Tag Archives: confessional

Knocking at My New Front Door: My 59th Birthday; Retirement

30 Monday Sep 2013

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Bob door

BY BOB SMITH

When you’re born, they start at zero, and count your age in days, weeks and months until you’ve completed a year of life, and you turn one. I was 59 on September 29, which means I’ve completed my 59th year on the planet, and my 60th year begins, today, on September 30. I’m not “in my 60s” as the term is conventionally used, but it’s close enough. Holy crap – suddenly I’m old.

I’m also retiring after nearly 30 years of practicing law – more than 26 of those with the same firm. It’s unsettling to be leaving a profession and a work environment that I know so well, but it’s also exciting to be setting out into uncharted waters. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do – acting, writing, and travel all come to mind. But the important thing is that I’ll be defining what I do, and when I do it. And it doesn’t matter if I earn money at it or not. My last day at work is today, Monday, September 30.

Now that we don’t need to live close to any work site (my wife retired from her job in Nutley in December), we’re having renovations done at our former vacation home in Monmouth County, and will move there permanently in a couple of weeks. We did an extensive facelift of the house, including new siding and ground-level stone, the addition of a porch on the third floor, and upgrading the siding, railings and trim around the porches on the first and second floors.

We’re also adding a brand-new mahogany front door, with a stained-glass insert in the center, and stained-glass panels on either side. It’s replacing a double door that had a white aluminum frame and full glass panels – basically, a sliding glass door with handles and hinges. The new door, by contrast, is a work of art.

As with most renovations, this project has hit a number of snags – missing/slow tradesmen, late inspectors, delayed shipment of materials, machinery, and/or fixtures, rerouting pipes and ductwork to accommodate conditions unknown until the walls were opened, etc. The usual.

As a result, the projected completion date of July 30 has now been pushed to October something-soon. My builder won’t commit to anything more concrete than after the first, but before Halloween. Although the front porch and the steps leading to it have been rebuilt, the paved path that’s supposed to run between the porch steps and the sidewalk is still a pile of dirt. Nonetheless, the builder tells me he’s ready to install the new front door. It’s to be delivered, today, Monday, September 30, and installed on Tuesday, October 1.

That’s also my first day of retirement. And the second day of my 60th year. They say that when one door – or in this case, a couple of them – closes, a new one opens. We’ll see.

We Partied Like It’s 1973

23 Monday Sep 2013

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It wouldn’t be us, without some Asbury. Photo by Mindy Kirchner Schwartz.

BY LOIS (ROTHFELD) DESOCIO and JULIE SEYLER

Good to know that middle age has not diminished the verve, and the spunk, that I see as still defining my high school graduating class. Forty years after getting our diplomas, our reunion this past weekend was like us – effusive, diversified, funky, and fun (with attention paid to booze and yummy food).

A one-night affair would not be enough for us. We want a spree. So the first hellos and hugs were exchanged at a night-before party at the Wonder Bar in Asbury. (A former stop on The Circuit – where many of us, and our first cars, drove in circles.)

We were more spruced-up the next day, but felt just at home with an afternoon-into-the-night fest on the grounds of our classmate’s on-the-Navesink River manse:P1180360

There were top-notch, elegant foodstuffs from fruit to nuts to chocolate:IMG_0166

And we ended the night true to our 18-year-old selves: scarfing down Windmill hot dogs:IMG_0171

Yes, we might be bending towards 60, but our feet didn’t fail us on the dance floor: IMG_0200

And we embraced our commonality. And our diversity: IMG_0160

A big-hearted thanks to everyone – the intrepid organizers, the magnanimous Manns, and the groovy, far-out, super-duper Spartans. (Who all “look exactly the same!”) Lois

******************

Memories...

Memory Board.

And so it came to pass. After a year, perhaps even longer, of planning, organizing, and strategizing, the reunion committee made it happen. About 110 of the 400-plus graduating class of 1973 gathered at a petite chateau on the banks of the Navesink River on an iffy weather Saturday.

For about two weeks before, one classmate had taken on the duty of providing daily weather updates, the final forecast being there was definitely a chance that rain was going to come down on the festivities. It didn’t matter – we walked into a playlist of reel to reel hits from the 1970s, assiduously compiled by one guy who had asked each of us for a contribution of our favorite song. There were kisses, hugs, laughs and mutual choruses of “You look great!;” “What’s new?;” and (embarrassingly enough), “Who are you?”

We ate, drank and danced, but the absolute highlight was when we enmassed the dance floor to belt out American Pie screaming at the top of our lungs, “Drove the Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry.” The band segued into “We Are Family”, and there we were in choreographic unison, shouting, “I got all my sisters with me.” I couldn’t help but think that in some way we really were all still “family.”

I hadn’t seen most of these people in 20, 30, 40 years, and yet there we were back in high school. There is a level of comfort, familiarity and togetherness that is unique, and I think somewhat special, but perhaps not unusual. After all, we did spend almost every day together for four years, and for some of us even before that, starting out in elementary school and moving on to Dow Avenue where we were tormented into memorizing the words to “The Impossible Dream” for 8th grade graduation.

Then it was over. The band channeled Donna Summer, and played one last dance, and the goodbyes started. Wishes of health and happiness and, “Let’s get together,” and “See you soon.” Then more hugs and kisses. And off we tramped in the rain.

So hats off, and mega kudos to the man with the digs who so graciously opened his home and the reunion committee of the Class of ’73, who threw a party that made it so much fun to go home again! Here’s to seeing everybody in 2023. xoxox, Julie.

My “Bird’s Eye,” and the View, Diminishing with Age

19 Thursday Sep 2013

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Birding Blind. Photo by Margo D. Beller.

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Despite the best effort of advertisers to make those of us of a certain age think we can stay young forever, there are times when you know you aren’t.

Mine came after a Saturday eye exam.

I was a near­sighted child who became far­sighted as an adult. Sometimes, I am a little too far­sighted – worrying about things to come that I can’t control.

Like the other body parts, eyes age. The last time I saw the eye doctor, she decided to put drops in to dilate my pupils for a closer exam.

My eyes turned out to be fine, but coming into the sunshine, I was literally struck blind. My husband had to run to the car for my sunglasses. It was after this that we went birdwatching, as usual, on a sunny Saturday.

I can’t think of a more essential body part when birding than the eyes. I fear the day that I can’t see well when I want to do something I enjoy.

I have met older birders who sit in one place and wait for the birds to come to them because they can’t walk very well. There may be blind or deaf birders out there, but I’ve never seen one.

It is hard enough to find a small bird in a fully leafed­out tree with binoculars and two good eyes. It is a major challenge to find them when everything you see is surrounded by a corona of fuzziness.

I’ve come to depend on my ears and knowledge of bird shape and habit more than my eyes, but on this day I discovered not being able to focus on details such as color and streaking put me at a severe disadvantage. At one point, MH and I were in a bird blind, a structure designed to allow you to look out without scaring anything. We were looking down from a small height to see if anything was skulking around in the brush.

Bird blind, I thought. I’m a birder blind. Great.

Going from sunny meadow (where I had to use my sunglasses) to shady woods, I could barely see at all. When something big flew from a tree at our approach, I had to depend on MH for a description. Based on that, and the vague shape I saw, I could only guess we had spooked a roosting owl – likely a barred owl. Barred owls can be active during the day. What I saw was too big to be a screech owl and not as white as a barn owl. It might also have been a great horned owl. I’ll never know.

Meanwhile, MH had managed to turn his foot the wrong way and had to walk slowly. So he was limping. And I was nearly blind. Not exactly what the commercials portray of the golden years.

The fuzziness is gone now, and I can identify the familiar birds in my backyard just fine. I am having a harder time ignoring my far­sightedness.

I’ll Always Have a Love for a “We’ll-Always-Have” Story

18 Wednesday Sep 2013

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Frank Robert and Francesca.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

Those who follow my writings on this blog may have picked up on a theme that runs through most of my favorite books, movies and even songs. I am a lover of stories about people who meet, enjoy a brief time together, and then are forced to move on. It’s been described as ships-passing-in-the-night fiction.

A famous example of this is, “Casablanca.” Rick and Ilsa enjoy a short time together in both Paris and Casablanca, but they part at the airport. And as Rick reminds Ilsa, “We’ll always have Paris.” And that’s the way I like to refer to these stories. To me they are the, “We’ll-always-have(fill in the blank)” stories.

Over the years there have been many, “We’ll-always-have” stories.  One of my favorites is, “Two For The Seesaw,” a 1962 film starring Shirley MacLaine and Robert Mitchum that was made into the musical, “Seesaw” a decade later.  Stories like this are naturals for musicalization because the emotional level is so high.

A more recent example of this is, “The Bridges of Madison County.”  A few weeks ago I saw a performance of the pre-Broadway run of, “Bridges” up in Williamstown, Massachusetts.  Most people known the story from the 1995 Clint Eastwood/Meryl Streep movie, but the original Robert James Waller novel is much more heartfelt. Anyway, the musical version of the story comes to Broadway early next year and I heartily recommend it for those who love a good, “We’ll-always-have” story.

For the uninitiated, “The Bridges of Madison County” revolves around Francesca Johnson, an Italian-born war bride who marries an American GI right after World War II, and accompanies him home to his farm in Winterset, Iowa. She raises a family and has a good life there. But then one day a photographer named Robert Kincaid arrives at her farmhouse. He’s lost and looking for directions to a nearby covered bridge. Francesca is home alone because her family is at the Illinois State Fair. What transpires over the next week is one of the great love stories of all time. But just as Rick knew that the right thing to do was to let Ilsa go off with her husband, Robert and Francesca painfully reach the same decision. Francesca must stay with her husband and children. And so, even though they would never see each other again, they’d always have that week in Winterset.

But perhaps you have experienced your own “We’ll-always-have” story in real life. It doesn’t have to have been the love of your life. Maybe you had a dear childhood friend, and the family had to move away. I can imagine a tearful farewell scene where you promised to write, and never forget one another.

I had that kind of tearful farewell 40 years ago at a train station in Baden-Oos, Germany (now known as Baden-Baden). My cousin Bob and I were in college, and backpacking through Europe. We met two sisters in Budapest, and hit it off so well that we couldn’t bear to say goodbye when our planned time there ended. So they invited us to visit them at their home on a Canadian military base in Germany. We had such a tremendous time in those few days that there were tears at the train station when we had to get back to Munich for our flight home. We promised to write, and I did diligently for several years. Eventually life moved on for all of us. But even though Bob and I are not likely to ever meet Rosemary or Linda again, we’ll always have Germany.

While there is something sad about two friends or lovers separated by life, what makes these stories bittersweet rather than tragedies is the fact that they did enjoy a brief time of true happiness. In fact their happiness is so strong that it’s enough to last a lifetime. So whether it’s Robert and Francesca, Rick and Ilsa or even you and that special someone you had to leave behind, there is much truth in the words of Tennyson: “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

And we’ll always have our memories.

The End of “Never”

13 Friday Sep 2013

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never say never

BY JULIE SEYLER

Since I crossed the river to reside on the right side of 50, I know never to say never. When I was “young,” there were so many things I would never do when I got “old.”

I was never ever going to be like my grandparents and old aunts and uncles that would spend endless hours dissecting their bodily ailments. These days, I find a sort of odd pleasure in regaling my friends with the nuances of big-toe arthritis and having them lobby back on knee issues.

I was never, ever, going to go to an early-bird dinner. These days. I definitely appreciate the quiet emptiness that envelops a restaurant before the mad rush that descends at the fashionable dining hour of 8:00 p.m. Not to mention the cash benefit of a discounted meal.

I was never, ever, going to be one of those couples that sat across from each other, silently focusing on the pleasure of food. My mate and I were going to be engaged in endless and fascinating animated conversation – dissecting the political and social dilemmas of the day. These days, there is only so much drama I can rehash at the end of the day. Silence can be so comfortable and comforting.

The advantage of youth is we know so much for sure, no one can tell us otherwise. The world is black, and it is white. But never gray. The brilliance of now is nuance. And the knowledge that saying “never,” never works.

The Matrix That is September 11

11 Wednesday Sep 2013

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9.12.01.

Photos courtesy of The New York Times, September 12, 2001.



Since the attacks of September 11, 2001, a collective consciousness surrounding the events has formed. No matter one’s political views, or how close in proximity one was to the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, or the field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania; no matter whether one chooses to ignore history, or immerse oneself in remembrances; or if loved ones were lost, or if there was no personal connection to the events at all – the date, no doubt, provokes personal recollections. Here are ours:

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I live 15 minutes from Newark Airport; 15 miles from Manhattan. I was speeding downhill in my car about two hours after the towers collapsed, to not only get to my sons at school to bring them home, but because I had a fight-or-flight, duck!, fear piercing me from my throat on down. I believed that at any moment, planes were going to start falling out of the sky on top of me – no matter where I went. It was then, and still is today, the most out of control I’ve ever felt. And the closest I’ve ever felt to death – not only my death, and the death of everyone I loved, but the death of our civilization; our world.

Every September 11 since then, I’m reminded of the ignorant complacency that comes with passing time. I mourn the loss of clarity that I felt that day, and in the weeks and months after. Clarity that only comes with a first encounter with something that has never happened before, and bears nothing else in comparison.

*******

BY JULIE SEYLER

Since 1997, I have walked east to west to go to my gym in the morning. Looking south from 6th Avenue and 20th Street, I had a perfect and direct view of the Twin Towers. I would debate with myself whether I liked them from an architectural standpoint. I would remember the controversy surrounding their erection. I could never decide. All I knew, for sure, was that they were big, and I had eaten a lovely wine-filled meal at Windows on the World.

On September 13, 2001, I walked east to west, and looked south from 6th and 20th.The sky was black – a plume of smoke and ashes. And the Twin Towers were gone. The emptiness in the sight-line can still catch me. Their nonexistence is an unending reminder of their existence. The Ground Zero Memorial and Freedom Tower fill the space but, for me, do not heal the wound of September 11, 2001.

My Avant-Garde Sister, and Her Hip, Off-the-Shoulder Tattoo

09 Monday Sep 2013

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Bodhi

Bodhi.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Way, way before tats became au courant, my sister had a gorgeous tattoo of a bodhisattva, that enlightened disciple of Buddha, etched onto her right shoulder. I remember the first time I saw it – around 1986 or 1987. I was shocked that she had had half of her arm covered by a tattoo. But there was no denying the artistry of the piece. It had been drawn by a brilliant artist who simply preferred skin to canvas, never a concept I quite embraced, but it was a work of fine art. The delicacy of the lines, and the sensitivity of the shading, merged into a face of compassion and tranquility. The posted photo does not do it justice, but after searching the thousands of photos of my sister I found out I never nailed a great shot of the tattoo. I was too resistant to the idea of scored skin (still am) to want to take a picture. But after 20 years, I became used to it. Even fond of it.

But things change, and the tattoo no longer fit my sister’s lifestyle, so she decided to have it removed. She told me it was a long and painful process. The one piece of advice she has given her daughters, should they decide to go the way of Bob’s son, and get a tattoo is: stay away from color.

It is purely practical advice because it is a bear to remove inked-in red, blue and green hues from the skin. And as we, who reside on the right side of 50 know all too well, skin texture morphs, melts and perhaps even sags in some places. We know that that tattooed cinnabar heart, which seemed so alluring on the arm at 20, may actually droop uncontrollably at 60.

Anyway, from time to time, I sort of miss the bodhi that danced on my sister’s shoulder. However, she has informed me, that if I look closely, traces of her remain – an outline of a memory.

So here’s to my sister, who had the hipness to decide to get a tattoo ahead of the curve. And is no doubt still ahead of the curve in getting it removed.

My Stool-Sample Story

06 Friday Sep 2013

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Drawing by Julie Seyler.

Drawing by Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

Last week, as part of my annual check-up, I had routine bloodwork done. I was also given “homework” in the form of a stool-sample kit, which tests for blood in your feces. If they find blood, it could mean you have colon cancer, which is highly treatable in its early stages, but frightfully deadly later on.

The stool-sample kit is ingenious. You lay a piece of thin paper on the surface of the water in your commode to create a temporary floating platform, “make your deposit” on it, then jab the top of the floating waste with a tool resembling a spiky plastic toothpick – twisting to ensure full coverage. Then you snap the befouled toothpick into a sterile plastic carrying case, wrap the case in a sliver of bubble wrap, and slide the whole thing into a padded, postage prepaid envelope addressed to the testing lab. Dump the envelope into the nearest mailbox, and it’s done.

Are we having fun yet? Surely not half as much fun as the lab technician whose job it is to unwrap and test those spiky sticks all day long.

Anyway, I dutifully completed the test, mailed it off, and totally forgot about the blood work and stool sample – until I went home after four days away and listened to the accumulated phone messages. There were four: one wrong number, and the next three, ominously, from my doctor’s office. All three merely recited that it was Dr. Gold’s office calling for Robert W. Smith, and asked that I give them a call. I’m not technically savvy, so I couldn’t figure out whether the messages had been left over three days, or three hours. Nonetheless, I was a bit alarmed that the doctor’s office was so anxious to reach me.

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A Final Climb to the Top of Hawk Mountain

05 Thursday Sep 2013

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atop the mountain

BY MARGO D. BELLER

The months run by. It seems like yesterday that I was looking at an Eastern Phoebe on the first full day of spring. Now the summer is over, the kids are going back to school (yay!),and the birds that came north to breed are heading south for the winter.

On Sept. 1, many hawk watches opened for “business.” These platforms, where people scan the skies for eagles, osprey and smaller hawks are located atop or near ridges where rising warm air, and northerly wind create an aerial highway for these diurnal travelers.

New Jersey has lots of these places, from Cape May in the south, to Sandy Hook along the eastern coast, to the ridges in the west along the Delaware River, and many others in between.

But before I discovered the treasures of my home state, we went west to Hawk Mountain Sanctuary in Pennsylvania. This place, where men once blasted migrating hawks out of the sky for sport, was bought by a rich woman and turned into a sanctuary.

What draws the birdwatchers, is seeing the birds practically at eye level from the topmost lookout. But there is a price to pay. The higher you go, the harder the climb, with many rocks that shift under your weight.

The first time we climbed to the top, we were beguiled by all the warblers we found along the way. It was a weekday and the crowd was small. We had come prepared, and enjoyed watching the raptors fly. On the way down, we even found a bird we’d never seen before, a Bicknell’s thrush. We knew we had to return someday.

That happened a few years later. However, rocks shift, mountains get worn from the rain and people get older. Our second climb up – no warblers to be found – was on a Saturday. There were many more people making the climb and sitting at the top.

Watching the hawks up close was just as wonderful. But the climb down, for we without wings, was much more hazardous than last time. Even with a walking stick, I came close to falling several times, which scared me.

There were older people making the climb in both directions, and they seemed to have no problem. But there were others who had to travel very slowly, helped by younger people. They all kept going because they were drawn to the hawks, and I hope they weren’t disappointed.

But when we got to the bottom of the mountain, MH and I knew we wouldn’t be making that climb again.

As I said, there are lots of hawk watches closer to home, and my favorite one allows us to drive to the top, take out the folding chair, and watch the show. It will do.

Remembering a Summer, and the Girl Who Had My Heart

30 Friday Aug 2013

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ronnie 3

BY ANTHONY BUCCINO

It started innocently, as all these stories do. I was on an open-ended summer vacation at Lake Erie. In September, I’d return to New Jersey and my junior year of high school. I’d count the days until I got my driver’s license, and could return to this summer place.

That day, my buddy drove us in his VW Bug to a new shopping center in Mentor where the stores were connected and under one roof. It was the biggest thing to hit northeastern Ohio in 1970 since practically ever. The Ohio kids got their license at 15 – geeze, 15! – if they wanted.

While wandering aimlessly along the cavern of shops, a frantically-waving hand on the other side of the window inside a Friendly’s Restaurant caught our eye. It was my buddy’s neighbor Cyndi, and she was so excited to run into us so far from home. I knew Cyndi, and her mom sitting there, but the new girl – let’s call her Ronnie – caught my eye.

Soon I found myself spending a lot of time at Cyndi’s, and her cousin Ronnie showed up nearly all the time. Evenings, we sat on the front steps listening to the Woodstock album on the eight-track. Ronnie liked listening to the Beatles because they were banned in her house because of something John Lennon said.

As a group, we went practically everywhere. Cyndi drove, and we went here and there, to pick up pop, visit a farm stand, or hit the miniature golf links. And I tagged along with the family to the kid brother’s Little League games at Cederquist Park.

One time, we teenagers got volunteered to work at Cyndi’s church cleaning the ceiling tiles in the kitchen. As long as Ronnie was there, it didn’t matter where there was.

Ronnie and I took walks around the block where Cyndi lived. We were still too shy to hold hands, but we were hanging on every word the other said. We were looking for clues that this summer thing would be a forever thing. Walking and talking with the pretty girl lifted the veil of shyness.

A long distance relationship is fine for a shy guy. At home, you could always defer to your girlfriend hundreds of miles away, and say things like, “Gee, I have to run. I owe her a letter.” And, “I can’t wait until I get back to Ohio to see my girl again.” No one would be the wiser.

But a gal wants someone who’s there. Who can take her to the school dance. Someone she can see in the hallways at school. A guy who’s not too far away to do things with. Long distance phone calls and weekly letters in the mail won’t carry that weight.

It’s been more than forty years since we parted. I’ve had other heartbreaks, but none as permanent as the first. Perhaps our story will become a Lifetime channel movie. We met, lost contact, lived our lives and then one day we each look up at the random table at the random nursing home and see each other again. Of course, I’m wondering if she remembers me, or am I a long-forgotten minor distraction? The music over the closing film credits will be that ’60s Four Seasons song, “I’ll go on living and keep on forgiving, because …” Well, you know the rest.

Is it Ronnie I want to meet in that senior citizens home, or am I deep-down longing to meet myself? Although I’m pushing sixty, inside, much of the time I’m still that sixteen-year-old, wide-eyed, innocent – amazed that a beautiful girl would speak with me. Or leave a burning torch in my soul.