Christmas Star shining
Two planets join hands in peace
Making darkness fade
The Light Below
A nurse nods smiling
Liquid pours into the arm
Another life saved
The Light Fantastic
We await the day
When the light of peace returns
And we dance again
The Light Above
Christmas Star shining Two planets join hands in peace Making darkness fade The Light Below A nurse nods smiling Liquid pours into the arm Another life saved The Light Fantastic We await the day When the light of peace returns And we dance again
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We received a call Sunday night. Susan, a friend of my daughter, died last Thursday. Forty-five years old, she contracted Covid and died after passing out in the bathroom, her oxygen levels depleted.
Kate, my daughter, knew Susan from high school. Both were in Special Education at Camden Catholic. They had a small circle of friends, all with some physical or emotional shortcoming which required special attention from a caring adult community. Susan and her friends also sometimes suffered a separation from their high school peers, those teenagers unsure how to feel empathy while they navigate their own course through adolescence. This group of friends bore their difficulties and relied on each other for support in a world unprepared for the issues they faced. The circle shrank as the years went on, but Kate and Susan kept in touch. Susan lived in a group home, her issues requiring the close monitoring of trained therapists. On holidays, when Susan came home for brief periods, Kate would visit her and watch movies, mostly Harry Potter films that Kate had seen a dozen times already. But they gave each other gifts of time and companionship. Not much conversation, just presence and normal human interaction. They both benefited from this and were prepared to keep up their friendship for life until the virus took Susan. There are many gifts that can be given: money, the latest electronics, crazy socks, alcohol. Yet, when it all comes to a bottom line companionship, compassion, and the gift of time spent together, outlasts the material objects that distracts us. Kate and Susan figured that out many years ago. “They want you to say Grace,,, the Bless-sing,” Uncle Lewis shouts to the hearing-impaired Aunt Bethany.
Bethany bows her head. The others at table do the same. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America…” Cousin Eddie stands, hand over his heart, as he and the others join in. “Amen,” says Clark, exasperated, when the prayer finishes. Maybe not the typical holiday gathering as portrayed in Christmas Vacation, but not too far off. Each year, in non-pandemic times, families gather to celebrate their common identities, quirks and all. Aunt Bethany wraps up her cat as a present. “Honey, have we checked the shitter?” Eddie drives off in the tenement on wheels to kidnap Clark’s boss. And yet, we gather the next year and laugh about the past, as we search the Christmas tree for that odd noise. Blessings come in all shapes and sizes. We may hope to never again be entered into the fruit-of-the-month club, “The Gift that keeps on giving.” But we know that our friends and family define and magnify us as surely as if we were in a lab under a microscope. Human interaction, consistently reenacted, define us as a species, and is a gift from the Almighty, though sometimes it seems like a gag gift. Did the Wooly Mammoth connect thousands of Christmas lights and bring down the power grid? Did the Tyrannosaurus Rex ride a sled into a port-a-potty? Did the big-eared hopping mouse fall through the attic floorboards onto his son’s bed. No, no, and no. And yet they’re extinct and we’re not. We are blessed to survive and thrive because of our oddities and commonalities. “The little lights aren’t blinking, Clark?” Richard Nixon, facing mounting investigations and political pressure, resigned as President on August 9th, 1974. He flew back to California as a private citizen as Gerald Ford, the sitting vice-president, took the presidential oath of office.
Ford ascended to vice-president, and later president, without being elected to either. Yet, the public embraced him due to his basic goodness and dignity. He assumed leadership of a nation hungry for integrity, and yearning for normalcy. To quote Yogi Berra, famous Pittsburg native son, and baseball hall-of-famer, ‘It’s Déjà vu all over again.’ Once again, we’re a divided nation, torn apart by power-hungry forces. Once again, sanity prevailed and we face a future of normalcy. Gerald Ford and Joe Biden are very similar in my opinion. Nothing flashy, even with the aviator glasses. But they have one important thing in common. They are not their predecessor. They are just decent people in indecent times. So how do we avoid a recurrence of the state we’re in? Pray to God? Maybe. Except there are multiple perceptions of the divine being, based on your political bent. In my opinion, the biggest crime committed by 45 is having people believe that only their perception of God is correct. I would see Facebook posts suggesting praying during these trying times. Good advice, but what are we praying for? Vanquishing the enemy or forgiving trespasses. I hope it’s the latter. I hope we can all remember that decency is not a sign of weakness. I hope that we can all have a beer, shake our head at the next interception into a crowded secondary, and limit our most spirited debate on whether pineapple belongs on pizza. Normal, once considered boring, may be the beginning of a brighter day for us all. When Gustav Seussmann awoke on October 31st from happy dreams, he discovered he had transformed into a Hershey bar. Not the simple bite-sized treat loved by those cheating on their diets, but rather a five-pounder brimming with almonds.
As he slid onto his back to check himself in the mirror, he wondered how this could have happened. He remembered finishing his second-shift quality control job at the candy factory and stopping off at Wonka’s bar and grill for a quick mug of Yuengling Chocolate Porter. It went down like syrup. Karma, that’s it. Hilda kept saying to me, “Stop eating all that stuff. One day you’ll turn into a Hershey bar.” Darn it, I hate it when she’s right. She’ll laugh, wag her finger, and utter a prolonged “Seeeeeeeeee.” At least she’s at work at the nutrition center, and the kids are in school. They have a Halloween party today, so maybe I can buy some time while they’re recovering from their candy coma. Gustav checked his almonds. Nicely proportioned, he thought. Poking from the perfectly formed slab of cocoa. This was a marriage made in heaven. He bit off a piece near where his left leg would be, chewed and pondered. Maybe I can go to sleep again, and all will return to normal. He lay on the pillow and closed his eyes, trying to banish thoughts of his deliciousness. Two hours later, he opened his eyes. He was now a bag of Jolly Rancher. Still a five pound confection, but this time fruit-flavored. He unwrapped a blueberry and considered his fate. He decided to return to the land of nod. A lawn mower disturbed his slumber. He sat up and checked the mirror. He was now a bundle of celery. He hopped downstairs to the kitchen, slathered himself with ranch dressing, and went to town. A car pulled into the driveway, the squeal of low brake linings announcing the return of his spouse. Gustav crawled upstairs on his remaining stalks as Hilda fumbled with her keys. He went to sleep and hoped for the best. A rough hand shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes. Hilda dressed as a witch, nose wart and all. “Hey, wake up. Are you going to sleep all day?” Gustav sat up, yawned and glanced at the mirror. A normal, paunchy, middle-aged man with salad dressing on his shirt. “Boy, what dreams I had. I must have really been tired.” Hilda started to change her clothes. She stopped and bent over the bed. “Is that a bite mark on your leg? What happened to you?” “You wouldn’t understand , dear. I guess I have to stop drinking after work.” Hi, Sam Redman here. As a resident of South Jersey, I encounter wildlife, criminals, junk food, and schizophrenic weather. This is a story of persistence, and the ultimate test of courage and fortitude: marriage.
My wife Lana, puts up with my misadventures, and I put up with a sister-in-law, the dreaded Angela, bent of deprogramming my spouse and freeing her from yours truly. I’ve encountered skunks, bats, possums, murderers, and Japanese tourists. Lana has been at my side throughout, warning me of my foolishness, and advising caution, and, ideally, psychiatric help. A wise man, and my mentor in life, Ferris Bueller once said “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” So, there I go, throwing caution to the wind, while my wife pulls me back from the precipice. Lana’s a good egg, rational, with a surprising sense of humor. I clearly outkicked my coverage. Even Angela has a few qualities worth appreciating. For example, she is faithful to her sister, and keeps mum, most of the time, about my oddities. That’s good, since I like to poke life’s beehive with a stick, preparing to run when the first drone flies out, angry, and looking for revenge. As they say, life is not a sprint, it’s a marathon. As I race toward the finish line, my Lana is there, ready to shout “Hey idiot, you ventured off the trail. I’m not picking you up in the woods.” So, I’ll persist in my adventures, knowing that my spouse will prevent me from going just a little too far. As the school secretary in Ferris Bueller said: Oh, he's very popular, Ed. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wasteoids, dweebies, dickheads, they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude. Actually, it’s becoming obvious that Lana is the one who’s righteous, putting up with a wayward soul. I guess I’m her ticket to Heaven. Maybe I can grab her coattails as she ascends. So, there I am, mowing God’s Little Quarter Acre and enjoying the warm, summer day. I see stone fragments spread across a few square feet of lawn. Odd, how’d that happen? I notice at the base of my sunroom, there’s a semi-circular hole, maybe four inches in radius. The stone façade has been chipped away to make this breech in the wall, hence, the scattered stones.
My Orkin service rep comes for his quarterly visit and I explain the gaping hole to him. I must admit it becomes larger in my imagination every time I stew over it. I have him expecting to see the Grand Canyon of New Jersey but he commiserates out of professional courtesy when he sees the opening. He schedules a wildlife guy, who comes out days later. I walk the specialist out to the scene of the crime, and, as we approach, a cute, little creature from Hades in digging away, expanding his intrusion into my life. It’s a darned chipmunk (Tamias striatus ). The Orkin man nods and smiles. Yes, there’s your culprit, fill the hole. Now, years ago, when battling mice invading my house, the Ace Hardware clerk recommended plugging the opening with steel wool. Mice can’t chew through the fibers, he advised. True enough, problem solved for the mice. I plug the current breech with steel wool and dirt. I await the humiliating defeat of my foe, but the next day, the steel wool and dirt are removed, laying a few inches from the hole. This is now war! I find my trusty bottle of dehydrated fox urine which I had bought years ago for a similar battle with wildlife. I stuff the gaping crevasse with more steel wool and dirt and sprinkle a liberal dose of fox number one, marking my territory. Next day: wool, dirt, and urine flakes scattered, leaving the hole unblemished. After a few more failed attempts, that little bugger must have been laughing his tail off, I scrap that plan. I find a few six-by-ten inch stone slabs left over from prior patio work and block the opening to the hole. I check every day. No return yet, though I swear I hear a snicker if I lean close enough. I’m declaring victory for now, but do have a plan C. The Chipmunk Outdoor Ultrasonic Repeller. Say hello to my little friend! It’s a device attached to a foot-tall plastic rod which you plunge into the ground near the enemy. The contraption is solar-powered and generates repulsive harmonics, guaranteed to send the creature away to less chaotic climes. Teenagers can surely attest to such an approach, as they have been repelling parents from their rooms for years with a similar method. So, I’ll be ready if Alvin decides to challenge me again, although I admit this is the nuclear option. He, she, or it must be warned: never tunnel into a man’s castle. During this time of isolation and reflection, I confess to two loves that have made this period worth surviving.
The first is the Baconator. A half-pound of beef surrounded by cheese, bacon, ketchup, and a worthy bun. Leaving my den of solitude, I wander into the fresh air and take my place in the exhaust-laden auto line snaking toward the drive thru. The plexiglass-covered menu displays my beloved in full color. I place my order with the teenager manning the speaker. It seems almost illegal, if not immoral, ordering my object of lust through the unsuspecting pre-adult. She’ll understand some day. I unwrap this gastronomic masterpiece, ignoring the warning of 960 fat-laden calories. The next ten minutes are a blur as I sit sated but confused. Why are my hands greasy? What happened? I don’t indulge in this often, common sense prevailing. But sometimes I need a fast reward to uplift the spirits, even if it weighs down the stomach. All I really know is, if they only serve one thing in heaven, it better be the Baconator. Now for more lasting love. My granddaughter Lydia, perfect as all grandchildren are. She hasn’t known me long enough to discover my faults, there is just this look of humor, affection, and security. Grandchildren are the do-over for grandparents. Sure, we loved our kids and enjoyed raising them. But they got to look under the hood and see misfiring cylinders, worn belts, and leaky radiator. My children love me, don’t misunderstand, but their wild-eyed innocence has given way to the realities of human interactions. Grandchildren are spared this. Paula and I communicate with my daughter Maureen, son-in-law Jason, and Lydia mostly through Facebook chats. These sessions are booster shots to us all. A confirmation that things will be better someday. We also get the occasional visit when all of us feel the need to be closer. We try to be safe and keep a reasonable distance, but the need to be proximate to each other overrides this, somewhat. Lydia’s smile and giddy laugh make this all worthwhile. One final note, I made sure my love for Lydia covered more words than my infatuation with the baconator. We walk around the block and putter in the yard: a sort of group house arrest minus the ankle-bracelets. Yet, we nod to strangers and exchange pleasantries from a distance. A little act which means a lot.
People were always kind, but maybe didn’t find the need to acknowledge those they didn’t know. Now it’s a way of coping. Something small we can all do to wave a middle finger at Covid. We still travel, though not as far. The shore, the parks, walking trails. We are rediscovering what we always had. Maybe when this is over, we will enjoy these hidden treasures as a peaceful interlude instead of escapism. Family visits at a distance are now done with the greatest of care and preparation. It has become a pleasant diversion instead of a social obligation. Who knew. Believe it or not, these will eventually become the good old days, to be remembered as a time of national and family unity. See that? I’m being a cock-eyed optimist. No little thing, but patriotic and even spiritual. Maybe we’ll reach the point where it takes a concerted effort to hate someone, instead of an ingrown tendency to form into like-minded groups. We probably aren’t at that kumbaya moment yet, but we’re getting there. Necessity is the mother of kindness. Since retiring five years ago, I spend my days writing, putzing around, and watching too much TV. This routine hasn’t changed much since the pandemic hit.
However, there’s a sadness which pervades even the simplest of tasks these days, knowing that a mysterious, deadly virus is impacting so many lives and changing our interactions with each other. Over a century ago, the Spanish flu ravished the planet and took away people of all ages. My mother’s family lost more than a dozen children, she and her two sisters the only survivors. This happened after a devastating world war. When the worst appeared over with the flu, people congregated without protection, kicking off a second wave of the disease. Then…we had the Great Depression. Yet, people kept up hope, got up every day and resumed their lives as best they could, and prevailed over long odds. Today, most people are coping under these stressful circumstances impacting their lives and those close to them. People who die from Covid do not just fall asleep and not wake up. They suffer unimaginable pain, usually away from loved ones, supported by nurses, who make extraordinary sacrifice, and risk their personal safety to provide what comfort they can. I’m sad for the dead and for those who survived them, myself included. Yet, I’m also sad for those whose skewed concept of liberty translates to ‘freedom at all costs.’ Janis Joplin sang ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.’ That seems to be the mantra for folks who have been fed a mixture of beliefs that prevent empathy for those afflicted. I’m sad that they feel this way, and I’m sad for those within breathing distance. Yet, I’m sure humans will cope in these trying times, and be here for another hundred years. Unfortunately, so will the next few generations of contrarians, willing to pursue their lifestyle to the detriment of everyone else. Let’s hope that man evolves enough to overcome this and live in the light of compassion with respect for those more vulnerable. |
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