April – 2014 – TALESetc.

The weather had finally turned. The snows of winter were fast becoming a memory and people were coming out of their caves to enjoy the warmer weather and to inspect the damage to their homes.

As for me it was time for something much more important. It was time to dig out my old dilapidated beach chair and see if it would survive another year. I found it behind my lawnmower and under a pile of assorted tools whose uses I had long forgotten. It was covered in dust but I could see colorful streaks of blue beneath the gray. As soon as I dragged it out into the light memories of summers gone by filled my head. I have no clue as to the age of my old beach chair but I can’t remember a summer when I was without it.

The first thing I did was attempt to open it up from its winter foetal position. To my joy it opened up right away, with just a little screech of protest. I thought of oiling the hinges but came to the conclusion I didn’t want to put up with the smell of oil deep into the summer months. The fabric still looked okay, with only a few small tears and the shiny spot that held my butt.

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I have come to the conclusion growing old ain’t for sissies. OK, I stole the line from Betty Davis but the older I get the more it proves correct.

I have also been told one does not have to age gracefully because there are medicines that can keep you young. With that in thought I decided to visit my doctor and find out if that last statement was true. First of all I have to state I have no use for pills. For the past 56 years of my life I have done everything in my power to not have to take a pill a day in order to survive.

I understand my battle will probably end soon with some sort of a thyroid, blood pressure, or some part of my body that decides it doesn’t want to continue by itself anymore. This is the reason I decided to go to my doctor to see if he could help. I explained for the past few months my energy has dropped to the point I have a tough time staying up for the evening news at night. I know I was aggravating my wife and the life style I was falling into was not something I was looking forward to.

He told me the best way to find out what was wrong was to have a blood test and then we would go over the results. I agreed and off to the vampire’s den I drove. As much as I hate pills I hate needles more. I have only given blood a few times in my life but every time I enter the hospital I make if clear to everyone involved I hate doing this and would they please send their best vampire in order to extract my blood. For some strange reason this works and the process has always been quite painless.

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During my early years at an elementary school in Westbury, New York I made the mistake of asking my teacher when the United States would lose its power like every other nation in history lost theirs.

I clearly remember the silence of my teacher and all of my peers. We had just won the Great War and were in the process of defeating a new evil called the Soviet Union when I had the audacity of asking when America, the greatest nation this world has ever seen, would fall into mediocrity. For weeks I was sneered at by my friends and was ignored by most of my teachers. How dare I ask a question concerning my future and the future of everyone I have ever known?

I then decided to make up for my mistake by taking every opportunity to display my love of country by drawing more American Flags that I could during every opportunity I had. Needless to say I made up for my curiosity concerning history and onward I roamed to my future. But, I never forgot my question even though none was brave enough to answer it. It finally happened.

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The sun has finally burned its way through the clouds of March, April, and May. The weatherman promised a glorious sunny weekend and I was so excited I got up early, pulled up the window shades and was disappointed.

The day looked as gray as all the days that went before. In fact the light was so dull it was barely able to penetrate the windows. Then, when I went downstairs to the kitchen my wife asked me to go outside. I wasn’t sure why because I hadn’t done anything wrong for at least a day or two, but I did as she asked and went out in front of the house. As soon as I opened the garage door, I was dazzled by the brilliant blue skies and bright sunshine.

As I went back inside I noticed that the inside of my house was dull and the light that penetrated through the windows had a brown sheen to it. I also noticed that my wife held a full roll of paper towels and a bottle of window cleaner. I got the message; it was time to clean the windows!

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If there is a personalized hell where anyone who was remarkably bad had to go to spend eternity, then mine would be a shopping mall. I have nightmares imagining being forced to wander through Macy’s, TJ Max, and Marshall’s for the rest of eternity.

Now if I was real bad I would be forced to spend the rest of time in a Wal-Mart. Needless to say I am not a great fan of shopping but my wife is. Therefore, every now and then, in order to keep peace with my family, I join. We trek through the labyrinths of malls looking for something that I can never figure out what she is looking for.

The highlight of my shopping day is looking to see where the merchandize comes from. I always do this when my wife is exploring the forest of hung merchandize. To my dismay I find very little made in this country. Most is produced in China. I get a bit of a tragic kick out of lifting up a box holding an American Flag and finding out it was made in Taiwan.

The other day, a summer sunny day I might add, I was following my wife through an area of the store where women’s handbags were sold. There were more handbags being displayed than I thought existed. In fact, there was an entire room put aside in the store for handbags. My wife told me later that there were entire stores just selling handbags. I was awed! There were some hanging on the wall, there were some in large display tables, and there were some in locked glass display counters. I assume these must have been the most expensive ones.

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More than 36 years ago, my wife and I decided to move from Framingham, Massachusetts to York Beach, Maine. We both decided to leave our very prosperous corporate jobs and corporate futures. Everyone in our family thought we were totally nuts to do so because corporate security was more important than anything was.

Back then, when you were part of a corporation it was common knowledge that the corporation would take care of you when you retired. After a lot of soul-searching, we decided to take a chance.

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It seems like it was only a few short days ago the grass surrounding my home was short, dry and brown. Overnight it regained its vitality from the warmth of the sun and it now displays a healthy emerald color.

The only problem is it also displays a length any farmer would be happy to call his hay field. It was now time to take out my lawn mower that has been hibernating since last November. I stored it under the steps of my garage with other ‘summery’ things like rakes, garden hoses, brooms, and my dilapidated old beach chair.

I am always surprised by how dirty the floor under my steps looks after I pull out all my summer tools. I can never figure out how it gets that dirty other than maybe some winter gnome found a home for his family. The day I find a little hut and mini-lawn mower is the day I go to Shady Acres in an attempt to find my ear lobe.

After a quick sweep I place my not-so-worn snow blower, snow shovels, and winter books where the summer stuff once slept. I feel kind of sad for my summer stuff because it looked like I woke it up from a very restful nap. I also know I intend to go to war with the green monster that now surrounds my house. The first thing I have to do is change the oil and the spark plug in my mower.

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People dream about living where I do. Living in the congestion of the cities they hope to attain what I and my family have worked hard for. I live less than a mile from the ocean with its long white sands, the air is always freshened by the sea’s breeze.

The concept of a crime wave consists of someone letting their dogs off their leashes or a teenager forgetting they had to get a license before they started to drive. I live in a particularly wonderful neighborhood. Everyone gets along with everyone else or at least leaves them alone. The lawns are well kept and one has to look hard for that discarded can or flying newspaper. The only problem is I live in the land of dogs and boats. Everyone has a dog.

They have big dogs with big barks and little dogs with little barks. I don’t know which one is worse. Most of my neighbors are seen walking their dogs in the early morning and late at night. I could never figure this out. Why would anyone want to add to their responsibilities by getting a dog? I am told they are great companions but I thought that was what a wife and kids were supposed to be. I believe the obvious reason I don’t like dogs, is they don’t like me. I don’t think I’ve ever passed a person walking their dog when they haven’t barked, growled, or tried to pee on me. Maybe it has something to do with genetics but if there was ever a war between species I would definitely not be invited to join the great dog army. Dogs are perpetually sloppy.

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Simelo and Busi were great friends. They lived in the same village, went to the same school and had the same dreams: they both wanted to go to the city where they were quite sure that they could learn to be models and make a lot of money. So they plotted and planned every day as to how they could get there.

The village where they lived was near a wide river that formed the boundary of the country and Busi often spent her Saturday afternoons helping her mother wash the family’s clothes in the water. The river only ran strongly when there had been good rains up country but for several years there not been any significant rainy seasons. The big pools were all that were left, but the rainy season was due and good downpours were predicted.
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My father called me the other day talking about a ring his friend found somewhere in Somersworth. At the time I was concentrating on a class of labs and must I must admit I wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation for, how interesting can an old ring be.

My father’s friends name is Nancy Seavey. She contacted my father because she was concerned about how she could get the ring back to the rightful owner. My first thought was why would anyone care? My father described the ring as being an old gold class ring dating back to 1934. He told me it was very small and thus had to be a woman’s ring. Back then as it is today the male ring is much larger than the female.

If I am not being politically correct with this observation I do not care because reality is reality no matter how one wants to change it. There was no stone in the middle like the rings of today. It was all gold. I do not know what carat weight it was but there was no tarnish or wear to give a hint to its age. This one was simply molded to show off the name of the school, that was Somersworth High School and the date of graduation. My father went on to explain how the ring was in impeccable shape as though it was rarely worn or had been lost for a very long time.

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April 2014

Beach Bum in residence – all is well with the world.

All I wanted was a little more energy.

By destroying our own middle class we are following the history of failed great civilizations.

Why the man of the house doesn’t do windows.

Genetic Traits of wallets and handbags.

Time makes a House a Home.

The green monster lives and I am not talking about baseball.

Living in the land of dogs and boats.

Simulo and Busi.

A little bit of history from a lost soul.