Tag Archives: Men

Much Like Deer in the Woods, Tomorrow Will Take Care of Itself

06 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by in Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, ,

Frank deer

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

When you’re young, it’s easy to put things off to some unspecified future time. After all, when you’re younger than 40, you probably have more future ahead of you than you have past or present. It seems like there’s a lot of room in that attic for storage of dreams. But as we age into the right side of 50, the amount of future time left to us begins to shrink to a point where the idea that putting off things (such as pleasure) to a future time is no longer a viable plan. Those of us in the 50+ club have to live in the present.

I was reminded of this in church, of all places, as I attended services this week. While there’s some silly stuff in the Bible, there’s also a lot of wisdom. In fact, there’s a whole book in the Bible called “Wisdom.” And there’s also a book of Proverbs. It seems to me that a lot of the purpose of the Bible was to write down the collected wisdom of the herd. Unfortunately, some of the thoughts of the lunatic fringe made it in as well.

Anyway, the Bible reading was from the Gospel of Matthew. The evangelist quotes Jesus as saying to his followers: “Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself.” (Matthew 6:34.)

And if I was in a more evangelical kind of church, I would have shouted, “Amen.” But Catholics aren’t into public displays of emotion and so I remained silent. But it seems to me that these are words to live by for us over-50 folks. We need to be present. We need to not put off anything we can enjoy now to the future, because the future is growing short, and what there is, is not guaranteed.

Now, I know that Fleetwood Mac urged us to “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow.” But the message of that song was not to dwell on the past because “Yesterday’s gone …” It’s the same sentiment that Little Orphan Annie expresses in her “Tomorrow,” where the sum will come out. It’s okay to look to tomorrow optimistically; it’s wrong to worry about it.

Recently, I was looking out at the backyard of my mother’s house in suburban New Jersey. Suddenly about 10 deer appeared, all foraging for food in the snow. Sadly, this has become an all-too-common sight, as human developments have encroached on traditional deer habitats.

But these deer live day to day. They don’t worry about tomorrow. Finding food today, and staying warm is their focus in these winter months. And it occurs to me that our cave-dwelling ancestors did likewise. They may not have lived as long as we do now, but I’ll bet they enjoyed every minute they had when they weren’t working to feed and clothe themselves.

I know that some people can’t help worrying about tomorrow and everything else. Will the 401(k) be enough to live on? Will Medicare allow me to see the doctors I want to see? Will I be able to stay in my house? But even those people can resolve to enjoy today, and be present enough to notice the details like the beautiful scene the snow has created in the trees, or the rosy cheeks on a three-year-old playing in a park on a cold winter’s day. Being present means enjoying what is before you, and not thinking about what’s next. Because tomorrow will take care of itself.

A Day of Rejoicing, and then Mourning, for the Terranellas

27 Thursday Feb 2014

Posted by in Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, ,

Karin

Frank and Karin.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

As regular readers of this blog know, a few weeks ago my first grandchild was born. Bryce David is doing fine – gaining weight on mother’s milk. Life is new for him, and the long and winding road of life stretches out before him. I’m sure he will enjoy the ride. But as some sort of cosmic balance, on the very day that we gained a Terranella, we lost one.

You may recall last year that I visited by cousin in Copenhagen who shares the same name with me. While we were there, we got to spend some time with my cousin’s wife, Karin. Karin is the reason my American-born cousin has lived in Denmark for the past 40-odd years. Frank was seduced by the charms of a free-spirited Danish girl, and gave up a life in America to enjoy a long and happy marriage with her.

However, on the evening of the day (our time) that Bryce was born, Karin lost her battle with cancer. She was barely into her 60s. She was diagnosed just a few weeks before, and the end came rapidly. Perhaps that is a blessing. Frank was spared having to watch his mate for the better part of five decades suffer for months. She went quickly.

Frank and Karin’s story is full of memorable years together. And so it was more than appropriate that a memorable recording was played at her funeral. A Danish singer called Kira recorded a soulful version of “I’ll Be Seeing You,” in the style of Billie Holiday. That recording was played at Karin’s funeral. If you have never heard this recording I recommend that you download it immediately, particularly if you are a fan of jazz.

The words of the song are so poignant that I will never be able to listen to it again without thinking of Karin. And it seems to me that this song expresses universally the longing for a lost mate that is so much a part of life for many of us over 50.
The song by Sammy Fain and Irving Kahal begins:

I’ll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day and through

In that small cafe
The park across the way
The children’s carousel
The chestnut trees, the wishing well

While the song became popular during World War II as GIs went off to war in Europe and the Pacific, what widow or widower cannot embrace these words? The lives of married folk are filled with little moments like this – a cappuccino at a small café, a picnic in the park. How could we not see our loved one after they are gone in all those old familiar places? The song continues:

I’ll be seeing you
In every lovely summer’s day
In everything that’s light and gay
I’ll always think of you that way

I’ll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I’ll be looking at the moon
But I’ll be seeing you

Morning, noon and night we constantly remember a lost loved one, and live with the pain of separation. But the beautiful memories of a life together can bring us through. So, farewell Karin. You were taken from us much too early. But we’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places, and we’ll smile.

Old, Retiree Pool-Talk Sank My Young Heart

21 Friday Feb 2014

Posted by in Men, Travel

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Bob pool

BY BOB SMITH

We recently visited Sarasota, Florida to shop for a condominium near the Gulf of Mexico. Now that both of us are retired, there seems little point to hunkering down all winter in frigid New Jersey when we could just as easily be spending those ugly eight weeks called January and February on a powdery beach drinking Coronas at sunset. Given the particular nastiness of winter in the Northeast this year, that seems like an ideal plan.

Still, I’m a bit reluctant, at the relatively early age of 59, to take on the role of full-fledged “snowbird.” What’s next – hitching my pants up to my nipples and shuffling into deserted restaurants for early bird dinners? Wearing loafers and black socks with baggy golf shorts? Surreptitiously shoveling sugar packets, fruit, and rolls from the all-you-can-eat buffet into my voluminous old geezer pants pockets?

Maybe someday, I suppose. But for now, we’ll be the “cool” and “younger” retirees enjoying the “Florida lifestyle.” We’ll boldly stride into the early bird dinner without walkers, and “go commando” That’s right – no incontinence underwear at all. Woo-hoo!

We stayed at a friend’s condominium, located in Bradenton. The complex is tucked into a lush green enclave hidden in a tract of land between two nondescript Florida four-lane roads. The bordering streets are lined with drugstores, strip malls, movie theaters and, of course, a Publix and a Wal-Mart. Inside the complex, however, you’re in a mini tropical forest dotted with exotic colorful flowers, vines, and broad-leafed plants and trees. Oh yeah, and nine million tiny lizards. Walk anywhere, and three or four of these two-inch critters will scurry across your path, scrambling frantically to get out of the way. They’ll stop, look around, then dart away again, peripatetic refugees from a Geico commercial.

We went to the pool, and my heart sank as I overheard the conversations around me. One slim, older, gentleman in the hot tub was explaining to two women on the patio nearby the difference between wet and dry macular degeneration (Apparently, in addition to the obvious moisture-related distinction, one is far more threatening to the eyesight and harder to treat.) While he droned on about the potential total loss of central vision, and the relatively benign need to treat it by taking a prophylactic needle to the eyeball every couple of weeks, one of the women (a spry mid-60’s type) noted that the other woman was now using a cane – which she had carefully set aside before starting her gingerly descent into the bubbling whirlpool.

“Yeah, I don’t really need it, but it makes me feel better,” Ms. Cane sighed as she slowly settled into the swirling bubbles. “That feels good – not too hot.”

“They were talking about raising the temperature in the hot tubs at the board meeting the other night,” wet/dry Mack pointed out, with only his chin jutting above the surface. “I’m glad they didn’t. This is just right.”

“Not too hot, not too cold,” Ms. Cane agreed, her bathing suit skirt coyly rippling above semi-submerged tree-trunk thighs. “Come on in, Grace, the water’s fine.”

“I don’t think you’re using that cane right, though,” said Grace, picking it up and twirling it a-la-Charlie Chaplin before setting the black rubberized end down on the concrete.

She proceeded to explain that a cane is intended to support the weak side, but only temporarily, and only lightly, and that you can develop a rhythm and really walk at quite a smart pace with your aluminum third leg. She demonstrated by taking a couple of relatively nimble, aided circuits around the hot tub, with wet/dry Mack and Ms. Cane expressing approval amidst the bubbles.

Blah, blah, blah.

My eyes glazed over as I dozed on the lounge chair eight feet away. I had intended to soak in the hot tub, but demurred for fear of getting drawn into the gang-of-three’s scintillating discussion of degradation and decay. I thought about taking a swim instead. At the low end of the pool a straw-thin guy with a floppy hat, wraparound visor sunglasses, and a zinc-white nose, was doing ultra-slow laps – walking, not swimming – while three bulbous older women, their backs supported by buoyant neon noodles, kicked their way down the length of the pool, chatting chummily. That didn’t seem like the place for me either.

I read my newspaper, and dozed in the warm sun, imagining myself on a beach with people who didn’t appear to be on the verge of death. Young, supple, energetic folks with muscular bodies, firm butts, high-proud breasts, and vibrant manes of non-blue hair. The only problem with that fantasy is that, to those fictional nymphs and Greek gods, I’m as decrepit as Ms. Cane and wet/dry Mack.

I read my newspaper by the pool. I dozed. I daydreamed. I exchanged innocuous pleasantries with the hard-core retirees around me, hoping perhaps that if I refused to participate in their conversations, or acknowledged our shared concerns, I could delay the inevitable.

Who am I kidding? I have met the enemy, and he is me.

From E-Mail to Facebook: Making Contact

18 Tuesday Feb 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Screenshot Ken
BY KENNETH KUNZ

Years ago, after Al Gore ” … took the initiative in creating the Internet,” and we all wondered, having newly acquired our first PC, how we’d ever master that mouse-thingie in trying to navigate the ever-disappearing arrow it supposedly controlled, I became wrapped up in e-mailing folks.

And the “You’ve Got Mail” ping was ALMOST as nice as getting a snail mail letter in simpler times. A negative side effect of the new phenomenon, however, was that there were too many users who kind of hid behind an e-mail, rather than actually speak to a friend, vendor, or client one-to-one via phone. Some of those folks still do.

Nevertheless, I started using e-mail as a viable business tool, slowly replacing my use of the fax machine (hated that irritating sound anyway), but, more importantly, I e-mailed friends and relatives to keep in touch like I had not done previously. I had, indeed, kept close contact with many people over the years, but e-mail let me expand that realm.

I remember e-mailing a cousin, and apologizing for not having stayed in touch as much as I probably should have in the past. Like all of us, life got in the way, and time restraints kept my overall correspondence to a relative minimum. At least that’s my company line
rationalization for the void. My cousin’s response to my apology was that it didn’t matter what we did, or didn’t do, in the past, we ARE keeping in touch now. How sweet of her to say so!

And it was proof positive that no matter what doors we avoided, or went through over the years, we ended up where we are for whatever reason and that, succinctly, is the way it is. “Live each day,” and all those other clichés that all so often become inescapable truisms.

Nowadays, social media has exploded, and I keep in touch with so many people that I heretofore hadn’t on a regular basis. It is a wonderful experience! There are, of course, those inane Facebook posts, tweets, and such. I am surely not a fan of knowing how many reps you did in the gym today (unless you’re recovering from an injury or dealing with an illness), some lame info about a celebrity, a barb aimed at an athlete, or an inappropriate, unsubstantiated, misguided political rant. But those posts that include inspirational thoughts, humorous insights, musical rarities, PSAs, or family photos are priceless. And welcomed.

It is nice to have smiles provided on a daily basis. It is also so cool to just reconnect with people with whom we were close in the past. With contact now rekindled, we share our views and emotions that remain similar, just like they were years ago, despite our separate life journeys. Comforting, I think, to remember why we liked each other in the first place, and that we still possess those same traits, likes and dislikes.

Rather neat, as well, to have actually made new friends in the past few years and be able to converse with them in shared experiences. Always amazes me that we can get close to new people in our respective “advanced ages.” Point is, we really are all in this together.

Our world has become quite small indeed, and we are all now most assuredly citizens of a global village. Constant contact keeps us close, keeps our optimism positive, and our faith strong. It allows us to, vent, kibitz, philosophize, laugh, cry … and share it all with all true friends.

It makes it lovely to be here on the good Earth.

Keep in touch, y’all!

PEACE.

A (Hopeful) Thumbs-Up for Voltaren

12 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , ,

bob thumb

BY BOB SMITH

We’ve had a number of “physical decay” entries in this blog during the past couple of weeks. Not to pile on, but here’s my story:

For the past week, at least three times every day, I’ve taken a couple of grams of a white drug that you lay down in a line on a card. Yeah, you guessed it: I’m doing VOLTAREN.voltaren Although it sounds like the name of a Star Trek villain from the planet Org, it’s innocuous, perfectly legal, and no fun at all. It’s a topical gel whose active ingredient is diclofenac sodium, a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug used to treat sore or inflamed joints and muscles. You rub it into the affected area (the tendons that attach my left thumb to my hand), and it’s supposed to seep in there, and relieve the pain.

This sounds suspiciously like ASPERCREME, or BEN GAY, or any of a dozen other old-fashioned liniments and ointments our grandparents used to use. I distinctly recall, years ago, seeing Maria’s grandmother diligently rubbing ASPERCREME into her gnarled, arthritis-ridden fingers, day after day, and thinking it was a total waste of her time and money. Well, the laugh – and the goopy gel of dubious therapeutic value – is now on me.

The weird thing is, I have no idea how I got tendonitis in the first place. My doctor says it’s common among gamers and others, like compulsive smart-phone users, who constantly repeat, for hours every day, sweeping, scrolling, and clicking motions with that thumb. That’s not me. Somehow, I got the pain without the hours of pleasure of putting Angry Birds through their paces or rapid-firing virtual automatic weapons at endless hordes of baddies.

Worse yet, I don’t even think the gel is working. It takes quite a bit of rubbing and massaging to get it to soak in, and when I’m done I imagine for a few brief moments that the pain seems to fade. But wouldn’t I get that effect from six minutes of massage with regular old hand lotion?

Let’s consider my options if this goop doesn’t do it: There’s acupuncture if I want to go the age-old-but-pooh-pooh’ed-by-modern-medicine approach, or the reportedly instant gratification awaiting me if I let them inject cortisone into the joint. They say the only thing that hurts after a cortisone shot is the spot where they poked you with the needle (and your bank account if it’s not covered), but there’s also the rumor that once you go down the cortisone road, there’s no turning back.

Let’s hope the mighty VOLTAREN does the job. Because if that glorified ASPERCREME doesn’t cut it, my choices are a bunch of little needles that might or might not work, or one bigger needle that almost surely will work but may doom me to a life of ever-less-effective injections. Do I want to be a human pincushion, or just another cortisone junkie?

And they say getting old isn’t any fun. Gotta go now – time to do another two-gram line.

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

11 Tuesday Feb 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , ,

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

‘Lovin50’ Plate: Vanity? Revelry? Polygamy?

04 Tuesday Feb 2014

Posted by in Art, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , ,

loving 50 plate

BY BOB SMITH

I saw this vanity license plate (LOVIN50), while driving on Route 66 the other day. Is it a confession of polygamy? If so, this guy (or gal) would rival Brigham Young, who, according to some sources, reportedly had up to 55 wives. Then again, even if you had 50 spouses, would you really be “LOVIN50”? You’d probably be indifferent to at least a few, and downright dislike another dozen or two. It’s also been reported by some sources, that even Brigham Young had divorced 10 of his 55 wives by the time he died (stone deaf and exhausted, no doubt).

Or is the license plate a commemoration of 50 years of marriage between Loretta (LO) and Vincent (VIN)? That’s a stretch. Besides, the car wasn’t going 15 in a 55-mile-zone with a little white head, and glasses, peering over the steering wheel.

The most likely explanation seems to be that the driver recently rolled the birthday odometer over from 4 to 5, and is reveling in this happy decade after youthful insecurities have mostly melted away, and before outright decay entirely sets in – Whoopee! I’m 50 and LOVIN’ it!

At age 20, or even 30, I would have been nauseated at the thought of proclaiming my age like that. But once you’re in your 50s, you gain valuable perspective – namely, who gives a crap what other people think? You’re mature enough to sport a vanity license plate that shows both humility (admitting advancing age) and chutzpah (and I’m just fine with that).

I wonder if the driver has reserved LOVIN60 against the day when he or she rolls up to the next decade? Then again, by then, maybe they’ll just be LIKIN’ it.

Memories of Super Bowl XX: We Scored Big

03 Monday Feb 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , ,

Frank with baby

David was born on the Monday after Super Bowl XX, 1986.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

There is no more compelling demonstration of the circle of life than the coming of a new baby. If all goes well, my family will add a new member next month. And as my son and daughter-in-law prepare for the miracle that is childbirth, I am inevitably drawn back to January 26, 1986, the day before my son was born.

It was a Sunday, but not just any Sunday. It was Super Bowl Sunday. Super Bowl XX to be precise. Mike Ditka and the Chicago Bears defeated the New England Patriots by the score of 46–10 at the Louisiana Superdome in New Orleans, Louisiana. Quarterback Jim McMahon and running back Walter Payton led a team that featured a rookie lineman named William “Refrigerator” Perry.

Pat with babyThat morning of Super Bowl Sunday, my wife Pat began to feel labor pains. We were living in Clifton, New Jersey at the time, having just moved there four months before from Bergen County. That is why our obstetrician was in Englewood, nearly 20 miles away. To make matters worse, the forecast was for snow that evening. Pat called her doctor who said to wait a few hours and then come into Englewood Hospital. Rather than just sit home and wait, I proposed that we should both go to my office in Englewood Cliffs, and she could wait there while I tied up some loose ends to ease my being away from the office for a few days. The beauty of that was that if my wife’s labor progressed more rapidly than the doctor thought, we would be only 10 minutes away from the hospital.

Finally, we got to the hospital around game time as light snow began to fall. The hospital staff was ready for us. But we found out that our child was not yet ready to be born. Labor continued through the evening and long after the Super Bowl celebrations were over. Midnight came and went, and Pat proposed that we go home and come back tomorrow. The nurses smiled knowingly, and turned up the IV drip to try to move things along. Three a.m. came and went, and then the sun rose on the two of us – both looking as miserable as we felt. There were now whispers of C-section among the nurses, but the doctor who came in at 7 a.m., looking fresh as a daisy, felt that we should give natural childbirth just a few more hours.

And so the hours dragged on. By 9 a.m., there was still nothing imminent, and Pat had now been in labor for more than 24 hours. At one point that morning, she looked at me with a face that combined pain with frustration. I smiled because it reminded me of an old Bill Cosby routine where the suffering wife sits up during labor and yells at her husband, “You did this to me!!”

The clock passed 10 a.m., and by now it seemed like every other woman in the maternity corridor had already given birth. The doctor came in and upped the drugs again, and as the clock hit noon, there was finally some real action. Pat was rushed to the delivery room, and I donned my scrubs and mask to accompany her. David arrived at 12:32 p.m.. The nurse asked whether I wanted to cut the umbilical cord, and I politely declined.

After an all-night vigil, I was punchy, and feared I would harm the child. So the doctor did the honors, and soon afterward the nurse handed me my son. I was shaking as I held him, and tears flowed freely. Meanwhile, Pat had made a remarkable recovery. She was smiling, and the entire labor experience was just a distant memory. I swear that Mother Nature does this to trick women into having more children.

As I look back at the birth of my son, I can only marvel that my child will soon be at his wife’s side as I was, and my child will soon experience the complete joy of meeting his son for the first time. It’s the circle of life, and isn’t it grand.

Shingles: A Pain in the Back

29 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , ,

shingles 1

BY KENNETH KUNZ

During my annual physical a couple of years back, my primary care provider (once known as family doctor), asked me if I had ever had chicken pox. I confidently responded that I had not. Indeed, for my entire adult life, for fear of contracting the condition, I had stayed away from children with chicken pox, those possibly about to get chicken pox, and any young person just getting over chicken pox. Doc chuckled rather condescendingly, and said that many of his patients insisted that they, too, had never had chicken pox. Yet, upon testing, were almost always proved wrong. He ordered the appropriate blood test for me to convince me I was mistaken as well.

On a follow up visit soon after, he reviewed the test results, and sure enough I was correct! I would have remembered the scars I told him, in a most non-condescending tone. He shook his head, smiled and actually apologized for doubting me. But now we had to get me a chicken pox vaccination posthaste because adults who had had chicken pox in their youth are prone to contracting shingles. He wrote me a script to get vaccinated.

After enduring a few months of dealing with a bit of a rigmarole involving matters such as who covered what, and when a supply could be ordered, I ended up back where I started at my PCP’s office, and he ordered the special serum. In two separate sessions, I was vaccinated, then boostered. I felt great – comforted knowing that now I wouldn’t have to worry about shingles (which I had always heard could be quite painful). I also always thought it was one of the goofier sounding conditions one had to admit going through.

I have had intermittent lower back (lumbar) pain since my twenties due to more things than I can remember. I imagine most of us can make that claim. I have often said that as soon as Homo sapiens finally stood erect, the entire species began having back pain of some sort (another story perhaps). At any rate, shortly after the vaccination episode, I started experiencing a bit more back pain than usual, and went through my normal protocol for relief – extra doses of Advil, some pain relief cream, stretching, et al. Nothing worked.

And then … I started itching and burning. Like sunburn. Then a rash developed. Then the self-diagnosis (with the help of Google, WebMD and a host of other sites), that I had contracted shingles. What? But I thought …

Never mind. Went back to the PCP, and sure enough, within about one second of examination, it was confirmed I had the suckers. Relatively mild case, but more severe pain than I had ever experienced next to kidney stones (still another story). Went through the prescribed treatment, and within two weeks all was fine. By the way, no one could really explain why I got shingles after being vaccinated against chicken pox. I personally feel the stupid vaccination made my body believe I actually had chicken pox, so why not let me fall prey to shingles as the natural follow-up?

A few months ago, my most recent visit to my PCP has him telling me I am now old enough to get the shingles vaccination and he suggests I do so as soon as I can. I venture to the pharmacy, and am informed that since I had yet to turn 60 at the time, I needed a script. Back to the pcp. Now with script in hand, back to the pharmacy. They can surely help, but they have none in stock, and the insurance site is jammed so it is not sure that my policy covers the shot. Is it me? I leave – don’t feel like waiting. About a month later I go back during my lunch break, and within 15 minutes, all is good. I get the vaccination with no co-pay or any other charge.

Phew!

Except now, despite all this great preventative care, every time I get even the slightest itch in my back, guess what I’m thinking?

‘Pippin’ Still Does Magic the Second Time Around

20 Monday Jan 2014

Posted by in Confessional, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , ,

Frank art 1:20

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

A nice thing about being over 50 is that you can have a second (or third) crack at experiences like great vacation spots, fabulous restaurants and exciting shows. It’s fun to compare the experiences we remember from many years ago with the after-50 experience.

I sometimes find that time has not been good to a particular resort or restaurant or that a revival of an old favorite show does not live up to expectations. Memories always tend to forget the mediocre, and magnify the good or bad. And often, it’s difficult for my over-50 self to have the same pleasurable experience I had 30 or 40 years ago. But every once in a while the restaurant, beach, or show is as good as I remember – or better.

I had that experience recently when my daughter took me to see the Broadway revival of “Pippin.” I was 19 years old back in 1972 when I saw the original production of “Pippin” with Ben Vereen and Jon Rubenstein. I remember I was home on Thanksgiving break from college, and I went into Manhattan alone and bought front mezzanine tickets for $12.

I still get chills remembering the sustained opening note in the orchestra as the curtain opened to a stage full of smoke, and Ben Vereen appeared, dressed in black, leading the cast onstage.

“Join Us” he sang. “We’ve Got Magic to Do.”

And boy, did they! Bob Fosse’s dancers were mesmerizing. Stephen Schwartz’s music was phenomenal. “Pippin” was the show that got me hooked on musicals.

Fast forward 41 years, and I now have a 26-year-old daughter. This daughter happens upon some tickets to “Pippin.” She knows that her father is crazy about the show because she was raised listening to the original cast album. She invites him to join her to see the first Broadway revival of the show.

This Broadway revival, directed by Diane Paulus, re-imagines the show. The cast is full of talented circus performers who juggle fire, tumble, perform balancing acts, and what look to be dangerous feats high above the stage. Back in 1972, Pippin was searching for meaning in his life. In 2014, he has figuratively run away and joined the circus.

Anyway, as I sat in my seat listening to the start of the show, I felt, again, the excitement I felt at 19. Oh sure, there are lots of changes. The role Ben Vereen played is now played brilliantly by a woman, Patina Miller, and the smoke is gone from the opening number. The show now begins with the curtain down. The cast peeks through the curtain at first, and beckons us with their hands to “Join Us.”

And then comes the drop-dead moment, when the curtain flies out, and the circus set is revealed. Suddenly, I had the biggest smile on my face, and tears appeared in my eyes. Here was artistry that touched my over-50 soul just as profoundly as it did when I was a teenager. There was “Magic to Do” again. But this time I was not alone. A young woman, who I had raised to love theater, was enjoying it with me. That increased the enjoyment to another level.

The rest of the show was full of great moments that brought back memories of the original production. Tovah Feldshuh, at 62, was much more animated than Irene Ryan was in 1972. And Rachel Bay Jones was a lot funnier than Jill Clayburgh was in the original cast as Pippin’s love interest. All in all, the new version equaled or topped the original production in almost every way, and that’s saying a lot.

Revisiting great experiences from our youth can be perilous for the over-50 crowd. But every once in a while, we are lucky enough to recreate the magic. And when that happens, the enjoyment seems to increase geometrically. It puts a new spin on the phrase “senior moment.” Sometimes things are better the second time around.