Tag Archives: Men

Gone Fishing. Caught by a Nun

01 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by in Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, ,

Nun

Art by Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

Late summer nights in the late ’60s would find me and my brother, Jim, crawling around in our friend’s backyard, groping for nightcrawlers. It wasn’t just for the fun of it – they were destined to be trout bait. Our favorite fishing hole was a pond bursting with rainbow trout about a mile from our house, buried in the woods behind a private Catholic girls’ school in Alpine, New Jersey.

We would sneak out of bed, get to the pond by 5:30 a.m., and start fishing in the dark. Once the first slice of dawn seared the horizon, the trout began to feed and the bite was on. Mr. Durkin, the resident groundskeeper, lived in a small house on the far side of the pond. If he saw us fishing, he would yell from across the pond, or jump in his truck, and drive over to chase us away. Either way, with Durkin, we always escaped. Maybe he meant it that way.

But the nuns were a different story. The school was run by strict nuns who wore traditional black habits with headpieces and tight white wimples – like facial spats – covering their cheeks and throats. They didn’t drive or yell or make any noise at all – they walked peacefully along the road, approaching in total silence. They were easy to miss. If you didn’t look up often enough to check the road, one of those holy zombies could sneak right up on you.

“Penguin at two o’clock,” Jimmy whispered urgently, reeling in his line so fast his worm periodically launched out of the water.

Sure enough, there was a nun, waddling slowly toward us on the dirt road that ran along the right side of the pond. Her hands were clasped under her belly, where an oversized wooden cross gently swayed and bounced with each measured stride. She was at least 75 yards away – an easy exit. I nervously reeled in my line, while Jimmy jammed the knife and other gear into the tackle box, snapping it shut.

“Move yer ass, here she comes!” he yelled, laughing nervously, and stumbling as he started to run. With a hooked nightcrawler dangling madly at the end of my pole, I grabbed the bait can and followed Jimmy, our feet thudding like gunshots on the rickety wooden dock.

The nun called out in her stern schoolteacher’s voice. “Stop you boys! Stop right there!” She had turned the corner of the pond, and was now only 20 yards away.

Why didn’t they ever run? Was it the clunky shoes? Or was running sinful somehow? Whatever the reason, we easily got away, whooping as we plunged down the steep dirt path into the woods on the far side of the road, our hearts hammering and rocks and dirt skittering around our ankles.

But not always. It was a glorious summer morning twenty minutes after dawn. A fat rainbow trout exploded to the surface and grabbed Jimmy’s bait, then darted away, tugging frantically as it knifed through the water in quicksilver flashes. It dove again, taking out line, then doubled back to leap in a graceful arc above the surface, scattering jeweled droplets as it shook its head from side to side, trying to throw the hook.

Within a half hour, we had two fat fish on the dock, and had lost four more to broken lines or thrown hooks. Rainbow trout are beautiful. Black freckly spots cover their back and fins, and a pink sorbet stripe runs in a festive banner from gills to tail. After they’re dead a while, the colors start to fade, and ours were looking that way now. The bite was slowing down anyway, so we decided it was time to go.

And there, at the end of the dock, stood a stern-faced nun.

“You aren’t supposed to fish here, you know,” she said, pursing her lips in disapproval. We’d been caught by the nun Gestapo!

“What are your names?” she commanded. We answered sheephishly; automatically.

“Jim Smith.”

“Bob Smith.”

She jerked her neck, peckish, and fixed us with a solemn squint.
“Lying is a grave sin.”

We shrugged. How could you prove your identity at age 14 – show your ninth grade report card?

“Now get out of here and don’t come back.” We started to gather our things. “And throw those fish back in the water.”

They’d been lying motionless on the dock for a half hour. Jimmy picked one up by the tail and cradled its head with his other hand, bobbing it in the water to move fluid over the gills as if to coax it to life. We both knew it was a hopeless gesture, but the nun needed to understand.

“See, sister? They’re dead. There’s no point,” he pleaded.

Like a startled turtle, she withdrew a bit back into her wimple, making the doughy skin squish further out around the edges. Her pale eyes were watery, but unwavering. She shook her head. We picked up both fish – dead, and still as stones. The pond looked opaque; a crystal carpet dancing in the brilliant sun. We gently slid them below the surface and they quickly disappeared into the cool blackness. They wouldn’t float until later when they started to rot. By the time they rose to the surface they would be ghastly caricatures of rainbow trout – white-eyed, bloated and frayed, with all their colors drained to gray.

We gathered our things and glumly trudged down the path into the half-shadows of the woods, heading home. We stopped briefly to dump out our leftover nightcrawlers among the weeds by the stream. Most would get eaten by birds before they could dig in. But at least they had a chance.

Our Early Morning (and Undercover) Dig for Nightcrawlers

25 Thursday Jul 2013

Posted by in Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , ,

The plump purplish flesh of the slithering nightcrawler.

The plump, purple and fleshy nightcrawler. By Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

When we were in our early teens, my older brother Jim and I used to sneak out of bed at 4 a.m. on summer mornings to go trout fishing. It felt forbidden, secretive, and slightly dangerous, which made it glorious fun. I hope some kids today still do it. If so, they’ll need this primer on a critical part of the fishing ritual: gathering the bait.

Some people think you go fishing for trout with worms, but that’s strictly bush league. We used nightcrawlers. To call them worms would be an insult – worms are pink, small-bore, garish wrigglers. (See Margo’s blog on worms in apples.) Nightcrawlers, on the other hand, are lumbering logs of plump, purplish flesh that slither along the ground, regal and snake-like. Catching them required that we be nightcrawlers too – around 11 o’clock at night, after the day’s heat had dissipated, and the dampness that would be the morning dew was just starting to coalesce on the grass. Jimmy and I would grab a couple of empty coffee cans, and head for our friend Steve’s backyard. The yard was deep and dark, and there was a broad expanse of lush grass where nightcrawlers thrived. We would kneel down a few feet away from each other, each with a coffee can stationed by our side, and gently place our hands down on the ground in front of us. You had to be careful even then because if you came down too hard you might find one right under your hand, and be rudely reminded that they’re just tubes of juicy guts. Needless to say, when they burst, the mess sometimes travels straight back up into the face of the human crawler who caused the calamity.

Catching them was tricky. Once touched, the nightcrawler contracts as if electrocuted, instantly pulling its body back into its hole in the ground. The trick is to pinch its body between your fingers and your thumb as soon as you feel any movement under your hand. You have to pinch quickly, before its entire greasy body snap-slithers back below ground, and firmly enough to arrest its movement, but not so firmly that you pinch it into two pieces. Half a nightcrawler is a sad and useless thing – it wriggles blindly for a while but quickly withers to an inert purple stub in your bait can.

Once you firmly grabbed a crawler, you had to wait patiently. The worm would eventually start contracting back in the direction of the hole it started from, and that would tell you the direction you needed to pull to effect the extraction. If you pinched and tugged too soon, you might be pulling the wrong way, and only hasten the nightcrawlers’ journey home to its hole Every millimeter it got back into the ground made it less likely you’d be able to pull it out whole again.

Occasionally you’d come across one that was fully out of the ground, and you just picked it up, twisting and slimy, and dropped it into the can with the others. Other times, only an inch or two of a five-incher was protruding, and you pinched at air as the tip ducked from your grasp. For the rest, you waited – pinching firmly while waiting for the worm to tip its hand (so to speak). As soon as it pulled one way, you tugged in the opposite direction, maintaining firm but steady pressure on its plump body. Eventually, the worm would tire and its resistance would fail. Then the nightcrawler would lay slack, exhausted, and you could pull its entire length from the hole. In the can he would go, and you went back to gingerly patting your hands ahead of you in the dark grass.

On a good night it took us less than an hour to gather two dozen nightcrawlers – plenty for a morning of trout fishing. But we never put more nightcrawlers in the can than we needed for the next day of fishing, because catching them required that we understand them, and with that came, strange to say, a measure of respect for their right to live.

They taught me a valuable lesson, too: when life grabs you really hard, the direction in which you pull; the person or place you reflexively retreat to, is home.

Baseball Hits Home Run for Bridging Gaps, Bonding Males, and Recollecting Past

22 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , ,

arial view of stadium

Photos by Frank Terranella.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

As we move past the half-century mark, it’s natural to be bit by the nostalgia bug. More and more of our sentences begin with, “Remember when …” and “Years ago …”

It occurred to me recently while at Yankee Stadium that baseball is the nostalgia sport. The lords of baseball go out of their way to try to make us remember that long-ago September when Bucky Dent shocked the Red Sox, or the October when Reggie hit three home runs in one game. In my family, we all remember the April opening day in 1996 when we sat in the cold, and watched Andy Pettitte pitch in a snowstorm. The team went on to win its first World Series in 18 years. Yankee stadium

Because baseball is a sport that worships its past, it’s a great generational gap-bridge. It’s not unusual for three generations of a family to go to the ballpark together. During the Vietnam War, baseball was often the only way that many fathers and sons could have conversations that didn’t end with, “You’re an idiot!” Or “Get a haircut!”

Baseball kept the lines of communication open just long enough for mature and cooler heads to prevail. Back then, fathers could take their families to the ballpark, and the entire day would cost less than $100 – including hot dogs and beers. Today, two tickets will usually put you over $100. Add $12 beers and $7 hot dogs, and a trip to a major league ballpark has been converted from a regular pastime to a special occasion.

family sign

They spelled our name right.

My family recently planned one of those special occasions to Yankee Stadium. We had 22 people with us, so we qualified to buy tickets from group sales. That also qualified us to have our name on the scoreboard for a few seconds as the Yankees welcomed the Terranella family and friends. It was neat. In keeping with baseball’s mission of glorifying its past, Yankee Stadium features a full-blown museum in addition to Monument Park. This is like a mini hall of fame where plaques commemorate the legendary players of Yankee history. Grandfathers walk through, and point to Joe DiMaggio’s plaque and say, “I remember seeing him play in the 1949 World Series when they beat the Dodgers.”

Fathers point to Mickey Mantle’s plaque and say, “There was nobody better. Ever.” Sons look at Don Mattingly’s plaque and say wistfully, “If only he had played a few years later, he’d be in the Hall of Fame today.”

Now please don’t get me wrong. I know that women love baseball as much as men. My mother has been a fan for as long as I can remember. But I mention fathers and sons because I think that baseball is a key component of male bonding. But more than that, it fosters family bonding. Oh sure, there’s always one contrary family member who refuses on principle to root for the home team, but the ribbing that ensues is all in good fun. Baseball itself takes a lot of ribbing over being so slow. But I prefer to look at it as leisurely. Along with golf, it’s age-appropriate for those of us old enough to remember when there were only 16 teams, and pitchers batted in the American League. But it’s also age-appropriate for a five year old, who comes for the Cracker Jack and cotton candy. Come to think of it, I can’t think of a better way to spend a summer’s day.

My Former Tot, and His First Tattoo

17 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Bob tat

BY BOB SMITH

My older son, 28 years old, got his first tattoo the other day (I say “first” because he’s already talking about the next tattoo.) Now I’m going to sound old, but it’s true – it seems like only months ago he was a chubby, cheerful toddler. Now he’s grown up and tatted up.

His tattoo, he tells me, is the Smith coat of arms. That seems right – it pretty much coats his right arm from approximately mid-bicep to the shoulder. He assures me it’s designed to be fully obscured by a short sleeve shirt in the event he’s in a non-tat friendly crowd someday and wants to keep his ink to himself.

It features in the center a shield with three extended arms – one holding a vertical sword and the other two together grasping what appears to be a torch. At the top of the design, like the crest on a helmet, is yet another arm holding a sword perpendicular to the sword below. It looks as though the bearer of that second sword is buried in the intricate scrollwork and curlicues that adorn the top of the shield, and may be trying to hack his or her way out.

There’s also a banner across the bottom with the Latin words, “Tenebras expellit et hostes,” which means, “He expels the darkness and the enemy.” My son didn’t even like high school Italian, and completely skipped Latin, but now he proudly displays some of that dead language on his very living arm. Go figure.

But I must say that overall it’s an impressive piece of artwork. That’s particularly true considering that it took five painstaking (and pain-giving) hours to etch the lines into my son’s skin, with the artist having to continually wipe away blood and excess ink in order to see where the next line of color should be laid in. Bob Jr. is thrilled with it.

I’m less thrilled, but that has nothing to do with the quality of the tattoo. I think it’s a generational thing. When I was a kid, people with tattoos fell into three general categories: carnival gypsies in movies (think Anthony Quinn with dark makeup and a bandanna on his head), crusty Navy veterans sporting a Popeye-style forearm anchor with the name of some rusty old tub emblazoned on a banner below, or criminals. My earliest memory of prison tats is of the LOVE and HATE tattoos on Robert Mitchum’s fingers in the film “Night of the Hunter.” The tats were simple and crude, yet effective, and we were terrified of Robert Mitchum in that role.

Then there were the “naughty” tattoos: the mermaid inside a scallop shell, with wide saucy hips, folded scaly tail, and large breasts jutting proudly from her chest amidst a cascade of wavy hair. The breasts could be confirmed to be anatomically correct, or not, depending on the placement of the locks of hair. Or the religious tattoos: a pulsing red heart encircled by a crown of thorns, and an inscription such as, “Dear Jesus” across the front. This design also came with an optional vertical dagger through the heart. In that iteration, this tattoo bore the inscription, “Born to Die.” Or sometimes, with roses substitued for the thorns, the heart said, “Mom.”

And then there were the super-religious tattoos where the person’s entire back was covered with an image of Jesus in the repose of death, as if the tattooee had lain on the shroud of Turin, and the image transferred to his back like a newspaper photo onto a piece of Silly Putty. People with this kind of giant mural tattoo seemed to also go for the “narrative” tattoos: pictures that twirl around their arms, torso, and/or legs, and depict the story of the Old Testament, World War I, or the entire Star Wars series – pick your epic tale.

And it was unheard of for women to get tattoos at all.

In part because of the unsavory reputation of tattoos we saw on the older generation, it seems that baby boomers as a whole never really jumped on the tattoo bandwagon. My son’s generation, however, is different. Girls and guys alike get all sorts of tattoos, large and small, to make a permanent fashion or other statement on the canvas of their own bodies. It’s hip and totally acceptable, and I have no problem with it – as long as you don’t try to stencil a picture onto me with a zillion stabs of an ink-covered needle.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if the trend will skip generations again. When my children and their friends start to have babies, will those kids growing up look at the “older” generation (our kids) and generally shun the idea simply because it’s too status quo?

I can hear them taunting their parents now:
“Tattoos? That’s so millennial. So yesterday. Get with it, Dad.”

Enjoy the tats, kids, but don’t count on passing on a tradition.

A Hail to the Chiefs: Lincoln Among Presidents Who Served in Their 50s

15 Monday Jul 2013

Posted by in Concepts, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

P1170371There’s a Lot Right about Being in Your 50s. By Julie Seyler.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

It’s summer reading time, and this year my summer reading includes Doris Kearns Goodwin’s 2005 biography of Abraham Lincoln called, “Team of Rivals.” It’s all about how Lincoln stocked his administration with men who were his rivals for the Republican presidential nomination in 1860. It’s extremely detailed with lots of great material about Lincoln’s life and, more importantly, a glimpse into his mindset. A small part of it was the basis for the Spielberg film, “Lincoln” where the 16th president was portrayed by Daniel Day-Lewis.

This year, we’re commemorating the 150th anniversary of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Lincoln was 54 when he delivered it. Less than two years later, he would be dead. So the Great Emancipator never made it out of his 50s. His entire presidency ran from less than a month after his 52nd birthday to a couple of months after his 56th birthday. It’s a bit unsettling to think that I have already lived longer than Lincoln ever did.

I have done some research and found that Lincoln was not unusual in being in his 50s while president. According to Wikipedia, the median age when our U.S. presidents took office is 54 years and 11 months. Most of our presidents served at least part of their term while in their 50s. The list of presidents who served their entire term while in their 50s includes (in addition to Lincoln), Martin Van Buren, John Tyler, Millard Fillmore, Rutherford B. Hayes, Chester Arthur, Benjamin Harrison, William McKinley, William Taft, Warren Harding, Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover, Jimmy Carter and George W. Bush.

What I glean from this is that our society feels that people in their 50s can be trusted with the reins of government. They have enough experience through more than a half-century of living so that their judgment is sound, and yet they are not so old that they no longer have the energy to do the job. Looked at this way, being in your 50s is the sweet spot in life. You’re at the precipice of ability. Oh sure, there’s a long slope to senility ahead. But for now, for many in their 50s, it’s the top of the world.

A “Bennie” Now Comes, Instead of Goes, Home

12 Friday Jul 2013

Posted by in Confessional

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , ,

The Bennies are here. Photocollage by Julie Seyler.

The Bennies are here. Photocollage by Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

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.

It’s July 4th. I’ll Be Watching “1776”

03 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , ,

1776

By FRANK TERRANELLA

I was a history major in college, and I still read more books in the history genre than any other genre. I think that knowledge of history provides the same sort of long-view perspective that age does. I also have been a lifelong lover of theater. And so it is not surprising that one of my favorite musicals, “1776,” combined my love of history and theater. The musical concentrates on the days prior to the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Writer Peter Stone did a masterful job of crafting an enjoyable show without sacrificing historical accuracy. Oh sure, he combined some characters, and took some liberties with the timing of events, but he managed to preserve the essence of the story, and got all the major details right. Sherman Edwards wrote the great score.

The show was on Broadway in 1969-1972, in anticipation of the approaching bicentennial in 1976. William Daniels played John Adams, Ken Howard was Thomas Jefferson and Howard DaSilva was Ben Franklin. The trio reprised their roles in the 1972 movie.

I wish I could say that I saw it on Broadway, but I didn’t. My first contact with the show was a production at my college. I was briefly the theater critic on my college paper, and “1776” was one of the shows I reviewed. Needless to say, I gave it a rave review, and then enjoyed the film version as well.

I bring all this up because there is July 4th tradition at my house. Every year since the DVD of “1776” was released more than a decade ago, I play the movie on the morning of July 4th. It serves to remind me, and my family, why we have the day off. It also serves to remind me what is good about this country. It is so easy to lose sight of the founders’ dream in a world where Democrats and Republicans cannot agree on anything. It shows that people from disparate backgrounds can, when they try hard, reach a compromise that furthers the public good.

In the case of “1776,” the compromise was over whether slavery would continue in the new nation being formed. Despite the wishes of Adams, Franklin and Jefferson that slavery be phased out, Southern insistence on preserving their “peculiar institution” threatened to sink the new ship of state before it could be launched. The three founders saw that they could not stand on the principle that “all men are created equal,” but instead had to essentially “kick the can down the road” by maintaining the slavery status-quo in the interest of giving birth to a new nation. It was left to men of Abraham Lincoln’s generation to deal with the issue, four score and seven years later.

Watching “1776” each year provides some perspective on the turbulent political time we have been experiencing since 2001. It provides a reminder that statesmen (and women) who put the good of the country over partisan principle are the people who will be revered by later generations. Give it a watch this year. It’s usually on television around the 4th. Your Independence Day experience will be all the richer for it.

The Treadmill: A Fast Run-in-Place, to Slow Down Time

02 Tuesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , ,

treadmillBY BOB SMITH

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.

I’ve Seen the Writing on the (Bathroom) Wall

24 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by in Art, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, ,

Philosophy in the Loo.

Philosophy in the Loo. By Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

Bathroom graffiti was an art form in the ’70s, and nowhere was it more varied and interesting than in the men’s rooms at Rutgers University. Of course, there were the crude illustrations of exaggerated phalluses, assorted orifices, and the two, conjoined, drawn with varying degrees of skill. But it was the wordplay that got me. I recall a wry trilogy of quotes:

“To be is to do.” Socrates
“To do is to be.” Sartre
“Do be do be do.” Sinatra

Today, online, they sell t-shirts that display those quotes.

Or a couplet, beginning with this plaintive cry in a looping, extravagant script: “My mother made me a homosexual!”

To which some wag replied: “Cool. If I send her the wool, do you think she’ll make me one too?”

There were also pithy declarations: “Patty Schasty does the nasty.”  

Which could be viewed as a slur. or an endorsement, depending on your point of view. Ms. Schasty’s purported phone number accompanied the post, but I didn’t take it down. I wonder if anyone ever calls those numbers? It’s like a country song about loneliness – your phone number’s on the bathroom wall but you still can’t get a date.

Once I saw a listing of 40 slang terms for female genitalia, all in different handwriting. They ranged from disgustingly misogynistic to poetic, and after a week had spawned a companion list, equally extensive, covering the male organ. Puerile?  Absolutely. But fascinating, too, to see how much mental energy people expend on the subject.

One incident was particularly disturbing. I was in the basement bathroom of the main library one afternoon, using the facilities and enjoying the artwork on the stall wall.   To my right, above the roll of toilet paper, was the notation, “Right here Wednesday 4 p.m. good time had by all!”  As I toyed with whether that was a historical note or an invitation to a future meeting, someone noisily entered the adjacent stall. I realized with a jolt that this was Wednesday. I checked my watch – 3:55.

As my new neighbor went about the usual business, I wondered: is this anyone’s idea of a romantic setting? I made ready to exit, but as I hastily pawed at the roll of paper I hit the separating wall twice, making noises that a hopeful suitor might easily interpret as an eager knock.  My heart sank – there seemed to be a corresponding rush to paper on the other side.

I quickly exited the stall, strode to the sink with eyes downcast, and began washing my hands. The occupant of the adjacent stall appeared alongside me, and began to do the same. I considered furtively glancing to my right to see if he was checking me out but realized that if he were, and if he saw me do that, wouldn’t he think I was checking him out? Is that the drill?  Furtive glance followed by knowing wink followed by an invitation to my stall or yours?  Yikes!

Luckily, he finished washing his hands, and simply walked out, clearly not seeking a rendezvous. I left quickly too, afraid the true author of the scrawled invitation might show up slightly late, searching for love. I had washed my hands thoroughly, but I still felt slightly soiled.

Memories of a Golf Caddy

20 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , ,

Frank Terranella caddies.

Frank Terranella: Caddy. Art by Julie Seyler.

By FRANK TERRANELLA

I’ve always found that June is the prime golf month in the New York area. In May, courses are still not done recovering from the winter. In July, the grass begins to burn out, and the tees and greens begin to show the wear and tear of hordes of weekend golfers.

I grew up with golf. In fact, I spent every summer from when I was 14 until I was 22 caddying at a New Jersey country club. I was never a good golfer, but I enjoyed caddying.  You got to accompany people out having a good time. I can assure you it beats the hell out of accompanying them to court as I did later in life as a lawyer. Sure, the work was sometimes hard when the mercury hit 90, and the golf bags you were carrying were the size of a Buick, but you really can’t beat a job where you are paid for essentially taking a walk in the country.

Caddies came in two varieties – the schoolboys and the adults. The adult caddies, many of whom were on the right side of 50, ranged from family men who caddied on their days off, to winos who often tried to win enough at the caddyshack card game so they didn’t have to walk the course at all. More often than not, we would see these guys out on the course in late afternoon sun struggling to climb the 14th hole.

Golf carts have been around for decades, and they were in full use back when I was caddying. But the country club where I worked had a rule that was typical of the time – they required members to hire a caddy, even if they rented a cart. The caddy would just carry putters, advise the golfer on distances, and keep track of hit golf balls. This bit of featherbedding had the salutary effect of providing many jobs, not just for teens, but also for men who caddied to supplement their incomes. Notice I say “men,” because women, even if they could physically handle the job (and many could), would not be hired as caddies at most country clubs back then.

In addition to not hiring women caddies, back in the “Mad Men” days, many country clubs also restricted when women could play golf. The club would usually designate one or two days a week as ladies days. Women could also play on Sunday afternoons, but only if they were accompanied by their husbands. So there were large periods of time when only men were on the course. And of course, all the caddies were male. The members justified this segregation by saying that they wanted to be able to swear without having to worry about offending ladies. The thing was, when we caddied for women, they used just as much foul language when they missed a shot. I think the real reason why men wanted to play without women was because they seemed to take perverse pleasure in unzipping their fly and relieving themselves anywhere along the course. As a caddy, it was my job sometimes to act as lookout and a shield for a shy golfer who didn’t want to be seen heeding the call of nature.

But there was an art to being a good caddy. You had to be out of sight until just the moment when the golfer needed you. You had to offer encouragement after a bad shot. You had to share, with the golfer, your expert knowledge of the course you walked every day. And like all personal service jobs, you had to do it with a smile, even when the golfer cursed you out because a club clattered while he was putting.

After my caddying days ended, I lost touch with golf. Perhaps one of the joys of retirement one day may be to rediscover the game.  But certainly at this time of year, when I smell dew-covered grass on a summer morning, I think back to my youthful days on the links.