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Tag Archives: The Write Side of 50

Hollywood’s Premier Bawdy, Naughty “Golden” Girls: Get Out and See Them Sometime

21 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by WS50 in Opinion

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Hedy Lamarr, Julie Seyler, Mae West, opinion, The Write Side of 50

Mae has all of the angles. Mixed media by Julie Seyler

Mae has all of the angles. Mixed media by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Every year the Film Forum runs a festival celebrating movies made in 1933 or earlier. Movies like “Babyface,” with Barbara Stanwyck as the heroine, who sleeps her way to the top, and “Bombshell,” starring Jean Harlow as Lola, the actress who keeps family and film crew afloat, are made available on the big screen. Unmarried women had sex. These movies tend to be, what we used to think of as, “bawdy,” perhaps a little naughty. But then along came the Hays Code and its edicts to enshrine chastity and separate the matrimonial bed.

We chose to watch a double feature. First up was “I’m No Angel,” an iconic early flick starring Mae West and Cary Grant. Mae also wrote and directed it, which meant she broke the glass ceiling in Hollywood 80 years ago. The other feature was a Czech movie called, “Ecstasy.” It starred Eva Hedgwick before she came to the U.S. and became Hedy Lamarr.

“I’m No Angel” is built on Mae West’s over the top pungency in dress and persona.  She was a zaftik dame with full thighs and hips, and her clothes accented every curve.  Frank would have loved her. Her ensembles belong on the Red Carpet of the Academy Awards, and she never used a stylist. She was provocative, but always in complete control.

The plot is about a woman who cops to being “no angel,” but she does so with such lust and joy, that it makes the alternative awfully unappealing.

Mae West: having fun by Julie Seyler.  Mixed media on paper

Mae West: having fun by Julie Seyler. Mixed media on paper.

The movie opens with Mae as Tira, the burlesque draw in a honky tonk road show. She is down and out in her luck, and consults the show’s astrologer to find out how to find the right man. After he reads her charts, she makes no move without consulting his predictions. To get some dough, and become rich and famous, Tira becomes a lion tamer, and sticks her head in the lion’s mouth. She befriends women who are nice and disses snobs. She convinces an engaged man to give her thousands of dollars worth of gifts with nothing but friendship in return. And when millionaire Cary Grant breaks their engagement, she sues him for breach of promise, and nothing else.  She has no interest in his money; she wants love. So romance wins out as we fade to Cary and Mae kissing. The End.

The second feature, “Ecstasy,” was about a young woman who marries a prig. Her marriage is never consummated, so she divorces him, and in her sadness and despair, hooks up with the virile brawny construction worker. Her pearls fling off and flowers bloom as she experiences ecstasy. Sex appeal – always in fashion.

Hedy Blooms.  Collage by Julie Seyler

Hedy blooms. Collage by Julie Seyler.

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My 1964 Ford Galaxie: A “Great White Boat” of a Car

20 Wednesday Mar 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Bob Smith, confessional, Ford Galaxie, Men, The Write Side of 50

a Ford under a galaxy of stars

A Ford under a galaxy of stars. By Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

In 1973, when I was 18, I got my first car: a white 1964 four-door Ford Galaxie 500 sedan that weighed in at nearly 4000 pounds. My then-girlfriend’s uncle gave it to me for nothing, and expressed great regret at having to part with such a fine vehicle. Unca Cholly, as he was affectionately known, was moving up to something better – probably a Pontiac – but he wanted the Galaxie to have a good home.

I was your stereotypical rambunctious 18 year old, determined to define myself as boldly independent of my parents. However, as a college student living at home with only a part-time summer job, I wasn’t going to turn into James Bond overnight. So the Galaxie was my key to the world – given enough gas and time, that car could take me virtually anywhere, and in my feverish imaginings, it did. But the reality was somewhat different.

First, it rode like a monstrous marshmallow. After a couple of cushy trips around the block, my brother christened it The Great White Boat. But make no mistake – it had lots of positive features too:

Real chrome bumpers you could use to open a beer bottle (so I heard).

A back seat as big as a small sofa. Out of deference to her Unca Cholly my girlfriend refused to explore its potential with me, but it did serve the purpose with some of my friends, and their less restrained dates, as I played the discreetly aloof chauffeur.

Triangular side vent windows in front that were perfect for flicking the ash off the end of your cigarette without having to open the whole window and risk sending unwelcome sparks into the back seat.

A steering wheel the size of a hula hoop, and power steering so light you could make turns with one finger.

A cavernous trunk Goodfellas (or their acquaintances delinquent in payments on the vig) would die for.

Then there were the negatives:

Primitive sound – AM radio with one oval dashboard speaker. The “latest”- an eight track tape player – had not been installed in this vehicle.

Pointy chrome gear selector and turn signal stems that were puncture
wounds waiting to happen. (By 1973, the automakers had wised up, and started putting blunt plastic knobs at the ends so if you rammed into the windshield wiper control in an accident you’d get a nasty bruise but no perforation.)

Rudimentary lap belts (front seat only) that would tear your torso in half in any collision over 40 mph, but might spare you from being skewered by the turn signal.

Miles per gallon in the high single digits on the highway going downhill with a tailwind. Plus the seals were bad, so it took a quart of oil every week and trailed a bilious white cloud everywhere it went.
The transmission was starting to slip, and the brakes were so low you floored the pedal and prayed at every stop sign.
And the insurance on that nine-year-old tank was more than any part-time job could support.

I think it took me five months – one glorious summer and into the fall – before I realized I couldn’t afford the gas, oil, seals, brakes, transmission, or insurance needed to keep the boat afloat. It sat for a month on my parents’ front lawn, a monument to my hopes of freedom, while I scraped around trying to figure out a way to save it. No one wanted to buy it, not even Unca Cholly, despite his misty-eyed reminiscences about its former glory.

Actually I suspect he was glad to have unloaded it on me to spare him the pain of having to finally put the car to rest. Which I did, one chilly October day when I paid fifty bucks to have it towed away to be cannibalized for parts. My next car was a used Japanese econobox that was a lot easier on my wallet, but woefully short on dreams.

"Bob behind the wheel"  Mixed media drawing .

“Bob behind the wheel” Mixed media drawing by Julie Seyler.

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Four Months In, and We’re Still Friends

19 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

confessional, Girlfriends, Julie Seyler, Lois DeSocio, The Write Side of 50

LO and me

Julie (left) and Lois (right), in the ’70s.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Today puts Julie and me into the four-month anniversary of our blogging collaboration. We are riding a tide counter to that conventional-wisdom wave that cautions friends against becoming business partners. We think we’ve made the perfect match. What makes it work is how different we are – different skills (I play with words, Julie points, shoots, and paints); different temperaments (Julie is super organized, I love a mess); different likes (Julie is a bit of a food-fussbudget, I’ve eaten days-old soggy Cheez Doodles that were left out overnight and were stuck together); different worries (she does, I don’t); and different viewpoints (she’s old, I’m not).

So please excuse the indulgence of our posting a picture of the two of us, as teens, sitting in Julie’s childhood bedroom. We mean for it to be a testament to all women, and the incalculable value of enduring female friendships. Girlfriends.

And thanks to all our contributors, fans, and followers (our guy friends, too), for your writing and reading.

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Me, My Camera, and Some Favorite Photos

18 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by WS50 in Art

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Tags

Art, Cameras, Digital Cameras, Julie Seyler, Kodak, The Write Side of 50

Julie takes a photo. Palace Hotel. Madrid, 2012.

Julie takes a photo. Palace Hotel. Madrid, 2012.

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have always embraced a camera. Out of all my high school friends, I think I am the one with the most captured memories on film. It could be true for my college years, law school years, my Washington D.C years, and the last 24 years in Manhattan.

In the beginning, I used film because we only knew film. We built our camera knowledge on trademarks like Kodak, and the instant snapshot of the Polaroid. Remember Bob’s family had a Kodak Duaflex.

Then digital cameras began infiltrating. I railed against them. I swore my loyalty to film, and I managed to remain a hold-out until the near end, when it was impossible for an amateur to find film, let alone find anyone who could develop it, or would develop it at a reasonable price. Now I cop to the fact that I became a convert.  Nothing beats the ease of digital and its mechanics that allows for thousands of images with a click.

And not only did technology change, I changed. Where I used to only take photos of friends, anywhere at anytime, I have moved towards nature and buildings; city streets and sunflowers. I am mad about light and color and composition and beauty and ugliness. Here are three of my favorite photos:

This was taken from the (now battered) deck at Allenhurst Beach Club, about two or three years ago. It was early in the day, and I knew it was going to be a gorgeous one. The sky told the story. Every time I revisit this photo, I see space, freedom, tranquility, and the anticipation of a perfect day at the beach.

allenhurst beach-50?

In the middle of February, I was waiting for a downtown bus in front of McSwiggans, a bar on 2nd Avenue. I was staring into the front bay window, and was struck by the antic energy created by the competing beer advertisements. Out came the camera. I had to try to nail it.

at McSwiggan's

I do not know why, but I have always been fascinated by old cemeteries – those where the tombstones are dated anywhere between 1600 and 1900. There is sculpture in the alleys lined with mausoleums – mansions to hold the dead. This was taken at Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris where Jim Morrison is buried. It was around 10 or so on a Sunday morning. I never did find Jim Morrison.Pere Lachaise Cemetery

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The Saturday Blog: Bowling Green Subway Station

16 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Art

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Tags

Art, Bowling Green Subway Station, Lower Manahattan, The Saturday Blog, The Write Side of 50

Bowling Green subway station 2.18.13

Bowling Green Subway Station in Lower Manhattan. Photo by Julie Seyler.

There is a magnificent piece of architecture in Lower Manhattan, quite close to the ferry terminal to Staten Island, that harks back to the turn of the century. The entrance to the Bowling Green subway, which takes you in and out of Brooklyn, opened in 1905, and is worth looking up to.

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My Dish on Puerto Rico: Easy, Breezy, with Mojitos on the Side

15 Friday Mar 2013

Posted by WS50 in Travel

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Julie Seyler, Puerto Rico, San Juan, The four-day trip, The Write Side of 50, Travel

License Plate.  Photo by Julie Seyler

License Plate. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

It is sometimes hard to swallow that I am approaching 60.  On the other hand, it is always great to know that I have had some friends for over 40 years.  We still manage to look like we are 13 years old to each other.  So I decided to see if I could entice one of these old-time buddies to come with me on a four-day getaway. (Yes, like Lois, I too, am a fan of the four-day trip.) I dangled Cardiff, Wales and Sofia, Bulgaria in front of her, and she jumped at all of them, but ultimately we opted for ease, which meant San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Beach and sea, San Juan.

Beach and sea, San Juan.

I have never been, but it is the perfect destination from New York City. It’s a four-hour flight. There is sun, sand and sea. And minimal time change. I did some research, found decent flights, a cute boutique hotel on the beach, and sent my girlfriend an e-mail with the info. Her reply: “Book it Dan-O.”

Our flight was scheduled to depart from JFK on March 6 at 7:00 p.m. Until it didn’t. When I got to work that morning American Airlines had graciously left me a voice mail that that flight had been canceled due to the coming snowstorm. I frantically got on the horn with them, and after an hour on hold, a lovely rep answered, and offered us the opportunity to fly out on the 3:50 flight. She was so nice. She waited while I called my friend, who was in the middle of a meeting, to see if she could scramble her fully-booked schedule so we could rendezvous three hours earlier than originally planned. So we found each other on the front end of the West 4th subway station at 1:00 pm to follow through with our plan of taking the train to the plane. It’s a great deal for $7.50.

We sailed onto that plane five minutes before the doors shut behind us. We were on our way to the land of mojitos!

Mojito 3.6.13

Mojito.

It was a perfect four-day trip, despite a weather pattern of sun every morning, with clouds rolling in religiously by 2 p.m. We were totally indolent on day one – never leaving the beach at the Water Beach Club Hotel; semi-indolent day two – taking a walk for massages, and heading into Old San Juan for dinner; and downright ambitious on day three, with renting a car from Charlie’s so we could check out the rain forest at El Yunque, the beach at Luquillo, and then a drive into Old San Juan for our final dinner. We even managed to change out of our bathing suits and into our clothes in the car.

Water Beach Club

Water Beach Club

A street in Old San Juan

A street in Old San Juan.

Sunday morning we were on the beach at 7:30 in the morning to max out on our last few hours before the 2:15 flight home.

a morning beer

A morning beer.

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Serendipity: Don’t Look, and You Will Find It

14 Thursday Mar 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

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Tags

confessional, Frank Terranella, Men, Serendioity, The Write Side of 50

road trip

Be open to the unexpected on the road ahead. Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

I believe in the power of serendipity.

The dictionary defines serendipity as, “the phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.” Probably the most common form of serendipity these days is using an Internet search engine, and finding something great that was not what you were looking for. This is part of the attraction of “surfing the web” for many people.

But serendipity is not a new phenomenon. I first noticed its power back in the 1970s when I got my driver’s license. I would set out on a Sunday afternoon in a random direction from my house seeking an adventure. I would make turns on a whim. Sometimes, the reason for a turn would be simply to follow an interesting car like a Corvette or an Alfa Romeo. Sometimes, after the law allowing right on red was passed, it was simply a matter of making a right to keep moving. Most often, the turn was just a feeling drawing me off in that direction.

These trips (long before GPS) invariably ended in an intriguing new place. In addition to adventure, these trips served to familiarize a new driver with all the roads in a 50-mile radius of his home because I always had to find my way home. Then in college, I found serendipity in choosing college courses. My school had a system of registering for courses back then that was based on seniority. Juniors and seniors got first choice of their electives over sophomores and freshmen. I remember one year trying to get into a popular professor’s history course that was filled, and having to settle instead for a course with a professor I did not know. The course proved to be fascinating, and I went on to take two more courses with the professor.

And then there’s serendipity television. That’s when you turn on the television, and a great movie you’ve never seen is on the channel that the television happens to be tuned to. Back about 30 years ago, my wife and I turned on our television on a Saturday morning just to have something to watch while we woke up and ate our breakfast. Three hours later we finished watching “The Best Years of Our Lives.” The film pulled us in and never let go. We later found out that it was an Academy Award winner in 1947, but neither of us had ever heard of it, and probably would not have seen it for many years, if not for serendipity.

The Internet has increased exponentially the possibility of serendipity. Just about every time I go to Netflix to have a particular movie loaded into my queue, I come across another movie or two that I have never heard of that goes on to be a favorite. Companies like Netflix and Amazon have raised “we thought you also might like” to an art form. This is manufactured serendipity, but it still works if you go along with it.

And of course, that’s the secret to serendipity. You have to have a mindset that allows you to go off in an unexpected direction. I know people who have never had a serendipitous experience in their lives, because they simply opt not to. I feel sorry for them. Serendipity adds wonder to life.

A few years ago, my wife and I planned a trip to Colorado and nearby states. We had plotted a complete course for the 4,500-mile drive. Then, two days before we left, I happened upon a picture online that was just breathtaking. I found out that it was taken in Arches National Park near Moab, Utah. As a man who knows serendipity when he sees it, I knew that I had to re-plot my entire trip (including changing motel reservations) to fit in a swing into neighboring Utah. I did that, and the Utah detour proved to be one of the most enjoyable parts of our road trip.

So I am sold on serendipity. I think it adds spice to life in wondrous ways. It’s not knowing what’s around the next bend that makes life interesting. The great sage Yogi Berra would agree. After all, it was Yogi who said, “When you arrive at a fork in the road, take it.” That’s serendipity.

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Our Life List: 338 Birds, and Counting

13 Wednesday Mar 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Concepts

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Tags

Bird Watching, Concepts, Margo D. Beller, The Write Side of 50

Margo life list

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Many people keep a “bucket list” of things they want to do before they die.

Birders have a life list.

In the 1947 edition of his classic, “Field Guide to the Birds” of the Eastern U.S., Roger Tory Peterson included two pages with a list of birds covered in the volume. The idea was for a watcher to check off each bird when seen for the first time. He called it a “life list,” as in something seen for the first time in your life.

Birders have been rushing around to see and record new birds ever since.

My husband (MH) photocopied that list several times for me years ago, and I’ve used the copies to record birds from various places – my favorite birding spots in New Jersey and in New England, for instance – plus one to use as a master list. This list is so marked up it is hard to follow at times. I’ve had to add many birds as I traveled outside the East. Many birds Peterson considered accidentals, or rarities, in 1947, have become more common as their ranges expand, or as more birders go out in the field and find them.

MH and I have, in our combined life list, seen 338 types of birds in the years we’ve been birders. This may seem like a lot to non-birders, but it is an almost pathetically small number compared with others who are out in the field nearly every day, or who travel the world, the United States, even their neighborhoods in search of new birds. Many have the time and money to do this, and I envy them. MH and I have to fit in our bird activities when we can.

Still, we enjoy being together in our searching, sharing the successes and being wise enough to keep the failures in perspective.

Some “life” birds have come easier than others. The prothonotary warbler that walked out of the bushes in Central Park. The sandhill cranes that soared over the Indiana toll road on our drive back from a midwest wedding. The anhinga, limpkin and kites we saw during a trip to the Florida panhandle.

Our newest, the northern lapwing, came in March and we didn’t have to go too far. Three of these European visitors, with their distinctive crest and coloring, were found by others during the winter, hanging out in a cattle field on a farm in New Egypt, N.J. Like Alexis de Tocqueville, these old-world land plovers found favor with the new world, and were received enthusiastically.

We came after the initial crowd frenzy ended, and were lucky to find another couple watching the birds with a scope, which they allowed us to use. We were also lucky the birds decided to fly around the field, making it fun to study them with binoculars.

If travel broadens the mind, as the saying goes, we will have to do more traveling if we want to expand our life list, and our life.

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A Snapshot of Mom’s Old Brown Box Camera

12 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Bob Smith, confessional, Men, The Write Side of 50

Bob - camera

BY BOB SMITH

I remember as a boy, playing in the snow with my big brother. Bulky as astronauts, we wore heavy coats, wool hats, mittens and insulated boots. There was a foot of snow in our front yard and we were trying to roll up a ball big enough to form the base of a snowman. But the day was too cold; the snow too dry. And we couldn’t get anything that big to stick together. The most we could manage was snowballs, which broke apart as soon as we threw them at each other’s heads.

Mom came outside, and asked us to pose for a picture. Hanging from a strap around her neck was a Kodak Duaflex IV camera, which consisted of a brown cardboard box (with leather-textured surface) with two lenses on the front, facing the subject – one on top for framing the picture, and one below that, with the shutter behind it, where the film would be exposed to capture the image. You lined up a shot by looking straight down through the square viewfinder on top.

“Come on boys, let me get you!”

We paused our snowball war, panting puffy clouds, and faced Mom. When you looked at the camera you could see her upside-down image in the viewfinder lens. She smiled and, as she centered us, she also centered her face, topsy-turvy and fluid, in that rounded frame. Jimmy rested his snow-crusted mitten on my shoulder.

“Okay: 1…2…3…smile!”

She squeezed the button on the side of the box, the lens snicked, and it was done. Mom rolled the metal wheel on the side of the camera to advance the film for another shot, posing us side by side, with shovels jammed into the snow like soldiers with rifles at parade rest. We smiled again at inverted Mom as she snapped the picture, and she went back inside.

That camera came out for every holiday, too. My brothers and sisters and I would be grouped on the couch, giggling, with our hands folded politely in our laps. Someone at the last second (usually Jimmy) would raise two-finger rabbit ears behind someone’s head, or jab an elbow to give the shot extra pizzazz. Because it was indoors, Mom used the flash, which consisted of a silver saucer-like reflector on a plastic battery compartment that screwed onto the side of the camera. Each flashbulb, approximately the size of a ping-pong ball, had a fuzzy maze of blue filaments inside. You had to press and turn the bulb into the hole in the middle of the reflector and eject it so it could be replaced after each shot.

When Mom pushed the button, the flashbulb would explode with a sound like one of the last kernels in the pan turning into popcorn. The brilliant light blinded us briefly, and we would wander around the room in a happy daze, closing our eyes to relish the moonlike afterimage floating across our field of vision.

You never knew what the pictures looked like until they came back from the camera store after being developed, when Mom would paste them into albums. The prints had a scalloped edge with a quarter inch white border, where Mom would include notations like “Easter 1965,” or “Bobby three and a half, Barbara two,” written in careful script just like the “correct” examples in my penmanship textbook.

A few years later, Kodak came out with Instamatic cameras that didn’t have a viewfinder, and featured a built-in flash that didn’t require you to replace a bulb every time you took a shot. There was no popping noise, and the flash was more diffuse so we didn’t get the floating moon afterimage either. We still had to pose and smile but not having mom’s wobbly face in the lens facing you, inviting you inside, took some of the romance out of having our pictures taken.

That Duaflex IV may have been a cheap low-tech camera, but as they say in the credit card commercials – the memories are priceless.

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Stored in My Memory Bank: The Pink Pig, Dad’s Silver “Washers”

11 Monday Mar 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Anthony Buccino, confessional, Men, piggy banks, The Write Side of 50

il_fullxfull.244653389

Photo courtesy Etsy.com.

By Anthony Buccino

Dad was a carpenter, and each week he gave me the washers from his pay envelope. I’d plunk them onto my piggy bank. Yeah, that’s right, washers as in nuts, bolts and washers.

He told me washers weren’t money and I couldn’t spend them on candy or toys. When we filled the pink pig, we brought them to the big, boring stone bank. They said when I turned 16, I could take the money out.

Whatever they told me, it worked. Heck, I could barely read, and knew nothing about the nearly bald guy etched on my washers. Far from me to figure how worthless washers turned into money, but I accumulated the worthless washers regularly.

When I learned to count, I unscrewed the base, dumped the washers on my bedspread and piled them in five-high stacks. I cheered later as I slipped them back in the slot, clunk-clunk. This is probably how one-armed bandits got their start.

In my smart aleck teen years, I watched Dad when he brought home rolls and rolls of pennies, nickels and dimes. He needed glasses to read by now, and he wasn’t even 50. And there he’d be, with his coins scattered on the living room coffee table, his horn-rimmed reading glasses sliding down his nose, a hand-held magnifying glass in one hand as he tilted each coin to catch the light, date and mint.

He looked like Mr. Magoo. I laughed. “Dad, what are you doing with all these coins? Why aren’t you snoring through a John Wayne war movie?”

Looking at me over the top of his glasses, his grey eyes caught the light and yellow highlights glistened in his white-gray hair. Maybe he’d realize how much time he’s wasting and finish the basement where I could play.

“For you,” he said. “These are all for you.” He turned back to his clutter.

My wife likes to save pennies. Not in those cardboard collectors with the holes punched out and the year and mint pre-printed. And not only by buying bargains, or scouting a Rexall one-cent sale. She likes to save shiny pennies, and pay the change portion with dirty, gross old pennies. She sets aside wheat pennies for my out-of-date collection.

Perhaps she’ll get into the habit of saving dollars, too, when Congress changes from paper bills to coins. I have four of the president series (two Jeffersons, one J.Q. Adams and a Polk that came to me from an NJ Transit ticket vending machine). I keep those coins apart from my real money. NJ Transit says it’s converting those machines back to paper currency.

Those washers I saved were stamped with the image of Ike, and were mostly-silver fifty-cent pieces which we cashed in when Kennedy died. If only.

Forty-odd years later I’m shopping in Italy, struggling to tell a one-euro coin from a two-euro. I stop to don my horn-rimmed reading glasses. That’s when I see my father sorting coins. On my return I check out the washers in my attic.

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The Write Side of 50

The Write Side of 50

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