Trees, The Sky And Me

Yeah, Another BloggerLeave a comment

My wife Sandy and I reside in an unusually hilly suburban neighborhood near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. Some of the blocks are so steep, they can take your breath away. Literally and figuratively. My hood once was, I imagine, a forest. Although hundreds of houses now decorate the land, quite a few trees are still around. Which is all to the good. However, I would have to revise that statement if any trees were to collapse, fully or partially, and beat the hell out of homes or cars or, far worse, human beings. But nothing like that ever has happened here, as far as I know. Which isn’t to say it couldn’t. My friends Michael and Susan, a married couple, would attest to that. They live about 20 miles from me and Sandy. In 2021, a tornado associated with Hurricane Ida decided to pay a visit to their property. Wham! Bam! It knocked down a couple of large trees growing extremely close to their house. Major damage to the structure resulted. Very fortunately, and pretty miraculously, everyone within was unscathed.

But, enough about damages and miserable events. I’m not done talking about trees, though, and I’ve got a few things to say about other subjects too.

Two Fridays ago I left the comfort of my living room sofa and headed outside to get some exercise by taking a walk. I exercise a fair amount, primarily via walks and yard work. But, considering my advanced age, I should exercise more than I do. I mean, as screwed up as the world is, I’m in no hurry to bid it adieu. Note to self: Start exercising more, asshole. Your life span might extend if you do.

I greeted a bright summer afternoon when I exited the house. The temperature (79°F/26°C) was higher than I’d have wanted, but pleasant enough, and puffy clouds were scattered throughout the sky. As planned, I gave my cardio system a workout by going up and down many steep streets. It thanked me for this and, to show its appreciation, after a while had me close to sweating like a pig, something I don’t enjoy in the least and which occurs far more frequently now compared to my pre-septuagenarian days. Basically, the older I get, the harder it is for my body to regulate its temperature properly in the heat. Note to self: Try to remember never to oink under circumstances such as this.

I enjoyed the walk very much, despite the perspiration situation. That’s mainly because I spent a good bit of time admiring the sky. Looking up at the sky is the best habit I’ve developed in the last couple of years. The sky is a wonder under all conditions and at any time of day or night, a truism that somehow I only barely recognized for most of my life. What’s more, during the walk I made it a point to find views of the sky that also included the tops of trees, or to position myself near the bases of trees and, gazing upward, observe the sky through the branches. Trees are the best, are they not? They seem to possess wisdom and definitely maintain a calm, tolerant presence. And they look great, to boot.

What made the sights even finer is the fact that the neighborhood was unusually quiet. Not a single dog barked during my stroll. And human voices filled the air on only one or two occasions. How was this possible? I didn’t know and sure as shit didn’t complain about those circumstances, for it truly was a pleasure to absorb, with few distractions, the good vibes that Nature was sending my way. Experiences of this sort are meaningful and uplifting. It doesn’t hurt that they are cost-free too. We deserve them. And we need them.

A Great Day In Philadelphia

Yeah, Another Blogger138 Comments

Mid-morning of the final Saturday of July 2026 found me seated upon my living room sofa, my bony ass as comfortable as can be. As I absent-mindedly stroked the many dozens of wrinkles populating my face, I had a feeling that the plans my wife Sandy and I had made for later in the day would work out most enjoyably. They damn well did, in fact, and then some, quietly stunning me. I had no intentions of writing about any of the proceedings, though, till Sandy and I arrived home late that night. As we pulled into the driveway of our suburban abode, Sandy pointed out the nearly full moon low in the sky. That excellent sight was a fitting coda to the lovely hours we’d just spent in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. In fact, it was more than that. It was a celestial message subtly suggesting I gather my thoughts and express them in an essay.

On the Saturday in question, after parking our car at a suburban train station a few miles from our home, Sandy and I boarded a train that deposited us in a downtown Philadelphia station at about 3:00 PM. Our destination was The Fabric Workshop And Museum, a short walk away. FWM is a hell of a fine place. It is an exhibition space for contemporary artworks and also a hands-on educational institution for established and non-established artists. FWM’s exhibitions always have been off the beaten path for many locals and tourists, but attendance at the shows has been increasing. Where once we’d have had FWM’s galleries pretty much all to ourselves, the other day we encountered, I’d estimate, 30 to 40 folks. I was very glad to see that.

Quilts by Jesse Krimes (Fabric Workshop And Museum)
Quilts by Jesse Krimes (Fabric Workshop And Museum)

What was on view? First up was an exhibit of quilts by Jesse Krimes. Man, his works swept me away right away. Constructed from donated clothes of current and former incarcerated individuals, the quilts raise and answer questions about the lives of prisoners. They are thoughtful objects, and they got to me. I hadn’t anticipated anything like that happening when I entered FWM’s doors. You never know when art will tug at your emotions.

Tapestries at Fabric Workshop And Museum
Tapestries at Fabric Workshop And Museum

Onward we went, exploring the exhibit of tapestries created by an assortment of artists. The tapestries occupied the galleries on two of FWM’s floors. I dug them all, even the ones with metaphorical intents (I’m a dumb shit when it comes to deciphering metaphors). Every one of the works looked great, and that’s what mattered to me.

Fully satisfied by the artworks at FWM, we exited the building and strolled around town for 45 minutes. At that point it was time to eat. So, we made our way to Bellini, an Italian restaurant we’d never been to before, and where we’d booked a reservation. Everything we consumed there that evening was delicious. I can’t say enough about my entree, a chicken dish with mushrooms, asparagus and a superb tomato/garlic/wine sauce. I didn’t snap photos of the foods. But, because I was so damned surprised to see that Bellini’s ceiling is muralled, I aimed my phone’s camera at it and pressed the button. Italianesque and tantalizing, the mural is a winner.

A portion of the ceiling at Bellini

Bellini resides on 16th Street in central Philadelphia. As does Monk’s Café. Monk’s is one of my favorite destinations, because it carries an insanely large number of Belgian beers, most of which you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere else in the USA. Kind of a beer geek, I am intrigued and pleased by the high quality of many Belgian brews.

The beer I drank at Monk’s Cafe

Well, Sandy thought there was no chance we’d get into Monk’s, it being a Saturday night. But we lucked out. Although all the tables were filled, two adjacent seats at the bar were unoccupied. We grabbed them. On the recommendation of the guy directly to my right, I ordered a Belgian beer I’d never had before: Westmalle Dubbel, a dark brown and refreshingly dry creation. If there were a heaven, I’d want it to look like Monk’s and to possess Monk’s beer inventory. This place is the greatest.

I was pretty much floating on air as Sandy and I walked back to the station where our suburbs-bound train would arrive shortly. Our time in Philadelphia had seemed quite magical. It had been one of those special days, the kind that doesn’t come along all too often. I won’t forget it anytime soon.

A Self-Aware Story

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

I’ve been turning out essays and humor pieces on these pages for a long time, since April 2015 to be precise. And though my production rate has slowed down considerably over the years, and especially of late, I remain in the game. I have no plans to permanently stop putting fingers to keyboard, though that intention will be dashed — duh! — when the Grim F*cking Reaper decides I’ve been occupying space above ground for damn well long enough. The truth is, I get a kick from laying down words, partly because the writing process often enables me to discover or discern what my orientations, views, likes and dislikes truly are. In other words, I’ve learned quite a bit about myself as a result of creating content for Yeah, Another Blogger. And so, I’m nothing but glad that my wife Sandy encouraged me to revive my writing career by starting a blog (YAB, you see, isn’t the first outlet in which I’ve published stories. Many, many moons ago I was a freelancer for The Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper, covering the arts and pop culture). Thank you, Sandy, for getting me back on track!

Here’s part of the lowdown about yours truly: I came of age in the hippie era, and the good vibrations in the air back then permeated my mind and emotions, shaping the way I approach the world. Ergo, I’m fully in favor of peace, love, understanding, equality, tolerance and kindness. And for just about all of my adult life I’ve sought the company of beautiful creations in both the natural and man-made worlds, and have engaged in a pretty steady flow of colorful mini adventures.

Before Yeah, Another Blogger was birthed, did I pay attention to those facts, which to a significant extent define me? Well, I did. Not profoundly, though. My makeup, however, began to become clearer and more obvious to me by virtue of the types of stories I found myself drawn to write for this publication, and by the writing process itself. Shit, writing doesn’t come particularly easily to me. I have to strain my brain big time in order to turn out most pieces. The straining, however, often results in my slapping myself upside my head and thinking, “Hey, right! That‘s what I believe. That‘s what I like to do. That‘s who I am!”

And so, it isn’t by accident that Yeah, Another Blogger, which largely is a personal narrative, overflows with ruminations about and examinations of subjects and activities I dig: sunsets, flowers, my on-foot escapades and explorations, music, TV series, foods and beverages, and quite a bit more. Still, this website isn’t strictly about good stuff. I’ve tackled problematic issues too, those I feel I can discuss without getting in way over my head.  And on a fair number of occasions I’ve torn into those whose value systems and actions offend me deeply. My main target has been the riot inciter, con man and convicted felon named Donald Trump.

The big question nagging me, however, is this: Does any of what I’ve stated above matter? By straining my brain for a while, I came up with an answer. And the answer is yes.  The more we know about ourselves, the better, I think. We can work on our faults only when we are aware of them. And when we recognize and understand our positive sides, we gain confidence and interact with the world more fluidly and productively. Planet Earth is in a sad state right now. It sure can’t hurt when as many lights as possible shine within it.

Dr. R. U. Forereel Opens Up

Yeah, Another Blogger129 Comments

Regular readers of this publication might recall at least one or two of the articles in which I detail my encounters with my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel. For years and years I’ve been seeing Dr. Forereel on a monthly basis. She is a prickly sort, and rather unpredictable in her behavior, but I’m pleased with the improvements I’ve made under her guidance. When I began therapy with her those many moons ago, my happiness level, on a scale of 1 to 10, was 2, which is horrendously low. Due to the valuable insights and suggestions my doctor has given me, it now is at 4, which is pathetic but at least not horrendous. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take pathetic over horrendous any day. Hell, progress is progress! In my book, Dr. Forereel is a winner. And, not surprisingly, she surprised the heck out of me last month during my most recent session with her.

“Nice to see you, Neil,” she said groggily when I entered her office and eased myself into the patient’s chair. As I’m sure just about anyone would have, I regarded her face intently, because bags larger and darker than those in a box of Lipton tea hung below her eyes.

Taken aback by her appearance, I asked if everything was alright.

“Oh yes, Neil. Life is treating me just fine. But I got no sleep whatsoever overnight, which accounts for the pouches you’ve been unable to take your eyes off of. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude to stare, young man? And I say young facetiously, of course. Neil, my temporary facial droopings are absolutely lovely compared to the permanent, deep and innumerable wrinkles etched into your aged puss.”

“Yes, doctor, I’m old, if not older, than dirt. Thank you so much for reminding me of this fact. But, getting back to your baggy eyes, what kept you up all night?”

“Well, I’d heard a lot about it, so I binge-watched Netflix’s new reality series, I’m Not Looking For Love, I’m Looking To Get Laid. Neil, this show is fantastic! In each episode, girls and guys in their 20s and 30s hook up quickly and get it on vigorously. These people are so real and honest, not only with themselves but also with each other. They are not the least bit reluctant to grab life by the horns and enjoy it to the max. If everyone were as well-adjusted and pretense-free as they are, therapists would be out of business. It’s a good thing for me that such is not the case. Neil, I urge you to watch this show. You could learn life lessons from it. There’s a real chance it would help raise your happiness level.”

“Doctor, based on what you’ve described, this series might raise more than my happiness level, if you know what I mean. The show sounds tremendously exciting. I imagine it could teach me a few tricks, no?”

“Indeed, Neil. That’s true for nearly everybody, seeing how graphic and unfiltered each episode is. It’s not true for me, though. I’m far more experienced than you would imagine. Neil, you must promise never to mention to anybody what I’m about to reveal to you. Okay?”

“Of course. My lips are tightly sealed.”

“Good. Now, I’m sure you know how monstrously high the costs of medical schooling are. I would have put myself deeply in debt had I not figured out a way to generate hefty income along the path to becoming a psychiatrist. So, I did. Neil, while in med school I acted in adult films. Scores of them. I was known as Miss Duzzitall, and do it all I truly did. Plus, I always wore a mask in the films. To this day, thank heavens, that mask has prevented Miss Duzzitall’s true identity from becoming public knowledge. Oh, I had such a marvelous time. My co-workers were hot and adventurous. As was I.”

“Doctor, I’m almost speechless. You’ve never struck me as the libidinous type at all.”

“Neil, I’ve learned to suppress that side of me. Which perhaps is a mistake. But I have no intention of jeopardizing my professional career. I’m an esteemed therapist, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Doctor Forereel, I’ve always admired you. And now you’ve grown bigger in my eyes than ever before. You are such a complex, fascinating individual.”

“Thank you, Neil. But enough about me. Which of your numerous problems should we focus on today?”

Readers, the remainder of that session was duller than dishwater. I won’t bother going into it. However, despite what I promised Dr. Forereel, there is no way I can keep quiet about the juicy details she spilled to me. Needless to say, I have full confidence in your discretion and good judgment. Meaning, I know you won’t tell a soul!

Azaleas, And Remembering A Departed Friend

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

Here in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, spring has been a winner. Flora began doing their awakening thing in the second half of March, proceeding to display their newly birthed goods vividly and abundantly as the days went by. I’m a big fan of spring, something that wasn’t the case till eight or so years ago, when I was roughly 70 years old. I guess I just didn’t pay all that much attention to spring prior to that. All I can say is that I’m glad I began to appreciate the natural bounty right smack in front of my eyes.

My previous story was spring-inspired. Thus, I was reluctant to follow it up with another springtime tale. But I felt the urge to do so, and I allowed that urge to direct me appropriately. “Head to Jenkintown and seek out its azalea bushes,” the urge said to me. And I did, depositing myself in Jenkintown, a pretty village located a few miles from my home, in mid-afternoon on the first Tuesday of this month. The skies were as blue as you could hope for. The temperature, however, was a good bit higher than I’d have dialed up if I were in charge of things. While it’s true I didn’t sweat like a f*cking pig while walking around Jenkintown, I sweated quite profusely nonetheless. I definitely ain’t into sweating, but I soldiered on.

Jenkintown’s azalea bushes, fully abloom, looked great. Though possibly at least several days past their absolute prime, the azalea flowers were loaded with color and bursting with energy. I walked along many of the town’s blocks, my phone’s camera at the ready. There were fewer azalea bushes than I’d expected to find, but certainly more than enough. I took over 20 photos, five of which accompany this article.

The front of the corner property.
The side of the corner property.

I encountered the day’s most amazing azalea display at the tail end of the hike. It was on a corner property at the intersection of Summit Avenue and Highland Avenue. I have no doubt it is the greatest azalea arrangement in all of Jenkintown. Large azaleas sit near the house, which is about 50 feet from the sidewalks. And their equally large, and larger, siblings occupy lots and lots and lots of space along the sidewalks.  Man, you don’t get to see a juicy-red spectacle like this every day!

I began to think about my friend Jeff, deceased now for 16 months, soon after I arrived home from Jenkintown. That’s because he and I strolled together through Jenkintown on two occasions that I can recall, and probably more times than that. On our walks in Jenkintown, and wherever else we met up, we talked about a wide range of topics: sports, music, movies, politics, our personal lives, and plenty of others. Our interests overlapped comfortably, and our wavelengths meshed. I miss Jeff a lot. He’s in my thoughts many days.

Jeff and I spent time with one another frequently, starting in 2009, which is when our friendship vaulted from casual to close. I’d have enjoyed my azalea walk this month even more than I did if Jeff, a sweet guy, had been tagging along.  Not everyone is up for searching for azaleas in flower, to state the obvious. Jeff would have been though. And he happily would have joined me in oohing and aahing over them.

I’ve said words to this effect before in Yeah, Another Blogger: you can’t have too many friends, especially close ones. I was a bit over the age-60 mark when Jeff and I became true friends, and he was a bit under it. It was around that same time that I made several more excellent pals, including Jeff’s wife Joan. Since then, though, no others have entered my life. This troubles me. I’m certain it’s true that making friends becomes harder the older you get. And I’m frigging old. I haven’t given up hope, though. I think it’s totally possible that developing another strong friendship is in the cards for me. More than one would be a whole lot better. It goes without saying, then, that I don’t take my existing friendships for granted. They are important to me, and vital for my emotional and mental health. Life would be dreary and unnervingly close to pointless without good friends.

My Editor Threatened To Sue Me!

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

Two Thursday mornings ago I found myself in the mood to raise my ass off the living room sofa and take a stroll outside. So, I did. The ensuing 40-minute walk through my suburban neighborhood and an abutting neighborhood was a fine one. The skies were friendly and the temperature was pleasant. And many flowering trees were in blossom, their petals adding calming colors and healthful vibrations to the milieu. I got up close and personal with hundreds of those blossoms and photographed them. They didn’t mind at all.

I don’t remember paying much attention to trees in flower until I was well into my senior citizenhood. Why, I’m not sure. But, for about the last eight years I’ve been a major fan. Their masses of flowers both soothe and awe me. Little wonder, then, that Yeah, Another Blogger contains a bunch of stories featuring trees abloom. Following the latest walk, I felt inspired to produce yet another. But was there truly a strong reason for me to do so? Hadn’t I already visited the topic enough times? I gave the matter some thought and decided that I definitely should proceed. After all, it would be foolish of me to ignore inspiration. Before beginning to write, though, I figured it would be a good idea to make sure Edgar Reewright, my editor, was on the same page as me. I called him the day after the walk.

Edgar answered after the first ring. “Neil, I feel a major bowel movement coming on,” he said, “so let’s keep this conversation short, okay? I assume there’s a writing-related issue you want to discuss.”

“You’ve read my mind, Edgar. Yup, I need your opinion about a story I’d like to pen. I was out for a walk yesterday and was floored by trees in flower. I can’t wait to sit down at my computer and bang out an essay about their amazing beauty, and about how they fill me with wonder. I think I’ll be able to complete the article in two or three days. It would be in your hands right after that, awaiting your magical editing skills.”

The silence that followed worried me, as well it should have. Finally, Edgar replied. “You’re out of your f*cking gourd, Neil!” he yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’ve published flowering-trees stories six, seven, maybe eight times already. There’s nothing more to say about those trees! Sure, their flowers are voluminous and look great. But everybody knows this. Good lord, enough is enough. Spare me. Spare your readers. Believe me, none of them want to read another word about trees in bloom.”

Before I could get a word in, Edgar continued his tirade. “Listen, the BM is about one minute away from making its appearance. Neil, if you write your proposed story, I will not edit it. You’re on your own with this one. And if you publish anything I’ve said to you today, I’ll sue you for invasion of privacy!”

“Edgar,” I said, “maybe you’ve forgotten that I pay you exorbitantly to whip my stories into shape. You and your wife have been living the high life because of my extreme generosity. So, if you sue, I’ll dump you, and you’ll never be able to replace the income I send your way.”

Edgar responded immediately. “You win, Neil. But only partly. I will not sue. But I refuse to edit another flowering-trees article. And, speaking of dump, I’m headed to the bathroom as we speak. Urgent business is at hand. Signing off!”

It serves Edgar right that our conversation appears on this page. I mean, who ever heard of an editor refusing to edit? And this isn’t the first time he has pulled this stunt. I’m toying with the notion of docking his pay, but I know I won’t follow through on that, because Edgar has saved the day for me, writing-wise, time after time after time. I’d be lost without him. That’s the truth and nothing but the truth.

Which Is Your Fave? (Art On Wheels, Part Seventeen)

Yeah, Another Blogger151 Comments

Hello, one and all. The story now staring you in the face is part of a long-running, whimsical project I haven’t lost interest in at all, one I hope I’ll continue to pursue for as long as Yeah, Another Blogger remains an active enterprise. Yes, I barely can believe I’ve now published accounts of seventeen Art On Wheels expeditions. Just goes to show you what can happen when you’re having fun.

For the uninitiated, let me explain that Art On Wheels stories detail my outdoor searches for artistically adorned wheeled objects. I photograph the ones I spot. Trucks and vans comprise the vast majority of the specimens whose portraits I’ve taken. Food carts have made appearances on these pages too, as has a heavy-construction vehicle. In the early and middle eras of Art On Wheels I sought my prey in various suburbs of Philadelphia (I reside in those burbs). For a number of years now, though, I’ve dealt strictly with Philadelphia itself.

My previous AOW ventures in Philly took place in downtown and near-downtown areas of the city. For number seventeen, however, I decided to go far afield by paying a visit to Philadelphia’s Mayfair neighborhood, which is part of the absolutely huge city sub-section known as Northeast Philadelphia. I did the deed two Thursdays ago.

Mayfair is a working-class community located about nine miles from downtown Philly. There’s nothing fancy about Mayfair. And it’s congested as hell, loaded with rowhouses and small businesses of all kinds. From the looks of things, a fair number of those businesses are having a pretty hard time of it. In that respect, they have company all over the world.

I have a connection to Mayfair. My periodontist, whose services, other than occasional checkups, I haven’t needed in many years, has been in business there for decades. About 30 years ago he successfully performed extensive and intensive surgeries on my gums and teeth, so besieged was I by periodontal disease. What bloody messes those frigging procedures were. While doing my AOW thing, I was tempted to drop in on him. “Hi, doctor,” I’d have said. “How about slicing open, cleaning, and re-attaching my gums again, just for old time’s sake? I mean, I’m in the mood.” He would have responded, perhaps, by saying to me, “Great idea, Neil! I specialize in catering to masochists. Ease yourself into this chair and let’s get started.”

Okay, then. I walked for an hour and a half in Mayfair, mostly on Frankford Avenue, which is the main business drag. And I had good success. I wasn’t surprised about that, seeing that I noticed a gorgeous truck parked on Leon Street when I was in my car looking for a parking spot two minutes before my on-foot adventure began. The truck, belonging to FreshPoint, a produce distributor, was still there when I exited my car a block and a half away. The truck smiled innocently when I approached to take its picture.

Photos of what I deem to be the top five wheeled objects I encountered are on this page. Do you have a favorite, or favorites? As luscious as FreshPoint is, I like best the FritoLay chips truck. It pulled into a Wawa convenience store’s parking lot a few seconds after a Future Finish van was pulling out. I waited till the FritoLay driver/delivery guy wheeled his load of boxes of chips into the store. Then I photographed the vehicle. Its mural’s color choices — dreamy shades of gold and orange — startle me, but in a gentle way. And, intriguingly, the product names seem to be afloat, inviting us to loosen up and allow our minds to take wing. I’m down with that message. It is excellent advice.

Boys and girls, I believe that’s a wrap. I am all Mayfaired out. It’s time for this old boy to get his beauty rest. On second thought, screw that! I think I’ll have a beer instead. Adios till next time!

Beautiful!

Yeah, Another Blogger169 Comments

I tip my hat to the Philadelphia Horticultural Society (PHS), for it is the producer and director of the wonderful Philadelphia Flower Show, an event first staged in 1829 when PHS was two years old, and mounted almost every year since then. I’m very much into the show, something that wasn’t always the case. Pre-2016 I pooh-poohed it, certain that I’d have zero interest in its presentations were I to attend. Which only goes to prove I truly can be a dumb f*ck.

Anyway, in 2016 I woke up a little and decided to give the exhibition a shot. That year, I went with my wife Sandy to the Pennsylvania Convention Center, the show’s downtown-Philadelphia home, and was wowed. I’ve now been to seven editions of the extravaganza, most recently on the first Friday of this month. Though possibly not quite as enthralling as last year’s version, the 2026 flower show, which ran for nine days, damn well was more than good enough. Imaginative horticultural displays (from local, national and international exhibitors) abounded. Proof of the event’s high quality is that I more or less forgot I was inside a monstrously huge, cement-floored venue that in and of itself is completely devoid of charm. For two hours, Sandy and I wandered from one display to another, doubling back and circling around to re-examine the sights. And then, sated, we bade farewell to the show, exited the building, and disappeared into the fast-approaching night.

It’s too late in the game for PHS to change the name of the show. But theoretically it wouldn’t be a bad idea, because, for decades and decades probably, numerous displays have not been flower-centric. That is, other forms of flora (non-flowering trees, shrubs, vines, you name it) also have starred. And man-made elements, some as whimsical as can be, have raised the excitement and enticement levels of countless exhibits considerably.

Still, the display that grabbed me the most this year was all flowers: a wedge-shaped bed of, primarily, tulips. Its creator — Jacques Amand International, a British firm — arranged the tulips by color groups, all of them snazzy. Man, the energy radiated by this exhibit was palpable. The flowers were bursting with life, proud of their vibrant hues and eager to share their happiness with members of the human race. I soaked up the tulips’ good vibes and good will while hungrily looking them over. They were just so beautiful.

You never know when you’ll encounter beauty that takes your breath away. And in our troubled world, we need as much beauty of that sort as we can get. The tulips certainly did that to me. As did many passages in Baumgartner, a novel (by the late Paul Auster) that I read this year. A writing machine for decades, pumping out novels, memoirs, essays, poems and screenplays like there was no tomorrow, Auster passed away in 2024, about six months after Baumgartner was published. And so, strictly by chance, the first Auster novel I read turns out to have been his last.

I whole-heartedly recommend Baumgartner. It tells the tale of one Seymour (Sy) Baumgartner, a retired philosophy professor, age 70 when the book begins. Sy’s world was upended by the accidental death of his wife Anna, the utmost love of his life, some years earlier. At book’s start, he has yet to recover. As the next couple of years unfold, though, Sy begins to make headway as he thinks back upon his life, gaining not only insights into himself but also an expanded appreciation for Anna’s abilities and talents. Slowly, a meaningful future opens up.

Auster’s use of language is enviable. Throughout the novel, his word choices and their rhythms and flows often stunned me, the first time a book affected me this way since I don’t know when. Such as this passage from early on in the story:

It is the trope Baumgartner has been searching for ever since Anna’s sudden, unexpected death ten years ago, the most persuasive and compelling analogue to describe what has happened to him since that hot, windy afternoon in August 2008 when the gods saw fit to steal his wife from him in the full vigor of her still youthful self, and just like that, his limbs were ripped off his body, all four of them, arms and legs together at the same time, and if his head and heart were spared from the onslaught, it was only because the perverse, snickering gods had granted him the dubious right to go on living without her. He is a human stump now, a half man who has lost the half of himself that had made him whole, and yes, the missing limbs are still there, and they still hurt, hurt so much that he sometimes feels his body is about to catch fire and consume him on the spot.

See what I mean? Auster truly had a way with words. Beautiful!

A Real Old Story

Yeah, Another Blogger163 Comments

As some of you know, my previous opus (it will pop up on your screen if you click here) examines the travel bug that bit me when I was a young adult, and highlights a few of the trips and destinations I’ve been most taken with over the course of my life. At the tippy top of the most–taken–with list is a three-week trek, in November 1982, through the Himalaya Mountains in Nepal. I’d never done anything as demanding or adventurous as that endeavor turned out to be. And I haven’t come close to equaling it. I think about the trek fairly often. It made a huge impression on me, bringing me nearly face-to-face with some of the world’s tallest peaks, including numero uno itself, Mount Everest.

I cherish my Himalayan memories. And I’ll never add to them, because it would be physically impossible for me to ascend high into the Himalayas at this point in my life. My legs would give out after two or three days on the trail, for sure. Or, far worse, my ticker might stop ticking before my legs cried uncle. Hell, the trek took place 43 and a half years ago. I was 35 at the time, fully feeling my oats. I’m 78 now. And though I’m extremely fortunate to be in decent shape, a whole lot of the oats I feel nowadays are literally oats. In the form of oatmeal, which I spoon into my mouth for breakfast about once a week. In other words, decent shape is relative, and I definitely ain’t what I used to be. Nobody in my age bracket is.

Seventy-eight? Are you shitting me? How is this possible? How did time flow by so quickly? Man, by just about anyone’s definition, I’m real old. That’s why, completely unsurprisingly, I now and then ponder my eventual demise. What will get me in the end? The possibilities are more than many. As with everything, time will tell.

The crazy thing about it, though, is that I can’t fully wrap my head around the fact that an expiration date is stamped in invisible ink somewhere on my body. (By the way, my guess is that it’s on my ass. On both cheeks, probably.) I mean, I still think of myself as being kind of immortal, just as I did decades ago. Basically, I want to keep going on and on and on, and for everyone of like mind on the subject to keep going on and on and on too. And, let me assure you, serious bodily ailments would be no more for those of us choosing non-ending sojourns on Planet Earth. Yeah, you better believe that a major restructuring of earthly realities would be instituted pronto if I were in charge. Vote for me! Damn straight I’d set matters straight!

In autumn 2025, my wife Sandy and I gathered with family in Hawaii to attend the bar mitzvah of one of our three great-nephews, as Hawaii is where the bar mitvah boy resides. We stayed with a bunch of other family members in a rented house for a week. On the grounds was a huge swimming pool. The pool was a magnet for the great-nephews, who at the time ranged in age from six to thirteen, and for most of the adults too.

One afternoon, Sandy and I were standing in the house with our sister-in-law Sara, who was regarding, through windows, the three youngsters splashing away in the pool. Sara turned to me and Sandy and said something to us that has stuck in my mind: “Our lives are ending and theirs are beginning.” Wistfulness and wonder were in her voice.

Well, Sara meant ending in a broader sense, not in the imminent sense. Nevertheless, she was right. She, Sandy and I are in our 70s. Even if we each hang in there for another 20 or more years, that won’t be all that much compared to the number of years we’ve already said goodbye to. On the other hand, the future is wide open for my great-nephews, and I hope it treats them well.

So, that’s life. We come and we go. And, hopefully, we live productively and lovingly during our stays. My wishful thinking described above isn’t about to change the way things roll here on our orb. Though I’d be delighted if it did.

Traveling Through The Years

Yeah, Another Blogger150 Comments

I’m not exactly sure when the urge to travel first hit me, but a good guess would be 1969. In the summer of that year, soon after graduating from college, I bumped into a childhood friend, Mike, whom I hadn’t seen in a long, long while. That encounter took place inside a restaurant in Roslyn, the Long Island town he and I had grown up in and to which we had returned when our collegiate careers reached their conclusions (Long Island is near New York City).

Mike and I immediately hit it off at the restaurant, to the extent that he asked me if I’d be interested in joining him on a road trip to Canada, which he was eager to embark on. With no employment plans, or any kind of plans in place, I said yes. Off we went, then, maybe a couple of weeks later, in Mike’s bright red Ford Mustang convertible. Our journey lasted for two weeks or so, I think. We got as far north as Canada’s Gaspé Peninsula, where we began the southward drive back to the States. Mike and I had a blast throughout our expedition. We’ve palled around regularly ever since that time, partly because, as fate would have it, we ended up living not far from each other in Pennsylvania, the state each of us moved to a few years after our Canadian journey. We remain Pennsylvanians and close friends.

Having been bitten by the travel bug, and still uncertain about what to do with my life employment-wise, I scratched the bug by exploring many states of the USA on two separate month-long occasions during the early 1970s. And in 1977, right before beginning what would become a lengthy career in government, I wandered through Europe for six weeks, accompanied by a backpack. With little money to my name — I specialized in low-paying, short-term jobs for a bunch of years — it’s somewhat amazing that I pulled off those three trips. These days, it probably would be next to impossible.

Yours truly on Kala Patthar in Nepal. Mount Everest is the tallest of the peaks behind me.
(November 19, 1982)

Well, I’ve maintained a pretty active travel schedule since then, spending significant amounts of time on foreign shores and also in a selection of American states. The most astonishing adventure I’ve ever had was a three-week hike, in 1982, through the Himalayas in Nepal. Sticking strictly to terrains on which mountaineering equipment (ropes, ice axes, etc.) was not needed, I and a couple more members of my small trekking group ultimately reached Kala Patthar. KP is an approximately 18,500-foot-high ridge almost within spitting distance of the world’s tallest structure, Mount Everest, whose tippy top is 29,032 feet above sea level. On Kala Patthar, with Everest and other monstrously elevated peaks staring me smack in the face, my mind was totally blown. I’d never experienced anything that majestic before, and haven’t equaled or topped it since. And there’s virtually no chance I will.

My wife Sandy wasn’t with me in Nepal, due to the irrefutable fact that we didn’t meet until 1990. But we’ve logged plenty of miles together since becoming a couple, both in the States and abroad. Many of those miles have been on Cape Cod, a 65-mile-long Massachusetts peninsula. I’ve written ad nauseum about the Cape in this publication, another irrefutable fact. That’s because Sandy and I have developed an intimate relationship with Cape Cod, something we never anticipated would happen with any travel destination. Cape Cod is blessed with unusually beautiful coastlines, tons of restaurants and a good arts scene, and it emits welcoming vibes. It is our soul mate. We have vacationed on the Cape almost annually since discovering it in 1998.

Sandy and I travelled quite a lot in 2025. Totally domestically, as all five of our destinations, which included Cape Cod and Maui, are parts of the States. Where might we find ourselves in 2026? Cape Cod is on the agenda once again. Beyond that, we don’t know. Getting to, and back home from, vacation spots wear us out more than it used to. Last year’s trips proved that to us emphatically. So, we shall see.

I’ll say this, though: Somewhere down the line it would be cool to return to Italy, where Sandy and I explored Venice, Florence and Rome in 2011. We’d like to see more of Italy, the Naples/Pompeii region, for instance.

And we would be thrilled to poke around any number of lands we never have set foot in. Spain is on that list, as is Portugal and Morocco and . . .