hours he did when he was teaching. Bill maintains a military museum and gives motivational speeches. He used to be a Bank Veep. After an illustrious career with the Navy Department, my cousin Dale returned to his Alma Mater to do mentoring … among the many other activities he has dug his teeth into at The University. There are more, including some of Vigi’s girlfriends, but I’d rather not cause your eyes to glaze over.

The problem is, how do you know if you’re retired? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Like most people, these three guys had an advantage … there was a line of demarcation between career and retirement. It may have been a party, a bonus, a gold watch or just the physical change of scene from wherever they were to where they are now. Whatever the farewell, one day they left, got up the next morning and their lives were clearly different. Neither my friend Dick nor I are that lucky.

I don’t think either of us ever meant to retire. For me, it just sort of happened. Dick? Well, he’s still working despite being my senior by a few years. I’m not sure whether he’s afraid of making the transition or of not having enough resources once he hangs up his Rock ‘n Roll shoes. As far as those almighty ‘bucks’ go, I’m sure even Donald Trump won’t feel he has enough when his time comes. It’s all relative.

Like myself, Dick was in radio and when no one needed a couple of savvy old dudes anymore, he started his own radio-related business, primarily working out of the house, also like myself. This meant we were already spending copious amounts of time at work, within the same four walls, among the same electronic debris where we’d spend our retirement! Since he still has his shoulder to the wheel, he has yet to experience the mental turmoil that I did … in fact, that I’m still facing. Good luck Dick!

There were no fanfares, no parties, no ceremonies … just fewer clients and a diminishing income, as I quietly osmosed into a retired-like state over a period of several years. My only recollection of any line of demarcation was the sound of my last patron slamming down the phone, refusing to pay the amount of my invoice for a rush commercial I had stayed up all night to finish. He’s not on the radio anymore, either.

About a month ago, I was verifying my employment status to a small girl wielding a large stack of forms, and she asked, “Still work for Mediacorp Productions?” From out of nowhere I heard someone say, “Not anymore, I’m retired.” Darting a glance or two around the room, I suddenly realized it was me. That was the first time I ever said it out loud. Geez, what a creepy feeling! I always figured, someday, someone would just find me slumped over a microphone at some radio station in Topeka or someplace.

So, is retirement something you’re ever really ready to do? If you don’t like what you’ve been doing, it’s probably a no brainer. If you love your work, it gets a bit more complicated, and sometimes you don’t even get to make the call. I guess, in the final analysis, it’s something very personal … and the only important thing is that on the long road between first tooth and last, you simply keep moving!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

About the time I was entering my teens, I remember counting the decades on my fingers to figure out if I’d be alive in the year 2000 for the arrival of the new millennium. With the typical hubris that heralds the arrival of excess growth hormones and causes a kid to walk ten paces in front of his parents at the mall, I decided I’d probably still be here … but I’d be so bleepin’ old it wouldn’t matter. Well, I was and it does! It’s interesting how your perspective changes, depending upon which end of the telescope you’re looking through. Here I am with the millennium just a speck in my rear view mirror and I still feel an excitement about watching the mile markers zip by, especially on New Year’s Eve.

It wasn’t until after I graduated from home that I was able to grasp why so many people made such a big deal out of December 31st. As a kid, I didn’t have much to go on since my parents didn’t drink or party much … although, even for them, New Years Eve was sort of an exception. They used to concoct a thing they called a ‘highball’, which contained about seven ounces of ginger ale and a half-ounce of some sort of whiskey. I suspect this was the rye and ginger I discovered in later years and quickly replaced with scotch and soda. Anyway, as soon as I stopped falling asleep in somebody’s lap by 10 o’clock, they let me stay up to watch the famous ball drop at midnight in Times Square. For anyone from out-of-town, that’s in New York. Once I stuck a big toe into puberty, they presented me with full celebration rights … only I don’t think I ever got the full half-ounce of liquor.

In those days Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians were a fixture on everyone’s television, if they had one. I don’t know if they were actually royal or even Canadian but they were said to play, The Sweetest Music This Side of Heaven. I never figured out how anyone knew that, either! At 12 o’clock sharp they’d play “Auld Lang Syne” while six or eight guys lowered a shimmering ball atop the Times Building (Allied Chemical after 1961), to the cheers of a seething mass of human gel in the street below. My family would clank glasses, kiss, and I would be told to stop nursing my drink and go to bed. Happy New Year, kid!

The formal Lombardo celebration lasted several more years until they couldn’t dust it off anymore. When something gets really dusty it’s either called a tradition, an antique, or it’s simply tossed aside. Elegant gowns and tight hairdos were tossed aside in favor of less formal attire and replaced with Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Years Eve … sort of a counterpoint to The Sweetest Music era. Now, after forty years of passing for “The World’s Oldest Teenager,” they’re having to dust off Dick Clark. Last year, he looked almost life-like!

Through all the changes and my own half-century odyssey from evenings with my folks, to large parties, small gatherings and finally quiet times with close friends, three things have remained constant on New Years Eve. We always watch the ball drop at midnight, everybody sings Auld Lang Syne and I’m still counting on my fingers. Oh, I’ve clearly made it past the new millennium but now there’s something even bigger and badder trying to come between me and centenarianhood. A calendar. Specifically, the Mayan calendar.

You may have heard … it runs out of days December 21, 2012 and many who study such events, in lieu of holding gainful employment, predict one of three things will happen. There will be a great apocalypse and the world will end; there will be a number of cataclysmic events but the world will not end; the Mayan calendar will just roll over like the odometer in your car, begin again, and nothing will happen. My own theory is that the poor dolt who created five thousand years worth of calendars in the first place developed a godawful carpal tunnel syndrome and had to stop writing.

I’m not ready to make a bucket list or anything, but just in case I’m wrong and the ‘woe-is-me’ crowd is onto something, Vigi and I are going make a point of enjoying the Times Square ball drop just a little more than usual this year … and at midnight sharp, after listening to some of The Sweetest Music This Side of Heaven, we’ll “take a cup o’ kindness yet for Auld Lang Syne!” For anyone from out-of-town, that roughly means “Times Gone By.” (See last year’s 12/31 post, “A Cup O’ Somethingorother”)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

The high school I occupied during my pre-adult period was nearly ninety percent Jewish. When many of the more important Hebrew holidays were celebrated, like in September and October, they actually consolidated as many as three or four classes for any given subject into a single room. Even with that arrangement, I was one of only a tiny hand-full of students in there. We had a lot of fall study halls back then.

Chanukah was different because it usually seemed to coincide pretty closely with Christmas and everybody was off from school … even the kids that celebrated holidays with names most of us never heard of, until ‘political correctness’ came to town a few years later. In those days you were either a Christian or a Jew and nobody was offended by wishes of “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Chanukah,” even if you got it wrong. In my neighborhood, the Christmas tree and the Menorah lived side by side. In fact, a few Jewish people celebrated both occasions.

When I was around nine or ten, I remember my friend Carl proudly inviting me over to see his Chanukah bush! At the time, I didn’t see why it was such a big deal. I mean, by any other name a Christmas tree is still a Christmas tree, right? As I came to understand later, Carl’s family was more the exception than the rule. I used to feel sorry for the Jewish kids at Christmastime. There we were, laughin’ and scratchin’ with our new bikes, scooters, skates, Flexible Flyers and trains from Santa Claus … and those kids had nothing. It was like they were poor or something. They just stared at all our stuff and marveled at our big, broad grins.

As the years passed, three revelations replaced my pity. First of all, I discovered that these kids got presents for Chanukah just like the rest of us did for Christmas … only at a slightly different time and without benefit of a jolly old elf to deliver them. Second, they not only celebrated Jewish holidays but Christian ones too, which meant they had twice as much time off from school as the rest of us! Finally and most important of all, I came to know it isn’t the glitter that matters, it’s the substance.

Particularly where Christmas is concerned, I hear a lot of grousing about “the commercialism, the stress and the spending that is such an integral part of the holiday.” I’ve even read articles about people ‘opting out’ of the celebration altogether. It’s sad that some confuse the tangible with the spiritual, the shopping mall with the manger … and for them the glitz and glitter has become the traditional way to celebrate. Many view Christmas, itself, as a tradition rather than the historically significant occasion it represents. Christmas contains traditions the same way the Fourth of July has fireworks but its true meaning goes far beyond mere repetition, even over a couple of centuries.

By the way, for those who advocate beginning “a new tradition”, whether to do with Christmas or something else, by definition it’s a conflict in terms. Declaring a practice to be a tradition without first having it re-occur over a reasonable period of time is like looking through the wrong end of a telescope!

Oddly enough, in their determination to avoid potential hassle and expense, people are rediscovering the magic instead of the frustrations of The Holiday. Instead of gifts, which she can’t afford, one single mom has her kids writing letters to each other that they’ll open on Christmas morning, She says, “We’re going to tell each other what we love about our family. And that’s it.” There is nothing wrong with giving a homemade present, a letter, a song or some other form of personal expression. In fact, there’s everything right with it and, often, recipients prefer such gifts! Do you suppose the pioneers hitched up the ol’ Conestoga and ran out to Sears or the Apple Store to pick up a last minute something for the kids … or might they have had to use a little more imagination?

Some of my most cherished memories are connected with Christmas. To me, it would be unthinkable to deprive anyone of the joy that is to be found at this wonderful time of year, if you are willing to look for it. I can’t imagine not celebrating Christmas anymore than I can imagine a clean-shaven Santa or a child without a toy. Christmas or Chanukah, Christian or Jew … at the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter how you celebrate or what you believe, it only matters that you do!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

First, let me categorically state that everyone has something to be thankful for, even if it’s only still being around to air their latest gripe and have somebody handy to do eye rolls! If my friend Bob could have seen me steering my way through our Thanksgiving feast he would have said, “Look at him, sittin’ there fat and happy!” and he would have been right. If one can strut while occupying a chair, clutching an overburdened fork in one hand and a gravy-soaked dinner roll in the other, then I was strutting.

The reason my chest was puffed up bigger than the turkey’s wasn’t so much the incredible meal, meticulously prepared by my incredible bride of some thirty-three Thanksgivings, or even the fact that I was surrounded by a small gaggle of kids and grandkids, only one of whom managed to spill anything that would repattern the tablecloth. It wasn’t even having my Mom, now easing her way toward ninety-four, raising a glass of wine with us and providing a toast in her parents’ native Slovak. It was something much bigger, yet so small I don’t think anyone else even noticed.

Vigi had heaped the table with every imaginable Thanksgiving delight, to the point of overflow onto a convenient sideboard. With appropriate gratitude offered to the Lord and before I could even warn my taste buds, I found myself the salivating recipient of the turkey platter … then the mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing and so forth. Without so much as a word between them, my two sons [at my immediate left] collaborated to see that I was the first to receive each serving plate, before anyone else! Of course Vigi, [to my immediate right] was next … then the rest. The organizational chart says that I’m head of the family but frequently, as the years whizzed by, I wondered if anyone had ever read it.

This gesture of respect was never taught to them, nor ever demanded … any more than I could have demanded the love that was so clearly behind it. At a time of life when many of my achievements seem to feel as though they were authored by some phantom, and self-doubt often interrupts reason, these two characters elevated me to the level of King Arthur, himself, presiding at the Round Table! It never happened before, and may never again, but the only way they can fully grasp the importance of their act is to be blessed with such a moment themselves. I wish it for them both.

As the meal progressed I looked and listened with growing pride to the conversational ebb and flow of four family generations … giggles, eye rolls and all. The little girls were now young women on the verge of accomplishing great things, my boys were beginning to sport the slightest touches of gray as middle age nibbles at their hairlines, and even Vigi’s sumptuous feast paled a bit in the glow of the royalty consuming it.

Most parents do the best they can to raise their children properly … to instill a traditional value system and an ethical sense of right and wrong. You may have noticed kids don’t come with an instruction manual and most people that have written books about them don’t seem to have any of their own. With so many potent outside forces that shape who these new adults become once they’ve graduated from home, all that remains is the hope you did something right along the way. When the table is cleared and dishes done, the things for which to be truly thankful are the ones, like this, that let you know you did.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

Any kid who didn’t have a haunted house in his neighborhood probably also missed out on Three Musketeers bars, chewy wax Coke bottles filled with sugary syrup and those rock-hard colored dots on a strip of paper … about twelve inches worth for a penny at Hotkin’s drugstore. It was a time when holidays were a season, not just a single day. Halloween, for example, was at least a week’s worth of dangling witches, cardboard skeletons, carved pumpkins and costume parties at school, replete with tri-colored ‘corn candies’ and scary cookies baked for the occasion by somebody’s mom. You could do that back then, without fear of getting sued if a kid happened to get sick or something.

Mischief night, of course, was a blur of soaped windows, T.P.’d trees and doorbells rung by giggling pranksters sprinting away into the night. Whenever we got tired of the usual games, a pilgrimage to see the old mansion on Harrison Street always put the spring back in our step … but somehow, on Halloween, it was a spiritual obligation. We’d line the curb, with wide eyes riveted to its mysterious peaks and spires.

I was about eight and very impressionable when it came to stories about ghosts, goblins and creaky old houses. I frequently slept with a night light on around that time of year. Then there was the gang: JoJo, Lenny and Joanne. JoJo had a problem saying his “L’s” so lemon would come out “Yemon” and yellow became “yeyyow”! Lenny was born with one leg little shorter than the other and walked with a limp, which elicited a flood of compassion from his schoolmates … you know how kind kids can be. He sort of hung out with us because we didn’t seem to notice … at least we never said anything.

Joanne had kittens. Joanne always had kittens, since one of her three cats was perpetually pregnant. Where most little girls pushed dolls around in their baby carriages, she wheeled a carriage of kittens through the neighborhood. They were her children … just ask JoJo and Lenny who were frequently corralled into playing “house” with her. Fortunately, I always had something more important to do when the mood turned domestic.

Probably most of the fascination with the old house on Harrison had to do with our parents warning us never to go inside because it was dangerous. While parents were concerned about their children crossing a busy street and a hundred year old house that was on the verge of collapse, word spread among the kids that the place was haunted.

There were even stories about more adventurous souls who dared to go in but never came back out. Legend held that, as the sun was setting, you could sometimes see the silhouette of an old man with a long beard in one of the windows. Of course, no one knew any of the kids that disappeared nor had anyone spoken directly to a kid who actually saw the silhouette … but quenchless curiosity and limitless imagination kept dauntless explorers like ourselves coming back, albeit glued to the near curb, hoping for a glimpse of what might lie beyond the far one. We faithfully kept what was judged to be a safe distance, until one particular Halloween eve when a ‘double-dog-dare’ issued by a sneering cowboy and a snickering nurse, plus some prodding from a witch’s broomstick, moved us to the other side of the street.

It was almost dark and our trick-or-treat candy runneth over, as we clasped hands and made our way between curbs. We said it was for safety during crossing but, with the old house now growing as large as its legend, each of us secretly needed assurance that someone else was there. A single streetlamp dimly lit our way, casting four crouching shadows on the lawn. We kept low and crept quietly to the porch steps. I remember thinking that I never realized how much noise dry leaves could make.

We stood there for a while, just staring at the splintered wooden door with the large rusty knocker and a gaping hole where the knob used to be. By now, even the murmur of the small band of onlookers gathered across the street had stopped and all we could hear was the dancing, wind-stirred leaves. To our amazement, Joanne pulled a kitten from inside her coat and hugged it tightly. No one even asked … we were too busy trying to screw up the courage to climb the steps. Finally, on the count of three, we all went together. They creaked under the weight of our odd little quartet, just like in the movies.

With another three count, JoJo eased the door open and we shuffled slowly off the porch and went inside. It creaked, of course, as haunted house doors do … but it was more of a groan that lasted forever. A web of some sort brushed across Joanne’s face! She dropped the kitten and muffled a scream with her hand. Shafts of moonlight streaming through shattered windows, were just enough for us to trace the little feline’s path down a long hallway and we decided to follow. The difference in the length of Lenny’s legs produced a strange cadence that echoed on the ancient wood floor.

As we reached the end of the hall we froze in our tracks, saucer-eyed and slack-jawed at the specter that confronted us. In a windowless room off to our right, there sat an old man in a rocking chair next to a blazing fire. His face looked like leather and his scruffy white beard hung clear down to his belt. Despite his well-weathered personal appearance, he wore a neatly pressed bright red coat with a double row of shiny brass buttons down the front. His beige pants were tucked tightly into a pair of shiny black boots and the whole ensemble was topped off with a very colonial looking tri-cornered hat. Joanne’s kitten sat in his lap, purring louder with each stroke of his gnarled old hand.

At the sight of his terrified young visitors, the leathery old face broke into a nearly toothless smile. In a very proper sounding accent he said, “I’d like to offer you children some tea, but you see, I seem to have run fresh out!” His bright blue eyes and gentle manner were an unexpected surprise and soon put us at ease.

He said his name was Benjamin and the five of us talked for a very long time. We shared our Halloween bounty with him and he told us stories about the Revolutionary War and the founding of America. I never liked history very much, but Benjamin made it interesting. He assured JoJo that he would someday grow out of his speech problem and explained to Lenny that he was probably a heroic soldier wounded in another life … that’s why his one leg wasn’t quite like the other. All in all, we had a pleasant visit but it was getting late and we were already going to catch heck from our folks for staying out past suppertime. We said our goodbyes and smiled and laughed all the way home, with our temporary secret tucked away safely inside.

The next morning, having confessed the details of the previous night under threat of permanent grounding, four eight year-olds stood along the curb with our parents across from the old mansion on Harrison Street. They were determined to get to the bottom of this ‘old man’ story their children had concocted to explain their lateness … and to make matters worse, Joanne’s kitten was nowhere to be found and the mother cat had been going berserk!

Somehow the house didn’t look so haunted in the bright light of day, as we opened the creaky front door and led the adults down the hallway. Even Lenny’s off-kilter cadence seemed silent. The room where we had met the leathery old man was empty, except for the kitten playing with a huge cobweb on the seat of the rocker. The fireplace ashes were cold and so were the looks from our parents. “Benjamin!” we called. Again and again, “Benjamin!” but there was no reply … only the scuffling of Joanne’s kitten playing in the dusty chair.

Then, as the inevitability of ‘house arrest’ forever began to sink in, I noticed a wooden peg just to the left of the fireplace, and on it hung a very familiar tri-cornered hat! I subtly pointed to the hat so only my friends could see. One by one they noticed it and smiled a smile of understanding. After all, when a kid has shared something that special with his friends, forever isn’t really such a very long time.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.