Tag Archives: Concepts

My Letter to You, My Grandson, On the Day You Were Born

11 Tuesday Feb 2014

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frank closeup baby

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

You are just a few hours old as I write this. You surprised us by arriving three weeks early, but that’s just like your father. He came early too. I guess you were anxious to explore the world that you could only hear for months from the dark place where you were.

Well, as you will see, it’s a mixed bag of a world. On the one hand, you have been born into a nation full of guns, drugs and greed. But on the other hand, your nation is full of very good people, who fight every day to solve its problems. Perhaps by the time you reach my age, in 2075, the good people will have succeeded in righting some of the wrongs.Frank Pat Baby

You will grow up in a world very different from the one I grew up in. I was in college before I touched a computer keyboard. You will be using a computer before you can walk. I grew up in a world where television consisted of seven channels. You will grow up in a world with hundreds of television choices, and the ability to watch what you want, when you want. I grew up with news coming primarily from newspapers. Your generation will see news on paper as archaic as papyrus scrolls.

Frank SonBut some things will probably not change. For all of its history, mankind has had an affinity for war. I think it’s inbred in the species. I just hope that your generation can avoid the nuclear war that has been the world’s greatest fear since I was your age. I also fear that prejudice will remain with us. I know that your parents will teach you to treat everyone with respect, no matter what they look like. So I know you will never hate anyone just because they are different from you.

I hope that you live long enough to see grandchildren and great grandchildren. The joy of new life is so invigorating. I hope that just before you turn 87, you remember me as you raise a glass to toast the year 2100. I can’t imagine what the world will be like then, but I’m fairly sure that everything I write now will still exist in some database then. It’s a tiny bit of immortality for all writers like me.Frank Grandson

I hope that we will have solved the global warming problem by then. Perhaps we will have abandoned fossil fuels, and harnessed solar or wind power, and made it practical.

Perhaps you will have computers implanted into your brains. I hope that cancer will be extinct as you enter the 22nd century.

But more than anything else, I hope that you will have had a life you can be proud of. I hope that you will always remember that the greatest joy comes from what you do for others. I hope that you will be a man for others – what our Jewish friends call a “mensch.” I hope that you will not be afraid to love, and to express it freely and often. And most of all, I wish you joy every day of your life. God bless you, Bryce David. Have a great life!

With lots of love (and tears in my eyes),

Your grandfather, Frank

They Come with a Walk in the Park: A Piano Man; The Pigeon Man

13 Monday Jan 2014

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Washington Square Park.

Washington Square Park.

BY JULIE SEYLER

On New Year’s Eve day, I walked through Washington Square Park. Perhaps you are familiar with it – either because you have been there, or have watched the movie “Barefoot in the Park,” and especially that final scene where Robert Redford, adorable and all of 31 years of age, runs barefoot through Washington Square Park to prove to his wife that he likes to have fun.

That image of him jumping drunkenly over the benches that surround the fountain, and giving away his shoes in sub-freezing temperatures never fails to enter my mind as I cross under the the Arc de Triomphe-like arch that graces the north entrance to the park. Years ago, I planned to walk though the park barefoot. It never happened, and now it won’t. It is definitely not on my post-55 to do list, unless Lois, who loves to walk barefoot, wants to go for a barefoot stroll one day after martinis.

And then I heard music: a piano trickle. I turned around, and there was this guy playing away on a portable grand piano. i came across a guy playing the pianoIt is not unusual to hear live music in non-traditional venues in the city, like subway stations and street corners. But this scene, on a somewhat chilly day in the middle of the park, struck me as particularly enjoyable. It was such a nice way to mark the last day of 2013. I put some money in his bucket, took in the concert for awhile, and went on my way.

Two minutes later, I stopped again because I had never seen anyone take on pigeons quite this way. This man was standing in the middle of a pigeon pool wearing pigeons from head to toe, completely undaunted by the thoughts of Alfred Hitchcock’s film, “The Birds.”  pigeon man 3

I assumed he was not my discovery, and that his reputation was legendary. Well, perhaps not quite legendary, but his name is Larry, and he is known as the Pigeon Man of Washington Square Park. Photos of him and the birds are well represented all over the Internet. pigeon man 2

He made me wonder: how does one even begin to connect with a pigeon, assuming one wants to connect with a pigeon? I guess it starts with a piece of bread, and then day after day the trust grows? Who knows? But from that point on, it was an uneventful walk to Market Table for lunch, which by the way, is a delicious restaurant for farm to table dishes.

One for the Ages: The ‘Columbia Lady’

07 Tuesday Jan 2014

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COLUMBIA 2

BY JULIE SEYLER

According to records at the Trademark Office, on March 15, 1926, Columbia Pictures Corporation, a New York corporation with an address at 1600 Broadway (home these days to a luxury condo on Times Square and the M&M store), filed an application to register a trademark. The trademark consisted of the words COLUMBIA PICTURES laid within a circle, inside of which held a helmeted woman looking as if she hailed from the wars of ancient Greece. She is wearing a breastplate, and holding a torch, as if she is running in the Olympics. We see her from the waist up – a reflection of herself because her gaze falls to the left. Columbia Pictures claimed it had been using the trademark on moving pictures since January, 1924.

By 1936, she had grown up. Her helmet has disappeared, and the “Columbia Lady” is  proudly ensconced on a pedestal. She has grown taller and curvier – no longer a Tomboy playing war games. In her draped toga a la Madame Gres, she is our hostess beckoning us in to the world of motion picture films. She is still holding a torch, but it is lit ala the Statue of Liberty. She and the COLUMBIA trademark stand in front of a blazing, rising sun. Her gaze has turned right as she heralds the start of a movie by Columbia Pictures.

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And she’s still here, looking as spring-like as she did 78 years ago. Unlike us right-sided 50 year olds, the “Columbia Lady” never gets old, and never frets about the unexpected changes that descend as one marches forward to meet the next surprise about what “aging” really entails. So here’s to the movies, and the lady who truly is immortal – or for at least as long as Columbia Pictures renews her trademark.
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The (Christmas) Tree-Lined Streets of New York

20 Friday Dec 2013

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xmas trees in the city

BY JULIE SEYLER

It’s Christmastime in the city, which means it’s time for annual pop-up Christmas tree shops. The day after Thanksgiving, mini-marts stocked with Christmas trees small enough for a 350 square-foot apartment, and large enough to fit an apartment well over 3,500 square feet, emerge on city blocks. An arbor of evergreen reminding us, through the power of scent, that the year is drawing to an end. Again.

!st Ave and St. Mark's Place, 11:00pm.

1st Ave and St. Mark’s Place, 11:00pm.

And like every other business that seeks to grow, it has expanded beyond Christmas trees. On 2nd Avenue, between 19th and 20th streets, there is a an outdoor mall stocked with wooden soldiers, ornaments and every other accessory for the city-dweller to create the perfect domestic pitch of joy to the world!

Open day and night.

Open day and night.

By necessity, the shops are manned 24 hours, even when it’s 25 degrees outside. Years ago, I had a friend who ran a Christmas tree shop. He set up an electric heater, and three or four beach chairs because friends frequently stopped by to keep him company. While it was cold and lonely at three in the morning, from a certain perspective it turned out to be not such a bad job. It was steady work for a mere 30 days with guaranteed pay, and today this guy is a super successful entrepreneur. Is there a connection? Plus, now that he’s on the right side of 50, this youthful feat of braving the cold night and day to sell Christmas trees makes a great story.

These days, most places come with a heating cube and and air mattress, but that doesn’t mean the sales force can be lax. One morning on my way to work, lured by the glitter and lights, I decided to buy a gift for a friend. I knocked on the heating cube Sleeping in the city and Patrick, bright eyed and bushy tailed, came out. His shift, which had started at nine the night before was just about over. He had not sold too many trees, but he was sublime and optimistic. A shipment had just arrived, and he was pretty sure that by the run of the gig there would be only a few left. He helped me select the perfect ornament.

Patrick Demayo. New York.

Patrick Demayo of Liberty, New York.

So here’s to the ritual of Christmas-tree commerce, because whether you choose to have a tree or not, you still get to experience the greenery that marks the holiday season.

My Pregame Show: Remote Controlling

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

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control Bob
BY BOB SMITH

This past Sunday was snowy and cold, so I decided to space-out watching football all afternoon. First, I gathered the choice parts of the Sunday New York Times – the Book Review, Arts section, the magazine, Automobiles, and Week in Review. Solid, semi-serious reading. Next, the New York Post for comic relief – stories full of blood, sex, political graft, and combinations of the above. Rounding out the reading pile was the Asbury Park Press – good for the Jumble, and to see if any local politicians have gotten themselves mired in New York Post-worthy peccadilloes.

Most important, I assembled the electronic devices I’d need to ensure full control over my environment. First, the entertainment controls: the Samsung TV controller, the Denon controller for the receiver that distributes sound to speakers around the room, and of course, the silver Cablevision device. To watch a cable show, you first power-up the TV, receiver, and cable box by pushing the appropriate “on” button located near the top of each controller. Then you use the Cablevision controller to change channels, and the Denon device to change the sound volume. – unless you’re watching a show through Netflix or some other Internet-based service like HBO GO.

Because my system is wired wrong, and I don’t have the electrical engineering degree needed to sort it out, my amazing Denon surround sound speakers don’t transmit Internet audio. But you still must have the Denon receiver powered up to continue receiving a TV video signal. So for Internet-based programs, you turn Cablevision power off so no cable-based sound comes through the Denon speakers, and instead use the Samsung controller to adjust the sound that’s now coming only through the tinny speakers on the TV. Simple, right?

Then there’s the gas fireplace. This controller is straightforward, with two settings that work like the Human Torch character: flame on/flame off. It also has a thermostat to select an approximate room temperature the unit will maintain by activating an electric blower. I’ve never figured out how to adjust this temperature setting downward, so the fireplace constantly tries to keep our family room at a toasty 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Once it gets cranked up, you could melt marshmallows within eight feet of the hearth. On football Sundays, we call this the “red zone.”

To counter the red-zone effect, we have the white Casablanca controller, which turns the ceiling fans on or off, and adjusts their speed. You can also use this to reverse the blades’ direction, so if you’re feeling chilly, you have the fans rotate downward to recirculate fireplace heat within the room. And if you want to see if the dog, or anyone else hiding upstairs, may be susceptible to carbon monoxide poisoning, you rotate the fans so they pull the heat upward.

Entertainment: check.
Environment: check.
Next, communications: in case someone calls during the game, and I actually want to talk to them, I also include the cordless house phone in my couchside array. Because our telephone service is provided by the cable company, the caller’s name and phone number is displayed on my TV screen, so I can readily ignore any unwelcome calls, such as telemarketers. That includes the cable company itself, which at least once a month tasks some unfortunate drone with calling to ask if I want to upgrade my service. I could lease a high-end Ferrari if I canceled my current subscription, and used that money more wisely, so I always decline. (Of course, I have a little fun first: “Are you watching the game right now?” “No.” “Me neither, thanks to you.” HANG UP.)

Finally, I have my smartphone on the table. It’s not shown in the accompanying photo because I was using it to take that picture – which is one of its most useful features. If in the middle of the game you feel an urge to take a snapshot of your feet in dingy gray/ once-white gym socks, there it is. Bang. Instant gratification. Then you can message it to anyone you like. Bang. Instant gross-out.

It’s also good for taking calls from people you ignored when their name and number flashed on the TV screen. After all, if someone really needs to talk to me, they’ll follow up with a call to my cellphone. I simply explain that I missed their call to the house because I was out buying batteries for my controllers.

So there I was ready to control my world: video source, volume, channel, picture-in-picture, flames on or off, ceiling fans up or down, phone calls taken or ignored, toes waiting to be sent into the ether for snarky commentary, all the news that’s fit to print, and all the news fit to wrap fish. I had it all.

I fell asleep ten minutes into the game. But I had powerful dreams.

Sarasota Statue a Throwback to When War was Glamorized

05 Thursday Dec 2013

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Bob statue

“Unconditional Surrender,” statue in Sarasota, Florida. Photo by Bob Smith.

BY BOB SMITH

Alongside the road by the bayfront in Sarasota, Florida, is a 25-foot-tall statue of a 1940’s-era U.S. Navy sailor kissing a woman in a nurse’s uniform. She’s bent backward with her eyes closed, and one arm dangling at her side in blissful submission to his embrace.

The statue, entitled “Unconditional Surrender,” is a copy of a lesser-known version of an iconic photograph taken by Alfred Eisenstadt.
The date was August 14, 1945, and the U.S. media had just announced that Japan would agree to surrender, thereby ending four long years of war. Japan’s surrender was particularly significant because the Japanese had fought so tenaciously, and had sworn to fight to the last inch of soil if their country was invaded.

Like today’s suicide bombers, Japanese kamikaze pilots found glory in sacrificing their lives to kill Americans. Moreover, Japan had prompted the United States to enter the war by attacking Pearl Harbor, the 9/11 event of our parents’ generation.
Japan’s surrender was likely prompted by our destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6 and August 9 , just a few days earlier. In the world’s first and (to date) only wartime use of atomic weapons, the United States had wiped out two entire cities and killed between 75,000 and 125,000 people, virtually in the blink of an eye. More than twice that number would die from the effects of the bombs over the coming months and years.

But on August 14, people in America weren’t wringing their hands over whether or not our use of the atomic bomb had been justified. This was a day when unbridled joy broke out across the land, and drunken revelers spontaneously poured into the streets of New York and other cities. It was in the midst of this happy mayhem that an anonymous sailor grabbed a dental assistant he’d never met and planted a kiss on her startled lips.

Unconditional Surrender has been derided by many as a kitschy and derivative – journalistic – hardly qualifying as art. However, one World War II veteran with a strong sense of nostalgia, and the bankroll to back it up, felt it worthwhile to pay around half a million dollars to have the statue displayed in Sarasota. So there it stands (at least for a couple more years).

What strikes me about the photo, and the sculpture, is not that they capture a moment that has any direct emotional significance to me; they don’t. What I find interesting is that there never was a similar galvanizing moment in our lives at the end of a war – because the war of our youth, Vietnam, divided the country, rather than united it.

There were gung-ho types who went off to that war in the blind faith that it was their duty to do whatever our leaders had decided was right. There were the hippies and others in the peace movement who demonstrated against the war, and ran off to Canada, or invented exotic ailments to exempt them from the draft. Any young man who was undecided, but nonetheless fit and unwilling to buck the system, was subject to being drafted, and sent off to fight an obscure, unpopular war.

I was fortunate, because by the time I turned 18, the war was winding down and they never called people with my draft card number. But even though I didn’t go, the media images in my mind from Vietnam are far from glorious. There was the wrenching photo of a naked young girl running down the street among a crowd of terrified Vietnamese citizens, fleeing the napalm bombing of her village.

There was the horrific image of a South Vietnamese general at the moment he was executing a prisoner, where you could actually see the pressure and wind rush from the gunshot distorting the doomed man’s face. And finally, there were the photos of Americans lining up to be evacuated from Saigon by a helicopter waiting on a rooftop.

Maybe it’s good that our generation doesn’t have any romanticized images to associate with our “big war.” Thanks to the Internet and smartphones, and the resultant near-instantaneous global communication of words and images, that kind of photo is unlikely to ever be so dominant again. Even an event as happy, and apparently as innocent, as the kiss reflected in Unconditional Surrender would quickly lose its impact in the real-time, You-Tube’d, instant-messaged context of all the horrors that had come before it.

Text Blessaging

02 Monday Dec 2013

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text

BY LOIS DESOCIO

The vibe out there among technology experts is, that since 2011, text messaging, in many countries, including the United States, is on the decline. (Christmas Eve, one of the busiest days of the year for texting, has seen a drop in the millions.)

But the Thanksgiving blessings sent by text (blessages, as I’ve shamelessly dubbed them in my spiked-apple-cider bliss), still remain as much a welcome ritual for me as the turkey that is always too big for my oven, and grandma’s sausage-thyme stuffing.

Facebook and Twitter have contributed to the texting decline, and the novelty of texting wore off long ago. The sending of holiday good-wishes, much like the writing out, and the sending of cards, can become less about thoughtfulness, and more about rote and duty. Perhaps.

But this year, still sleepy, I rolled over first thing Thanksgiving morning to my phone, and to:

“Happy Thanksgiving, my dear friend,” from an old friend.

And an ever-mounting stack continued throughout the day:

“I am thankful for you;”
“Love you, LoLo (emoticon);”
“Gobble Gobble! xoxo.”

text2

I gave back. They kept coming. I gave some more. I started some. A domino effect of collective cyber-love permeated the autumn air.

As someone who insists on unplugging for a chunk of time every day, and often ignores her phone on weekends – much to the consternation of family and friends (Where R U?? Pay attention to your phone!!!) – I can’t get enough of those Thanksgiving texts.

And this year was a banner year for me, so us over-50s (all of my texts were from over-50s) are probably not as burnt-out as the younger set. Some texts were funny; some came with visuals. Some were long; some brief. And some were in snappy, convoluted text-tongue (Hppy THXgving, CUl8ter).

So, a thumbs-up to the electronic chorus of well-wishes; the lineup of virtual hugs. Because all together, they can live forever, strung together in my phone. A “‘Tis the season!” “I love you;” “I’m glad we’re still alive;” I miss you;” “I thought of you because I burnt my nuts in the oven,” narrative – the short version.

The Zaftig Female Form: It’s History

26 Tuesday Nov 2013

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Drawing by Julie Seyler.

Drawing by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

This has the potential to be a politically incorrect blog. But here goes: The New York Times reported that mannequins in Venezuela are produced according to the populace’s ideal perception of women. This means oversized bosoms, small waists and palpable hips and buttocks. In fact, in Venezuela, augmentation surgery is openly discussed and accepted, at least by the persons interviewed for the article:

Cosmetic procedures are so fashionable here that a woman with implants is often casually referred to as “an operated woman.” Women freely talk about their surgeries, and mannequin makers jokingly refer to the creations as being “operated” as well.

The article indicated some feminist outcry to the notion that perfect beauty resides in the form of an hourglass. But nothing like what would erupt in the United States should the Playboy model once again emerge as an emblem of the ideal body. I can neither pass judgment nor analyze a culture far removed from mine. But it did start me thinking about depictions of the female form.

When I wander around the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I am always entranced by the sculptures depicting women that have been excavated from the ancient burial sites of Greece, Mycenae and Cyprus. Some of these figurines date as far back as 4500 B.C. They are beautiful. Modern art thousands of years ago. I wander from gallery to gallery picking out old favorites, and discovering new ones. In the end, it is obvious – there is nothing new about hips and bosoms.

Five terracotta statues from Cyprus 1450-1200 BC

Five terracotta statues from Cyprus 1450-1200 B.C.

Actually, the collective unconscious that has sculpted, shall we say mannequins, goes much further back than a mere 5,513 years. Thirty-five thousand years ago, sculptures carved from mammoths’ tusks and limestone, that can only be described as zaftig were being created throughout Europe. They are known as Venus figures. So, when you think about it, the earliest artists ever, those that lived before history had a starting date, depicted their ideal women as voluptuous:

Marble female figure 4500-4000 B.C.

Marble female figure 4500-4000 B.C.

I guess the Venezuelan mannequins can be viewed as simply a bridge to prehistory.

My 14-Year-Old Self Came in the Mail. Should I Open?

25 Monday Nov 2013

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AshtabulaPostMark-001

BY ANTHONY BUCCINO

A large brown envelope arrived recently in snail mail from Ashtabula, Ohio. It contained copies of letters I wrote to a young woman named Mary when we were 14. We met in the northeastern Ohio township, and decided to keep in touch when my summer vacation ended.

I found her on Facebook, and we got in touch after four decades. When she realized I’d become a writer, she mentioned my letters in a box in her attic. Would I like copies? What could I have possible said in those letters to a relative stranger 300 miles away? And why would she save them into this millennium?

“They’re about what you’d expect a 14 year old to write about,” she said.

Would I like to meet myself at 14? Not that I could go back and talk some sense into my head, but what I think about those times now and what I was actually saying at the time, well, they’re mountains apart.

I’m sure I was a bad writer. I wrote those letters before I decided to become a writer. Mary does get credit for encouraging me to write about anything and everything. At 5 cents to mail, I guess I wrote a dozen letters.

What were my interests in 1968? I was too young to worry about the draft. I’d just learned to ice skate and dabbled in hockey. I had a fish tank of dubious quality. My fish, when they weren’t eating each other, got white spots and died. Or their tails rotted off. Is that what I wrote about? Was that how I thought I’d impress this future drum majorette?
The Star Beacon, year unknown. typos and all.

Mary was friends with Natalie, who lived next door to my best friend, Pete. I only ever met and talked with Mary when she was visiting in Natalie’s yard. A home-made swing hung from a long thick rope tied off at the top of a thick branch of a strong old tree. Sometimes, when no one was around I’d swing on that tree. Other times, the girls might let me push them a time or two.

I take comfort that I was not writing poetry then. It would have been awful, I’m sure. I hate to look at my handwriting in those old letters. My mom called my penmanship chicken scratch. Why couldn’t I write neat and nice like my older sister who put up with me visiting her in Ashtabula my teen summers?

“But, Ma, she writes like a girl!”

It was my sister who got married, and left Jersey for Ashtabula. Her letters home were something we all looked forward to reading. Mother answered those letters. I never wrote to my sister. Why would I? She was old and married! But I think I got the bug from her to write to someone – Mary. And later, others. As these ancient missives resurface I wonder if letter writing as a lost art form should stay lost.

So, what do I do with this envelope of long-lost and forgotten musings? Shall I open it and greet my teenage self? Discover how I chronicled my wonder years?

Or shall I leave it sealed and keep safe whatever memories of those times that still swirl and swell in my grey matter? Sealed forever or open, here’s to Mary, Rhonda and others, too. I’ll always remember you in ink stains and sparkling synapses.

Like Two Peas in a Pod, We Rake Together

06 Wednesday Nov 2013

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Acorns 1

BY MARGO D. BELLER

It will be another good year for hawks, I think as my rake uncovers another cache of nuts beneath the leaves. For weeks, I’ve heard the rifle-like retort of falling nuts smacking the hoods and windows of cars in my neighbors’ driveways. It will be a bumper crop this year. The more nuts, the more squirrels and chipmunks that run around collecting them, which makes them less-wary targets for the raptors. The more nuts, the more to cache, and later to feed young squirrels and chipmunks, which creates yet more food for the raptors.

This is what I am thinking as I rake. As the years go on, I like this annual chore less and less. My mind wanders. I tell myself I am outside and exercising in a more useful way than riding a stationary bicycle. But my arms, legs and back ache. I do not like that. Most of my neighbors hire a service. For them, if you have a lawn, particularly a large one, you hire someone to maintain it. We try to do it ourselves. One mows, the other pulls weeds. One puts down seed and fertilizer, the other cuts back overgrown hedges, and puts in flowers. Both of us rake or use the little electric blower to move the fallen autumn leaves.

At this moment I have finished using the blower in the backyard to push the elm, oak and maple leaves into a large pile that I will rake into a blue tarp. My husband (MH) is using the big rake to bring the locust pods on the front lawn down to the curb. He will join me out back when he’s done.

As I rake, I think of the town official who thought locust trees would be a good choice to line our quiet suburban street, not knowing then that locust roots push up sidewalks and streets, and the pods of female trees create a thick mat on the lawn unless they are removed. Every year, I think I would like to punch that town official in the nose.

I hear a Carolina Wren sing, and that switches my train of thought back to birds. There are eagles, hawks and falcons flying south for the winter, perhaps several miles above me as I work. The more nut-fed squirrels they eat, the more young raptors there will be, too.

As the tarp fills, MH quietly joins me with his rake. At first we are in each other’s way. I chide him for putting more leaves under the tarp than on it. But from long experience with leaves, and each other, we start working together while trying to stay out of each other’s way. It has been like this in our marriage, too.

We fill the tarp until it is nearly full and then each grab two corners, and pull it to the curb to empty. Then we go back and repeat the process, again and again, until we are done, or can take no more. Whichever comes first.