Carmen Miranda Orchids. By Julie Seyler.
What do you get when you combine an orchid, Julie’s incredible eye, and a love of dancing (with a fruit hat on)? Carmen Miranda, of course.
The Saturday Blog: Dancing
13 Saturday Jul 2013
Posted in Art
Author Archives: Lois DeSocio
A “Bennie” Now Comes, Instead of Goes, Home
12 Friday Jul 2013
Posted in Confessional
The Bennies are here. Photocollage by Julie Seyler.
My wife and I are about to move into our house at the Jersey Shore on a full-time basis. We bought it 23 years ago, and during that time we’ve expanded it from a single story unheated shack with two bedrooms and one bath to a year-round house with three floors, five bedrooms, four baths, and a garage apartment in back. We like our space.
Despite our ever-expanding beach house, however, we’ve only spent weekends and summer vacation weeks there. Our primary home for 28 years has been in Nutley. So, in other words, until now, we’ve been what the locals call bennies – tourists who visit the area only during the summer season.
I thought benny (or bennie), referred to the fact that seasonal visitors are only interested in taking advantage of the “benefits” of the shore during the warm weather. Others say it’s short for “benefactors” because these perennial tourists collectively spend so much money in Jersey Shore towns. Another theory, according to Wikipedia, is it’s an acronym derived from the fact that most such tourists come from in or around Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York.
Since Nutley is a suburb of Newark, that makes us bennies.
We haven’t even moved in yet, but lately we’ve been spending a lot more time in Bradley Beach, and suddenly I realize why locals historically hate the bennies. For instance, in April and May there was always a parking space in the street right in front of my house. If I had to make a quick run to the supermarket, I could hop in my car, and make the mile and a half drive in three minutes flat. No problem.
No more. After the unofficial kickoff of the season on Memorial Day, weekend parking spaces on the street (at least on sunny weekends) are nonexistent. That’s really not a problem for us, because we’re fortunate enough to have a driveway. But pulling out is a total crapshoot. Because the bennies‘ cars are parked bumper to bumper without a millimeter to spare right up to both edges of our driveway, it’s impossible to see oncoming traffic as you pull out. To get any sight line down the street, you have to extend the front (or back) of your car past the parked cars, directly into the lane of travel.
Twice last weekend, as I inched out of my driveway, I had to jam on the brakes to avoid being slammed by benny-full vehicles barreling down the street without a clue or a care in the world. They didn’t even beep – just swerved and kept rolling. Both had New York plates.
At the supermarket on Saturday morning I was sixth in line at the checkout counter, and each customer ahead of me wore a Yankees cap, or a sleeveless t-shirt with loud boxer bathing trunks, or sneakers with black socks, or all of the above. Their carts were full of chips, cold cuts, salsa, and soda. Bennies, all.
We went out to dinner, and had to wait an hour for a table at a restaurant that in May had been begging for our business. A stop at the ice cream shop for dessert afterwards featured squalling babies, squabbling siblings, and their weary sunburned parents hoping to anesthetize the kids with fat and sugar for the long ride home. Bennies, again.
There’s no doubt that the Jersey Shore is a great place to be during the summer. But during the off season, when it’s unclogged by bennies, it’s a virtual paradise. Once you spend even a portion of the off-season at the Jersey Shore, you get spoiled by the convenience of unfettered access to parking, shopping, restaurants, movies, and more.
When I was a benny, I scoffed at the locals’ proprietary attitude toward their parking spaces, and dismissed as selfish their sense of entitlement to immediate service at restaurants and retail stores. Come on, I thought – people like us are pumping cash by the millions into your local economy! You should be thankful, not scornful, that I’m here at all.
Now that I’m becoming a local, however, I’ve wised up. The bennies are only fair-weather friends, here to enjoy the amenities while the sun shines. But the locals – now me – are here for the long haul, through the rain, wind, snow, ice and whatever other nasty weather nature may throw our way during the long off-season. For that, I’m entitled to my own parking space.
But only until the end of May.
Me, My Bike, and a Pedal from Park to Park
10 Wednesday Jul 2013
BY VICKI LABELLA
We’ll be “hitting the road” across America, with our new contributor, Vicki LaBella. She’s a 56-year-old avid cyclist from the Jersey Shore, who has racked up thousands of miles on two wheels. She’s conquered a coast to coast, has traversed the ups and downs of hills, highways, the back roads of America, and village streets in Europe. This year, it’s a two-month trek to our nation’s national parks.
I’m fortunate to be working again with Cycle America, a supported cycling concern, this summer as we prepare to embark on our tours of the national parks. 
We’ll begin our journey in Whitefish, Mont. on July 14, and will end in San Francisco, Ca. on September 8th. I’m currently in Cannon Falls, Minn., helping with the organization, and the multitude of preparations for the pending tour. The adage,”the devils in the details,” has never been proved more accurate than during this process.There are more items, details and minutia than I will bore you with, but believe me, each must not be forgotten nor scrimped on, or the consequences will come to light down the road.
It’s my second year with Cycle America as a staff member. Last year’s tour was a cross-country trek that began in Seattle, Wash., and ended in Gloucester, Mass. The staff consisted of 12 of us, from literally all parts of the world. This year, there are six staff members. Of the six, five are veteran staffers, who come from New Zealand,Texas, New York, New Mexico, New Jersey, and Colorado. The riders also come from all over the world. Last year’s cross-country trip had cyclists come from Norway, England, Canada, Israel, Australia, Netherlands, France – just to name a few. The length of time we spend together, and the diversity of the riders, makes for an interesting and memorable time. Even though there are patches of extreme exhaustion and resultant grumpiness, the fun and privilege of being a part of this unique experience far outweigh the negative periods.
The main priority of the staff, along with our daily duties, is to ensure that each cyclist is happy (as happy as one can be while cycling some challenging climbs and enduring extreme high heat), and their needs are met. Those needs can be as simple as providing soy milk at each meal for the vegans amongst us, or as extreme as driving a rider’s car along the route so they will have their vehicle at the ride’s end. Each day presents a new set of circumstances for the riders and, subsequently, the staff. We must remain diligent and mindful of the riders’ physical, mental and emotional conditions.
One of the most satisfying things for me is to watch the cyclists bond with one another, and become stronger riders along the way. It never fails that there are a handful of cyclists who struggle at the beginning and, by the ride’s end, are solid, sound riders. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is more moving than witnessing the end of each ride when the cyclists are proud (with good reason), and elated to have completed the ride, even though there were times when the cycling was daunting, and the outcome looked bleak. The sense of accomplishment is immense, and one that stays forever. It’s a job well done. New friends are made along the way. We discover what we’re really capable of, and just how much grit we each possess. God, I love cycling, and am grateful to be a part of the cycling world.
Once our ride officially begins, I’ll be sharing some of the high times, and some of those dark days with you. Until then, why not get on your bikes and pedal, pedal, pedal? Please though, unlike when Lois was young, do wear your helmets and shoes (or sandals)!! There’s nothing better to cure whatever may be emotionally or mentally ailing you. Trust me.
The Tagline: Keep it Simple, S*****
09 Tuesday Jul 2013
Posted in Concepts
Let’s be clear.
From its birth, Julie and I wanted “The Write Side of 50” to be a forum for us 50-somethings to figure out, through our words and our art, how to navigate and shed some light on all the “stuff” that comes with being on the side of 50 that is closer to 60.
That we, “An Artist and a Journalist,” would “Demystify, Debunk and Debate the Myths Around Being in Your 50s.”
Well, eight months in, we agree that while there has been some “debate:”
“Before the Oil,There Was an Olive”
“An E-mail Ode (And Reply) to the Oyster Pearl.”
And a few (kinda) “debunks:”
“Men in Mid-Life: Puberty Revisited? Or a Time to Grow Up?”
“I Don’t Man-up for the Super Bowl.”
What the heck have we “demystified?” And what, exactly, does that mean?
One of the hardest things to write is a tagline. To compose a catchphrase that’s smart, succinct, and short. A sentence that tells you who we are, and why we’re here.
We think we overdid it the first time around. We think we might have confused some of our readers, and we, ourselves, have been collectively cringing, every day, when we log on, and that sentence is the first thing we see.
It takes a year or more for a blog to find its voice, and we 50-year-olds are not to be contained and imprisoned by a sentence. We never run out of ideas. We have the gift of perspective, the realization that we’re halfway done, and the wisdom to make the best of what’s left. (And as Bob so honestly wrote – we also know that we could drop dead any day now.)
So, it’s time to unshackle ourselves from those three Ds, and better reflect the voice that has evolved all on its own over the last eight months. We want a tagline that’s looser, less cryptic and not wordy. (And no more alliteration, please!) So let’s just say it:
“This is What Happens When You Hit the Right Side of Middle Age.”
Stay tuned. We are blowing open our vault, and bringing on some inspiring new contributors. Anything goes.
Happy Fourth of July
04 Thursday Jul 2013
Posted in Art
Art by Julie Seyler.
The Write Side of 50 is going to take advantage of this long Independence Day weekend by going on a short four-day hiatus. We’ll be back on Monday. We recommend you do the same. Enjoy, everyone. And Happy Birthday, America.
The Treadmill: A Fast Run-in-Place, to Slow Down Time
02 Tuesday Jul 2013
For the past twenty years or so, I’ve run on a treadmill, for 45 minutes straight, at least three to four days a week. I started doing it shortly after I turned 35 to avoid a heart attack, figuring that if I took care of the single most important muscle in my body, it would take care of me. Depending on my mood (and speed), I’ll cover anywhere from three to four miles a day. And it’s worked so far-no heart attacks yet. Knock wood.
But believe me, I have no love whatsoever for running – on a treadmill or anywhere for that matter. Your heart is pounding, you’re breathing heavy, you’re sweating profusely – it’s like having sex minus all the pleasure. Even with the TV screen that’s attached to every treadmill in any self-respecting modern gym, it’s still the most boring activity on earth. But I can’t run on the street, having learned years ago that my shins splinter from repeated impact on a hard surface. So to get the aerobic benefits of running, I’m stuck with the treadmill.
Lately, however, I’ve come to look at it in a different light. If you think about it, the treadmill is the ultimate time machine. Use it regularly, and you’ll probably live longer (Although there’s no guarantee. Remember Jim Fixx, one of the early popular exercise gurus, who dropped dead of a heart attack at age 52 while jogging?) But whether you live longer or not, it definitely feels that way. Time literally slows down when you step on the treadmill. The same thing happens when you settle into the dentist chair, and he or she revs up the drill – smiling and bearing down for that first chiggering bite into the enamel.
Any other half hour of your life could pass with you hardly noticing, which probably explains why: you’re not paying attention most of the time, so time flies by. But when you’re on the treadmill, running to keep up with the machine, you have to concentrate on every step, every second, or you’ll fall flat on your face. It’s a matter of focus – time seems to pass more slowly because you’re acutely aware of each moment as it ripens from the present into the past.
It’s like the old joke about why married men live longer. They don’t – it just feels that way. Actually, some say married men live longer because they’re hanging on, waiting for their wives to die, so they can enjoy being single again. The treadmill is the same thing – you hang on, waiting for the seconds and minutes and miles to tick by so you can stop, and be normal again.
If only there were a way to live that way all the time. After all, if focusing on the unpleasantness of jogging balloons each minute into a mini eternity, why couldn’t focusing on the joy in other fun stuff we do have a similar effect and make life that much more enjoyable? Unfortunately, things don’t seem to work out that way. We seem to be wired to have time trickle by slower than molasses in January, when life is painful or hard. But when things are fun, the hours scatter, and disappear like dandelion seeds in a summer breeze.
I think I’ll get up tomorrow, and hit the treadmill, and then try to hang on to that focus for the rest of the day. If you see me walking around with a big smile on my face for no apparent reason, you’ll know why.
Spines, Heads, Menopause and Fish
28 Friday Jun 2013
Photo by Julie Seyler.
The two fish pictured above, whether staged for sale, or captured in their final moments, gills packed, mouths agape in a gasp for “air,” moved me with its perceived spirit of, “Don’t give up!”
I’m drawn to fish faces, whether viewed in tanks, or when snorkeling and swimming with them. There’s something in their eyes. Perhaps because they are always open.
When my kids were little, we had a goldfish, named Cootie, which had a nice big tank all to himself. (We decided it was a he.) We loved him. He would swim to the edge of the tank and nostril-up to the glass whenever we were in the room, and stay there. I assumed he was happy as a clam, because he was always smiling. And he lived so long, that he grew to be the size of a carp. When he died, we buried him in the back yard.
There are barrels of studies that suggest a connection between fish and people, including:
We owe our heads to fish. (In utero, our eyes are on the side of our heads.)
Fish were the first to have a backbone.
They make friends.
They help each other when one is in danger.
And especially fascinating:
Female guppies go through menopause. (Cool, that doctors recommend fish oil for easing symptoms of human menopause.)
So, let’s give a Friday salute to the two fish out of water above, which were undoubtedly sold, then eaten. Let’s, instead, weigh them on the scale of our homogeneity of the human kind.
I Did What She Did. Only Barefoot
26 Wednesday Jun 2013
Posted in Confessional
I’m on my toes.
Julie’s post yesterday about growing up in Asbury in the 1960s and 1970s – the cards on beach, pinball on the boardwalk, and the Palace carousel with gold rings, was spot-on. I did the same things. Except I did them barefoot. I am a barefoot girl – have been so for as long as I can remember. To me, to have heels and toes mining the outside with nothing but skin on earth is one of the rudimentary pleasures of being human. It’s visceral. Let my skin feel the dirt, the grass – even the man-made earthy delights like pavement, concrete, wood, and floor. It feels boundless, worldly, and borders on the sensual. The blitheness of it all tickles my toes, then sings its way up. I feel real, healthy, alive; sure-footed.
When I was in my early teens, I would ride my bike to the beach in the summer (I was at least a mile farther away than most of my friends), barefoot. My mother used to worry about my exposed, pedaling feet against the street, the spokes, the chain. (Not an iota of concern for my bare head.) I could have potentially been out for 12 hours sans shoes. I’d go from beach to boards. From scorched soles to splintered toes. I would walk into snack bars, pinball arcades, (bathrooms!); ride the merry-go-round with bare legs and feet splayed out perpendicular to the horse. And then I’d ride my bike home. Sometimes in the dark. I think all of this is against the law today.
I still refuse to put sandals on when walking on a beach with hot-as-red-coals sand. “Suck it up!” I’d advise my kids, when they were younger, and would scream, then run towards the water.
“Pishaw!” I say to people who warn me, still today, that I shouldn’t walk across that parking lot that is rife with broken glass and rusty nails.
Even the gazillions of now-dead cicadas that own the outside of my house haven’t caused a cover-up. I just tiptoe more.
My house is bugged.
The love of going bare-footed could be a growing-up-in-the-sixties-on-the-beach thing. I sometimes feel, though, as if I’m part of a small group. I notice most of my friends and family shun it, and shoe-up. Even inside.
If there is a down side to 50-plus years of exposed feet (I never, ever wear shoes inside my house), it’s foot-bottoms as hard as pigskin, a bevy of broken, sprained, and twisted toes from years of tripping over door jams, and banging into walls without protection. I’ve inadvertently stepped on slugs, a dead squirrel; been punctured by rocks, stung by bees; slipped into a head-cracking fall on mud; sliced off toenails on steps.
But, I’m a lifer. Even come winter, there are no socks between my feet and boots or shoes. Though I may no longer ride a bike barefoot, I take my shoes off when I drive.
So, I stand by my bare feet. Forever. Yes, bury me with my boots off.
The Saturday Blog: Mushrooms
22 Saturday Jun 2013
Posted in Art
Looks like brioche.
The Union Square Farmers’ Market on a Saturday is a journey though the ordinary and the peculiar. A few weeks ago, Julie spotted, what appeared to be, a basket of crusty brioche. They were mushrooms.
Thirty One Years Since, “I Do”
18 Tuesday Jun 2013
Posted in Confessional, Men
Maria, when we first met. And that’s me chortling in the background.
Thirty-one years ago, I changed my life with two words: “I do.” Maria and I got married in the courthouse in Paterson because it was too much trouble to have my first marriage annulled so we could get married in a church. The contrast between my second wedding day and my first was striking. At the time of my first marriage (when I was 24 years old), I was terrified, nervous, and not at all sure I was doing the right thing. On the morning of that first wedding day I had a strange itching sensation on my back. I peeled off my dress shirt to let my Dad have a look, and he announced that my back was covered with hives.
“You’re just nervous, Bobby.” He laughed.
I’d never had them before, and I haven’t had them since. The marriage, a mistake, lasted barely three years. The morning of my second marriage, June 18, 1982, was warm and sunny. I was excited and nervous – this time in a good way – as I put on my suit in the garden apartment we’d rented in anticipation of the wedding. I bounded down the steps, and came upon Mr. Coley, an older gentleman who shared the downstairs apartment with his wife and small dog. He was just coming out of his door with a bag of trash in one hand, and the leash in the other.
“Heyyyy … where you rushing off to like that?”
“I’m gettin married,” Mr. Coley. “Today. Right now. To Maria!”
I rushed past him out the door, barely hearing his startled congratulations, happier than I’ve ever been. Not a hive in sight.
We have never looked back. That’s not to say it’s always been easy – there are plenty of ups and downs in 31 years. For instance, my parents, Maria’s parents, and her grandparents all attended our courtroom wedding ceremony, and the modest reception that followed. Of that group of six, only my mom is still alive.
On the other hand, we’ve conceived and raised three amazing children along the way. Now it’s all a jumbled memory of dirty diapers, skinned knees, school concerts, soccer games, class projects, plays, squabbles over toys, broken hearts, holidays, homework, family vacations, sleepover parties, learning to ride bikes, learning to drive cars, and packing off to college. Maria and I have been together through all that and more, sharing our energy and experience and love, and making this house a home.
I was 27 going on 28 when we got married in 1982, looking ahead to being 30, and “all grown up.” Now I’m 58 looking at 59, having grown up along the way, and wondering what the next phase of life will bring. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Just as we did 31 years ago, we’ll join hands and move on, happy and content with each other, and trusting that’s all we’ll need to face whatever lies ahead.
My younger son, now 23, mentioned the other day that Maria and I might get tired of one other one of these days. I’ve now been with her more than half my life, and she’s as much a part of me as my hands, legs, or eyes. Would I ever “get tired” of them? Not a chance.
Here’s to you, Maria. And us. And 31 more.
The Write Side of 59 