Cycling up Spring Lane, I stand on the pedals of my Schwinn and churn  to battle the hill. I swerve back and forth in a probably misguided attempt to conserve my strength for the climb. I could just dismount and walk the last hundred yards or so, but that would be wimping out.

Four packs of Topps baseball cards rest in my pocket. I just bought them from the drugstore in the small shopping center on York Road. A little farther now and I’ll be home, ready to unwrap my treasure.

Got ‘em … got ‘em … need ‘em. A modest success overall. Too many doubles, but I did get Tony Taylor. I remove the planks of bubble gum from each sticky wrapper, jam them in my mouth, and chew, knowing that a fresh wad is unlikely. How long did the gum sit in the pack? Months, probably.

I am ten and indestructible. Girls are still aliens, and pick up baseball, football, or basketball games are my method of social interaction. I live in a heavily Catholic neighborhood, which guarantees lots of kids my age, also itching to get out of their house and play. It was so simple.

As I’ve aged, and life gets more complicated, I ignore the advancement of my internal clock and discard the reality of illness or even death. I glance at the obits once in a while, and am still surprised when someone my age has passed. How is this possible? It can’t happen to me. I’m Tommy, on his bike and hoping for a Roberto Clemente card.

My sister, Irene, passed this year. Besides the sadness of losing her, I realize she was the last member of my original family to go. My link to a simpler past is broken and I’m floating through the unknown. I’ll be seventy soon, and my thoughts of riding my bike as a kid no longer comfort me.

While I stay occupied with my writing, there’s still a feeling that someone in the heavens is leafing through an eternal calendar and searching for my appointment date.

How do I reconnect the tether and keep the orbital station of life from pulling away as I hang on? I’m guessing it’s my current family and especially my granddaughter who thinks I’m larger than life.
​
Someday soon, she’ll be riding her bike up a different hill, happy and indestructible. Grandpa will be there, smiling, and ready to pick her up if she falls. I accept this role as my new reality, and hope Lydia will remember and cherish Grandpa when he has floated away.

I’m looking over the newspapers, waiting for my order number to be shouted out. One line of customers is being served by a Wawa clerk ringing up clients. A pretty coworker mans the adjacent register keeping up with the barrage of coffee, burritos, and newspapers.

When both lanes clear, the clerk turns to her and says “Did I tell you my nightmare about Friendly’s?”

Well, well, a gift from the literary deities, a naturally occurring writing prompt. What horror occurred within the ice cream wonderland? Did the milkshake mixer pull in an unwilling arm? Does the chocolate syrup have the consistency of blood? Did the clown’s face in a Kids Sundae frown and hand a balloon to a little girl?

I amble closer pretending to look over the lottery tickets. It’s loud in the store as people chat and approach the registers. The clerk mentions something about a fish sandwich and pistachio ice cream before the throng cuts the conversation short. I drift over to the sandwich counter pondering the meaty details of this dream.

I assume he’s having dinner at Friendly’s after a day of pouring out soup, or refilling the coffee urns. He settles into the booth and looks over the placemat which serves as the menu in these times of Covid. The table is sticky from the last child occupying his position on the red plastic seat. The menu has chocolate fingerprints positioned over the entrees.

Between the thumb and forefinger is the description of the Fishamajig Super Melt. He’s starving and craves Haddock, fries, and Cole slaw.

He orders his entre, to be proceeded by clam chowder. He’s going full Catholic Lent, possibly in atonement for placing the bag of Doritos back on the shelf after sneaking a few chips.

A vanilla milkshake will wash things down. It arrives in a chilled metallic container, sweating moisture from its shell.  He takes the straw, opens the end, blows into it, and torpedoes the paper wrapping into the noggin of a lad in the next booth.

He looks down, minding his own business, but glances up, just a little, for a reaction. The  boy calls out “Hey” and looks for the perp. His mother glances around also, appears to suspect the clerk, but shrugs and tells her son to forget about it.

The clerk reaches for the long spoon after an unsuccessful attempt to suck the thick concoction through his straw. Ladling ice cream into his mouth, he swallows, invoking sheer ecstasy as the fluid plunges into his stomach. Shock sets in as an ice cream headache triggers. He holds his head and moans.

The boy and his mother see this and chuckle. Surely karma has struck this malefactor.

The chowder arrives. It’s steaming and burns the roof of his mouth. His poor head has experienced extreme cold and hot over just a few seconds. He blows on it, adds in those tasty chowder crackers, and dares a second swallow. He slurps the shake and is rewarded with unthreatening sweetness.

The fish sandwich arrives. He touches the toast for temperature extremes and samples a French fry. Not too hot and just the right amount of grease. He downs the meal, and, as the plate is whisked away, studies the desserts. Two scoops of Pistachio would be just right.

He orders M&Ms as a topping. When it arrives, he rearranges the candies into a happy face. He turns the whipped cream into a beard.

The young boy, the victim of the surprise assault, walks by with his mother, who is holding their check. The lad mumbles a ‘heh, heh’ which unsettles the clerk.

Wait a minute, what did he do? Is he in cahoots with the waitress?  He examines his ice cream. Are those pistachio nuts or boogers? He digs in anyway, but, increasingly convinced that his dessert has been befouled, stops and runs off toward the Men’s room, holding his mouth. The restroom is near the entrance and he sees a car pulling out with his nemesis in a car seat in the back. The boy sees him, then sticks his finger up his nose and smiles.
​
This is the end of my imagined retelling. I push through the Wawa doors, a tuna shortie in hand. I see the clerk puffing away under the No Loitering sign. His companion is chewing gum and listening as he finishes the story. He stubs out the cigarette as they reenter the store. He shakes his head. “No more Friendly’s, or for that matter, Pistachio ice cream, for me.”

Hey, this is pretty sweet. A nice large pond in beautiful Washington Township, New Jersey. Pretty idyllic. Other koi swim by, their coloring unique, and their bellies full from the supporting aquatic life.

The humans stroll around, sit on benches and talk, or play their sporting contests. We share an uncomplicated co-existence, enjoying the tranquility and the sounds of our avian friends.

We, in the pond, float and scavenge. Our own little United Nations. Ducks, turtles, geese, anything that chooses to swim in harmony.

People stop by to admire nature at its simplest. Humans are cute. The tall ones, short ones, young ones, old ones. Somehow navigating on just two limbs. I wonder how they breathe. I don’t see any gills.

Anyway, we have quite the human assortment: families, singles pensive or carefree, I even saw a writers’ group a few weeks ago, carrying their notepads and chatting away.

Hey, there’s a family coming now. Looks like a mother, father, daughter, and son. The prefect American shoal. The mother and daughter find a spot on the grass and point at the wildlife before them.

The father and son walk away toward the trees near where I’m circling. The father says something to the son, and they both pull at their pants. 
 
Oh, no. Not that. Hey, buddy, there are rest rooms a little farther down. Hey, we don’t pee in your pool! Ewwww, the father just hit Lenny with his stream. Right in the snout. Poor guy, he just moved here from Philly last week.

The father’s pointing while talking to his son. He’s proud of his distance, like an Olympic shot putter.

I’ll teach him not to befoul our pond. I’ll just swim over there and give him a piece of my mind. I navigate close to the edge and splash the pair. There take that!

UH, OH, the son almost fell in the water, rescued by a yank from his father, who is still performing his business one-handed.

The father’s foot lands in the water. You deserve that, buddy. He pulls out his muddy appendage, yells what must be an obscenity, and picks up a rock. He flings it and it misses me by an inch.

The father zips up and bends over again for another projectile. He picks up goose poop, an unexpected result from the look on his face.

I surface and chortle. The father raises one hand, and with it, it seems, does an impersonation of a bird in flight.

A sparrow flies over and splatters him with that white gunk they somehow emit.
​
My other koi friends have seen this last interaction. We laugh and swim away. Not a bad day after all.

(Based on the prompt "The Heat was On!")

The heat was on! It was on the deflector shields, on the connecting walkway between the engine room and the control deck, even on the robotic cat hissing at passing humanoids.

Captain Kirkland slid down his control chair, his drenched shirt and pants no match for the rich Corinthian leather. “Boy, it’s soooo hot….”

The crew sighed. “How hot is it, Captain?”

“It’s soooo hot, the shaved ice in my Margarita melted and took the salt with it.”

Weak smiles from the crew as they continued their work.

Lieutenant Shock stepped forward and grasped the railing to avoid skating on the sweat which covered the floor. “Captain, it was already risky enough taking on the first mission to Mercury, but if I can be frank, your idea of checking out the Sun was ill-advised.”

“Noted, Lieutenant. Hey, did you know that your ears are down now? You look like one of those lop-eared rabbits.”

Shock returned to his station, muttering something in Vulcan.

Kirkland called out “Sick Bay.” Lights flashed.

“Sick Bay, here,” said a tired voice.

“Skeleton, can you do something about this heat affecting us all?”

“Dammit, Captain. I’m a doctor, not an HVAC repairman. We need to turn around. We’re running out of SPF 3 million.”

The captain shook his head.

“Ok…Boy... You try to do people a favor. I was gonna buy each of you a Kohrs custard and then we were going to have a Skee-ball tournament.”

Kirkland waved to his navigator. “Solo, reverse engines and get us back toward Mercury.”

The crew cheered. 
​
The captain nodded. “Ok, Just don’t expect Manco and Manco on Mercury. We’ll be lucky if they even have clean restrooms there."

Every year, young men and women finish high school and join the military. They’re sent to hot, inhospitable places for training, then often posted to equally difficult environs.

Their willingness to postpone the chance to join the workforce and create a family is appreciated by a public who, mostly, has not made a similar sacrifice.

We, as a civilian society, stand in awe of their selflessness while wondering ourselves if we had the right stuff to have made that decision at such an early age.

Others join police and fire departments, become EMTs, or volunteer for service to society’s less fortunate. This is to be commended, but still pales to what these men and women do, for little pay, and sometimes disrespect.

On Memorial Day, we focus on lost military members, some not even citizens, who gave all as their gift to country and man.

There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. Imagine doing so for people you’ve never met, and those who don’t understand the decision to do so.

Yet, those hardened by life, and worrying about what comes next, still stop when they see those proudly wearing the uniform, and pay respect to them for choosing to serve so that we may be free to complain about our own lives.

Memorial day should never be an afterthought, like Labor Day, or even Christmas, sometimes. Here’s hoping it will always be celebrated for what it is: honoring the passing of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
​

Sam trudged through the sand, the grains assaulting his ankles. Thin flipflops protected the bottom of his feet while the big toes battled the long ones for social separation from the lesser digits.

He stopped, made a show of dropping chairs, cooler, and umbrella, and called to his spouse. “We’re here, Lana.”

Absorbed in her latest romance novel, his wife missed the warning and back-ended Sam, who toppled onto the white solar-heated quartz.

He grabbed a beach towel, stuffed the end into his mouth, and mumbled something that implied maternal intimacy.

“Sorry, Sam.” She looked around. “You know there are better spots.”

Removing the towel, he took a breath, and started setting up their afternoon residence. Lana picked up her turbochair, made sure the cup holder, book pocket, reading light, and overhead awning were sand-free, and sat, resuming her literary adventure.

---

The umbrella slid into the sand only after Sam applied his full weight. Lana repositioned herself for full protection, leaving her husband scraps of less- effective shade. He found a beer disguised as a vitamin water, and flopped onto his metal and plastic Lazyboy for the day.

“Sam, Fudgy Wudgy Man at three o’clock,” Lana called out.

He turned quickly and collapsed, chair and all, onto the solar surface. “Just kidding,” she laughed. Sam threw the towel over his head and muttered, not appreciating the joke.

“Now, Sam, loosen up. It’s a lovely day, the water looks calm, and we have nowhere else to be. Put on some sunscreen, and take a little snooze.”

---

Sam woke up, fully exposed to the flames of heat bearing down on the beach. Lana, comfortable in shade, looked over her husband. “Shudda moved, Sam. Hey, lookit your feet.”

He examined the area he missed with the Coppertone. Both extremities were pink on the front and toes. He opened another vitamin water and chugged.
​
Lana leaned back and closed her eyes. “Isn’t this fun, Sam. Don’t you wish we could do this every day?”

I always believed in taking the time to do a job properly. Frankly, my tendency to procrastinate, fed into this. However, we are all creatures of our surroundings, whether physical or  emotional, so its ok to make use of the good and bad building blocks to meet your goals.

I job-hopped early in my career, as did many of my colleagues, until I found an environment that would offer the rewards and satisfaction I sought. Being the youngest of my peers, I had the chance to build a foundation, refine my work, and learn from their experience.

These were bright men and women, who focused on achieving a goal through patience, a deliberate approach, and trusted methods. They taught me to see the forest for the trees, and encouraged an understanding of the goal, rather than the quick fix.

I carried these lessons onto subsequent jobs, and tried to impart this to those just starting up. Better to let the rabbit wear itself out and trip over unseen obstacles. The tortoise will do just fine.
​

The ocean pulls and pushes,

Depositing it’s treasure of crabs and seaweed.

Ready for human footprints which it will wash away like our sins.

Seagulls ponder the better treat, shells or popcorn thrown into the air.

Humans shop for fudge, t-shirts, and postcards.
​
Take your time, says the ocean, I’ll be here for a while.

(A limerick, haiku, epigram, and ode wrapped in a sonnet)
 
There once was a young man from Sewell

Who thought being a poet would rule
A haiku I’ll write

Late thru this thunderous night

Pen and pulp shall dual.

So, he scribbled and wrote

And changed, then steted

Till his hand was numb and his fingers bented.

A poet I’ll be, he thought, evermore.

He looked at his pen

Oh, mightier than the sword

Laying waste to evil with the written word.

Then switching to love and flying like a bird.
​
Now, I’ll end the sonnet, the final jewel.

During the eighties and early nineties, I would frequently travel to Munich to integrate my programming changes with our Siemens counterparts. Sometimes, on evenings and weekends, I walked the city and surrounding burgs, taking in the atmosphere, beer, and fatty meats.

I had instruction in German, and could speak well enough in restaurants, church, department stores, and beer halls. My German counterparts even suspected that I knew more of the language than I really did.

Common sense prevailed when faced with situations calling for lingual clarity. One later winter evening, I put on my worn coat and OJ-like woolen cap, and took a midnight stroll.

All was well until I wandered a little too far from my hotel. I was in a dark, uninhabited section of town when stopped by the Polizei. Two officers emerged from a van, which was empty except for a derelict in the back. Great, I thought, they’re rounding up suspicious characters tonight. Just my luck, since I look homeless.

The first officer asked me for my papers (in German) while the second stood guard. I immediately went into clueless visitor mode and told them (in German) that I only spoke English.

The first officer asked for my passport (in English), I produced the document and hoped for a quick dismissal. The officer leafed through the booklet. “Why don’t you have permission to stay? You’ve been here for six months.”

I explained that I had only been there a month, but that passport control hadn’t stamped my document when I had returned to the U.S. last year.

The officer seemed sympathetic. “Stay there,” he said, then returned to the van and climbed back to talk to the derelict and show him my passport. Apparently, this was an undercover detective. After some give and take, the officer returned and told me I had to go with them to the police station until I proved that I was only there for a month.

“How can I prove at midnight, in a police station, that I’ve only been here for a month.”

The officer pondered this. “Stay there,” he said and returned to discuss this with his superior (i.e. the derelict).

I remembered my boss telling me once that if I was ever stopped and questioned on my length of stay, I could show them my plane ticket. He was in town then and staying in the same hotel.

The office returned. “You have to go with us.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “ My plane ticket is in my hotel room. I can show it to you to prove I’ve only been here a month.”

“Stay there.” Another visit with the brains of the operation. He returned. “You have to come with us to the station.”

The derelict was driven away in another van. They loaded me into the back and took off. The two officers chatted. The one who had spoken to me turned and said, “We’ll take you to your hotel. If you can prove you’ve only been here a month, we’ll let you go.”

So there I was being lead into the hotel, an officer on both sides. Would my boss see me? What would he say? He wasn’t in sight. Thank God.

The officers talked to the front-desk clerk, who knew me. He vouched for my story and the officers let me go. I returned to my room, but couldn’t sleep, convinced every time the elevator door opened, that it was the police, who had changed their mind and were ready to batter down the door and lead me away.

I finally slept for about a half hour, dressed, and went to the lobby to have breakfast with my boss and the site rep who was also staying in the hotel. I told my story, which they thought was hilarious.

“We’re you wearing that goofy hat,” asked the rep. I nodded.

“I knew it,” he said laughing.
​
Moral of the story: Dress better for midnight strolls in Europe, and don’t expect a sympathetic ear from your peers.