Miss Danbury

The third floor of our house in Beacon, N.Y. was the attic. Like the rest of the house and three other nearby houses it was primarily built by my grandfather. This was before the advent of building codes. My memory(not always trustworthy)says that he built the house from the remnants of an old train station which would explain why the lamp in my bedroom flashed intermittent red lights and made a ringing bell sound every now and then. The attic was a mysterious and dangerous place because who knew what was stored up there?. It was dangerous because they must have run out of lumber because their were gaps in the floor boards. One time during one of our exploring adventures my brother's leg went through the kitchen ceiling. We got blamed by my mother--misplaced blame we thought. How about the grandpa we never knew? But "Pa" was without flaw in my mother's eyes. She had a look in her eye when she talked about him that every father would would hope for. After all he and my grandmother brought up eight children during the great depression. So what if he had to build houses out of old lumber and my grandmother made bath tub whiskey(that pa drank a little too much of) during prohibition and sold it to the neighborhood bars. There wasn't much time for much of anything except surviving which made our discovery of an old beat up trophy with the inscription "Miss Danbury" engraved on the front all the more surprising. We dusted it off and brought it down to show our mother. We were puzzled to say the least. There had to be a good story behind it. My mother, in a matter of fact voice said, "Oh that. I was Miss Danbury,Ct. when I was seventeen." With all the tact of young boys we laughed until she got annoyed. She brought out a picture of a gorgeous young lady with rosy cheeks in a blue dress holding a trophy-this trophy that we now held. You would think that she would have mentioned this. We only saw a rather large woman who wore either a white uniform or one of a couple of voluminous house dresses. We didn't know this beautiful young lady. Now I think how wonderful that she did have a moment that wasn't all about survival--about having enough to eat and a place to sleep. May we all have such a moment--in fact many moments of profound beauty. Imagine answering a knock on your door and someone hands you a silver trophy testifying that you have brought beauty into the world. A beauty that will never become covered in dust or tarnished by time-imagine.

Passed the Daughter Test

I never know if the rare poem hat enters is my life will be a life long friend or an insufferable bore that should be shown the door asap with with my parting words of "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out" chasing the verse down the street. This one passed the critical daughter test. A Summer Afternoon The feel of mountain grass beneath our backs Our bodies curving with the orbit of the earth The sight of the timeless God Disguised in cloud rainments Billowing arms outstretched The aroma of the eternal sun fills our lungs As it slowly climbs over towering green cliffs We look at each other-trembling "How long can you hold your breath?" I ask "How long can you hold me?" she answers

Portsmouth Community Radio

Dear Friends, This coming week is pledge week on Portsmouth Community Radio 106.1fm. We believe our show, "Don't Dis My Ability" is unique and valuable because it gives a voice to individuals with a wide range of disabilities. It is not only a lone voice on the radio but often a lonely voice that aches for someone to hear and understand. Please call and make a pledge 603-430-9822. With the advent of the internet there is no such thing anymore as a local radio show. My agency has put our own page on their site--livinginnovations.com--scroll down to "Don't Dis My Ability" and you can listen to past shows with just a click.Much love to all my friends.

just another memory

For a guy with plans for the future-stories to write--grand children to play with I still get captured by distant memories that I have to pinch to see if they really happened. But first I have to tell you what Samaya said today. She went with me to the bank, post office and Dunkin Donuts where I bought her a multi grain bagel with cream cheese. Her face had cream cheese streaks and her cheeks were bulging--unbelievably adorable. I asked her how did she ever get such puffy cheeks and she informed me, "I was born with them grandpa". To have such grandchildren is to fall in love with life again when you think the flame is flickering dimmer by the moment.But I digress as usual. Last week Laurel was driving and we were going grocery shopping with the kids. We stopped at Dunkin's and my face lit up. They were raising funds for cf. You donate a dollar and they put your name on a sticker. The windows were filling up with stickers. My daughter groaned because she knew what I was going to do and she had to help. "Yes, I will gladly donate a dollar to this wonderful cause. "What name would you like us to write in for you?" Would you mind if I wrote it in myself?" "Not at all" Laurel is giving me a look like she would rather be anywhere in the universe but being a go between for me and the lady waiting on us. I received the sticker and like last year I wrote the name, "Nert Sorry". Who is Nert Sorry you might ask? Fifty years ago in study hall the substitute teacher was taking attendance. She would ask each kid to say their name which she dutifully wrote down on the attendance sheet. I, of course, said "Ronald Tomanio" but my friend Gary Groza said "Nert Sorry" when asked. I know this is juvenile, but I was filled with Buddha- like blissful joy . In the following days when roll call was taken the teacher would call out "Nert Sorry"--no answer. "Is Nert Sorry here?" It didn't matter if I had another frustrating day in advanced algebra or I was feeling alone on a desert island the size of a school desk. For that moment when that poor teacher scanned the room annoyed that once again Nert Sorry was playing hooky, I was in heaven burying my face in my arm crying tears of joy. Certainly, such a fine fellow, although sadly devoid of physical reality, deserves a sticker with his name on it plastered high up on the Dunkin Donut's window. We drive away--my daughter groaning, me shaking with laughter, Samaya's cheeks bulging with cream cheese. Who knew that youth could be recaptured again for the measly sum of one dollar.

Bee bee guns and bows and arrows

Still thinking about our visit to my Aunt's house in New Milford the other weekend. She couldn't talk fast enough jumping from one old story to another like a kid running across a stream briefly touching down on expose rocks. "Remember when your Uncle Harold broke your brother Richie's bee bee gun in half when he shot the bird?" "You mean the same uncle who gave us dangerous weapons for birthdays and Xmas like real bows and arrows just like Rambo used to wipe out Vietnam?"
I told her I remembered that story and Uncle Harold should have given Richie a medal--of course I was trying to get her riled up. "Uncle Harold shot a thousand birds". "Yes, but he always ate what he shot." I was thinking about the moral implications of that statement and how it could doom Quakerism, but decided it would be more fun just to cause trouble. It was summertime when kids released on parole from school try to destroy the natural world. We had a shiny brand new bee bee gun aching to spew destruction, but what to use it on? My brother leaned out of my second floor bedroom on South Chestnut Street in Beacon, N.Y. scanning for a victim. Nothing in our backyard, but over the fence of lilac bushes in the Nelson's domain was a birdbath with one thirsty bird perched on the rim.It was an impossible 30 yard shot on a windy day. "I need to adjust for the wind and being up so high" He pulled the trigger and and down went the bird face down in the birdbath. We knew we were in trouble because we had already put some bee bee holes in the Nelson's garage window and had to apologize and replace them. No fun getting picked up by the ears and dragged over to the Nelson's house by my mother. We had to make another apology to the kindly old Nelsons. Mrs.Nelson returned to singing while she pinned her dripping laundry suspended over the brilliant green grass oasis of their tiny kingdom. Mr. Nelson went back to listening to Red Barber narrate Yankee games on Sunday afternoons. My brother and I went back to playing wiffle ball on our side of the lilac fence pretending to be Mickey Mantle imaging how Red would say our names. Eventually, Uncle Harold took back the bee bee gun and broke it in half and we stopped receiving lethal weapons for presents. So the world became safer, but less fun--at least for thirsty robins in the summertime. A few years later Vietnam came along and the world turned a deaf ear to Uncle Harold's maxim for world peace.

new poem

I have not written anything new in a while. This emerged very quickly from a story I'm working on.
The Juggler

The juggler tosses sunrises and sunsets in the air
Sometimes reaching out his hand at the last possible moment
The children clap and scream shouting "more"
A birthday cake makes an appearance
The weary children drift away
The juggler packs up his sunrises and sunsets in a battered trunk
He walks away waving at the birthday girl
"See you next year", he whispers
She has strawberry frosting on her cheek

wearing my uncle's sweater

You've heard of last man standing. Karen and I are going visit the last aunt standing in Connecticut this Sunday. She will be 89 and lives on a mountain in New Milford that is modestly called Second Hill(First Hill must really be some mountain) The house is large and sits on 10 acres. My late Uncle Harold would not like the fact that he has neighbors now. He loved the wilderness, camping, fishing,hunting, firing ranges. For a year and a half while my mother finished up Chiropractic college in Iowa my brother and I lived with them. They had no children and all the other aunts and uncles did, so they were the logical choice and they would have been the logical choice of my brother and I. We learned to swim, roam the woods, work on houses he would build in the summertime. We also learned that people ate three meals a day actually sitting at a table together. They were a couple of opposites my aunt and uncle. She read movie mags and the National Enquirer-he read the Great Books and listened to opera and classical music. She was a Catholic who did and still does go to church every Sunday. He never went to church until late in life when he had a near death experience on the operating table. Then he began reading the Bible and posting signs in his workshop basement reminding him not to swear.He was what is called a man's man and I looked up to him because he was the closest I would get to having a real father. He taught us how to play chess and encouraged riding on toboggans down huge hills at a hundred miles an hour. He would buy me cheeseburgers for breakfast when we went to work and he stopped for coffee. I probably was a disappointment in that I almost strangled myself learning how to fish, I wouldn't fire a gun. I did go hunting with him and fishing on Long Island Sound and generally liked being with him. He died of cancer some years ago at home on the big mountain taken care of by my aunt. Shocking to see this larger than life figure reduced to skin and bones physically and mentally. I inherited the sweater my aunt made him. Heavy soft wool with pictures of wildlife. I was way to big to ever wear it. Now I'm small enough physically and mentally to put it on and keep it on.