Proud of You All

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Jim

Well, it’s like this… I got to thinking about Mommie Soph.  That my memories were tweaked by sharing a standing rib-roast with Alan, Lynn, Andy, Sandy, Shaina and John on Christmas Eve may seem a bit out of place.  Christmas Eve?  Mommie Soph?

To me the Christmas connection was simply due to a part of her remarkable make-up.  I am sure that she did not encourage Mom and Dad to accept the “material” part of Christmas into our household.  But she didn’t stand in its way.  And she seemed perfectly good at moving to the rhythms of the Holiday Season.  And she certainly took to Dad’s commission to take charge of the Chipp tailor’s Christmas Eve party on Eld St. She would provision out the party with pizzas from Pepe’s, deli from M & T and pastries from Lucibello’s.  A case of Scotch whisky would also be on hand (an offering of the Season for Toplitsky the head of the Tailor’s Union in New Haven).  We benefited, too!  All the leftovers found there way to 25 Alston Avenue.

It didn’t stop there.  Mommie Soph looked at Santa Claus (or as she would say, “Sendy Close”) as an American folk hero.  What could be so bad?  And on Christmas morning when I opened my gifts, she was so happy for my joy.  I saw it in her eyes.

So you see… I have been thinking about her.

And I just want to say how proud I am of her descendants… the women in our family are so strong.  Sarah, Shaina and Sophie, you are named in her honor… but each of you carry part of Mommie Soph in you. Each of you do her honor.  Each of you is special.

So… on the next clear night, look to the heavens… there is a star there (just to the left of Orion’s Belt)… find it.  And think about a young girl who traveled from a far away place, by herself, across two countries, across the ocean… who worked as maid in her first home in New Haven, who married a kosher butcher, who brought two special girls into this world, who succeeded her husband (who died so young) as a butcher, who ran a successful business, helped bring the rest of her family to this country, who helped establish her sister’s husbands (and my Dad) in their businesses, who supported her daughter’s desire to attend college (and then law school) when the family counseled against it… a woman who never learned to read or write, and yet possessed a wisdom that few could match.  A woman who wanted happiness and prosperity for her family.

Find that star.  And when it winks at you… wink back.  Greatness flows thru you.
With love for you all… Jimmy

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A Private Space

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Jim

There are those days, those times, when we need a private space. Some place that provides us with a sense of security. The place could be mental or physical.

Even for a young prince of the household… which I certainly was, catered to by my Mom and Dad… Mommie Soph, Paul, Lynn and Bessie… there were some days lost in solitary play, other days camouflaged by worry and fear… and strangely, always a happy warmth.

Maybe it was because I rebelled against taking naps. Or maybe it was a laissez-faire approach that my parents took to a child coming nine years after Lynn. Regardless, there was a point when my childhood naps were not structured. They took place on an ad hoc basis when I tired from play… and I would simply drop down to catch a few winks where ever I happened to be. Under the dinning room table. Behind the wing chair in the living room. On an arbitrary stair leading up to the second floor.

Or, in my private space.

The banister on the staircase from the center hall curled to the right at the base and at its foot there was a small place that was perfect for a temporary perch… somewhat hidden from view and next to a radiator.

The radiator part proved important for naps during the winter months… it made the small space even cozier. I would pigeon hole myself there, knees drawn up, arms crossed to retain warmth… and I would drift into a nap, listening to the general murmur of the home, footsteps, activity in the kitchen and muffled voices.

If our Bedlington Terriers took notice of me, I can’t say.

I can remember liking that I was out of the regular trade route of the house, that my presence, while obvious to me, could be misplaced… that I could be “lost”, yet still there… and found (if necessary).

The decades have passed. I am grateful that I have my “blue den-chair”, worn down to comfortable perfection. Great for slouching, hanging my legs over the arms and good for promoting poor posture. Ideal for reading, watching the tube, sipping a martini or snoozing.

And occasionally when the need for a nap sneaks up on me, my mind takes me to that private space on a winter’s morning, next to a gurgling radiator. Even in memory it is a place of safety.

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Not Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Posted on January 17, 2011 by Jim

“I’m Hung-over. I need food.”

“Me, too… well, not hung-over. What looks good?”

“I dunno… let’s see.  The lumberjack omelet?  3 eggs, sausage, bacon, ham, monterey jack cheese.  Anything missing?”

“That looks good.”

“Hey.  Do you go to those Chamber of Commerce deals?”

“Those networking things?  Bunch of mortgage lenders, media types, software designers and one person doing origami wedding invitations?  Oh yes, coffee would be great thank you.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.  Yes, I’ll have coffee, too. Have you ever done something… as an adult, that is… you know, undesirable behavior?”

“Undesirable?  You mean like going-to-jail undesirable? Once I went into the under-ten-items check out line with twelve items.  Later I developed headaches and deep abdominal pains.  I haven’t made that mistake since.  But they don’t put you in jail for abusing the express check out line.  Why, did you use improper language at the Chamber gathering?”

“No. I’m serious.  Something that you really regret… but like, it wasn’t your fault. Really.” 

“Where are we going with this?”

“Well… you know the Chamber of Commerce thing?  Well… I have a friend…”

“Stop right there!  A friend?”

“Yeah… yes… Pat. Someone you don’t know.  Yes, thank you.  I’ll have the western omelet. Whole wheat toast.”

“Pat?  I’ll have the eggs benedict and please ask the kitchen not to overcook the eggs.  The last time we were here they came out like rocks.  And more coffee, please.  Pat?”

“Yeah, Pat.  Pat went to a Chamber of Commerce open house at the Golden Nookie… that dim sum place that just opened.  And this is crazy… I mean real crazy.  But Pat has a couple of Planter’s Punches… you know, tall drinks served with a tiny parasol, an orange slice, a pineapple spear and cherry.  Maybe not the regular drink choice… but it was what they were serving.”

“Pat?”

“Yeah… you know, had a tough day at work, one Punch follows another… a bite of a dumpling, a little Planter’s and things look good, right?”

“Pat?”

“Yeah… well you know, it’s the Chamber of Commerce, right?  Boring as hell, even with dumplings from the Golden Nookie, and you’re knocking down rums… you glance across the room and someone catches your eye.  So Pat goes over.  You know… light conversation.”

“This hollandaise is perfect.”

“And one thing leads to another… you know, Pat thinks this person is well turned out. Lookin’ good, smellin’ good.  Sure some of it is the Planter’s Punch. So look, I’m not passing judgment on what people do in the bedroom.  That’s their business, right?  Who should dictate what’s acceptable? Just because the Bible says it’s an abomination…”

“The Bible?”

“That’s my point.  Why should the Bible be the authority on what’s right or wrong between consenting adults?”

“Does this story involve whipped cream, scented oils or leather masks with brass zippers?”

“Or what gives the Supreme Court the right…”

“The Supreme Court?  How did we get from the Chamber of Commerce to the Supreme Court?”

“So Pat ends up taking this person back home.  And you know what happens next.  A couple of nightcaps… not that they were needed… sooner or later, in the bedroom, no lights, the room spinning, in the sack…something completely unplanned…”

“This is an abomination?  I think this happens thousands of times every night in America, and even in countries where there is no Chamber of Commerce.”

“No.  I’m fine on coffee, thanks.  It’s not just sex… but the type of sex…”

“Uh-oh… was a goat involved?”

“So… look, Pat is there, right?  Ten sheets to the wind, in a dark room, nearly passed out, flat out on the bed, and oral sex…”

“A goat gave you head?  Yes, the Bible frowns on that… and so would your mother”.

“Not a goat.  Just a person of unexpected gender.”

“I see.  The Bible frowns on that, too.  If you pick up the check, I won’t post this on Face Book.”

“Thanks. Check, please.”

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The Secret is Out!!

Posted on December 7, 2010 by Jim

Sandy and I have, what you might call, pet backgrounds.  Specifically, dogs.  I love dogs probably more than Sandy.  I mean… more than Sandy loves dogs. *cheesh* Talk about your freudian slips!

We’ve talked about different breeds.  I am committed to Keeshonden.  Sandy loves Lhasas.  This difference in canine preferences had the look of an evil cloud in our lives.  But a dog, either a Lhasa or a Keeshond, at this time just isn’t in the cards.  And, after all, we do get to visit with our four-legged “grandchildren”.  Still… there was something missing.

We finally agreed that we wanted something more than a goldfish; but less than a dog.

In August I was browsing the pages of The New Yorker when an advert caught my eye… one of those tiny little ads with just a small graphic, a name, and address and a phone number:  The Litchfield Dinosaur Egg Farm, Goshen, CT.

Cool.  Labor Day weekend we went up to Goshen to take in their Fair, stopped into Nodine’s Smokehouse and laid in a supply of bangers, and then went over to check out the “egg farm.”  Let me assure you… not your typical egg farm!!

First, we had to fill out a ten page questionnaire.  I think it’s easier to gain an audience with the Pope!  Why we passed muster when I saw that four other couples were turned away, I can’t tell you.  But we happily put on hospital scrubs and were escorted into the nursery.  State of the art as they say…

At this point I had a distinct advantage.  Sandy may know dogs… but she knows gornisht about dinosaurs.  I saw a clutch of Triceratops eggs.  My favorite dinosaur!!  But talk about impractical!  If a Golden Retriever (Sandy’s other preference) would be too big for our home… what about an adult Triceratops, the size of a school bus!  Keeping it fed?  Cleaning up after it did a number 2?

Sure I wanted one!  Who wouldn’t?  I could see myself training it to take out the State Police radar traps on I-84!  But let’s get real.

After an hour plus of looking, we finally selected a Compsognathus, and brought our egg home with incubating soil that was engineered to replicate the conditions of the Late Jurassic Period.  The soil cost us more than the egg!

We chose a Compsognathus because adults get no bigger than a wild turkey, their diet consists of small rodents, lizards or tuberous plants, they have a cute coat that looks like feathered scales, they don’t make a lot of noise… AND, this cinched the deal, they are easy to house break.  This latter detail, Sandy pointed out, put the Compsognathus ahead of me!

OK, OK… forgive me if I can’t contain my excitement… but on Sunday, November 8, after months of incubation at the farm and our home, Sheila cracked thru her thick shell!

The secret is out!  Sandy and I are the proud parents of a precious Compy girl!

The folks at the egg farm tell me that I can begin leash training Sheila after the New Year.

Oh my… they do grow up fast don’t they?  Our Vet said that our girl should top out at 6 lbs and a little less than 3 feet long.  Much of her length is contained in her tail which we have been told will play havoc with anything on our coffee table in the den.

For now she is content sleeping and scarfing down bangers from Nodine’s.  But come the Spring a rodent won’t be safe on Woodbury Hill!

Something else to report… the folks over at the farm warned us that one is never enough!  Can you imagine it?  Next year Jimbo happily strolling the grounds as his pack of Compy’s flushes out small prey, and, at his direction, tear into the calves of folks who hog the guest parking spots at Woodbury Hill.  Oh, YES!!

To be continued…

Compsognathus_BW

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