The Shores of Avalon

Posted on January 16, 2008 by Jim

My Mother would tell me that the best month to be at the Jersey shore was September.  You have to understand… my Mother didn’t favour crowds.  After Labor Day, the “summer folks” (the rentals) departed the beach communities and retreated to Wilmington, Philadelphia and points beyond… leaving the beaches and still warm ocean to the owners and the year ’round residents.

Mom would say to me, “My Papa, your ‘Poppy’ who passed before you were three, said that the sun was richer in September… that the sky shed the white of humid July and August days and turned a breathtaking blue.  A blue that you could only equal on a crisp clear February morning.”

I think of what I miss.  And what you miss falls into two trays.  That which you know and remember… like the pumpkin pie that your Mother made on Thanksgiving.  And that which you don’t know — or that you don’t know enough… like your Poppy who passed before you were three.

Poppy and Nana were special folks… and they were a bit unique in living in Connecticut; but owning a cottage in the lower Jersey shore.  “Your Poppy loved the ocean,” I was told.  “Long Island Sound didn’t ‘do the job’… he needed a further horizon… and waves.  But it was the far horizon, no hint of land.  Something that would give space to his ideas… to his dreams.”

I come now.  Dunes protecting the beach just as I remember.  The grains of sand and strands of sea grass holding memories of warm sun, cold drinks and the sound of surf breaking on to the shore.

I think of those who are no longer here… folks who used to be here.  Here to see the moving water and the distant horizon.  But maybe they are still here… in this piece of sea glass, or this sea shell shard?

That’s the beauty of the beach.  The beauty of the ocean.  It holds memory, yet at every instant its appearance changes.  Happiness and tears come and go… but still, its beauty remains.  That’s its treasure.  “Its beauty remains.”  Those aren’t my words… those are the words of my Poppy.  My Poppy in Avalon.

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Thank God for Jimmy Hoffa

Posted on January 12, 2008 by Jim

It’s 6:30AM, a biting cold in the air, cars and and vans belching exhaust from their tailpipes, vehicles kept idling while their inhabitants rush in to get a hot cup of “joe”.  There are a dozen places like this on my way into work… Dunkin Donuts on Route 6 in Southbury, the Doughnut Inn on Route 25 in Monroe, the convenience store opposite Bogey’s in Westport, McDonald’s on the Post Rd in Norwalk, Mr. Bagel further down the Post Rd… and finally my destination: the Exxon Mini-Mart at the intersection of Route 1 and Business Route 7.

It’s a rare day when I’m not in the Mini-Mart to get my medium black and pay my respects to Maheesh, the Maitre D’ of the morning shift.  And the folks who are there grabbing their coffee, picking up a LOTTO and a pack of smokes have the look of regulars… the landscaping crews, the HVAC guys, the Cablevision/Optimum guys, cops… it’s mostly a male crowd; but not exclusively. 

And for the faces that don’t have the ring of familiarity, if they greet, and/or are greeted by Maheesh, they are strangers no more… they are part of the regulars.  Most of the talk takes place between Maheesh and the individual patrons; but on occasion folks make small talk to each other while waiting on line to pay for their morning fix.

“You’re fast!  You got right to your coffee.”

I barely noticed the comment… or who said it.  Why the heck is he talking to me?  I make little eye contact with folks in the morning.  There’s lotsa reasons for this (we’ll save it for another time).

“Mighty cold today!”

“Sure is.”  I shouldn’t have said anything… it left the possibility that I was going to engage in chit-chat.  I didn’t hear Maheesh greet this guy, nor did he say, “Whassup Maheesh?” Or something like that.  Regulars, I’ll say a word or two to.  This guy?  He could be a serial killer.

“Thank God for Jimmy Hoffa”

I nearly spilled my coffee putting the cover and the “heat shield” on the cup.  I’m paying and getting out of there as fast as I can.  I take a glance at the guy.  Slight of build, a bit unshaven, hair tosseled but not messy… and a smile on his face.  The smile was warm; but I haven’t changed my mind… this guy is definitely a “looney tune”.

Jimmy Hoffa?  He didn’t look old enough to know about Jimmy Hoffa… but then again maybe he was thinking of his son, James P. Hoffa who is the present head of the Teamsters.

Look, maybe the guy was a student of history?  Or, just Pro-Labor?  I don’t know… maybe I’m numb to aspects of current affairs; but I don’t have the sense of Labor tensions that seemed to be more routine when I was growing up… transit strikes, garbage strikes, teacher strikes in NYC.  Still… Jimmy Hoffa?

I start to cycle thru ideas… “how did we get here?”  First… the coffee comment, next the cold weather… and then we finally we get to Jimmy Hoffa.  Maybe I missed the connection?  Let’s see… Hoffa had a cup of coffee, it was cold outside, then he was murdered and dumped into the construction site of a mall in Bloomfield, Michigan?

No.  That’s not it.  Hoffa disappeared in July. 

OK.  Coincidence?  Maybe there is another Jimmy Hoffa… other than his son.  Maybe a religious guy or hotshot football prospect that will take the Jets back to the Super Bowl?  Uh, oh.  I glance to see if he’s wearing anything green.  Well… it’s too early for the NFL Draft… I put that small portion of Jets-phobia to the side.

No.  He has to be thinking of the classic Jimmy Hoffa… the Union Racketeer who disappeared in 1975.  Call me insensitive; but I can’t think of why we are thanking God for Jimmy Hoffa.  Well, look… maybe Jimmy donated some of the money he embezzled from the Teamsters to an orphanage or something, and this guy is an orphan.  That’s it!  Hoffa created this huge trust fund with the money he stole to help out orphans… Jimmy, age 7, had lost his coal miner father to cancer… and although he broke the law, he was trying to do the right thing.  A Labor Robin Hood.  Thank God for Jimmy Hoffa!

Possible.  But unlikely.  Still… this cuckoo-charlie might think that’s the case, and that’s why he is sipping coffee and thanking God for Jimmy Hoffa.

Maybe it’s the coffee!  Maybe if it wasn’t for Jimmy Hoffa and the Teamsters we wouldn’t have coffee!

Bingo!  We get coffee from overseas, right?  You bet!  We talk about the “coffee republics” all the time!  Are we talking about South Carolina? No!  Those beans have to be shipped into us… the Longshoremen have to bring them in, and then the Teamsters have to move them around the country… See what I mean?  Maybe if we don’t have Jimmy Hoffa, we don’t have coffee!

Yeah… thank God for Jimmy Hoffa!

I nod to the guy… pay Maheesh and step outside into the cold air, sip my coffee… Thank God for Jimmy Hoffa!

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Odes, Haikus & other Literary Forms

Posted on January 12, 2008 by Jim

They enjoyed their time together in the manner in which old friends can do.  They had been friends since grade school.  They could talk of their childhood, of their parents, of their respective loves in their life… or of political and social issues.  Basically they could talk about anything.  And the ease of their conversation translated perfectly to emails and quick turn around responses… something that would usually happen at the start of the day.                        

“Here is something to get you started… I know you will like it!

Balls of tasty chopped meat

Smothered in tomato sauce, oh what a treat!

Add some melted mozz, isn’t that neat?

Placed in bread of hero, can’t be beat!”

“Really impressive.  Don’t give up your day job.”

“You’re jealous because you can’t write poetry.”

“Poetry?  Is that what you call that?”

“Yes… It’s my ‘Ode to a Meatball Parm Hero.'”

“Ode?”

“Yes, Ode.  It’s a form of poetry.  I write Odes all the time.  It’s a creative outlet that is necessary for my well being.”

“Does that mean that you have given up finger painting?”

“I gave that up a while ago… just after I stopped making paper snow flakes.”

“Did Sandy take away your big boy scissors?”

“Yes.  I cut her favorite tablecloth.  It was a mistake.  Then I got nervous and spilled my chocolate milk in the floor vent.  It was an accident.  Never mind.  Here is something else for you:

A laser shot straight and true

Dimpled white ball tearing into the blue

Landing near the pin and sticking like glue

Bringing joy and happiness to the Country Club Jew”

“You drink chocolate milk?  Your first Ode was better.”

“It was really bourbon.  But bourbon and paper snow flakes would probably stretch the bounds of credulity.  The name of the poem is ‘Ode to the Links.’  You prefer the first one because you like a good sandwich, or perhaps it’s simply a reflection of your root Anti-Semitism.”

“A meatball parm is a good sandwich.  A Reuben is better.  Does thinking that Joe Lieberman is a putz make me Anti-Semitic?”

“You bring up an interesting point.  Try this on for size.  You know the sandwich, now experience Reuben: the Haiku!

Piled high lean corned beef

Swiss, ‘kraut and Russian Dressing

Inside heaven’s gates

I think this was one of my best poems.  It really captures the form… concise, crisp and excellent imagery.  I submitted it to the New Yorker; but it was rejected.  I think that Lieberman is a putz, too.  A putz and a sanctimonious wind bag.”

“Haiku?  A Reuben Haiku?!  And Ode to a Meatball Parm?  This is culinary pornography.  I have to begin my work day… I am glad that you have time to indulge in your poetic fantasies; but I have to make a living.  Lieberman is a dangerous wind bag.”

“Does that mean that you don’t have time for my ‘Sonnet to George Bush’s Last Day in Office?'”

“Sonnet?  You really wrote a Sonnet?”

“No.  Not exactly.  I haven’t mastered that literary form yet.  I working on it though.  I am reviewing what Iambic Pentameter means… I’ll do some training, then watch out!”

“I don’t think that Shakespeare has to worry.”

“I think that Shakespeare gave up worrying 400 years ago.  Go to work.  You can repay me for giving your life a literary uplift by buying dinner and drinks the next time.”

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Thirsty No Longer

Posted on December 31, 2007 by Jim

Shared experiences can create bonds stronger than the cable on a bridge.  Family ties are a natural… so too, childhood friends.

But it can happen in the jury room or the fox hole, too… times that have a clear time line with a beginning and an end.  Brief; but because of the intensity of the shared experience, the connections can be as solid as those that spread to a lifetime.

Whether it is over an extended period, or the intensity of a brief intersection… it is sharing a common path that adds definition to the sense of camaraderie and kinship.  And there is nothing that can surpass the rich depth of shared memory.

Such was the case when I caught bits and pieces of chatter coming from the high top near my station at the Ash Creek Saloon.  I am there from time to time, and while I keep to myself, I have observed a thing or two over the years that have caught my attention.

Maybe it was the laughter that first stopped me in mid-flight to a sip of Wild Turkey Rye.  Not a rude or obnoxious laugh that intrudes into your space.  But laughter that was genuine and spoke to the enjoyment of living.

Yes, I stopped what I was doing to notice four buddies huddled around a table, beer bottles and glasses scattered about, along with small plates of buffalo wings (both eaten and uneaten).  They were of my age, or so I judged.  Maybe that’s why I paid closer attention.  Did they bear the same stitches and scars of age that I wore?  I thought so.  I wouldn’t have explain to them the Colts’ overtime victory against the Giants in 1958.  These guys could remember the terror of Nikita Khrushchev beating his shoe in the U.N. General Assembly.  “We will bury you.”

These fellahs were not my school friends, not family.  Nor did we share time in military service… but just being of the same age meant that we shared a certain common experience.  Not that they noticed me; but I raised my glass in acknowledgement of their presence… of their living to enjoy the same sunny day that I did.

And then their words.  Or, at least the words that I caught.

“Half and half!”

“Yes!  Yes, yes.  What a quality drink.  The first time I had that was at your place.  No, no… it was at Richie’s.”

“Yeah, Richie’s.  For sure.  Half chocolate milk and half white birch beer.  What a combo!  Better than an egg cream.”

“Better by miles.”

OK… I thought that “half and half” was half stout and half lager…

“Man, did that sound vile… but shit, you know it was good.  It was better than good.  It was great!  I haven’t had one in years.”

“My favorite was a razz-lime.  On a hot day…”

“Nice.”

Yeah, nice.  If it was my conversation I would have added a black cow.  Root beer and vanilla ice cream.  My Brother Paul introduced me to the exceptional quality of that concoction.  But it wasn’t my conversation.

“Two cents plain.  That’s what my parents called it.  Plain seltzer.  Unadorned.  Nothing killed a thirst quicker.”

“Richie told us that.”

“True, true.”

“Here’s to Richie… he’s thirsty no longer.”

“To Richie.”

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