It occurred to me the other day as I was slipping on my pants that here is a not-subtle sign that I am approaching my dotage --- suspenders! Somehow as a man ages, some of that flesh that made his derriere look like buns of steel has mysteriously slipped around to his lower abdomen. This new anatomical configuration has therefore flattened out said derriere to where it can no longer keep a belt from slipping down and exposing what is endearingly called “plumber’s crack”.
I am not talking about those so called patterned “braces” which are shown in men’s fashion spreads and are color co-ordinated with a striped shirt, a fanciful tie, and a subtly pinstriped pair of trousers. No siree! What’s needed here is a two inch wide industrial strength Dickey brand set of suspenders with gorilla grip clasps that will not unclasp under the most strenuous activity. Fashion must give way to safety.
So farewell to the cool low slung hip huggers. Hello to safety, never mind fashion. Better that than em-bare-ass-ment!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
"STICKS" - A Cautionary Tale
Some years back I saw two young boys playing in the yard across the street. They had what looked like branches from a tree. They thrust the “STICKS” at each other in mock sword play, waved them in the air like torches, put them on the ground and jumped over them, and swirled them around like flag poles. There seemed to be no end of what these sticks could be in their imagination.
A few years later I saw these same two boys, now in shiny blue uniforms with yellow numbers and names emblazoned on them. They each carried “STICKS” about four feet long, painted the same colors as their uniform. An enormous SUV driven by a harassed looking woman pulled up and the two boys jumped in to the cheers of a mass of similarly dressed boys inside.
In the newspaper later that week I read that the local “STICKS” team was heading to the East Coast to compete for the national championship and that the winner of that competition might be selected to go on to a newly formed Olympic sports association. And sure enough the team won the national “STICKS” tournament and went on to win a gold medal in the next Olympic year.
But with victory came scandal. It was alleged that the wood from which the “STICKS” were made had been infused with a compound that made them unbreakable, that the players had been treated with human growth hormone, and that the officers of the “STICKS” association had absconded with the funds. Thus discredited the team members were stripped of their medals and the “STICKS” association dissolved.
The other day I watched two young boys kicking a “CAN” around ……….
A few years later I saw these same two boys, now in shiny blue uniforms with yellow numbers and names emblazoned on them. They each carried “STICKS” about four feet long, painted the same colors as their uniform. An enormous SUV driven by a harassed looking woman pulled up and the two boys jumped in to the cheers of a mass of similarly dressed boys inside.
In the newspaper later that week I read that the local “STICKS” team was heading to the East Coast to compete for the national championship and that the winner of that competition might be selected to go on to a newly formed Olympic sports association. And sure enough the team won the national “STICKS” tournament and went on to win a gold medal in the next Olympic year.
But with victory came scandal. It was alleged that the wood from which the “STICKS” were made had been infused with a compound that made them unbreakable, that the players had been treated with human growth hormone, and that the officers of the “STICKS” association had absconded with the funds. Thus discredited the team members were stripped of their medals and the “STICKS” association dissolved.
The other day I watched two young boys kicking a “CAN” around ……….
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Another of life's milestones
Last week Robyn, my granddaughter, married Kurt in a civil ceremony in the county courthouse just a few blocks away. They had planned to get married in April but circumstances intervened and they decided to marry earlier. No, it was not a shotgun wedding. We will have the reception later with lots of fun and food.
Whether or not there is a great grandchild in the future remains to be seen. But if it should happen, it would be another happy mile stone in my life.
Whether or not there is a great grandchild in the future remains to be seen. But if it should happen, it would be another happy mile stone in my life.
Terminal Island
The island is still there under the six lane elevated bridge that connects Long Beach to San Pedro. It is a narrow strip of land which is now a forest of warehouses and industrial buildings. There is little to identify it as the summer place it used to be for my family in the early thirties. The camping site that was in the seaward side of the island is gone and probably no one remembers it but me.
I looked forward to each summer when in early August we would load up the car with provisions and camping gear and Dad would drive us to Terminal Island. He would set up two tents, one for sleeping and the other for storage and cooking. Then he would leave us, me, my Mom, and Nana, my grandmother, and return to the city where he worked as a cook. He would return on Saturday and go back to work late Sunday evening.
First thing in the morning just as the sun was rising, I would take my surf fishing pole along with the bait I had bought the night before and head for the water’s edge. I would attach two baited hooks to long leader and a two ounce sinker and cast out into surf that rippled onto the shore. I would dig a hole in the sand to hold the pole and settle down to wait for some hapless hungry fish to strike my bait. More often than not I would return to the camp site empty handed.
Later in the day I would join the other kids in the camp to play in the surf or hunt for shells or other treasures washed in by the high tide. All of that was fun but it was later after supper when the magic started. The campers would drag out their chairs and encircle the communal fire pit to gossip and sing or just enjoy the starlit sky and the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. Us kids would play tag in the dark beyond fire light and maybe toast some marshmallows as the fire logs turned to embers. When the fire finally died we would head back to our tent to sleep and wait for a new dawn.
I looked forward to each summer when in early August we would load up the car with provisions and camping gear and Dad would drive us to Terminal Island. He would set up two tents, one for sleeping and the other for storage and cooking. Then he would leave us, me, my Mom, and Nana, my grandmother, and return to the city where he worked as a cook. He would return on Saturday and go back to work late Sunday evening.
First thing in the morning just as the sun was rising, I would take my surf fishing pole along with the bait I had bought the night before and head for the water’s edge. I would attach two baited hooks to long leader and a two ounce sinker and cast out into surf that rippled onto the shore. I would dig a hole in the sand to hold the pole and settle down to wait for some hapless hungry fish to strike my bait. More often than not I would return to the camp site empty handed.
Later in the day I would join the other kids in the camp to play in the surf or hunt for shells or other treasures washed in by the high tide. All of that was fun but it was later after supper when the magic started. The campers would drag out their chairs and encircle the communal fire pit to gossip and sing or just enjoy the starlit sky and the sound of the waves breaking on the beach. Us kids would play tag in the dark beyond fire light and maybe toast some marshmallows as the fire logs turned to embers. When the fire finally died we would head back to our tent to sleep and wait for a new dawn.
Apricots
It's summer and as I make my way through the aisles of produce section of the super market the bins are full to the brim with all manner of seasonal fruit, peaches, nectarines, plumes, grapes, and, of course, orange gold apricots. Inevitably I am taken back seventy or more years to when I lived on Mentoria Court in Pasadena. Summer meant raiding the apricot trees that were heavy with fruit in the abandoned lot that was on the corner. It was a challenge as to who would get the best fruit --- us or the birds.
By us I mean, Ethyl, Billy, and I who were the only kids who lived on this dead end street with four houses on each side. Ethyl and Billy were older than me. I was eight or nine and lived in the second house from the corner with my mom, dad, and Nana, my maternal grandmother. It was a rather ordinary ranch style house just like the others on the street except for the house next door where Mrs. Le Ritz lived. Her house was a white gingerbread house surrounded by glorious rose bushes and an impossibly lush green lawn. Mrs. Le Ritz was a widow lady who kept much to herself and tended to her roses. She had few visitors. From time to time someone would come and pick her up. I think it was her daughter. Mrs. Le Ritz looked every inch the picture of a lady in a floral flock and big hat as she walked down the drive and got in the car. In the few years we lived there we never go to know Mrs. Le Ritz well except to say “Good Morning” occasionally. It was just that we had nothing in common.
Ethyl was Ethyl Jacobs and her father was a junkman who roamed the streets with decrepit truck and picked up scrap metal and anything else people might discard that might be salvageable. They lived directly across the street and their backyard was a treasure trove . It was great fun and adventure to scrounge through the latest acquisitions and wonder where they had come from.
Billy Williams lived at the end of the street. Billy’s father had a good job and their house was well kept and had huge front porch where we used to hang out. Billy had a marvelous talent. He had a knack for building model airplanes. His father built him a little shack where he could keep his supplies and build his models. I spent many hours there with Billy watching and wishing I had his skill.
But let’s get back to the apricots. The vacant lot did have a house that had been boarded up for years but we never got up enough nerve to try to explore the empty house. It was enough that there were four huge apricot trees that bore golden fruit faithfully each year. I have not been back there for many years. I doubt that the street even exists any longer. It is probably buried under a new freeway. But never mind, the memories are freshened each year as I stop in the produce section and fill a bag with apricot memories.
By us I mean, Ethyl, Billy, and I who were the only kids who lived on this dead end street with four houses on each side. Ethyl and Billy were older than me. I was eight or nine and lived in the second house from the corner with my mom, dad, and Nana, my maternal grandmother. It was a rather ordinary ranch style house just like the others on the street except for the house next door where Mrs. Le Ritz lived. Her house was a white gingerbread house surrounded by glorious rose bushes and an impossibly lush green lawn. Mrs. Le Ritz was a widow lady who kept much to herself and tended to her roses. She had few visitors. From time to time someone would come and pick her up. I think it was her daughter. Mrs. Le Ritz looked every inch the picture of a lady in a floral flock and big hat as she walked down the drive and got in the car. In the few years we lived there we never go to know Mrs. Le Ritz well except to say “Good Morning” occasionally. It was just that we had nothing in common.
Ethyl was Ethyl Jacobs and her father was a junkman who roamed the streets with decrepit truck and picked up scrap metal and anything else people might discard that might be salvageable. They lived directly across the street and their backyard was a treasure trove . It was great fun and adventure to scrounge through the latest acquisitions and wonder where they had come from.
Billy Williams lived at the end of the street. Billy’s father had a good job and their house was well kept and had huge front porch where we used to hang out. Billy had a marvelous talent. He had a knack for building model airplanes. His father built him a little shack where he could keep his supplies and build his models. I spent many hours there with Billy watching and wishing I had his skill.
But let’s get back to the apricots. The vacant lot did have a house that had been boarded up for years but we never got up enough nerve to try to explore the empty house. It was enough that there were four huge apricot trees that bore golden fruit faithfully each year. I have not been back there for many years. I doubt that the street even exists any longer. It is probably buried under a new freeway. But never mind, the memories are freshened each year as I stop in the produce section and fill a bag with apricot memories.
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