It’s hard to believe that it’s been 7 years since the release of my last book, “Neapolitan Sky,” but I’m happy to announce that my brand new novella, “Beyond What We Know,” is set for release this summer. I’ll be using my site to share updates along the way, including the cover reveal, a chapter or two, some behind the scenes stories, giveaways and more. I hope you’ll be along for the ride.
In the meantime, I’d like to share the trailer for the book and a synopsis of “Beyond What We Know.”
Beyond What We Know – Synopsis:
“Riddled with guilt over the death of his father, high school graduate Mike Collins spends his last summer at home disquieted by thoughts of leaving behind his mother and first love as he prepares to depart for college. Unbeknownst to him, Mike will soon meet his musical hero, Chris Steele, whose perspective of life will teach him to believe in the possibility of second chances.
Filled with rich imagery from the 1980s, “Beyond What We Know” is a coming-of-age story exploring life’s obstacles, the music and the machinery, while illuminating the power of friendship with the metaphysical transcendence of the unknown.”
This is the fourteenth entry in my series of annual birthday reflections. Something I started doing shortly after I began my writing journey in the fall of 2011. As I sit here now, drinking coffee on this beautiful fall Saturday morning, it’s hard to believe that I’m exactly half-way through my fifties.
It seems like it was only yesterday I was the youthful teenager driving my pals around in a beat-up 1973 Toyota station wagon, hauling my guitar to lesson every week, going to the Palmer Park Mall on Friday nights after school, pouring millions of dollars worth of quarters from summer lawn mowing money into video game cabinets, having my fill of Orange Julius and wishing I could somehow muster up the courage to go over and talk to the cute girl who was standing with her friends outside of the Listening Booth record store.
Wasn’t I the one who was able to go to rock concerts and stay up until the wee hours of the morning? Sitting in some dingy downtown diner deep into the night; chain smoking cigarettes, eating french fries smothered in imitation cheese sauce and drinking gallons of coffee. Talking with my friends about our plans to take on the world and make all of our dreams come true. And who could possibly forget singing ̶h̶o̶r̶r̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ beautiful three-part acapella versions of Eagles songs in the parking lot until 2 a.m. until we finally called it a night. Then to get home and lay there alone in the dark, listening to the whirring sound of a portable fan and feeling excited about the possibility of everything we’d just talked about coming true, before finally drifting off to sleep. These days, I’m lucky if I can stay up past 10 p.m.
There’s an odd sense of immortality you have when you’re young that makes you believe time will always stand still. One that pulls you close and then whispers in your ear, telling you that you’ll never be as old as your parents. But then one day you take a nap and unknowingly wake up in their role and realize your parents are gone and time waits for no one.
To give you some perspective, my father died twenty-seven years ago this month at the age of 51. As of today, my birthday, I’ve outlived him by four years. My mother died in March of 2020, almost five years ago. This year, one of the friends who made those many coffee and cheese fry runs with me has been gone for ten years, and I recently heard the news about another classmate I knew quite well who had passed away unexpectedly.
A few years ago I stumbled upon my Easton Area Middle School student ID card. It was hiding beneath a pile of old knick knacks and memories in the crawl space of my basement. Why I decided to keep it all these years I’ll never know, but seeing it reminded me of the day the teacher handed them out in the fall of 1980. It was the first time I ever received a photo identification card of any kind, and although I didn’t much care for my fresh-faced goofy grin photo on the front, there was something printed on the back of the now worn, laminated card that had immediately caught my attention.
There among my bus route and home room numbers were the words, “YR GRAD-87.” It was the first time I saw the year of my future high school graduation (1987) and the first time I believed it was so very far away. To this shy eleven-year-old boy, seven years seemed like an eternity. The very idea of a youthful me not only seeing the year 1987 but eventually living in the year 2000 and beyond was the equivalent of having a starring role in The Jetsons or a Star Wars movie. It was inconceivable for me to even comprehend living in the space age. My parents were both very much alive at the time as well as both sets of grandparents and all of my classmates and friends. I didn’t have a job, or any roles and responsibilities for that matter, and the only things I looked forward to back in 1980 was Pizza Friday at school, my birthday, Christmas and summer vacation. As far as I was concerned, seven years away could’ve been seven hundred.
Fast forward and here I am now, sitting on a couch with a scruffy gray beard and a bit thick in the middle, celebrating the double nickel birthday thirty-seven years post high school and twenty-four years beyond the year 2000. It’s mind boggling to think that we’re almost 25% of the way through another century. Back in 1980, I thought I had all the time I’d ever need, and now I often find myself feeling the urge to make the most of the time I have left.
As many of you know, I suffered a bimalleolar ankle fracture back in February. It was the first time I had ever broken a bone in my life and had to have surgery. One of the worst and scariest things to ever happen to me. I was laid up for what felt like an eternity, so when the doctor finally looked at the x-ray of my healed bones weeks later and told me to get up and walk, the emotion I felt was almost Biblical. I’m so grateful to be back walking, although my ankle does make a point of reminding me nearly every day about what happened. The doctor said it will probably take up to a year before things get back to “normal,” whatever that is. I’m thankful for everyone who took the time to wish me well, bring me over a coffee or mow the lawn while I was laid up in the cast and boot. As a side note I will say that, in addition to the wheel and central air conditioning, the knee scooter is one of the greatest things ever invented by man.
Now that I’m back on two feet let’s finish this birthday post by talking about what’s going on now, in the present day. In addition to continuing to do interviews—hopefully, you’ve read a few of them over the years, I’m still writing and doing watercolor painting. Both of which have been great forms of stress relief.
I think I may celebrate this day by spending some time at an old-school arcade in Allentown. One targeted to Generation X that still has all of the retro game cabinets. There’s no need to drop quarters into the machines anymore – it’s pay one price for unlimited play, which is a good thing considering I’ve been out of practice for the last forty years. And while I’m being annihilated by the invaders of Galaga and Zaxxon, I’ll reminisce about my friends who’ve moved on as well as the coffee and cheese fries—especially now that I’m eligible for the 55+ discount menu! I’ll also think about the plans and dreams we made that came true, and the ones still left to find.
In the meantime, I hope this day and my next trip around the sun brings all of us a newfound sense of hope, peace and most of all, love.
August 13th, 1984. A day I will always remember, and one that I’ll now mark on today’s 40th anniversary.
My story about Pap (Willard Z. Appleman or “Woody,” or “Brother Will,” as he was known to most grown ups) isn’t one of your usual “grandfather takes grandson fishing” types. In fact, for all intents and purposes, I really only had that kind of a bonding relationship with Pap for the first five years of my life. And even then fishing wasn’t one of the things we did. In fact, there was only one activity I remember vividly, but more on that in a moment.
When I was born in October of 1969, my family had been living with my grandparents in their small turn of the century house on the south side of Easton. Pap had already been working as a dyer in a silk mill for many years, although I was too young to remember him ever going off to work. To me, my Pap was just too good to be employed by someone else. In fact, the only way I found out he even had a real job at all was by reading his obituary when I was 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 who 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 old school hand mowers. I can still imagine him taking an entire Sunday to do yard work every week in the summer, and this after having worked a full week in the mill. I have no doubt he enjoyed every minute of it.
When I was five and could actually start remembering the time we spent together, Pap often asked me to take a ride with him down to the Seiple Hardware store across town. I’d immediately drop my Hot Wheels cars and run outside to jump in the front seat of his green Rambler.
Those drives are what I remember most about my days with Pap. It seemed like we’d be driving for hours to get where we were going, but in reality the hardware store was only about a few 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, although I certainly wish I did. It was just me driving to Seiple Hardware with my Pap. The drive was the only thing I remember, 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 used to cross-pollinate azalea plants and make a new variety, or even how he invented a cure for baldness that really worked. Looking back now, I wish he would have passed the recipe down to me.
About the only thing I didn’t like about living with Pap was his dog – the most obnoxious chihuahua you’d ever want to meet. His name was Butchie and all he did was growl if you came within ten feet of Pap, but Pap loved the hell out of him.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.
Pap’s oil painting (above) and my watercolor impression of it.
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 and relatives 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 and never thought much about it. Then again, I never went to any funerals either. 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 I suddenly realized how much I was going to miss him too. That day still haunts me.
I’m sitting here this morning drinking my coffee as a 54 year old man and still finding it hard to believe that it’s been forty years since he left this world. So I decided to take a look at one of the old family 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.
God bless you, Pap. I know that whereever you are God has you taking care of his yard. Whenever I see azaleas I always think of 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.
I’ve often thought about the possibility of making a time capsule.
For those who may not know, a time capsule is a container you fill with messages, articles of clothing and knickknacks that represent the current age. Then, you bury the container in the ground for some future society to discover.
My brother, a real handyman who still lives in the same house he and my sister had grown up in, made one of those interesting discoveries the other day while doing some remodeling.
The small, turn of the century colonial we lived in was originally owned by my grandparents and over the years, my brother has done a lot of extensive work to it. He’s torn down walls, installed new floors and fixtures and even put windows where none previously existed. In fact, the only portion of the house he hadn’t really tackled before was the make shift bathroom my father had built that lied on the first floor.
Since it was the only bathroom in the entire home and would be an expensive endeavor, not to mention a huge inconvenience whenever nature called for the next few weeks, he had put off remodeling it. Finally, the circumstances were right and the demolition could begin.
Upon tearing down many layers of paneling he made his discovery and immediately called me. I rushed over.
Lying beneath the torn, weathered particle board was writing. Some of it written by the hand of an adult, and some by the hand of a boy who would one day grow up to write this blog.
As I shined a flashlight up on the wall to get a closer look, it reminded me of what Egyptian archaeologists must have felt like when they discovered an ancient tomb of some long dead pharaoh. Would the scribble indicate what was housed beyond the great wall? Or perhaps there would be a silly warning I had written to future generations not to proceed any further. Nope. There wasn’t even a map leading to the location of my lost Spiderman action figures. Damn! But, what it was turned out to be something even better.
The first thing I had written on the wall read the following:
“Jimmy 7 years old”
Seven was the age I would have been when I wrote it; which would now be thirty-five years ago. Below my name was written the name of my sister Krissy, who was 6 at the time.
I found myself staring at the scribble for the longest time. Touching it. Running my fingers across the letters just to make sure it was real. The memory of writing it, once long-buried by life, had suddenly come back to me, and I remembered every vivid detail about writing it on the wall just before Dad covered it up with paneling.
I could picture the platinum-blonde, seven-year old boy writing his name and age on the wall. Making the most of his third grade education by trying to use proper spelling and pushing his pencil deep into the surface of the wood to make sure the lead was visibly transferred.
Finding something this cool from a general time period is amazing, but being able to pinpoint the exact day that it was written is something even better. Fortunately for me, on an adjacent wall my father had done just that. Below the names of other family members who had been present at the house that night, he had written the exact date the paneling was placed on the wall: “June 9th, 1977”
Now, I’m pretty sure the last thing on Dad’s mind at the time was: “Hey, let’s see what we’ll all be doing thirty-five years from years now when we find this!”, but I really wish he would have been alive for this amazing discovery. I can only imagine the conversations we would have had about it for the remainder of the day.
Next to the date, Dad had written down his name (Louis) along with my mother’s (Joanne) and for some reason, decided to include the date that they were married: “April 2, 1966”.
Sadly, their marriage would not last, but the memory of this project, once long since forgotten is now one I’ll treasure for years to come.
At first I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you this story. Quite frankly, I was afraid that you might think I was crazy. I’m not talking “Oh, well we all have our moments” type crazy. No, I’m taking “put on the white straight jacket and throw me in the rubber room” crazy. But in the end I surmised that the notion of you thinking I was crazy pales in comparison to what actually happened to me and therapy hasn’t helped.
My doctor believes that writing this down might be cathartic for me since our sessions of late haven’t been going all that well. Sure, there have been some breakthroughs and revelations since my breakdown six months ago, although I’m still not even sure how I was able to suppress the memory of it for twenty years. He’s been wrong before, like the time he upped my medication and I slept for three days, but for the sake of my own sanity I’m willing to take his advice if it brings me closure.
You must understand that the thought of reliving events about my childhood and things that go bump in the night isn’t something that really appeals to me, but if it somehow brings me solace and gets me off of these meds I’m willing to take the chance. So here goes.
To tell this story properly requires a little explanation. Growing up, some children are prone to having imaginary friends. Some invisible person that comes to play with them, listens to their problems and talks to them in a voice only they can understand. A rite of passage some doctors believe may fill a void that exists in a child’s life. Something that’s very common and also quite healthy if you ask my shrink.
I too was one of those children who experienced the imaginary friend phenomenon growing up. But having the experience is where the similarities end. In those cases, the children all grew up to live normal lives. But in my case, the “friend” wasn’t invisible, didn’t come to play and surely didn’t give a damn about my problems. In reality (yeah, now there’s a funny word for it), my “friend” also wasn’t a person. Mine was actually a “thing” if you really want to know, and very far from imaginary.
When I was eight years old the visits started and they continued twice a week every summer for years. Always starting on the Summer Solstice, June 20th, and always the same way.
Deep in the night while tucked under the covers of my bed I could hear it. The scuffling from underneath. The sound that broke me out in sweat like a Pavlonian dog, making my heart race. Coming from the place I promised myself I’d never peek under for fear of what might come out and pull me down into darkness.
From the moment the sound began I quickly dismissed notion that it might be a mouse in the wall. Looking back, I wish it had been an army of rats. Anything would be better then what was coming.
I also quickly discovered that first summer that Spider Man wasn’t real either. The night light with the wall crawler on it that sat near my bedside, the one my Mom had bought me for Christmas, the one that religiously guarded me in my bed and vanquished all foes, would be of no help.
So I pulled the covers up to my nose and prayed to God to make it go away. Promising him that if he’d help me just this one time I’d be in church every Sunday for the rest of my life.
Telling myself that if I just close my eyes suddenly the sun would be shining and my mother would be yelling for me to come down for breakfast. I’d hear the sound of birds chirping outside my open window and the swaying of bed sheets hanging on the neighbor’s clothes line in the warm summer breeze. The smell of bacon would fill the air and I would reassure myself that last night was only just a bad dream.
But this wasn’t a dream. I was still under the covers in the middle of the night and could hear rain pelting the window outside. Worse still, I was too scared to call out for help as the shadow began to rise from under my bed.
go.Jimmy.go 