Converging Path trains. Journal Square, Jersey City. Photo by Julie Seyler.
It’s possible to come from different places and meet in the middle.
The Saturday Blog: Converging Paths
15 Saturday Jun 2013
Posted in Art
Author Archives: Lois DeSocio
A Father’s Day Toast to My Father Figure: Americo
14 Friday Jun 2013
Posted in Confessional, Men
Decades past the right side of 50, Americo remains an enduring testament to a life well-lived.
As someone whose father died more than 45 years ago, I have not really celebrated Father’s Day for a long time. I have celebrated my grandfathers and my father-in-law on that day, but none of these people were my father, and it’s not the same.
There’s one person who’s often mistaken for my father, and that’s my mother’s husband. My mother remarried in 1984, and has been married to a man with the improbable name of Americo for nearly 30 years now – far longer than she was married to my father. Americo, who goes by the nicknames of Rick and Merc, is a great guy who was an avid golfer into his late 70s. But he’s been off the links for a while now. You see, he turned 90 on June 1, the same day my son was married.
In fact, we continually embarrassed him that day when hundreds of wedding guests, many of whom he did not know, came up to him and congratulated him on the milestone. And of course, we had a cake, and my nieces sang “Happy Birthday.” It was very gracious of my son and his bride to share their day with him.
So Americo has been on the right side of 50 since 1973, and although he’s slowed down a bit with age, he’s still very much living and loving life. I’d say he has a good shot at making it to 100. Seeing Americo still enjoy watching golf and baseball, his beloved gelato and the occasional martini, is an inspiration to those of us more recently arrived at 50 plus. He provides the kind of perspective on life that only longevity can bring.
The thing about living a very long time is that you have to watch everyone your age – friends and family – die before you. That’s sometimes almost too much to bear. Americo still gets choked up sometimes talking about his beloved first wife, whom he lost to cancer more than 30 years ago.
Speaking of hurt, Americo suffers from chronic back pain from his golfing days. But he didn’t let it stop him from making the five-hour car ride to Vermont recently for the wedding. He couldn’t miss that. You see, he’s been a true grandfather to my children from the day they were born. And here’s the kicker – he never had any children of his own. Yet as soon as my wife and I had kids, he took on babysitting chores right along with my mother. He took them to parks to play, and on trips to pick strawberries. He was responsible for their learning how to swim.
By the time Americo married my mother, I had already been married for five years. So he never had to play father to me as might have been the case had I been 15 or 16. But he always represented to me the prime example of the American Dream. He was born in the United States to Italian immigrants, who were so proud of their new country that they named their only son after it. He spoke only Italian until he entered kindergarten. But then he assimilated and worked his way to middle-class security with a house, and a yard, that was the envy of his neighbors for many years.
So as he enters his 10th decade on this planet, I think it’s about time I recognized this father figure who continues to show everyone who knows him that life after 50 can be very sweet indeed.
Love, Sweat, Tears, and a Little Déja`Vu at My Son’s Wedding
10 Monday Jun 2013
Posted in Confessional, Men
One of the joys of life after 50 is seeing your children get married and start families of their own. It provides the prospect of continuity of the family name, and I guess on some fundamental level, it signals that the biological imperative to pass down your genes has been fulfilled. My doctor once told me that once you fulfill your reproductive obligations, Mother Nature does her best to kill you off because you’re no longer of any value to the herd. Thankfully, modern medicine usually frustrates Mother Nature’s murderous ways.
Anyway, my son was married on June 1, and I found it to be a marvelous experience. The wedding was in Vermont, the home state of his new wife. Vermont is a lovely place, and its rolling, green lushness was particularly evident after a wet spring. The weather was a bit peculiar, as it is wont to be in this era of climate change. The weekend before the wedding, it was in the low 40s, and there was spring skiing at Killington. However, June 1 was quite a different story. The thermometer hit 90 degrees, an all-time record for Burlington, Vermont on that day. While a 90-degree day in New York is just another summer day, northern Vermonters are not used to that kind of heat. They usually don’t need air conditioning, and so we found that the reception hall was cooled only by fans. Needless to say, fans are not up to the job of cooling a barn full of people in fancy clothes, particularly when they start dancing. My daughter’s boyfriend perspired so profusely that he had to throw the shirt away, as nothing could remove the perspiration stains. Fortunately, the cathedral where the wedding ceremony occurred was fully air conditioned. As I watched from the front row (there are some benefits to being father of the groom), I was struck by a sense of déjà vu.
I looked at my son and saw myself 35 years ago. It was very strange. And very right. But then the priest pronounced them married, they kissed, and the crowd applauded. Suddenly, an involuntary sound burst out from deep in my chest. It was a sob of joy. It was just one short outburst, but I immediately thought back to the last time I could remember reacting in that way. It was 27 years ago, and the nurse in the delivery room handed my son to me. This same primal sob of joy blared out of me then. Now the little boy was a man, and taking a wife. I think that probably the best thing about getting older is having the joy of seeing the fruits of your parenting labors. Being a parent is not an easy job, and when it goes right, it’s cause for celebration. So here’s to a son well-done, and his lovely bride.
When One Door Closes …
07 Friday Jun 2013
Posted in Confessional
I love my house as much as a person can love a structure. To me, who is not really materialistic for the most part, it is the most wonderful composite of wood and glass; stone and grass. I’ve pretty much humanized it. I talk to it. It comforts me. And as I prepare to move out of it – and take the 15 years of me, and my family, away from it – I feel like it, too, is sagging a bit from roof to root in sadness and loss.
I do believe we fixed this missing spindle. Twice.
Yes – get a grip, Lois. Although my heart is being tugged daily from my chest to my gut, my head does reign. It’s time to turn things over. For me, it will be my new leaf. For my home – the deed.
But this house (my fourth and final) is hard to leave. It is enchanting. It’s rambling, old, and solid. It comes with some history (Abraham Lincoln has sat in front of my 200-year-old marble fireplace), humor (stairway spindles have gone missing without notice), a mix of modern-day convenience (floor-to-floor laundry shoot), and old-time charm (buzzers on all floors, and a bicycle bell on the kitchen wall).
There’s lots of space to be alone, but it’s not so cavernous as to allow loneliness. It can be filled with people, and not feel crowded. The whole downstairs has allowed my kids, when they were smaller, and as present-day strapping young men, to run in circles with our crazy border collie throughout, until she pants and slides herself into a sideways floor-flop – as happy as if she had just run through a field of Kentucky bluegrass. It is also dotted with curves and corners for intimate gatherings alongside leaded glass windows that make the sun sparkle and shimmer when it comes inside. And it has long kitchen counters that beckon: “Lean on me.”
Off the walls. Pulled out of drawers. Into boxes.
Preparing to move has meant that gerunds and present participles (those “ing” words) have ruled for a year now: Hauling (disposing), Packing (sweating), Cleaning (back-breaking), Staging (announcing). Crying. But with no menopause in sight, and without warning, lately, after I break into a wet mess of gulping, heaving sobs that take me to my knees at the thought of leaving – in a flash, I then rise up into a twirly, heel-kicking danseur – prancing from room to room, ears plugged with iPod music, arms and head ceiling-ward, with my heart less tugged, and more joyful, in tribute to every bit of the wonderful space I got to live in.
So, now that the contractors, who have been renovating my home, and have become an extended family for the last seven months have left, and the realtors who will be selling my house are “moving” in, I have done some unpacking. Specifically, the unpacking of some new “ing” words. Like: Breathing. Arising. Fulfilling.
I Can’t Hear the Birds in the Forest for the Cicadas on the Trees
06 Thursday Jun 2013
Posted in Confessional
I was driving to one of my favorite places to find birds in Morris County, New Jersey, near where I live, when I heard a strange noise and wondered what was happened to my engine.
When I stopped at an intersection, I realized it was not my engine, but an invasion.
Specifically, a cicada invasion.
You know the routine. It’s been the same since we were children. The middle of summer is defined by the whir of cicadas by day, and crickets by night. Both insects are doing the same thing – the males are calling out their availability to mate with females.
This, however, is another type of cicada. This one has the science fiction name of Brood II.
These cicadas will hang around for a few weeks calling, mating and creating new cicadas, then dying – their young not appearing for another 17 years as fully-formed teenagers itching to call and mate.
So far, this plague has not made it to my backyard – yet. Plague isn’t too strong a word either. Cicada, according to the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, is a Latin word for locust. Unlike the locust, the cicada won’t ruin crops, and it won’t bite you. But it is an ugly insect, and it makes quite a din when you have a couple of thousand going once the soil gets warm enough, as it recently did.
When I got to my birding location the cicadas were flying everywhere. The noise forced me to listen very hard to hear the catbirds, yellow warblers, house wrens and Baltimore orioles, among others. But with the exception of a few blue-gray gnatcatchers, none of the birds appeared to be going after the cicadas. Perhaps they had only just arrived this June day and the birds were too busy singing to protect their breeding territories. As I said, the usual New Jersey cicada feast starts in July when baby birds need to be fed.
Or perhaps the birds were overwhelmed by the sheer number of them.
I don’t know. But I do know I was more than a little annoyed at having to work harder than usual to hear anything over the din. I had been in the mountains of neighboring Sussex County the previous day, and had heard over 50 types of birds, and not one cicada, for which I was now grateful.
Trying to identify 50 bird calls is hard enough when they’re all going at once. Trying to identify 50 bird calls with an extra layer of cicada whirring is torture.
At some point I would hope the birds realize the early insect bonanza they have, and start eating. Birds aren’t stupid, or they wouldn’t have lasted so long.
But for this birder, the end of Brood II can’t come soon enough.
Can the Brakes be Applied on Silly Business Names?
05 Wednesday Jun 2013
Part of the pan*o*rama of silly signage on our roadsides. Photos by Bob Smith.
Why do people think it’s useful to name their businesses using puns and wordplay? It doesn’t make them memorable; it makes them silly. And I happen upon them so often. Last Sunday, as I drove through a semi-rural area of Passaic County, New Jersey, I came across a spate of silly-named businesses. First there was BRAKE*O*RAMA. As we all know from reading Wikipedia, “Rama,” is the seventh avatar of the god Vishnu in Hinduism, considered by some to be the supreme being. So it makes perfect sense to have a car repair shop named after him.
That same god has also inspired a floor covering store in Neptune, New Jersey called RUGARAMA, and a chain of door and window stores called WINDOWRAMA. Years ago there was even a beauty shop in Asbury Park named OH!HARRIET’S GLAMOUR-RAMA. I think Rama as a business-naming convention is on the wane, having been supplanted in recent years by the ubiquitous DEPOT.
But it survives in Haskell, New Jersey (named after the first avatar of teenage wiseguys from the ’60s – Eddie Haskell). Then there was FABRICADABRA, an apparently magical fabric and interior decorating store. 
It had an ugly, bulbous, green awning, and didn’t look magical at all. A block away from that was THE MEATING PLACE, a butcher shop that I suppose might also be the local pickup bar. I was late for a meating (I was en route to a barbeque, after all), so I couldn’t stop to get a photo of that.
Finally there was PASTABILITYS, featuring a concrete bunker facade, and the chance for al-fresco dining on plastic seats in the parking lot. The possibilities seemed – well, frankly, limited. But the name? Totally unique. And silly.
The Saturday Blog: Abut
01 Saturday Jun 2013
Posted in Art
Abut(t). Photo by Julie Seyler.
Sometimes, the journey may be ass-backwards, but there is always a way.
Cicadas on My Trees, My House, My Cup. And Me
30 Thursday May 2013
Posted in Confessional
The cicadas are landing on me. First one was on the head. Second one was on the shoulder. What makes a cicada landing so freaky, aside from their baby bat-like size is, you don’t know it’s coming. There’s no buzzing. There’s no warning. There’s not even a bite, or a sting, to let you know that it digs you like a tree limb. And it does not shake off easily, despite my shrill, piercing shriek, the girly up-and-down jumping, the arms flailing like rubber. And once shaken or flicked off – I suggest a stop, drop and roll, because their unwieldy and languorous flying can take them from your head or your shoulder – smack! – right into your face.
The few people with whom I’ve shared my cicada touchdowns, and resulting freak-outs, have all responded, across the board with,”Really? I haven’t seen that many.”
Really?
As Bob and the news media has informed us – we are in the midst of the cicada sojourn. The first one in 17 years. They don’t stay for long, but billions of them, for the next month or two, will be drilling up from the ground beneath us, where they’ve been getting in gear since 1996. They then hatch, climb, crawl, and the courting male fills the woods with its clangorous, rackety mating hum. I can now hear it when I’m inside.
But were it not for the errant flying and subsequent mountings (on me), I could embrace the cool-factor of the cicada, and the science class offered right outside my back door:
Underneath the lampost light:
Hanging on the corner:
In my dryer vent:
This one got inside:
But perhaps what is most freaky of all, is this cup that I found yesterday morning while cleaning out the outer reaches of my china hutch. I don’t know where it came from, or to whom it belonged, but it was the first time I’d reached back there in 15 (that’s almost 17) years:
My Fish Tale, in a Letter to Hemingway
29 Wednesday May 2013
Posted in Men
My big fish.
Dear Papa H:
When the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m., I was so groggy with sleep, and last night’s whiskey, I didn’t know for whom the buzzer tolled. Hell, I didn’t know if it was day or night. Then I remembered – fishing. I got dressed, and went down to the kitchen for a quick bite.
Six of us met at the dock with our coolers and cigars and high hopes for the day. The mate wore gut-spattered yellow waders, was opening clams for bait, and was throwing boxes of frozen bunker onto the deck. The sun was also rising. The captain was ready to cast off.
We churned out to a spot just off Sandy Hook Bay, where a lonely red buoy leaned with the current. The morning was turning gray, and the water was listless. The mate fixed us up with clam baits. We dropped our lines in.
Fishing is a hard thing. There are long stretches of boredom. If you’re lucky, and the fishing is good, sudden intense battles with an unseen opponent. For you, the stakes are bragging rights, and avoiding the embarrassment of losing a fish through clumsy handling. For the fish, it’s a fight to the death.
We waited, watching the water, jigging our baits – a movable feast. Someone lit a cigar. Someone farted. Everyone laughed.
Without warning, the fish slammed the bait like a fist to the face, then darted away. I counted off the seconds to give it time to swallow as it swam. Five. Six. Easy … Breathe …
At eight, I pulled the pole up hard, and the tip bent so far it pointed at the water. The fish was hooked.
It dove with authority, deep and long, ripping line off my spool in ten-yard gulps. It felt like a striped bass, but I couldn’t be sure until it got tired, and came up shallow. Until then, I had to pump the pole to maintain pressure, and take back line whenever I could – turning the reel handle in jerky circles in the hopes that the gear would hold.
I could hear arguing in the background. My son Bob was out of smokes, and blamed my brother.
“You’ve taken the last cigar, Jeff.”
“No I haven’t.”
“Yeah, you have.”
“Have not.”
“Have.”
“Have not.”
Two “haves” and “have-nots”: it was a standoff. I wasn’t listening anyway. I was locked in battle with the big fish.
When the fish finally surfaced near the boat, it wallowed on its side, flashing the distinctive lateral lines of a striper. It eyed me with a dark stare and then, after one pass, turned its massive head, and dove again. But not as deep this time; not as strong. I pulled and reeled, and the fish came up sooner, its reactions slower, like a heavyweight after ten hard rounds. At the top again, it turned flat and finally surrendered to the gaff. The mate stabbed the iron hook into its broad flank, jabbing up fast from below. It was a good gaff, near the gills, away from the meaty center of the fillet. He grunted as he heaved the bleeding fish onto the deck.
It was a cow bloated with roe. She had a wide face, rippled gillcovers, and terrified green-rimmed eyes. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I felt heaviness in my arms. I slid the butt of the rod into a pipe mounted near the rail, leaving the mate to unhook, and dump her into the dark hold.
The fish was strong. And clean. And true. The biggest of the day. She had shown courage in the fight, and dignity in the face of death. I high-fived the other fishermen, and went into the cabin for another beer.
Somehow it left a bad taste.
Yours,
Bobby Bill
On Memorial Day: Some Memories. And a Thank-You
27 Monday May 2013
Posted in Men
All photos by Frank Terranella.
By FRANK TERRANELLA
I always have mixed emotions about Memorial Day. When I was a kid, my town had a Memorial Day parade, and Little League baseball players, like me, always marched in it with our uniforms. We would gather in a parking lot, and the ancient World War I veterans would congregate with the middle-aged World War II and Korean War vets. Then the World War I vets would get to ride on a float while the rest would walk.
My father, who was a World War II veteran, never marched. Like many guys who saw things that no one should ever have to see, he came back from the war with only one thought – to forget he was ever in the army. He instilled in me a hatred of war, and a distrust of things military that survives to this day. And yet, I was enthralled by the smiling veterans on Memorial Day. These paunchy patriots were the guys who saved the world from fascism. I remember that some of the old veterans were so overweight by this time that I thought they were called doughboys because they looked like the Pillsbury character.
Like most boys, I had seen lots of war movies and the idea that these guys had fought for the country was a romantic one. Seeing that I was a little bit too much in awe of my Uncle Angelo, who was a World War I veteran, my grandfather was quick to point out,
“He never saw combat. He was a cook at Fort Dix. He never left New Jersey.”
I should mention that neither of my grandfathers served in World War I. They were both extremely good businessmen who managed to work the system and get out of the draft. I think there was also a pragmatic reason I was interested in these veterans and their stories. At the time, there was another war going on. And a draft that was just waiting for me to turn 18 so it could snatch me up into the army. So my interest was not purely academic. I really wondered what life in the army was like, and whether I would survive it like my father, and have psychic scars for the rest of my life, or would I try to work the system like my grandfathers? Or perhaps I could swing a safe job like my Uncle Angelo.
These were the thoughts going through my young brain as I watched the flags and the guns and the military vehicles roll through the streets of my town on Memorial Day in 1965. “Freedom is Not Free,” and “Thank a Veteran Today,” the banners read. And as I grew older, and the draft was abolished, I was very thankful that it was them rather than me who had to do the dirty work of defending the country.
So every Memorial Day I would seek out the veterans who sold poppies in public places to benefit those who had been braver than me. Every Memorial Day I flew the American flag that was draped over my father’s casket when he died. And every year attending Memorial Day festivities would choke me up when the bugler played, “Taps.”
My father instilled in me the idea that war is hell. But I also think it’s often unavoidable. So it’s important to take one day a year and honor those who have served, and especially those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country. That’s why I will be in the cemetery on Memorial Day weekend paying my respect to the veterans in my family rather than heading for the beach.
The Write Side of 59 