Category: Childhood Memories

Childhood Memories, Life, Pets

For The Love of A Pet

It was just your typical blistering hot Sunday afternoon in July. I had just completed mowing half of my lawn and cultivating the care packages my dogs had deposited on it. Now I needed to take a break lest I die of heat exhaustion

As I sought refuge from the heat of the summer sun and with nothing else to do, I found myself in my office looking at old books and magazines I had accumulated.

After going through quite a bit of the outdated stuff I never look at and pledging to eventually get around to throwing a bunch of it out, I noticed an odd volume I hadn’t seen in quite a while. Much to my surprise, amidst the guitar song books and fitness magazines was an old photo album.

As far as I’m concerned, family photo albums are useless most of the time. They just sort of lie around and take up space. Oh sure, there’s plenty of memories in every Kodak moment. But the unfortunate thing is, the only time most people look at photo albums is right after a loved one goes off to college, gets married or passes away.

Even then, the manual of memories is only useful for short-term therapy. Once the grief of the separation has been accepted the book, much like the family bible, goes back to collecting dust. But on this afternoon for no apparent reason, marriage or death included, I decided to have a look-see.

I began by taking a trip down memory lane through my old baby pictures. Ones I’ve looked at hundreds of times. Nothing really “new” to see there. I quickly passed through photos of long ago Christmases and summer days at the pool but all that did was remind me I still needed to finish mowing the other half of my lawn. I was beginning to understand just why this book is only useful for therapy.

As I turned the page again I came to section of pictures from my youth that made me forget about the lawn. For there in front of me were photographs of the pets I had growing up. And one photo in particular caught my eye immediately: Me and Susie.

Susie was the name of my first cat. A white cat with one green eye and one blue eye. A color combination that’s not at all uncommon in white cats but back then it was the coolest thing to tell your friends that your cat had two different colored eyes.

I recalled how, thirty some odd years ago, if I would hold my hand out above her with my palm facing down, she would jump up and rub her head across it. I bet not many cats could do what Susie could do. To a seven-year old boy, she was something special.

As I remembered all the good times with Susie, I soon came across another picture. This one taken a few years later of me and another cat, Fuzzy. Ironically enough, Fuzzy was the offspring of Susie and pretty much adopted me as his own. Where ever I went, Fuzzy went. He was my home boy and we were tight for years.

Of course, seeing those two cats now opened the floodgates of the pets I’ve owned over the years. I began seeking out pictures in the album of all of the critters that have gone through life with me.

There was Sheba: the Siberian Husky, Scruffy: the mutt, Mitzi: the black kitten I found under a car and wound up keeping. And the list goes on.

More recently, there’s been Timmy: the Shih-Tzu, Baci: the Pekingese and Stanley:the fat, orange tabby cat. I even had another white cat a few years ago named, wait for it, Snowy. She didn’t have Susie’s eye combination though. Her’s were both green. All of these pets have long since gone off to the Rainbow Bridge but hold a special place in my heart.

The funny thing is, looking at all these pictures didn’t make me sad to realize that they were all gone. It was different kind of therapy. Looking at their faces and remembering all the good times we shared together was encouraging. It only helped reinforce what I already knew: I’m a huge pet lover.

Today, my pets include two Boston Terriers (Sparky and Bruno) and two cats (Samantha and Marigold) in addition to Pokey my 25-year-old cockatiel, which I discussed in a previous blog.

I enjoyed getting to spend some time with the pets I’ve had over the years. It’s hard to imagine what life would have been like for me without them growing up. Sometimes you need that little reminder that you’re human and have compassion. I suddenly couldn’t wait to get outside later and play fetch with my dogs.

As I closed the photo album and started to head back outside to the lawn it occurred to me that maybe what they say about animal companions is true:

Pets aren’t our whole life, they just make our lives whole.

Feel free to share your pet stories in the comments section.

 

Childhood Memories, Life, Summer, Thought and Opinion

Ten More Things I Think: South Side Edition

Here are ten things (actually places) I think you should know about. Places that I think show you why it was so cool to grow up on South Side Easton.

These are in order of my favorites but please feel free to comment below and add your own or indicate any of your own favorites that I may have missed. (I know one of them being the pretzel factory that for the life of me I regrettably do not remember having patronized).

Sadly, if you were one of the unfortunate souls who didn’t grow up on South Side, please tell me about your favorite places growing up.

10. Lackenor Heights. I know I probably spelled it wrong but that shouldn’t diminish how cool this park was. Huge swing sets, lots of basketball courts and a large field I’d spend many days at playing softball or tackle football.

09. Laundromat. Long before we could afford a thing called a dryer my Mom and Grandmother used to drag the kids here. This was the place to go to dry the wash if inclement weather prohibited the use of hanging it on the clothes line in the yard.

I loved putting dimes in the machine and twisting the knobs or playing video games while the clothes dried. Also a good time to head over to Food Lane and peruse the toy aisle knowing full well that whatever toy I wanted Mom would never buy.

08. St Mary’s Carnival. Held religiously (of course) every summer. The fair consisted of the usual spinning wheel games and bingo. To me, the games of skill paled in comparison to the way the little old ladies made fried dough. The ultimate comfort food for a pre pubescent boy on a hot summer night.

07. Porter Elementary School. I spent the first five years of my schooling here. Still recall the big 1876 numbers that adorned one of the eaves indicating the year it first opened it’s doors. The school was closed in 1979 and torn down shortly there after.  

06. Food Lane. Can’t say enough about this place. This was where my first bowl of Count Chocula came from and will always hold a special place in my heart. Aside from actual food there was a toy aisle as well that I always made a bee line to on every visit.

05. Huck’s: Located right across the street from the Delaware Terrace, a housing development for low income families. Huck not only made a decent cheese steak but he was rumored to have Mob connections. He had a big black German Shepard dog that used to sit outside and watch patrons come and go. I loved his home made fries. Of course, I now wish he would have used a proper fry scoop instead of a make shift one he made out of a liquid bleach bottle.

04. Pino’s Pizza. Located in the same shopping center right next to Food Lane, this is actually the only food establishment still open to this day. So many wonderful memories of slices and companionship here. I don’t care if it is under new ownership. The name remains and the pizza is still killer.

03. Brother Bright’s Soul Food Store. Located two blocks from my house, this was the place to go in the early 80’s as I was bussed to Palmer and the Easton Middle Schools. Brother Bright and his wife were two of the nicest people you’d ever want to meet.

02. Lucy’s Store. A staple of Easton. THE place to visit before and after Porter school days. I used to love going there and getting penny candy.  Mr. Lucy always knew to fill my little brown paper bag with more red fish and purple raspberries than Tootsie rolls. My man knew how to hook a brother up.

Although I’m sure he served his candy to many a generation in his time, I’d give anything to have had the chance to have him fill a bag for my daughter too before he passed.

01. Barney’s Lunch. The sign as you approached said it all. It read “We Serve The Best Steak Sandwiches in Town” and was dead on. Barney’s was the ultimate destination. At night, the red neon light was lit up and you knew if you were a hungry traveler the welcome mat was always opened.

Where else could you get the ultimate cheese steak, a bottle of Pepsi and the chance to rap with Barney himself? Or, if he was busy filling orders, you could always sit at a table or play Space Invaders or Vanguard.

And when Barney was blaring Foreigner Four on the jukebox, man you knew you were in the right place. Nothing compared to tearing into a Barney’s cheese steak while jamming to “Waiting for A Girl Like You” with your buddies.

It was the 80’s and it was wonderful.

Childhood Memories, Dear Diary

Memoirs: 17 Nov 1986

explorerSetting the scene: From my journal dated November 17, 1986. This entry details my feelings about missing guitar practice after school. I used to beat myself up for not practicing at least three hours a day EVERY day. Feel free to leave a comment below.

As I sit here now it becomes more and more to my advantage to forget about what i think I should do and get to some serious practicing. Usually I’ll practice one day, and hey, I do accomplish all that I want to and more, but the next day I either practice very little or none at all. This really gets me upset when I look back and it seems to happen every day.

Now, as I sit here at 11:45 am on the 17th of November  I am willing to practice. To get home at 2:45 pm, eat something, grab my water container and head up to my room to practice. But the things that flow through my mind…..like just now, I thought of the fact that I do not own my Explorer yet came into my head. (I’m still renting it). Now it discourages me. I don’t understand why.

Also, I’ll miss the Joy of Painting show but as I feel now it doesn’t really matter. You see, all these things can go through one’s mind and either inspire or dishearten them.

Every day I have this uneven balance of inspiration and discouragement. The things which inspire me are: watching my favorite videos and songs and thinking I can play as good or better; or generally talking about the instrument or music (like I did in 3rd period today or in my music classes).

Now for the discouragements: my sibling’s put downs are non-stop; my friend’s wise cracks; my desire to sometimes keep putting off practice until it’s too late; me not owning a good guitar; me not having money; me not wanting a job. All of these attribute to my musical career in either positive or negative feelings.

Well now it’s time to show everyone my real potential. There will be change, a lot of it if necessary. To begin with I’m going to stick with my practice schedule even if it kills me. I want to be in a band by the beginning of 1987. Without proper practice it’s all useless. But as of now there will be a change.

Hopefully for the better.

Childhood Memories, Life

Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’

WBSSinstigator (noun) – someone who deliberately foments trouble

It was a warm day in June when I was finishing up mowing the lawn. A chore I seem to have been relegated to do every week. Even though this day also happened to coincide with Father’s Day, it made no matter. As a father, it is my sworn duty to uphold the length of the lawn. And I would not fail in my duty.

The neighborhood was alive with the sound of picnics and reverie. Boys and girls giving their fathers home made art work proclaiming their love. Families gathering together to pay honor and celebrate Dad with steak, rib and beer. If you have children, it is indeed a good time to be one of those people with the Y chromosome.

As John Deere and I made our final pass on my property, I noticed a car pulling up outside the neighbor’s house across the street. A tan, late-model Cadillac CTS with tinted windows came to a stop and out he stepped: a tall, well-respected African-American man. I recognized his face immediately and guessed by now he must be in his mid to late 60’s. Still looked very much the same as I remember though, no worse for wear. The only difference being he was a little more gray than normal but age will have a tendency to do that do you. But Bill Houston took age in style. Much like everything else from what I remember about him.

Bill had come to visit his daughter, whose been living across the street from me since I moved into my house eight years ago. I’ve seen him there on occasion, but as usual, this time seeing Bill (or Mr. Houston as I know him) emerge from the car had me thinking about the time our paths crossed thirty years ago. Back when I was a bad ass.

It was ninth grade at Shawnee Intermediate School. I was sitting in the cafeteria breaking bread with my homies when HE sat down next to me. That “he” was Jeff, or the Jersey Bomber as he was known in circles around school. How he got that nickname I have no idea. But he was a hard-nosed kid with a permanent chip on his shoulder that hung out with the dudes that were regulars in detention. Most of the time, the Jersey Bomber would joining them there for a variety of incidents he was involved with.

I think he must have flunked ninth grade a hundred times and I even heard rumors that he even smoked cigarettes. I’m sure he could’ve kicked my ass at will but for some reason I wasn’t afraid that day.

As I gulped down the last of my quarter pint of milk the opportunity began to present itself. I noticed another malcontent named Tom emerging from the lunch line carrying a tray with a slice of rectangular pizza and tossed salad. Tom was a bit of a geek who always seemed to be getting into fights with other kids for no apparent reason. He didn’t even care if he would win or lose. I think he just liked to fight for the sheer enjoyment of it and didn’t care what the consequences might be.

I began to laugh to myself when I thought of some of the battles he waged over the course of the school year. Silly “fights” that consisted of noogies, wedgies, hair pulling and the literal kicking of asses. Suddenly, the little devil on my shoulder popped up and whispered into my ear. What happened next became a blur.

I quietly leaned over and told the Bomber that Tom had been talking about his Mom and saying all kinds of bad things. I’ve never seen a kid get up as quick as Bomber did. It takes a strong man to just leave a slice of school pizza sitting on the tray. School pizza is the pen-ultimate of meals. I would have at least finished it first.

But the next thing I know Bomber and Tom are doing battle in the middle of the cafeteria. Tossed salad is covering the floor and the two are slipping and sliding on the lettuce while the other kids cheer them on.

Within seconds the lunch duty teachers had separated the boys and dragged them out to parts unknown. Well, by unknown, I mean Principal Houston’s office. That’s where all malcontents went to face the judge and jury and be punished for their actions. I thought nothing more of the battle that had just been waged. I disposed of my garbage and headed back to class an extra slice of pizza fuller than usual.

While sitting in English class a short while later the teacher got word that my attendance was required at the ninth grade office. “Me?”, I thought. “Surely they must be honoring me with a Coolness Award or something. Maybe Mom and Dad were picking me up to go get the Atari 2600 I was asking for”. But when I walked into Mr. Houston’s office my dreams of playing Combat and Missile Command were gone as I saw Tom and The Bomber sitting there.

Uh-Oh.

In a nutshell, Mr. Houston put the bad boys in detention. Then he told me for instigating the fight, I would also be receiving three days detention after school. I was in shock as I left the office. What the heck does “instigating” mean anyway? Why should I get detention for something I’m not even sure I am guilty of?

When the first day of detention came I decided I wasn’t going to go. I would fight this. Take it to the Supreme Court if I have to. I am not guilty of this charge. I couldn’t wait to confront Mr. Houston again and tell him so. Heck, he might even forget about it and I’d be off the hook. But sure enough, the very next afternoon he called me in to his office again. This time it was one on one. Mano-a-mano.

Mr. Houston asked me why I didn’t go to detention and that my punishment for not showing up was now five days detention. I told him that there was no way I was going to go. He then informed me that if I did not show up, I would be suspended for three days.

Suspended??? The thought of me being in the same category as the Jersey Bomber was most definitely NOT appealing. I saw myself standing on the street corner while the other kids were in school. Maybe even attempting to light up a cigarette of my own and then choking on it. Yeah, I’d be REAL cool.

I pleaded with Mr. Houston and asked him why he would do this to me. “I’m innocent of this thing called instigating” I told him. That’s when he handed me a dictionary and showed me the definition of instigator and asked me “Was this you?”

I was silent. He had me, guilty as charged. I HAD started the fight and needed to accept my punishment. James Wood in detention for the very first time. Who’d have thunk it?

Those five 90-minute detention periods after school were some of the longest of my life. As a kid, coming home from school on the bus at 5:30 p.m. is not something you look forward to. But I accepted it. I paid the price.

As reality came back, I noticed I was still day dreaming about school and forgot to power off the lawn mower.  Mr. Houston, now long retired from doling out advice and detention, was already inside celebrating Father’s Day with his daughter.  I wanted to go over there and knock on the door but thought it might be kind of strange to thank a man thirty years later for the life lesson and teaching me the meaning of a new word.

One that will always stick with me.

Childhood Memories, Life

Happy 101st Birthday

June 17, 2011. Were he still alive today would have been my grandfather’s 101st birthday. I’m sure I would have written about his centennial celebration last year had I been actively writing then. Suffice to say, I’m sure Pappy will forgive me for holding out a year as I blog about him today. But the truth is, not many days go by where something about him doesn’t cross my mind.

My story about Pap (or Willard Z. Appleman as he was known to most grown ups) isn’t one of the usual “grandfather takes grandson fishing” type. In fact, for all intents and purposes, I really only had that kind of bonding relationship with Pap for the first six years of my life. And even then fishing wasn’t one of the things we did.

When I was born my family had been living with my grandparents in their house on south side Easton. Pap was working as a dyer in a silk mill for many years although I was too young to remember him ever going off to work. I only remember him being “around” if that’s the right word for it. To me, my Pap was just too good to be employed by someone else. And oddly enough the way I found out that he once had a real job was by reading his obituary as a teenager. But even though he too worked for “the man” that didn’t diminish his “superhero” persona to me.

Pap was one of those meticulous types that loved to take care of his yard. If he wasn’t chopping down some tree or weeding he was mowing the few acres of land he had. All with one of those hand mowers no less. I can imagine him taking an entire Sunday to do yard work every week in the Summer. And he probably loved every minute of it.

When I was five, and could actually start remembering things, I recall all the times he would ask me to take a trip down to Seiple’s hardware store across town. I’d run outside and jump in the front seat of his Rambler and soon we’d be off. Those drives are what I remember most about my days with Pap. It seemed like we would be driving for hours to get to the store but in reality the shop was only about two miles away. Youth has a way of making good times seem to last forever.

I don’t have any fun tales about what we talked about on the ride. It was just me driving to Seiple’s with my Pap. It was the only thing I remember: the drive, but that was good enough for me.

From what I was told growing up, in addition to being my grandfather, Pap was also a scientist. I heard many stories from my great aunts and uncles about how he could cross-pollinate an azalea plant and make a new species or even how he invented a cure for baldness that really worked. Looking back now, I wish he would have passed the recipe for the latter down to me.

About the only thing I didn’t like about living with Pap was his dog. He had the most obnoxious chihuahua you’d ever want to meet but Pap loved the hell out of him. His name was Butchie and all did was growl if you came within ten feet of Pap. The dog was loyal to him, hated everyone else and had no problem showing it. I still cringe to this day when I think about that hell hound.

In 1975, around the time of his 65th birthday, Pap suffered a major stroke. Suddenly, the man who had worked tirelessly all his life and was getting ready to retire was unable to walk on his own or feel anything on his left side. It just didn’t seem fair and as a 5 year old boy I couldn’t understand why something so bad could happen to my Pap. Especially because I just thought Pap went to the hospital for a checkup and would be home soon. At least that’s what I had been told.

When Pap did come home he obviously wasn’t the same. He couldn’t walk on his own or talk anymore. Anything he said sounded like something a baby might say. When I first saw him come through the door in a wheel chair with my grandmother pushing him I knew right away the days of riding shotgun in his Rambler to the hardware store were over. And to add insult to injury shortly after Pap came home, Butchie suddenly died. It was as if he knew that his master would never be the same.

Over the next nine years we all adjusted to Pap being, well, Pap. He would spend most days sitting upstairs in the parlor watching TV with my grandmother. At mid day my grandmother would help him walk back to his bed to take a nap and afterwards, right back for more TV.

If he ever needed something when someone wasn’t sitting with him, he had a bell he’d ring to alert us or he’d yell out and someone would come tend to his needs which frequently, became the need to help him light his cigars.

One of the things I always admired about Pap was his artistic ability. I had seen quite a few oil paintings he had done over the course of many years. Sadly, the paints were put away permanently by the stroke but yet he was able to find another outlet for his love of art. He always liked to draw horses with his bum hand. 

I have to admit, in the beginning they looked like something someone from kindergarten would draw and rightly so. Pap pretty much had to learn how to do everything all over again. But soon enough the drawings became more defined and we loved to watch him create his masterpieces.

Every summer we would have a big picnic on the patio. Relatives from all over would gather and we would wheel Pap down to enjoy the company. And Christmases were just as fun as we’d put up our fake tree in the parlor with Pap being the architect of the project.

He would sit there and tell us when a ball looked out of place or if the garland wasn’t running just right. You couldn’t understand a word he said but we always knew what he meant. Good times.

By early 1984 his condition began to worsen. My grandmother’s advancement in age would no longer allow for her to take care of him alone so inevitably, Pap went into a nursing home. On August 13th of that year he passed away at the age of 74.  With his passing my grandmother lost her husband of 51 years and I lost my Pap. Sadly though, the worst was still to come.

A few days later we went to Pap’s funeral services. I could not tell you what was said or who all was there. Pap had many friends I had never met. He was also going by nicknames like “Woody” and “Brother Will” and I was confused as to who called him what. To me, he was always Pap.

Then the time came to say the final goodbye and I think you know the one I mean. The one where you file past the deceased, out of the room and the casket is closed for good. I thought I would make it out unscathed. I had relatives die before but never thought much about it. I never went to any funerals. Even one of my great aunts died around the same time Pap suffered his stroke but I was too young to even bat an eye. But just as I was leaving I watched my grandmother fall to pieces.

She was sobbing over the casket and saying how much she was going to miss him and that’s when it really hit me. The tears began to flow and a fourteen year old boy was devastated. I was going to miss him too. That day still haunts me.

I knew Pap’s birthday was today and for some reason decided to look at one of the old photo albums I have. While reminiscing about Pap I stumbled upon his obituary from the newspaper clipping we had saved. I’ve probably read it dozens of times over the years but after reading it this time, a smile actually came across my face.

The date of Pap’s funeral service, my grandmother’s breakdown over the casket and me crying my eyes out and saying goodbye was August 16th, 1984. Seventeen years to the day after that horrible event, my daughter was born. Coincidence? I’m not so sure.

So happy birthday Pap. I know that where ever you are God has you taking care of his yard. Whenever I see azaleas I think about you and still miss you terribly. Oh, and if there’s any way you can send a message from the great beyond, I could still REALLY use that cure for male pattern baldness.

Childhood Memories

PayCheck Friday

Ah, another Paycheck Friday. My favorite day of the bi-weekly cycle. I only wish there could also be a Pay Check Monday through Thursday to go along with it.  I’d probably sleep better at night wondering how I’m going to save for my daughter’s college education. But if you stop and think about it, there aren’t too many days that can compete with the day the money is literally in the bank.

I’ve been a Clinical Systems Analyst for five years now. Time sure flies doesn’t it?  I love my job and the people I work with. Seriously, I really do. Although some days may be challenging depending on the number of  people who call me with Malware issues they have from perusing the Internet.

By now you also know my love for revisiting the past. So as we celebrate another Paycheck Friday I’d like to share with you the story of my first job.

From April to October of 1986 I was THE biscuit baker at McDonalds with secondary skill as fry cook. I wouldn’t even categorize me in with any other because quite frankly, there was no comparison. I was in a biscuit league all my own. Light and fluffy. Just the right amount of browness to them every time. You wanted a Sausage, Egg and Cheese Biscuit? You came to The Woodsman. Yeah, my biscuits had them ALL coming back for more.

My tenure there was not all happiness and rainbows. Oh no, there was plenty of  tribulation. Managers being a pain in the butt and off the wall things happening.  One day in particular I’ll never forget.

I was training a new employee, Dude, on the fine art of  making twelve “regs” (as in regular cheeseburgers) and following it up with six macs (Big Macs). You have to learn the language of Mickey Dee if you plan to survive there.

Now I’m not sure if he did this deliberately or by accident but at one point Dude wound up pulling the fire alarm over the grill which caused foam to cover the contents of the grill and all fry vats. Essentially closing the store until it could be cleaned up. He looked at me dumbfounded.

So as we’re in the process of busting ass and cleaning up the mess the manager starts looking for Dude, the one who pulled the alarm. It’s at that point that one of the cashiers informs him that she had watched Dude walk out with two cases of frozen burgers, put them into his car and drive off. Dude sacrificed his job for a hamburger.

Well, I have to be honest. It did give me a chuckle when I heard the news. But with the way management had treated employees I thought for sure that Dude was going to wind up coming back and become my boss the next week. But alas, they wound up firing Dude instead. Go figure.

During those six months I did every thing at that joint for a measly $3.35 an hour. I heard the torment of laughter from friends because THEY didn’t have to work all summer but I had to go make the biscuits. They’d even say things like “Burger Flipping Biscuit Bakin….Burger Flippin Biscuit Bakin” over and over ad nauseum. It was a feeling that would break the heart of most working sixteen year olds.

But rather than pound my friends into dirt I decided to channel that energy creatively. And it was that inspiration that helped  me invent and perfect the  first McDonalds Triple Cheeseburger. Yes, while most others were at home watching Scooby Doo and listening to Culture Club I was busting ass over the grill creating just the right combination of grease and pickle to make a triple decker bomb. Just thinking about it now fills me with pride and makes me have more respect for Sponge Bob Squarepants.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, “There’s no way the manager would let you do that” and you would indeed be right. But you see, most night managers at McDonalds liked to hang out up in the drive thru window. Quite a distance away from where I stood with my spatula. So I would appoint a lookout, some other of lower intelligence, to stand guard while I perfected my craft and alert me if a manager entered my zone.

Of course, no test would be complete without sampling the creation so frequent trips to take out the “garbage” were made. And on the way out there was also always a need to stop by the Chicken McNugget bin. You never know when those will have to be thrown out. That summer I made $3.35 an hour. I think I also gained 15 pounds.

It was then that my senior year of high school began and I quit my position as head fry cook/biscuit man. I would not have another job until school was out but still think often of Dude and my days at the Golden Arches. Well, actually, no I don’t.

So, as we celebrate the occasion of another direct deposit it’s nice to look back and see where it all began. Just like always, the money deposited is usually in the bank and gone by Monday on silly things as mortgage, food and electricity.

In my effort to eat healthy I’ve tried to minimize my visits to fast food joints.  Truth be told I haven’t made a biscuit since my departure but I’m willing to bet mine would still be the best.

And finally, in closing, just remember the next time you see or hear a commercial for a Triple Cheeseburger at Mickey Dee’s that you know who you can thank for it’s creation.

You’re welcome.

Childhood Memories, Life

Nicknames

My cell phone rang last night and as I glanced down to see who it was I could see the word “Bones” blaring off the screen. A feeling of comfort came upon me. Usually, phone calls on my cell in the evening are work related. Someone locking themselves out of the computer and needing assistance or maybe a server was down. Always an inconvenience. So it was a great relief to see “Bones” on there.

Bones, as it turns out, is actually the nickname for my brother Louie. He’s been going by the name of “Bones” for at least 35 years. I don’t think there’s a single person who knows him that hasn’t called him that name at one point or another. Before “Bones” he was called “Gooey” which is how we as young children would say “Louie”. But as we all got older Gooey fell by the way side in favor of something that would better describe his skeletal frame. And he’s been Bones ever since.

What’s in a name?

The most logical nickname in my family has to be “Woody” and a lot of us have had that name bestowed. But we Wood’s were never ones to just go with the status quo. No, we needed to be different. I myself had several nicknames growing up. The earliest one I can recall is “Bipper”. To this day, I am not sure why my father decided to dub me with this surname.  But then again, why would my father’s brother nickname his own son “Chump”?

Bipper soon turned into “White Cap”. A nickname my brother loved to use that described the color of my hair which was over the top blonde. I always remember not liking this name for some reason. Although with the mass exodus of my “White Cap” today….I’d much prefer it to, oh say being called “Skullcap”.

White Cap soon fell by the way side too in favor of something more diabolical. My brother knew that of all the things I loathed as a youth, my middle name topped the list. Edward. I hated it. I always wanted it to be “Michael” or “Steven”. Anything but Edward. It sounded funny and indeed my brother knew he had found my achillies heel.

So Edward it was. And as much as I tried to get him to stop calling me that it only made it worse. Begging, telling my parents and even some threats of violence were all to no avail. I was Edward. Soon every child in my family was calling me that and for quite a while I was a mess about it. He’d even introduce me as Edward to his new friends. Eventually, I became adjusted to it and was fortunate enough to have the name “hipped” up over the years to be “Eddie” instead.

What other nicknames have been used for members of my family? Let’s see, there’s been Lard, Nark, Hermie, Eye, Bop, Rosie and Pumpkin. You can draw your own conclusions as to where those names came from. And then there’s the story about “Bowlman”.

My brother went through a period in high school where he liked to dabble in weed. I was never into that stuff but one day stumbled upon the mother load of ALL nicknames for him. I decided the best way to not only bring attention to what he was doing but also to degrade him would be to call him “Bowlman” or “Bowl”.  If you’re a bit confused let me explain. A “bowl”, in addition to being a container for cereal, is also a term used to describe a marijuana pipe.

In the beginning, my bro did not like it at all that he was being called the Bowlman. Mostly because it would make my grandmother (God bless her) question him as to why I was calling him that. Then he would have to struggle to try to explain it to her without giving away his dirty little secret.

Of course, that’s when he would tell her that “Bowl” was really MY nickname. I remember getting into a LOT of arguments with him about it… “Oh NO..I am NOT Bowlman…YOU ARE!” I’d scream. There was absolutely no way he was turning the ULTIMATE nickname back on me without a fight. Brotherly love be damned.

As the years went on his bowl use stopped but the nickname didn’t. The name took on a life of it’s on.  In fact, we still call each other “Bowl” even in mixed company. It’s become part of our common vernacular. Now a days, “Bowlman” or “Bowl” has become a joke between us. A memory of growing up.

So the next time you see me I won’t shed a tear if you call me Eddie. And calling me “Bowlman” will give me a chuckle.  But in the battle of childhood nicknames I’m still vindicated and I’ll tell you why.

My brother’s grandson calls me “Uncle Jimmy”…. but my daughter still calls him “Uncle Gooey”.

Childhood Memories, Life, Thought and Opinion

Regrets

Regrets…I’ve Had a Few – Frank Sinatra

Ever have one of those days where something happens and it makes you take stock in what your life is about? I had one of those days last week from an unlikely source.

I was reading the news headlines on the Internet and came across an article that Jackie Cooper had died. Many people born post 1980 probably have no idea who Jackie Cooper is. To them, he’s just another name of another 88 year old man who died.  Someone who had some kind of celebrity status  from the “Golden Age”. Someone whose time had long since come and gone. If it’s not Lady Gaga or Justin Bieber then it’s not newsworthy to most Generation X, Y, Z  or what ever the hell they’re called these days.

For those of us born around 1969 Jackie Cooper will forever be synonymous with Our Gang and The Little Rascals. He was the boy who had the crush on Miss Crabtree. Ring a bell? How many hours after school or Saturday mornings did you spend watching him showing his affection for her?

Jackie went on to be nominated for an Academy Award at age 9. He also recieved multiple Emmy Awards for directing episodes of MASH (my grandmother always used to mention that fact when his name popped up in the credits and that’s probably another reason I like him).

But why would the death of this guy have such an effect on me? In a strange way, and even though I never met the man in my life, it made me feel like part of my childhood had died with him.  I wished at that very moment that at some point I could have gotten to meet him in person. I remember all those early years I spent watching Jackie trying to impress Miss Crabtree. A young man on his quest for unobtainable love. Maybe it was the innocence of just coming home from school and turning on the television with no other obligations or committments. And now that part of me is gone.

There are many people in my life who are/were important to me. The people in my family are ones I’m able to tell, although maybe not as often as I should. But then there are some other types with whom I have regret.  People I have never met but had a profound impact on me. Among them:

– I would have loved to have shaken hands with Bob Ross and told him how much I loved his painting. His shows brought me closer to my grandmother. It was always “our time” together after school when Bob painted. I regret not meeting him before he died in 1995.

– I would have loved to have had Dr. Seuss sign one of my Cat in the Hat books at some convention. Of course I thought he would just live forever although life has a funny way of having that effect on you. I regret he never signed a book for me.

– I would have loved to have met Mister Rogers. I would have let him know how much I enjoyed his show growing up. How I often pretended to do my own show from MY neighborhood at home. Using a bunch of old clothes and shoes in a closet I’d spend many an hour at an early age pretending I was him.  How I knew all the words to his “hello” and “goodbye” songs. To tell him that I think the reason I like jazz music no doubt started from watching his show. Fred Rogers even came to Easton one year to visit the Crayola factory and I didn’t go. He passed away a short time later. I regret never meeting Mister Rogers.

Then there are the events in my life that I initially regretted but was glad how things turned out:

– I regretted leaving West Chester University after studying music education for a year. I left because I needed to find work and for years wanted to go back and finish. It never came to be but I wonder what my life would have been like had I been able to stay. Would I have been a music teacher in some school district? Giving private lessons somewhere?

One thing I know for sure is that I would not be where I am now if I had finished. I would not be married to my current wife (we got back together a few months after I was home for good). And my daughter would probably not be here either. I do not regret leaving.

– When my Dad was diagnosed with cancer in 1996 I began spending more time with him. We had been estranged for many years and it wasn’t until he got sick that we really began to reconnect again. After he passed away I regretted for the longest time not taking the initiative to see him more when I had the chance. But I eventually realized that those final years were actually the best I’ve ever spent with him. I do not regret those days.

So reading Jackie Cooper’s obituary had a two found effect on me. First of all, it gave me great “ammo” for this blog entry. But even more importantly, it made me think about where I am in life and where I’ve been.

In the future, I’ll try harder to tell people how much I care about them. I’ll also look for opportunities to tell those remaining “Jackie Coopers” how much I appreciate their work.

And I’ll look back without regret.

Cars, Childhood Memories

Ford Mustang

Summer time in the 1980’s rocked for me.  We had an above ground swimming pool that all the neighborhood kids would congregate at following a day of childhood reverie.  I remember  the cook outs my family used to have. There were entire clans of Wood (and those relatives with different last names but no less in equal standing) for as far as the eye can see.

Burgers on the grill, cold A-treat soda (yeah, we were ghetto) and the challenge of the quoit board awaited. As dusk settled in and everyone would now be deep in food coma it wouldn’t be long before Uncle Jim (who I was named after) would start in about playing poker.

The greatest thing I remember during the festivities was one summer taking a walk with one of my cousins. We would stroll by everyone’s parked cars lining the driveway.  There was Marlene’s white Ford Escort, Aunt  Babe,  Aunt Ree and Aunt Ron’s 1970’s baby blue volkswagon beetle and even Dave’s Jeep Wrangler.

But then it was like the heaven’s parted and a single spotlight shone on one car in particular. My Dad’s friend John Paul Jones (not the dude from Led Zeppelin he coincidentally had the same name and we liked to call him that) had a 1966 Ford Mustang that was the coolest, deepest shade of blue you’d ever see. Black interior with the chrome mag wheels. I never rode in it but I could hear him coming from miles away. It screamed.

John and my Dad were huge Mustang fans. I grew up around them and have loved them from the get go. In some families, you’re measured by how successful you are. How much college you had or how big your house is.  When I was a kid, the measurement was whether or not you had a Mustang.

Childhood Memories, Life

Bob Ross and Happy Trees

There are certain people you encounter in life that inspire you. People that motivate you to be your best or try new things.

The band KISS made me want to be a rock star. Mr. Milisits in high school made me want to sing. But today’s post is about the man that made me want to, of all things, paint.

Bob Ross was a genius.

Here was a guy who didn’t follow the traditional method of painting. He would literally cover the canvas in white paint and then paint on top of that. The wet on wet technique he called it.

I remember spending countless afternoons after school with my Grandmother watching him on PBS painting. He’d always say things like “Lets put a happy little tree in there” and then out of nowhere one would emerge from a knife or brush he wielded in his hand. Freakin’ awesome!

Sometimes he would begin with a dry black canvas. He’d then cover the entire canvas in blue and paint on top of that. Then he would start painting the scene from there. These would be his night scenes and were always my favorites.

I painted quite a bit with Bob in the 80’s. It was not only easy but one of the most relaxing and rewarding things I ever did.

When Bob died in 1995 I was devastated. He was really just starting to achieve celebrity.

I always wondered what it would have been like if he were still around today.

I could see him being a special guest on Letterman or Leno and the bit would be him painting a picture in 3 minutes or something like that. Everyone would go crazy in the audience.

Sadly, it just wasn’t mean to be.

Last year, I had to go to Freeport Maine for work. While I was there I decided to make the two hour trip upstate to the Pemaquid Point Lighthouse. It’s the lighthouse you see on the back of the Maine State quarter and also one of the backgrounds you can have in Windows 7.

While I admired the beauty of the lighthouse and it’s surroundings a very cool idea popped into my head. And I could not wait to get home.

So yes, I still paint Bob Ross style every once in a while. Fortunately, his painting products can still be found in stores so there is still a market for it.

I love the idea of taking a blank canvas and making a whole world on it in an hour or so. To me, it’s still therapeutic.

And here’s the best part of all: while I’m painting my happy little trees (still no where near as good as his) I think about all those wonderful afternoons after school with my Grandmother.

Thanks Bob