Posts tagged ‘family’
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 12, REALITY OF TIME TRAVEL
CHAPTER 12
REALITY OF TIME TRAVEL
Kingsley walked home with today’s paper from tomorrow. He was deep in thought and anxious to organize them. As soon as he got home he retrieved a pad and pencil, opened the paper, and while reading took copious notes. His expression grew grave as he worked and highlighted the articles and sections he thought were important. Once this was accomplished he prepared for bed knowing he would get little sleep. The next morning, he awoke from the restless night he had spent with anticipation of his meeting with Elmo. After a meager breakfast he placed a call to his friend.
Elmo answered the phone, and Kingsley could hear the anticipation in his voice. This did not do much for Kingsley’s spirit. “Elmo, this is Kingsley. I thought we might get together and have a discussion about your machine. Would six tonight be okay?”
“Sure,” Elmo responded. “I can’t wait to talk to you about it. It’s all I can think about.”
Mildred was listening and instantly knew the subject of the conversation. She tried to hide her growing apprehension thinking about the last time her husband’s invention was made public with its possibility.
Kingsley arrived at precisely 6:00PM to Mildred waiting with a steaming mug of tea. She said, “Elmo is so excited to talk to you.” She looked at Kingsley’s expression and could detect his uneasiness. She said no more, and Kingsley walked down the stairs to the cellar.
“Kingsley, my friend, I’m so glad you came. I can’t wait to talk to you about the prospects of patenting my machine.”
Kingsley was known for his directness, and Elmo expected that now, but to say he was less than enthusiastic about what he heard would be a stretch.
Holding the paper obtained during his time travel, Kingsley referred to his pad of notes although he knew exactly what he needed to say. “Elmo, I’ve highlighted some sections and articles in this paper. Areas where your time machine would have an impact. First of all, let’s consider the future of your time machine. Once its existence was known, companies would clammer for the rights to mass produce the device. And if you did not agree to release the patent, we know how the world works. Details of the patent would be leaked. With details of your machine and slight changes, companies would begin production. Countries which are known not to observe patents, namely China and Russia, would also begin to mass produce time machines with little or no thought to the consequences.
“Elmo, use of your time machine would destroy society as we know it.”
It was then Elmo noticed that the entire sports section was marked. It seemed the entire newspaper was highlighted with copious notes in the margins. He looked up at his friend.
“First of all, your machine could spell the end of sports betting both legal and illegal. Actually, it would spell doom for all sports. If just one person knew the future and the outcome of any sporting event and sold that information, well you can see what would happen.”
As Elmo continued to study the paper Kingsley went on. “Keep in mind that one person selling information scenario. What would happen if the future of the stock market was known? Think of the effect that would have on the economy of the entire world. What would happen if the future value of all the monies of the world was known?”
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 11, A TINKERER GOES INTO THE FUTURE
CHAPTER 11
A TINKERER GOES INTO THE FUTURE
Kingsley talked to Elmo on the phone and agreed to come over and view the time machine the next day. The excitement in Elmo’s voice was obvious. “It works! It works!” Elmo repeatedly shouted. Kinsley didn’t have to ask what works.
The following night at 6:00PM sharp Kingsley showed up at the kitchen door, punctual as usual. Mildred had a steaming mug of Earl Grey ready for him.
“Hello, Kingsley. Elmo is so excited to talk to you about his time machine. I’ll be honest with you Kingsley; I think it really does work but what kind of disruption it will cause in our lives I can only imagine. I just want a nice quiet life here in New Mexico.”
Kinsley said, “I’ll do my best to keep the existence of the machine quiet until Elmo and I have thought through the ramifications it might pose.”
Elmo appeared at the top of the cellar stairs and said, “Kingsley come quick. I want to demonstrate my time machine.” Elmo rushed down the stairs so fast that Kingsley was afraid he might miss a step and fall.
“All right, Elmo, I’m coming.” Kingsley looked back at Mildred and she just stood there shaking her head.
Elmo led Kingsley down to the iron lung. “Kingsley, I found a loose wire and after consulting my wiring diagrams, I reattached it. And what do you know; it now works as a time machine.”
“How can you be sure, Elmo?”
“Why, I tested it and journeyed into the future. Now I’d like you to see the future.”
This caught Kingsley by surprise. “I don’t know, Elmo. What happens if it’s only a one-way trip?”
“That won’t happen. I came back. And even if it did, I’m only sending you to tomorrow morning. Trust me, Kingsley.”
That declaration was a huge jump of faith in Kingsley’s mind. Will this device work every time. And what happens if a traveler is caught in the ‘in – between? He respected Elmo’s enthusiasm and love for science but had trouble erasing all doubts of success. But after thinking of the prospect of traveling into the future, Kingsley said, “Okay, Elmo, send me to tomorrow morning, but make sure you bring me back.”
Elmo smiled and said, “Don’t worry. It’s foolproof.”
Kingsley stared at Elmo.
Elmo opened the lid to the iron lung and had Kingsley climb in. Before he closed the lid he said, “First the chamber will fill with a dense mist. That’s normal. When the mist clears. I’d like you to go upstairs, open the kitchen door and pick up the paper. Bring the paper along with you when you get back into the chamber. The return process will begin automatically when you close the lid of the iron lung. You’ll be gone for a total of fifteen minutes.” Elmo closed the chamber and initiated the process. Soon Kingsley was lost in a cloud of mist.
Within the chamber Kingsley could see only the dense white fog which soon dissipated. He climbed out of the chamber and found that Elmo was no longer there. Kingsley climbed the cellar stairs. Just a hint a daylight beginning to lighten the kitchen window. Mildred stood before the stove, spatula in hand, cooking breakfast. Elmo sat at the table and was the first to see Kingsley. Then Mildred saw him. Shocked at Kingsley’s suddenly appearing so early in the morning and greatly confused for she had not seen him enter the house, she asked, “What are you doing here?”
Kingsley sheepishly said, “Getting the paper.” Which made no sense to Mildred. All this time Elmo sat at the kitchen table and had a huge grin on his face. Began quietly laughing. Elmo remembered yesterday.
Kingsley retrieved the paper, smiled, and returned to the cellar leaving a bewildered Mildred and hysterical Elmo. Once in the cellar, he opened the lid of the chamber, climbed in and settled down ready to go back to today or rather yesterday. The return process was initiated, and he was lost in a cloud of mist.
When the mist cleared he opened the lid of the iron lung and there stood Elmo. He helped Kingsley out of the chamber and Elmo was excited to see him holding the newspaper which Elmo opened with great anticipation. There it was. Tomorrow’s date. He slapped Kingsley on the back and said, “Now you’re a time traveler.
This experience presented Kingsley with an eerie feeling of possessing knowledge he should not have. He was once again dwelling in today with knowledge of tomorrow.
Kingsley was lost in wonder at what Elmo had accomplished. He built a machine that, until now, only existed in the realm of science fiction. He said, “Elmo, I’d like to keep this paper. There’s some thinking I must do about your startling device.”
“Sure, keep it”, Elmo said.
Kingsley suggested, “Let’s get together in a day or two and discuss the potential impact your machine may have on everyday life. Think things out. I’m sure you and Mildred do not want any more protests.”
“Sure Kingsley, sure. I’ll see you in a couple days.”
The next morning Elmo absently minded went out the kitchen door to get the paper as Mildred said, “Elmo, you won’t believe it but Kingsley already picked up our paper and went into the cellar. Wait a minute, you should believe it because you were here. I’m so confused.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” said Elmo and smiled broadly, amused by Midred’s confusion. Which under the circumstances was normal. For there had never been circumstances like this before.
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 8, ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE
CHAPTER 8
ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE
It was the morning of the sixth day after The New York Times people left town. The article about Elmo and his invention was published in The Los Alamos Herald and was the impetus for the visit from the Times. Much to Mildred’s joy and astonishment there were no immediate repercussions from the article in The New York Times. The residents of Los Alamos had already had their feathers ruffled by the topic and there were no further reactions. Elmo and Mildred began to relax, confident that all the problems involved with the invention were behind them. That morning Mildred asked Elmo, “Could you run out and get the paper? I’ll make you a nice breakfast before you go to work.” Mildred had mellowed and Elmo’s life was back to normal, but that was about to change in seconds.
Elmo opened the front door, took a few steps and then slowly backed up and closed the door. Their usually quiet street was overflowing with cars, buses and a great mass of people milling around appearing to anticipate something. Elmo had no idea what was going on but had a very bad feeling. Mildred was not going to like this. He peered through the window, and it was then he caught sight of a placard where his name appeared being carried towards his house.
Elmo had little choice. He had to let Mildred know that something was going on. If he didn’t, it would be like trying to hide a herd of elephants taking up residence on their front yard. He gently called, “Oh Mil, there’s something I think you should see. I’m sure it won’t amount to much.”
She entered the front room and asked, “What won’t amount to much?”
As she approached the front window Elmo pushed back the curtains. Mildred stood as if paralyzed, and then shouted, “I knew it! I told you talking to The Times was a big mistake. But no, you were going to save the world.” She stormed out of the room leaving Elmo alone with his thoughts of how this would all work out.
Soon more placards appeared identifying the various organizations present. There was The Friends and Relatives of Prisoners. They were joined by The Society of Prison Guards and another group representing ex-cons. A large group of construction workers were present, their group wearing hard hats, were involved in the building of prisons. Along with their signs, they paraded with a scarecrow suspended from a pole with of picture of Elmo’s face attached to the head.
Keeping to themselves, Elmo spied another small group which stood out like a sore thumb. Outfitted in expensive suits and equally expensive shoes, they held professionally manufactured signs proclaiming them as The Society of Defense Lawyers. Their main beef was the possible elimination of endless appeals which kept them supplied with their expensive attire.
Elmo found it strange, but not disappointing, that this great milling crowd of protesters was not protesting. He also noticed that a buffer zone was carefully observed between the house and the crowd. The answer to his observation of inactivity soon became clear when the news trucks began to arrive. What was the purpose of a protest if there was no one there to record it? Elmo thought it was something like that tree falling in the forest and no one heard it. He noticed something else most disturbing. There was a secondary crowd forming in the distance away from the main body of protesters. He could not recognize individual faces, but he knew who they were. They were the residents of Los Alamos coming to witness the spectacle. This would anger Mildred even more.
Once the cameras were in place and the reporters had their makeup on and were holding microphones, the crowd began to come alive holding up signs and voicing their respective opinions.
But all was not quite finished. The icing on the protest cake was the arrival, with as many lights flashing as possible and sirens wailing, of the Los Alamos police. Four police cars came to a skidding halt on Elmo’s front yard creating deep tire tracks. The chief of the Los Alamos police, John McFurdy first went over to the press and diligently spelled his name for them. Then he went to Elmo’s front door and knocked. Elmo asked the chief in and offered him a cup of coffee. Sitting at the kitchen table, McFurdy said, “All the groups out there obtained permits to protest. There is nothing we can do but ensure that no damage happens to your property.”
Elmo recalled the deep groves he had observed in his front yard.
Chief McFurdy continued, “State police have formed a perimeter around you house to ensure that no one without a permit enters the protest zone.”
Elmo knew that the perimeter was not that great. His neighbors had already broken it. The term ‘protest zone’ made the hairs on the back of Elmo’s neck stand on end.
After McFurdy left, Elmo noticed that six officers had stationed themselves between Elmo’s house and the press. There was a hushed silence. The first camera lights came on and it was as if someone threw a switch: All hell broke loose.
The once silent crowd instantly created a roar. Each group shouted their rehearsed chants. Soon after the beginning of the protest, Elmo’s effigy burst into flames. The various groups began to hurl eggs and tomatoes at Elmo’s house and the police. The lawyer’s contingent hurled non-libelous insults and carefully recorded what they said. A few rocks were thrown, later determined to come from the area populated by the ex-cons, but no real damage was done to the house or bystanders including the police.
The protest went on for two days while the press conducted interviews. One woman came forward and held up a copy of The New York Times pointing to the before and after pictures of Elmo’s demonstration shouting, “My son is in prison. I don’t want him turned to ash.” Behind her stood a grizzled ex-con, his shaved head glistening in the sun. “Nobody is putting me in no fucking death chamber,” indicating his life of crime was not yet over.
After the media had their film and interviews they began to pack up and leave. With the media gone the protesters lost their enthusiasm and quietly slipped away leaving a mess of litter and protest signs. There were some portable toilets available, but not nearly enough to handle the large crowd, so the area around Elmo’s home was not only a mess but also a health hazard.
* * *
Once the protesters had left, Kingsley Dasher slowly made his way to Elmo’s residence not knowing what he would find. He climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. The Elmo that greeted him was one he didn’t know. The man appeared beaten, the image of a lost soul. Before he could stop himself, Kingsley asked, “How are you doing, Elmo?”
Elmo stood with slumped shoulders, and dark-rimmed eyes answered with a raspy voice, “I’ve been better.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t mind a little company right now.” Elmo led his friend into the living room and offered him a seat.
Kingsley said, “You had to endure quite a ruckus, Elmo. I feel guilty that I was the one who pointed out the obvious use of your invention. I suspected something might happen once the existence of your invention was made known, but I never imagined the level of hostility. The reality is our society is a fickle society. It professes one set of values, but it is mere lip service. The values that are actually in practice are completely different from those voiced.
“Money is the value our society holds dearest.
“Your invention would have saved millions of dollars, perhaps billions in doing away with the prison system and at the same time providing swift justice for the guilty. But at the same time, it would have deprived hundreds maybe thousands of people of their livelihood. Construction workers and prison guards would suffer and let us not forget the lawyers with their endless appeals. Society has problems with such sudden changes no matter how beneficial they are.”
Kingsley then took a moment to look around and wondered where Mildred was. “How is Mildred handling all this?”
“Not very well. The day the protests began she left for her sister’s home in Santa Fe. I call but she refuses to talk to me.”
“I’m sure she’ll come around once all this is over. It will just take some time. This whole experience was quite a blow for both of you. To say it was a life-disrupting event would be putting it mildly.”
The two men sat in silence for a while and then the phone rang. Elmo jumped up hoping it was Mildred, but he was to be extremely disappointed and further upset.
“Hello,” he said.
Kingsley watched Elmo’s face and immediately knew the news was not good. Elmo had little to say during the short call. After hanging up, he told Kingsley, “That was a representative of the American Civil Liberties Union calling to notify me that they are issuing a class-action lawsuit on behalf of prisoners, families of prisoners and ex-convicts. Apparently there are organizations of defense lawyers also preparing lawsuits. This whole thing is just getting worse and worse.
I was hoping to patent the device and make some money. Now it appears it may cost me everything I have. This is definitely not going to bring Mildred home.”
Kingsley knew that Elmo needed to be alone. He rose and said, “I would suggest you issue a statement saying that upon further consideration, you’ve decided to discontinue any further attempts in patenting or selling your machine.
“Your science was sound, Elmo. Society just wasn’t prepared for such a sudden advance.”
Kingsley left Elmo sitting on the couch, a man in love with science and defied by society.
THE SUPERIOR SPECIES: CONTINUED
THE BIRTH
Bill March had three women he had used as surrogate mothers in the past who refused to see the babies for whom they had made life possible. They were ready to perform the function again. All were young, in their mid to late twenties and all were single. They were all paid for their service and all three shared similar feelings about their pregnancy. They wanted to provide a family to couples who needed help.
The three women were each implanted with two of the Neanderthal embryos. They were all told that the fetuses belonged to a very wealthy couple, and that they would be paid well for their services and their confidentiality. When it came time to deliver the babies, the births would take place at the couple’s country estate. All preparations had been made to equip a room at the estate with the criteria of a delivery room, all the latest equipment necessary to handle whatever emergency might occur.
Two of the women miscarried.
These miscarriages revived the doubts March originally felt about the project.
Pat Meyers carried the last two fetal Neanderthals to term. She knew she was pregnant with twins, but she grew no larger than she had when she carried a single child. This disturbed her. She also knew she carried two boys. Even with her doubts, it made her happy to know she was bringing joy and creating a family. She was making it all possible.
Two weeks before her due date, she was moved to a country estate in northern Connecticut. The house belonged to Gold and had been in his family for many years. Mark told the two nurses who would assist in the delivery, “The babies may seem somewhat peculiar. You will be paid to overlook anything out of the ordinary. After all, we must be sensitive to the parent’s feelings.”
Pat went into labor and had an extremely easy delivery. Although she had carried the babies to term, both were less than four pounds at birth.
Each nurse cared for one of the infants. The boys were covered with a fine down of black hair. One of the nurses whispered to the other, “Look at his head. It’s so misshapen after such an easy delivery.”
Once the babies were settled in the nursery, the nurses left the estate. As they walked to their cars one said to the other, “Those infants were indeed peculiar with their misshapen skulls and covered with hair like an ape. But the one thing I will never forget about them was their eyes. They weren’t the eyes of any baby I’ve ever seen. They had a weird look to them, like intelligence. I felt they were looking right through me.
The other nurse responded, “Did you also get the feeling that they feared our touch. I’ve never seen that in a newborn before.”
REALIZATION
From the time of their births, the babies struck Gold, Fielding, Sanders, and Mark as odd. The infants appeared tense, as if they had an inherent fear of Homo sapiens. The only time they relaxed was when they could see one another.
“Strange,” Gold noted, “it’s as if they know they are alien to us.”
The babies grew into muscular toddlers and were walking at six months. Gold and Fielding closely followed their development. Sanders and Mark occasionally inquired as to the progress of the children, but other projects quickly took them out of the picture. Their major concern was when Gold would go public with the astounding accomplishment. They were eager for the recognition their work would bring. Gold would answer their inquiries by saying, “Soon, very soon.”
Fielding spent hours observing the Neanderthal infants, monitoring how their bodies developed as they matured. They were far more agile than he expected, nothing like the lumbering brutes commonly associated with Neanderthals. As expected, their frames indicated that they would develop into adults of short stature compared to modern man. Their physique began to fill out, becoming more muscular than that of human babies. Gold, however, would uncover the true mysteries of the Neanderthals when he studied their psychological development.
The infants began talking at eighteen months, and not with the fumbling birth of knowledge of speech associated with human children. Gold discovered them talking one day as he entered the room where they slept. He was stunned, for he never heard them parrot sounds as children do to develop speech. The Neanderthals did possess the high nasal voices predicted by the bone structure of their skulls. Gold found the sound of their voices annoying.
Studying their psychological development, Gold thought, these infants are progressing far more rapidly than human toddlers of comparable age. Gold began recording his conversations with the Neanderthals. During one of his sessions with them they both seemed withdrawn. He asked, “What do you boys think about?”
The Neanderthal born first was called Adam, the other John. Adam answered, “Why, he asked,” are we so different from you and the others we meet?”
* * *
It had been four years since the Neanderthals were cloned and Gold became more and more ill at ease about what the experiment had created. Fielding and Sanders wanted the results of the experiment to be published. Mark preferred to be left out of the picture.
One night Fielding and Sanders visited Gold in his study, site of the initial plans for the project. Fielding asked Gold, “Carl, don’t you think it’s time to publish our Neanderthal results?”
Sanders added, “The boys have shown none of the signs of premature aging that many of the animals clone in the past have exhibited.”
Gold said, “The boys are coming along fine. In fact, their intelligence level, given their age, is remarkable. But I still feel we should wait to publish. There is something strange about the boys. I would prefer to let them develop further before we go public.”
In the end, Fielding and Sanders persevered. A manuscript was prepared and sent to Science.
TO BE CONTINUED
A VALENTINE’S GIFT: A STORY OF UNDYING LOVE
A VALENTINE’S GIFT: A STORY OF UNDYING LOVE
Jim Reed sat in a desolate park in a seedy section of the city and pulled the collar of his badly worn coat up as the North wind howled, he sipped from the bottle concealed in the brown paper bag and, with each sip, a grimace spread across his face while momentary warmth filled his empty belly.
“That god damned day is coming,” he thought. He did not have a calendar for a calendar needed a wall on which to hang and his watch was gone, long gone to a pawnshop. Jim kept track of the date and headlines the world produced from the newspaper machines along the sidewalk.
He drank rapidly; trying to prevent his mind from wandering to the day he lost his future, his purpose, that Valentine’s Day five years ago. But he could not prevent his numbed mind from reviewing his life and recalling the day his reason for being was erased.
* * *
While in college, Jim developed a drinking problem, and it lingered after graduation. He found a job as an accountant, worked hard during the day and drank hard during the night.
A friend from work wanted to fix Jim up with a girl. A date was arranged, a Dutch-treat dinner. Jim arrived at the Italian restaurant early, sat at the bar drinking red wine when a stunning woman with long black hair walked in searching for someone. She approached Jim and said, “I’m Debbie Wilson, could you be Jim Reed?”
Jim could not believe that this woman was his blind date. He gulped down his wine, took her hand, and headed for the restaurant area. He drank less than he usually did on a date and just enjoyed talking to Debbie. Before he knew it, they had spent two hours over dinner, and he was sober. He wanted to pay for dinner, but Debbie demanded to pay her own way. She smiled and said, “Next time you can treat.” This brought a grin to Jim’s face. Debbie paid her part of the bill, and as the cashier placed the change in her hand, Debbie exclaimed, “What’s this?” She looked down at the dirty white penny in her hand.
“That’s a steel penny,” Jim explained. “One year, during World War II, pennies were made of a composite in order to save copper in order to make shell castings.”
Debbie’s eyes brightened as she said, “This is going to be my lucky penny. It’s so unusual.”
Their relationship grew into love, and six months later they were married. They bought a small house and soon Debbie was pregnant. Jim’s life had a hope he had never imagined as he watched Debbie grow with their child.
They found a hospital providing a room for natural birth but had the facilities to cope with any problems that might occur. One day, as Debbie was preparing a special dinner to celebrate a special day, her water broke. Jim rushed her to the hospital thinking, “By the time this Valentine’s Day is over, I’ll have two loves, not one.”
After they entered the hospital, a nurse took Debbie’s blood pressure and immediately had her rushed to the emergency room. Debbie’s eyes reflected the fear Jim felt as he sat at her bedside. When Debbie began to convulse, Jim was escorted to the waiting room.
Hours later their obstetrician entered the waiting room and sat next to Jim. The doctor’s eyes never left the floor. In a soft voice he told Jim, “I’m sorry but your wife is gone, we lost the baby girl too. If you will come with me, I’ll take you to your wife.”
Jim felt horror, shock and helplessness all at once. On shaky legs he followed the doctor and soon found himself standing next to a bed and staring down at Debbie’s pretty face. She seemed so much at peace while Jim was in such torment.
The next few days were a blur; Jim drank himself into numbness while friends and family expressed their regrets. Jim stayed numb for five years, never cried over his loss, keeping the grief tied up inside. He stayed numb as he was fired and eventually lost his house. He had been homeless for two years now and just didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything.
* * *
Jim left the park and made his way into the city. He mumbled, “That god damned day is here,” as he sat on the grate of an office building immersed in the steam, trying to stay warm. The hour was late and the street was strangely deserted. Steam created an odd glow around the streetlamps. Through the mist, a woman holding a small baby approached him.
“You look so sad. You deserve a better life,” she said.
Jim yelled, “Get the hell away from me,” but the woman wouldn’t budge. She just stood before Jim as her eyes filled with tears.
“Your life needs to turn around, I’d like to help you,” she repeated this as she placed a small cloth sack before Jim. As she turned to leave she said something strange, “We love you.”
Jim watched through the mist as the women departed; saw the figure of the woman recede into the distance, melting into the mist.
Jim sat there, drinking from his bag and lifted the small cloth sack. He opened it and spilled its contents into his hand. He sat there looking at the single dirty white penny. He lifted the paper bag to his lips and then tossed it away as tears coursed his face.
THE END
DOGS’ TALE: A LOVE STORY, CONTINUED
DOGS’ TALES (CONTINUED)
I had a similar experience when I was a kid, but it was not so drastic. My Auntie Zushia took my cousin Dolores a.k.a. D.O. and I to a pet shop and introduced us to the owner Henry. I have always loved pet shops. His shop had a few rows of tanks full of tropical fish. I love the smell of a room full of fish tanks, the humid tropical smell they give off. Henry also had some Spits puppies. They were light tan in color and D.O. and I each picked one out. They named D.O.’s dog Skippy and they had him for years and years. I don’t know if we ever named mine for we had him for less than a week, he would snap at everyone. So back to Henry’s pet shop we went to return the dog. Sadly, I read years later that Henry had been killed during a robbery at his pet shop. He was a gentle man who loved animals and loved sharing his knowledge of them with whoever ventured into his store.
Now back to Pook, the dog I knew in my youth and was with my family after I became a man. My sister Shirley had a friend in grade school whose dog had a litter and Shirley was offered one of the pups. My dad was as bad as I am when it comes to animals, no is not an option. We named him Spoofy but usually called him Pook. He moved into our house and slept in a little alcove behind our kitchen stove. He was a little black furry ball. We went through the usual aggravation of house training, but he finally got the idea down. A few months after we adopted him we were set to go on summer vacation, but Pook was not allowed to come along. Another friend of Shirley’s offered to take care of him while we were away, so we were set.
When we arrived home from our vacation Pook was returned to us, and he was a mess. Pook was not super – intelligent as a pup, but what pup is? During his stay with Shirley’s friend he tried to jump off the second-floor porch and the try was successful, but the landing was not, causing an injury to one of his front paws. It was swollen and he couldn’t put much weight on it. This injury did not help his appetite so along with his leg injury he had a touch of malnutrition. My father took him to the vet expecting to have him put to sleep, but Pook came back home. The vet said he thought he would be okay, to give him some time and see how he did. Pook did stop his limp after a while, but that area of his leg was permanently enlarged and always somewhat tender.
He grew to be a medium-sized longhaired black dog with his tail curling up over his back. I would defy anyone to determine his breed, for as they say these days he was truly an eclectic dog. He grew to love us and we loved him. He protected us. If a man who was not a family member he would growl, a low growl that would not stop, that could not be stopped. No matter where you put him the growl would continue, from other rooms, from behind closed doors.
He loved and tolerated us. He had to tolerate my sisters more than the rest of the family for they would dress him up and even put him in a carriage. He would sit perfectly still as the girls adorned him in either their clothes or something from their larger dolls but he would get a look in his eyes, as if to say, can you believe what I have to go through. His eyes told the true level of enjoyment he was experiencing.
Pook was with us for a long time and made the move with the family from Christie Street to Somme Street, from our days of cold water to our days of hot water. I recall especially cold winter nights on Somme Street. He would be sound asleep and, since we had no back yard where he could ‘freshen up’, he had to be walked. I remember countless nights when I would have to walk him before I could go to sleep. The night was like ice. I would say,”Pook, you have to go out!” I would have to say this a few times while nudging him. Finally, aroused from his slumber I was treated to a low throaty growl, but I finally had his attention. A little more nudging and coaxing on my part and a little more growling on his part and he would stiffly get up and be nice enough to accompany me on my walk through the cold night.
Pook was with us for a long time. He was with us through my high school years, college years, four years in the service and three years into my career. As I went through the various stages of my life, I would come home for vacation and Pook’s all black face became more and more gray. I was living in Miami and my brother and sister Judy along with her daughter were visiting me when I got the call. My mother said Pook had had a stroke and, after a few days, it was clear there was no hope. My father had to take Pook in and they put him to sleep. My mother said that my father cried. I think we all cried a little with the news; Pook was with us for so long. It was hard to remember when he wasn’t part of the family and now he was gone.
Pook was a great eclectic dog. He shared our cold and our hot water days, gave love and accepted love back. And as far as I know, my brother still carries a picture of him in his wallet.
SEASIDE HEIGHTS: MEMORIES WERE NOT RELIVED
I have a habit I have developed over the years when I form a great memory at a location as the years pass I don’t return. For I don’t want my memories dashed if things have changed for the worse. The following is a story that reinforces that habit of mine.
SEASIDE HEIGHTS: MEMORIES WERE NOT RELIVED
In my youth growing up in Newark, New Jersey, a week’s vacation at the shore was rare for our cash-strapped family, but they did occur. When they did take place, it was always at Seaside Heights, located on the New Jersey shore, and always the same bungalow on Sumner Avenue. The event was an extended family affair with my mother’s siblings and always with her oldest sibling, unmarried Auntie Zosia (Polish for Sophie). I have a feeling she contributed a great deal of my family’s share of the cost, she was always helping us out. Perhaps, a future post will be dedicated to Auntie Zosia. She deserves to be remembered.
Another unusual characteristic of our shore vacation was that every night my dad would be handing out cash to us kids to spend while walking the boardwalk while normally little money was available. I think this was Auntie Zosia in action again behind the scenes. Nothing was ever said about the source of this new-found wealth, but that was the way she usually worked.
The bungalow on Sumner Avenue was only half a block from the boardwalk, and because of its close proximity to the ocean, the house was permeated with constant salt-tinged moisture, not an unpleasant benefit of a life near the ocean.
The week was filled with family bonding and boardwalk adventures. An early morning visit to the beach to claim our piece of sand with an army blanket, in those days everyone had an army blanket, then a patrol exploring the area of the boardwalk under the shooting gallery to harvest the small copper shell casings that would fall through the boards. Why, because we were kids.
The days were spent on the crowded beach with the occasional dip into the frigid ocean jumping the waves. Nights were spent on the boardwalk playing miniature golf and going on the amusement rides. The adults would congregate around the spinning wheels of chance hoping to win towels, candy and yes – cigarettes.
Those were also the days of the penny arcade when a pocket full of pennies could entertain you for hours. Investing pennies in claw machines harvesting tiny sets of plastic false teeth along with other plastic junk you kept forever or until your mother cleaned. One of my favorite ways to spend my pennies was at the card machines. For two cents inserted, out would pop a post-card sized picture of a baseball player or airplane.
Rainy days were not a washout at the shore thanks to the penny arcade. If you wanted to make a slightly larger investment of a nickel, you could play the baseball pinball machine. A steel ball was pitched and the lever you worked was your bat. Depending on your skill, and of course luck, you scored runs. The best part was, as the runs added up, you were rewarded with free games. A nickel sometimes brought you an hour’s worth of entertainment if you were ‘hot’ that day.
You can tell my memories of summers spent on Sumner Avenue in Seaside Heights are fond and cherished. I tried to pass some of that fondness on to my kids – didn’t work.
It was shortly before Easter when I drove my wife and two daughters through the pine barrens of New Jersey to visit Seaside Heights for a weekend to renew my love and establish their love for this beach town. It had been more than twenty years since I last visited the resort. I expected some change, or course, but was not prepared for the amount of change I discovered. I guess Thomas Wolfe was right. Driving down Sumner Avenue I was stunned. Where were all the bungalows, the saltwater toffee store selling that traditional costal confection, the bakery where daily we purchased rolls for lunch – all gone? The eccentric guy who lived on the corner of Sumner Avenue across the street from the boardwalk whose overgrown yard was the source of fantastic stories – gone. All replace by an endless parking lot surrounded by loud bars. My mind’s eye could see what was once there, but nothing could be shared with my family other than what it was now.
But there was still the boardwalk.
Surprisingly, the boardwalk was more or less as I remembered. It was off-season so the only ride open was the indoor merry-go-round. Of course, the penny arcade – gone, replace by mindless video games, no chance to claw-up those precious little false teeth. At least my girls got to play Skee ball and watch their prize tickets accumulate to be redeemed for useless junk precious to me.
Driving home, I know my family wondered what the big deal was, while I sought to regain the memories dashed by our pilgrimage, trying to erase the reality of our visit. Now, only the boardwalk anchored my memories of what it used to be, and that young boy with his pennies and his dreams of the rewards they would win.
Then Sandy came for a visit and the roller-coaster was ocean-bound and the wheel-of-chance booths blown asunder. Some rebuilding slowly accomplished only to be erased by fire.
First, all my memories finding no renewal other than that beloved boardwalk, and then the double dose of destruction visited upon the memorial of my youth. I cannot revisit Seaside Heights. That little boy haunting the boards did not survive fire and flood
IN THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS
I post this piece on or around Christmas each year to relive Christmas spirit which in the holiday rush, is sometimes lost.
A CHIRISTMAS TREE STORY
For many years my family practiced a Christmas tradition involved in obtaining a Christmas tree. This experience holds a special place in our hearts. Those of you buying a live tree this Christmas season, a tree with an enormous price, may shed a tear after reading this story.
Many years ago, a friend at work told me about a unique tree farm where trees cost seven dollars. I can assure you that the prices of trees on Christmas tree lots, at that time, were much more. I obtained directions to the farm, and one Sunday afternoon, piled the family into our car and off we went. After a few wrong turns I found the farm. And for years we went there for our Christmas tree and experienced the true meaning of Christmas.
The tree farm was south of Phenixville Pennsylvania. I learned from the owner that the property was once the site of a small airport having a hanger in which he could store his powder blue tail-dragger single engine high wing plane. After many years the hanger was falling apart, and much to his amazement, he was able to fire up the engine and taxi the plane out. But I doubt that the plane will ever fly again.
Now back to the trees.
The tree farm was made up of groves of jack-pine trees, and he spent the off season trimming the trees for sale for Christmas. He was in his late seventies or early eighties, and you could tell, for now, it was his life’s work.
Now a jack-pine is an evergreen with branches, far apart, along its trunk. They were scraggly looking trees, but you could load ornaments along the full length of the branches. As opposed to the usual ‘full’ Christmas trees where only the tips of the branches could be decorated. Once decorated, these jack-pine trees were beautiful.
For tree selection my two daughters brought along multiple scarves to drape on trees which showed promise. Once the ‘perfect tree’ was chosen I cut it down and carried it to the small trailer he kept on the property. He wrapped the tree with twine then went inside with my wife and daughters to sip hot chocolate. While I was left to tie the tree to the car roof coming close to suffering frostbite.
On the wall of the trailer were mounted news articles. Clippings about the farm and his generosity. He donated trees to churches and organizations. I’m he would give trees to those suffering hardship.
Once home, we decorated our scrawny ‘Charlie Brown tree’ and turned it into a thing of beauty.
After a few years of getting our trees at the farm the owner told me he thought he was charging too much so he lowered the price to five dollars. I began bringing him a loaf of homemade cinnamon raisin bread and he told me I could have a tree for free. I assured him that five dollars was what I would pay.
The man through all the years had a collie running free on the property. But the dog wandered somewhere causing someone to complain. A township official arrived and warned the man about his dog. The next time we went to buy a tree he told me that that’s it and he was selling the property. I hope he got a good price and I’m sure some developer filled the land with McMansions sitting cheek to jowl. Houses with no character, only volume.
I will never return to that property because it would spoil my memories of a wonderful Christmas tradition. That fellow was the epitome of the Christmas spirit with the kindness and generosity of the holiday season.
MERRY CHRISTMAS
NEWARK RIOTS
A scar on my memory
It was a summer morning in 1967. The buses were running late, and I soon found out why. I think it was the lack of knowledge I had that morning that, helped in part, to make me the news junkie I am today.
I was in college now, and had two summer jobs, I still had my job at the newsstand working my usual Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights, and I had started a new job. With a strong interest in science, I am studying biochemistry in college and wanted to find a job where I could gain some kind of practical laboratory training. I wrote to all the hospitals I could think of in the Newark area and asked if there was a lab job available. To my great surprise I got a positive reply from Presbyterian Hospital and an offer to work in their hospital laboratory. I found out after I had started the job that most of the summer positions went to doctor’s children and at the last moment someone decided that the job was not for them, and I guess my letter must have shown up at just the right time.
When I reported for work at Presbyterian Hospital to begin my summer job, I was shown into one of many small rooms that made up the hospital laboratory and was giver the job of dipping urinalysis sticks into urine samples and told that someday I might be able to spin down the urine and look at it under the microscope. This was not the exciting summer job that would bring me the lab experience that I had hoped to gain. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I decided to stick it out for the summer. After a few days of dipping into urine, someone came around the lab and asked for volunteers to go across the street and work in the Children’s Hospital that was affiliated with Presbyterian. I figured that the job could not get more boring than what I was doing now so off I went.
After I had volunteered, people around me told me that I had made a major mistake and that soon I would see the error of my ways. So, the next day I showed up for work at Children’s Hospital and asked for directions to the lab. When I found it, I was greeted not by a huge anonymous operation, but a rather small room with just a bench for each area such as urinalysis, hematology and blood chemistry. The hospital was fairly small so I should have anticipated this but, of course, I didn’t. But I did find out why I had been discouraged from coming to this lab. For there was no place to hide and you really had to work.
With a little training, I went from dipping urinalysis sticks to doing all the complete urinalysis for the hospital every day, making out the reports and initialing them. If the doctors only knew who W.T. was would they have been surprised. After I was done with the urine, I would drift over to blood chemistry and with some training was soon reporting results from that bench. I was having a ball. And as the summer progressed and some of the technicians went on vacation, I was covering all the urinalysis and blood chemistry. This was also before the days of strict laboratory practices when dealing with human samples. I was mouth pipetting human serum and plasma with what are now old-fashioned glass pipettes and of course wore no gloves but I had a great time and felt I really contributed something because they were so short-staffed.
I began my workday at the hospital laboratory at 8 o’clock in the morning, worked till about four then went home, had something to eat and worked at the newsstand from 6 to 11 P.M. I awoke one morning when I knew I would be working both jobs and got ready to go to work at the hospital. My main task was to have some breakfast and get to the bus stop on time; I seldom had time for the news. The buses usually ran fairly regularly, but for some reason today the bus was late – very late. Finally, when I did see the bus coming, my bus was part of a convoy of about four buses. So I got on, found a seat and was ready for the usual thirty-to-forty-minute ride to work, but this ride would be different than any ride to work that I had had before.
As I rode past the intersection of Broad & Market Streets, and past the newsstand where I was to work that night, I could see flames rolling out of the storefronts of some of the nearby businesses. The streets were crowded with fire engines and police cars. There also seemed to be more activity than normal on the streets.
Once I made it to the hospital, I found out what was going on, riots had broken out in Newark, starting the night before in the downtown area. All that day I could look down on the street from the lab window and see convoys of state police cars and jeeps with mounted and manned machine guns, a truly eerie sight to witness in your hometown. During the workday, I called my boss at the newsstand and asked if he was going to stay open that night. At first he said he would but later changed his mind, much to my relief. I think that in all the years I worked there, this was the first time the newsstand had been closed without there being a major snowstorm.
That afternoon, instead of catching the bus home, my cousins called and asked if I would want to be picked up after work and that sounded pretty good to me. While riding home, you saw sandbag emplacements with machine guns in the middle of the downtown area. The city had changed – scarred forever. Anger that had long been buried rose into full view. I also found out the next day that a man had been shot and killed at my bus stop.
The nights in the Down Neck section were quiet for the next few days due to the curfew in effect for all of Newark. Our area of the city, being far from the riots, was like a ghost town. There was no activity on the streets at all.
I have not revisited the area of the riots for years, so I have no idea what the area looks like now. I do remember that for years after the riots, once the burned-out homes and stores were torn down, the lots remained vacant, whole city blocks where nothing existed, only the rubble of human folly, anger and injustice. One can only imagine how lives were changed forever on that day when the buses ran late.
NEWARK: SUNDAY DRIVES
A long gone tradition.
There existed a tradition back years ago that has not survived to the present, at least not to the extent that it existed back then – the Sunday drive. With today’s complex society and fast-paced lifestyles, to say nothing of gas prices, no one just drives for the sake of driving, unless you’re a teenager with a brand-new car. Every time you get in the car there is a definite destination at the end of the trip. But when I was a kid, many times the trip would start at home and finish at home with nothing in between except burning gas.
On Sunday afternoons my family would pile into the old Chevy and off we would go, unencumbered by seat belts, piled high with blankets if the drive was during the winter – which was rare. The blankets were necessary because, back then, heaters were an option and our Chevy was a bare-bones model. The route we took was more or less the same every week. It got to where I would know when my father would turn, when we would change lanes, never straying from the usual Sunday afternoon course.
We would leave our house in the city and venture out into the ‘country’. For me, the country was anywhere where the houses did not sit one beside the other, places with lawns and an occasional open field and a total lack of any kind of industry. On our journey we would go, past housing developments and until finally sighting an open field or pasture. We would journey down roads bordered by store after store, but being Sunday, many of the stores were closed. The only stores open for business were grocery and drug stores.
You see, these were the days of the ‘blue laws’ in New Jersey. On Sunday, there were certain items you could buy and certain items you couldn’t. For example, you could buy food but not any type of clothing. We had these huge Wal Mart type stores that sold everything, the section that sold food was open but there were ropes across the aisles that sold clothes. This could be the reason for Sunday drives! You see malls did not yet exist – and if they had most of the stores would be closed or at least partially roped off. We all know, especially those of us lucky enough to have teenagers, that the mall is The Destination. There were also small shore communities that would, on Sundays, put sawhorses across the streets leading into town. No cars are allowed on the streets on Sunday.
Our journey would last long, hours, but they were never far. My father was the opposite of a lead-footed driver. He was more of a feather foot. It was before the interstate highway system came into existence, so speedy travel did not exist as it does today and my father was not a fast driver. There were times we would take a ride ‘down the shore’ towards Asbury Park. My mother would pack lunch and halfway there we would pull over onto the shoulder and eat, then continue on our trip. When I was older, and started to drive, I would retrace this journey, and it would take me less than an hour.
There was, however, one detour that we kids loved. On our Sunday drives, we would occasionally make a stop at the doughnut man’s bus. This was before there were any doughnut store chains. This made the outing a great joy for everyone. The man had bought a school bus and converted it into a mobile doughnut shop – complete with cooking facilities. He parked his brown and white school bus on the shoulder of a four-lane highway – always the same place of course – and sell doughnuts, either plain or powdered sugar. How we kids loved those doughnuts, most of the time it was still warm. One of the kids would get out with mom to go up to the window to make the doughnut purchase. If he saw a kid, he would present the buyer with a bag of doughnut pieces – mistakes that occurred during the doughnut making. And of course, the bag of doughnut pieces was free. I know people like that still exist. Businesspeople whose bottom line is to see a child’s eyes light up, but they are few and far between.
The other destination that might be visited was the driving range. This stop I could never figure out – not to this day. Here was my father, a toggler in a tannery, who to the best of my knowledge, had never even been on a golf course, stopping to hit some golf balls. I never even saw my father play miniature golf, but there were the Triznas at the driving range hitting buckets of balls. I of course would aim for the jeep driving around with its protective cage gathering the golf balls, later on I actually would hit for distance. I can’t remember how long our driving range phase lasted, a few months, maybe a year, but it soon slipped into the past. As we got older we kids played miniature golf. But after our driving range phase was over, my father did not pick up a golf club again.
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