Resolutions, And The New Year

OK, OK…. look, I was meant to get this out before… like maybe between Christmas and New Years.  Or at least, last week.  But… you know, I’ve been very, very busy. First, there was all that snow, and the drop in barometric pressure makes it difficult for me to focus on writing.  Like my sinuses felt like they were going to explode!  And then I got influenza and got a real good look at how all those people died in 1918… and I’m not talking about in the trenches of northwest France… but in the living rooms of Jersey City!  And then a particularly mean spirited patron of Ash Creek made off with my early drafts.  I think it was unintentional… but you never know.  Do you know how hard it is to start from scratch knowing that some of my most brilliant material will be lost to the ages? How would Mozart feel? Now you have an idea how I feel… totally lost, cast adrift. And I promise, never… never ever to be so careless. I’m starting this year right… I will not be careless and I intend to grow four inches taller! Actually, there are no mean patrons at Ash Creek, at least around me… no, it was a dog.  Yeah, it was my frolicking Bernese Mountain Dog, Claude who ate the drafts and that’s why I’m so late!  Yeah, Claude the fuckin’ Bernese Mountain Dog….  

Once again we begin a New Year, and many of us enter into “personal contracts” to do this or that in the New Year.  Typically these are goals pointed towards improvement… to lose weight, to obey the speed limit, to be more considerate of our co-workers, to never go into the express check-out lane with 12 items.  You get the idea.

There are parallels in Religious traditions as well.  Both Yom Kippur and the Lenten period are times when folks take an accounting of their lives and commit to self improvement.  This is enhanced by a fast, or making a sacrifice of some type.  As an example, for years I have eschewed consuming white zinfandel, both on Yom Kippur and during Lent.

It maybe a surprise to some that the tradition of making resolutions is not “new” nor is it a creature of American invention.  In 13th Century the Abbey on the Firth of Forth had a “Resolve Day” that was observed the day before the Summer Solstice.  Yaroslav the Wise, Grand Prince of Novgorod established a Day of No Vodka in 1021 (he was succeeded by Bryachislav of Polotsk two days later after Yaroslav was assassinated).  In 490 BC the City State of Athens created Run Naked Day (which no one observed except that dude who ran from Marathon to Athens and subsequently died from embarrassment… although Herotodus wrote that his death was due to exhaustion… Hah!). Ramses II in 1274 BC after winning the Battle of Kadesh ordered a What Can I Do For My Pharaoh Day.

So, you see that this resolution and commitment to improve thing goes back pretty far in history.  Here is a brief list of some famous personages and their recorded resolutions.

Alan Ladd: “I will grow four inches taller this year.”

Josef Stalin: “I will kill all senior officers Colonel grade and above this year.  And I will grow four inches taller.”

Voltaire:  “I will write to my Mother at least once a week.  And I will grow four inches taller.”

Stephen Douglas: “Ha-hoo! I will marry Mary Todd this year!  And I will grow four inches taller.”

Dudley Moore: “I promise to always put down the toilet seat, and not because I’m asked to!  And I will grow four inches taller.”

Herman Goering: “I will use less rouge and only wear mascara when I go to the State Opera House. And I will lose four inches.”

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Basketball, As They Know It

It’s not often that we are visited by life forms from another planet… or life forms that declare themselves as such, in a clear manner.  Unlike, for example, Roger Clemmons, Boy George and Sarah Palin, who have kept their true extraterrestrial identities hidden from view.

But such was the case when “representatives” from You-Wouldn’t-Recognize-The-Name-If-You-Heard-It Planet, in a Galaxy, also completely unknown to us, and a Star System that even George Lucas couldn’t cook up, visited earth on what might best be described as a reconnoitering patrol, and left behind indisputable evidence of their presence.

We can thank the efforts of Edward Cadbury-Howard of Oxford’s Department of Antiquities and Forensic Science Fiction for his work in what will go down as one of the great mysteries of this, or any, millennia.  And as is often the case, this story of success was a product of hard work and blind luck. 

First, the discovery of the object itself.  Cadbury-Howard, at the time, was a Visiting Lecturer in Archeology at Yale University when he happened upon a “slab” of considerable size and strange composition… bringing to mind the “monolith” from the film 2001 Space Odyssey, except that it wasn’t 2001, it was 2002, and it wasn’t the moon; but it was on a beach on Long Island Sound in Woodmont, CT where the slab was unearthed.

Call it blind luck when Cadbury-Howard, a few professors from the Department, and a group of graduate students stumbled upon the historic find by chance when they were actively engaged in digging a pit for a New England clam bake.

Little did the troop expect to come upon anything other than sand (although one of the grad students mentioned that Captain Kidd supposedly buried treasure in these parts).  After taking several hours to excavate the slab, the academics carefully wrapped it in a Land’s End “double king” beach blanket and carted it back to the University for a detailed analysis.

The lobsters, clams and sweet corn would have wait for another afternoon.

At Yale, specialists in metallurgy were summoned to work on the physical make-up of the slab, while the obscure etched symbols that totally covered every surface of the artifact, occupied Cadbury-Howard for eight years.  After the partial results of his hard work were published last September in the Royal Survey of Galactic Intelligence, the find was hailed as the 21st Century equivalent of the Rosetta Stone.

The Rosetta Stone unlocked the key to Egyptian Hieroglyphics, and paved the way to understanding ancient Egyptian History and Civilization.  The Woodmont Slab (as it is now known) unlocked the key to understanding communication from a world unknown.

{Let’s pause here.  I don’t know how much of this outer-space-Roswell-NM-“they’re-living-amongst-us” you are prepared to believe.  But let’s say for argument, that it’s true: They are here, or were here. So think about it… 300,000 years of human habitation (give or take), we have populated New Jersey and got as far as touching ground on the moon.  That “they” got to us, before we got to “them”… I mean… aren’t you just a little bit nervous about their abilities to open a can of whup ass on us?}

Working with a dedicated team of cryptographers on loan from the U.S. Navy and a group of Eagle Scouts from Temple Mishkan Israel, Cadbury-Howard made the break-thru discovery when he was finally able to convert a section of the bizarre symbols to: “These words are razors to my wounded heart.” [Titus Andronicus, Act I, Scene 1].  That led to deciphering the following: “Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” [Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2]

Further study revealed that the complete works of William Shakespeare were inscribed in the upper third of, what was determined as the front facing portion of the Woodmont Slab. Just below Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Cadbury-Howard found Douglas MacArthur’s Farewell Address to the Corps of Cadets at West Point:

“The long gray line has never failed us. Were you to do so, a million ghosts in olive drab, in brown khaki, in blue and gray, would rise from their white crosses, thundering those magic words: Duty, Honor, Country.

“This does not mean that you are warmongers. On the contrary, the soldier above all other people prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war. But always in our ears ring the ominous words of Plato, that wisest of all philosophers: ‘Only the dead have seen the end of war.’

“The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished – tone and tint. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen then, but with thirsty ear, for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll.

“In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country.

“Today marks my final roll call with you. But I want you to know that when I cross the river, my last conscious thoughts will be of the Corps, and the Corps, and the Corps.

“I bid you farewell.”

On the obverse side, the Woodmont Slab contained observations covering varied subject matter.

“The Blue Planet has many diverting activities meant to entertain their population.  These activities are organized in buildings where humans consume beverages that induce vocal encouragement to support contesting groups of humans wearing unique costumes.  This activity is referred to as Basketball.  The contestants wear head coverings, and perform on a smooth surface that is very cold by Blue Planet’s norm, most similar to – {Editor’s note: this has yet to be decoded}.  The humans carry specially fashioned sticks and pursue a tiny black disk.  The object of this pursuit is to put the black disk in an enclosure protected by a human in heavy armor.  Sometimes the humans hit each other with their sticks, and sometimes they take off their crude hand coverings so they can better hold each other’s garb or strike at each other’s faces.  This always brings an enthusiastic response from the humans in the building.  Although it seems to cause concern for the humans wearing striped shirts.”

{This is basketball? Do you think we really have to worry about these “visitors”?}

Also on this side of the Slab was a recipe for a Mojito: “Lightly muddle 2-4 sprigs of fresh mint, with a small amount of sugar with a little club soda until sugar dissolves and the mint can be smelled. Squeeze in the juice of one lime, add 3 ounces of dark rum, shake and top with ice and club soda. Garnish with a sprig of mint.”

{Dark rum? Dark rum! I’ve made dozens of Mojito’s and you use light rum! These guys have a lot to learn!}

Nearly half of the Woodmont Slab remains to be deciphered.  The work continues.  Questions as to why the beach in Woodmont was selected as a location for depositing the Slab is a source of great speculation.  What were they looking for?  Maybe Captain Kidd’s treasure? Maybe they found it!  Word spreads quick about stuff like that… even to planet watcha-callit. Cadbury-Howard has suggested that it was left as a “study aid” or “travel guide” for future visitors.  Perhaps these questions will be answered as more of the Slab is deciphered.  Maybe there are other slabs to be discovered? One thing is quite clear… in the words of Cadbury-Howard, “These chaps came quite a distance.  Maybe they just got lost in space!”

Interesting.  I am not ruling out that this is an elaborate hoax perpetrated by clever Yale students.  Still, the possibility exists that it’s the real thing and that we are, in all likelihood, not alone.  Sure they made a mistake identifying hockey as basketball. But what the hell… even they are entitled to a “mulligan”. Dark rum in a Mojito?  ??? !!! These guys maybe on to something!

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Proud of You All

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

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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