Philly Burbs

Autumn, A Fine Time Of Year

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

For many years, autumn has been my favorite season, though I guess spring has been gaining ground in that regard. In any case, summer and winter sure ain’t contenders, as I’m not into sweating like a pig nor freezing my balls off.

What is it that puts autumn at the top? Well, the coolish daytime-high temperatures of many of its days please me just fine. And I’m influenced, I believe, by the fact that I’m an October baby. It seems logical to be a fan of the season during which one was born. Actually, I wonder how much truth is in that statement. I’m not sure.

But what I like the most about fall is tree leaves changing color, a spectacle I can’t get enough of. I feel sorry for folks who live in sections of the globe where the extravaganza isn’t staged. In a very real sense, they are being cheated. Many of the deciduous trees in my area have been doing their morphing thing for several weeks, and are looking mighty fine.

I live in a tidy, oldish and unusually hilly neighborhood, part of a town located close to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. In an attempt to keep my bod in halfway-decent shape, I go for walks in the hood fairly regularly. A stroll along the streets two Thursdays ago was a most lovely one. The temperature when I left the house at about 11:00 AM was 57°F (14°C), which was a little lower than it would have been if I were in charge of things, but perfectly acceptable nonetheless. What’s more, the sky was painted a vivid blue, with wads of clouds scattered here and there along its lower regions. I examined the sky closely throughout the walk, since the heavens above almost always are worth looking at and admiring. I’ve been semi-negligent about doing this for much of my life, and recently have tried to become more attentive. A walk I took and wrote about a few months ago got me thinking along those lines.

The color transformations on the Thursday in question knocked my socks off. Shades of orange, gold and cranberry, among others, lit up the neighborhood fabulously. I was particularly drawn to the trees laden in both orange and gold hues. They knew they were something special and proudly showed off their wares. But not boastfully. That’s how confident and assured they were about themselves. The mixture of those colors got to me in a deep way. Not only was it fiery, almost paradoxically it was mellow too.

By the time I arrived home, I had hiked nearly two miles, farther than I was expecting to. Tree leaves with mesmerizing powers had kept me on the streets. Sad to say, the multi-color show will have reached the end of its run by late November, if not sooner. That’s the way Nature rolls.

In 1972, Van Morrison, the singer-songwriter who at age 80 is still going strong, laid down the tracks for Hard Nose The Highway, an album that was released the following year and whose awkward title refers to the importance of trying to persevere through hard times. There are some top-notch tunes on Hard Nose. Maybe the best is Autumn Song, a Van composition that instantly carries me away, so sweet and relaxed is it. The best time and place to listen to Autumn Song, I believe, is late on a fall night, indoors with the lights turned off or way down low. But, with few exceptions, any hour of any day at any location will do just fine. The recording is more than 10 minutes long, by the way. Autumn Song doesn’t overstay its visit, though, because it’s a total charmer. Here it is, anxiously waiting for you to click on the Play button.

A Cloudy Walk And A Rousing Novel

Yeah, Another Blogger134 Comments

A half hour shy of noon a few weeks ago, in need of some exercise, I raised my bony ass off the living room sofa, exited my house and took a walk around my suburban neighborhood. It was a hot and humid summer day, the type that normally causes me to spew sweat like a volcano. I guess the dermatology gods took pity on me, though, for my wrinkled skin became only mildly moist during the stroll.

I usually don’t spend a lot of time looking upward when I’m outside, not in daylight nor when the skies are black. Pretty foolish of me, because, obviously, the heavens are incredible. But, on the day in question I decided to alter that orientation by examining the clouds filling much of the sky. They were of two sorts, some of them bright and friendly and perfect partners for the sky’s blue areas, the others darkened and signaling that rain, which ultimately never arrived, might be a-comin’.

And I also had my eyes on trees, which are fairly abundant in my neighborhood (I live a few miles outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA). It would be cool, I decided, to snap some photos in which cloud-filled skies and trees appeared. But only cloud-filled skies and trees. This turned out to be harder than I thought it would be. I shouldn’t have been surprised, of course, since my neighborhood is jam-packed with houses, utility poles and overhead-utility lines, nearly all of which not only were in the way, but also cursed me out when I told them I wouldn’t include them in the photos. What a bunch of obnoxious bastards! Persevering, I found a fair number of vantage points that allowed me to meet my criteria. I tell you, the life of an amateur photographer ain’t a breeze. On the other hand, just about nobody’s life is a breeze. Hell, that’s life.

Two photos from my mini expedition adorn this essay. I regard them as semi-abstract compositions, the amorphous clouds offset by the tight structure of treetops. I bow before Mother Nature. Her variety of creations is dazzling and just about infinite, yet limited and uncomplicated displays of her wares, such as these, have no trouble awing me. There’s a whole lot to be said for simplicity.

Getting back to life, this month I was swept away by a novel that tells the tale of one David Granger, a 68-year-old American whose adult life has been the opposite of a breeze. Months and months of violent combat in Vietnam jungles in the late 1960s saw to that, not only while he was fighting the Viet Cong, but also every year since then, a decades-long period during which war-induced nightmares have bedeviled his bedtime hours. Granger is the narrator of The Reason You’re Alive, the madcap, profane and humane book by Matthew Quick published in 2017. (Matthew Quick’s best-known novel is The Silver Linings Playbook, which was turned into a movie starring Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper.)

David Granger is a piece of work, an over-the-top character who wears his lengthy list of opinions on his sleeve. A widower, he has an uneasy relationship with his one child (an adult son named Hank), and adores his young granddaughter, Ella. His friendships are pretty plentiful and also profound. And although he possesses a conservative, America-first outlook, he does not meet the definition of a Trumpster, because he is completely accepting of, and admires, the USA’s racial and sexual minorities. A complicated guy, Granger feels compelled to put his story down on paper before it might be too late, seeing that he recently went under the knife for brain cancer, a disease he believes was induced by heavy exposure in Vietnam to the poisonous chemical Agent Orange. Post-surgery, Granger gets it into his head that he should return a valuable object that, under shameful circumstances, he stole from a fellow soldier during the war.

I don’t want to spill too many beans about the plotlines, so I’ll say little more. I will add, however, that the sentences in The Reason You’re Alive barrel along like a high-speed train and pack a punch. Here’s a sample paragraph from the book:

Doctors had sawed through my skull. They had cut out part of my brain. I was still freeballing it in a lime-green fairy gown. I was in a fucking hospital bed, for Christ’s sake, and Hank’s machine-gunning me with entire belts of words just because I didn’t tell him about the surgery until after it was over. I figured, why worry him? We hadn’t been speaking since summer anyway. Ever since we had a blowout at the Phillies game.

See what I mean? Matthew Quick can write. I unhesitatingly recommend The Reason You’re Alive.

Two Sunsets That Brought Me Up Short

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

I’ve mentioned this several times before on this publication’s pages, and I’ll say it again: Smartphone cameras are perfect for those who enjoy documenting the world around them but can’t be bothered with cameras that have all sorts of settings requiring adjustment. They also are perfect for those who would be up shit’s creek trying to figure out how to use such cameras. I am a member of both categories.

Not surprisingly, then, I began snapping away pretty regularly soon after obtaining my first smartphone in late 2015. All you need to do is aim, touch the screen briefly here and there to adjust for distance and brightness if you so desire, and then press the big button. Voila! Mission accomplished. Easy as f*cking pie.

I’ve put hundreds of the photos I’ve taken to good use, placing them in Yeah, Another Blogger stories. And a fair number of those hundreds are sunset scenes, nearly all of them drawn from vacations my wife Sandy and I have enjoyed on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA.

Well, despite the fact that cyberspace currently contains several trillion sunset images, I’m never the least bit reluctant to add more of them to the unimaginable glut. I mean, it’s not as though somebody is going to sue me if I do. Right? On second thought, I damn well could be wrong about that. Whatever, I’m willing to take my chances. Away we go!

Cape Cod sunsets, when viewed from Cape Cod Bay, are magnificent when the atmospheric conditions are favorable, for there are no obstructions to hinder your view. Obstructions, however, are a given just about everywhere in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, which is where I reside, and in Philadelphia itself. I haven’t been to Cape Cod or anywhere else with wide-open, west-facing views so far this year. Nevertheless, two sunsets in my region brought me up short.

Jenkintown, Pennsylvania (July 2024)

In July one evening, walking to our car after eating and drinking in a pub in the village of Jenkintown, which is a few miles from our suburban town, I asked Sandy to stop for a moment, as I’d just noticed a pale orange tinge to the mostly hidden lower sky. The hue looked absolutely fine in the disappearing daylight, set off as it was by houses, overhead utility wires, parked cars, foliage and scattered clouds.

And so, confronted with a view I deemed worth remembering, I yanked my iPhone out of my pants pocket. Ten seconds later the deed was done. The photo is one of my favorites among the many I’ve taken to-date in 2024. There’s a sense of peace and stability in it. But wait . . . somewhere off in the distance I can hear my doctor talking to me: “Neil, you’re old as dirt, unfortunately,” he’s saying. “If you have any sense left at all, you’ll stare at this photo a lot. Doing so will lower your blood pressure and might extend your life a little bit.”

Thanks, Doc. Will do!

Fishtown section of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
(August 2024)

And in late August I became indebted to the phone once again. On the way back to our car after dining in Philadelphia’s Fishtown neighborhood, a small section of a sunset, smiling coyly, presented itself to me and Sandy on Jefferson Street.  Overall, the scene was denser and more complicated than its Jenkintown counterpart. There was more going on than I could comfortably absorb and process.

My iPhone came to the rescue, taking in the entire display and freezing it at 7:56 pm. The resultant photo pretty much blows my mind. It’s an exhilarating jumble of shapes and lighting effects. Every time I examine this picture I notice something I hadn’t before. I love it. Hold on a second, though . . .  my doctor is speaking to me again: “Neil, the Philadelphia photo is an absolute blood pressure raiser. It’s too intense for a geezer like you. Stop staring at it!”

Sorry, Doc. No can do!

Too Much Green?

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

Earlier this month, my wife Sandy and I made our way from our abode in Pennsylvania, USA to a village in the northeast section of New York State. We journeyed there to attend a family reunion at the home of my brother and sister-in-law. Spread out over several days, the event turned out to be as delightful and meaningful as we could have hoped. Most of our close relations, from my side of the family, live far from Sandy and me. So, we don’t see them all that often. Outstandingly, all of them were at the reunion.

The village in question, not far from Canada, is bordered on its eastern side by Lake Champlain. What a beautiful locale. Farmlands and rolling hills abound near the village. And Lake Champlain, enormous, is as pretty as a picture.

The best natural sights we saw during the trip, though, were the Adirondack Mountains, a large section of which we drove through in order to reach our non-mountainous destination, and on the return trip too.  Of medium but not insignificant height (46 of the Adirondack peaks are over 4,000 feet/1,219 meters), they possess an aura of composure and stability. Those qualities aside, what wowed me the most about them were their trees. A mixture of conifers and hardwoods, the trees were so thickly massed. And, it being summer in the northern hemisphere, so green. Man, I’m a suburban/urban guy who doesn’t get to see endless expanses of trees every day. You better believe I was duly impressed.

But . . . leave it to me not to have taken any pictures of the Adirondack greenery. Ditto for Sandy. Sue us! However, all is not lost. For, last week I decided to gaze upon and photograph trees in my suburban neighborhood. The density of trees here is insignificant compared to that of the Adirondacks, of course, but is pretty good for suburbia. Thus, after slathering my arms and beyond-wrinkled face with sunscreen lotion, out the door I went on a hot Monday morning. Over the next 50 minutes I traversed many of my neighborhood’s blocks. And got more than my fix of green.

Now, when it comes to scientific matters, I’m almost as dumb as shit. In fact, if you take away the almost from the previous sentence, you’ll be much closer to the truth. Which is why I had, and still have, no answer as to why the tree leaves I saw that morning showed no signs of drying up, considering how brutal the Sun and temperatures had been in my region for the previous four or more weeks. Mother Nature knows the reasons, of course, but hasn’t been in the mood to share her knowledge with me. Up yours, Mother Nature! (Just kidding, my dear lady, just kidding.)

Yes, green was the color of the day. But after strolling around for a while I began to think that maybe too much green was on view. I mean, green’s dominance in my little corner of the vegetation world was impressive and more than deserving of a salute. However, I grew a bit tired of the sameness as my walk progressed. As a result, I found myself thinking ahead to autumn, when tree leaves put on multi-colored spectacles that never fail to totally knock my socks off. Would I also have tired of Adirondack greenery had I spent more than a limited number of hours in the mountains’ presence a few weeks ago? Likely. What can I say? Green, I like you, but I guess I don’t love you.

I’m not quite finished talking about green, though. That’s because of a song — Bein’ Green — composed by Joe Raposo in 1970 for Sesame Street, a children’s television series. Bein’ Green truly is lovely. Its lyrics and melody tug at your heart. First sung by Kermit The Frog, who is one of Sesame Street’s characters, the tune has become a classic covered by numerous performers.

So, here’s the thing: Kermit is green, which is a prominent color in the frog family. But he wishes he were a more interesting hue, one with more oomph. Well, Kermit then gives the situation some additional thought. And, as he is unusually wise, concludes that he will accept himself for what he is. There’s beauty and worthiness in just about everything, after all.

Who am I to argue with Kermit? If green is totally good enough for him, it is for me too. Green, I apologize for not appreciating you fully. I’ll try to do better!

Six Pix For The First Six Months Of The Year

Yeah, Another Blogger137 Comments

During the 1970s and 1980s I enjoyed walking around Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where I lived at the time, and around many other places, snapping photos with my Kodak Pocket Instamatic of whatever caught my eye. I took a lot of family photos too. I haven’t looked at most of those pictures in . . . forever. Save for a relative few, they reside, way too many unlabeled, inside a large box or two or three somewhere in my house. The attic, most likely. I’d do well to locate and gaze at the pix. Who knows what good memories they’d bring back? Yeah, one of these days I’m going to get off my lazy ass and do just that. One of these days.

Anyway, fast forward to the tail end of 2015, which is when I purchased my first smart phone. Man, after 25 or more years of not being involved with photography — my wife Sandy had assumed the photographic duties — I took to the phone’s camera like Donald Trump takes to undermining democracy. In no time I was having fun shooting digital pictures and marveling at how easy the camera was to use.

And I couldn’t have been happier that the phone dated each shot and listed information about where the picture was taken. Even better, the photographs had no desire to leave the confines of their cozy quarters within the phone. They wouldn’t even consider wandering off to the f*cking attic or anywhere else. I love them for that, because I drop by now and then to take a look.

Sculpture outside a Mexican restaurant. Hatboro, Pennsylvania. January 2023
Artwork at Philadelphia Flower Show. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. March 2023

Like many of us, I’ve shot a large number of digital photos. Documenting our lives on a semi-regular basis isn’t the worst idea in the world, right? A recent stroll through my iPhone’s photo library revealed that my button-pressing fingers were pretty busy during the first six months of 2023, for instance, as roughly 250 photographs from that period are stored there. Being in a jolly mood at the moment, I’ve decided to bestow immortality upon six of those pix that I especially like, one from each month (I did the same thing last year). They are included in this story, and haven’t appeared in Yeah, Another Blogger before. Scads of worthy photos are not pleased about being snubbed, however. I have this to say to them: “Tough shit! Nobody ever said that life is fair.”

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. April 2023
Keswick Theater. Glenside, Pennsylvania. June 2023

I didn’t venture very far from home during the months in question. The photos herein, therefore, are restricted to the Philadelphia suburbs, which has been my home base since 2005, and to Philadelphia itself. And now a few words about two of the pictures.

Willow Grove, Pennsylvania. February 2023

I’ve witnessed numerous sunsets in my time, most of them in areas blessed with natural beauty, such as Cape Cod, Massachusetts. My town doesn’t come close to matching that description. However, my hilly neighborhood is good for sunset-watching from certain high points, like the one that is half a block from my front door. The view of the sky is nicely open there, not obscured by many houses or trees. One early evening in February I ventured out, and 15 seconds later was admiring a sunset whose yellows, oranges, pinks and greys, all delicate as feathers, made my day. A beautiful sight it was.

Willow Grove Park Mall. Abington, Pennsylvania. May 2023

And on a May morning I headed to Willow Grove Park Mall, an enclosed space not much more than a hop, skip and jump from my abode. I occasionally go there to engage in a cardio workout, walking the mall’s avenues and byways at a good clip. Such was the reason for my visit that day.

Hoofing around the mall’s second level, I approached a GAP clothing store. The posters in its windows always have impressed me, touching as they do on the positive aspects of the human condition. During the May walk, one of the GAP posters brought me up short. After staring at it for a few seconds I whipped out my phone. There was no way I was not going to photograph the poster, because its depiction of parental love was more vivid and pure than any I’d ever seen. His arms wrapped around his baby, a young father could not be more certain of his role in life than he is at that moment. Love radiates from him in gentle waves. He’s the luckiest guy in the world. And he knows it.

Springtime Close-Ups

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

Maybe it was due to global warming, or maybe Nature was just feeling antsy. Whatever the reason, spring arrived way earlier than usual this year in my neck of the woods, aka southeastern Pennsylvania, USA. Man, I saw a few trees in flower on the 22nd of March, for crying out loud. That’s at least three weeks sooner than tree-blossoming normally begins. And maples and other big boys of the non-flowering kind unfurled their greenery far ahead of schedule too.

I ain’t complaining, though. A lover of colorful spectacles, I rate the springtime performances of flora quite high on my entertainment list (though not at the lofty level occupied by autumn’s leaves-changing-color extravaganza). Thus, you’ll find me taking a number of walks each spring in which my focus is to admire colors that were unavailable during winter. I spent an hour recently in my suburban neighborhood doing exactly that. My trusty and trusted smart phone was in hand, its camera poised for action. The plan was to use the camera strictly for close-ups. Not of my face, of course, as any images of that rutted, crusty object would have shattered the f*cking camera lens. But of flowering trees and bushes? You bet! Close-ups eliminate surrounding distractions. They get straight to the heart. A close-ups day it would be.

Japanese cherry tree
Japanese andromeda

The conditions for the walk were ideal — sunny, cool and breezy. So breezy, in fact, that I had to hold on tightly to my baseball cap a few times, lest it blow off the previously mentioned rutted, crusty object. I strolled from block to block to block, getting up close and personal with cherry trees, azalea and lilac bushes, and other examples of Nature’s wonders. That didn’t happen as often as I’d have liked, however, since many lovely creations were in the middle or rears of people’s lawns. You better believe I wasn’t about to step onto those lawns, not being in the mood to have homeowners yell at me from their front doors or, worse, come dashing out of their homes to confront me. Sadly but truly, you never know what might happen these days. We sure as shit live in uncertain times.

Dogwood tree
Azalea bush

Nonetheless, the walk was a damn fine one. I felt relaxed and at peace, my head pretty much devoid of thoughts. All of which took me by surprise, as I am, for the most part, a natural-born worrier and overthinker, and good and tight in the shoulders too. Calmly on the lookout for pretty colors, I somehow had entered a near-zen state. That’s part of the magic that a Nature walk sometimes imparts to me. I could go for that degree of mental and emotional clarity and ease all the time. It’s the way to be, of that there is no doubt.

Azalea bush
Lilac bush

I haven’t inhaled spring’s charms and soothing hues all that much since the walk I describe took place. I plan to pick up the pace soon, though, because before you know it all of the flowering trees and shrubs in my area will have dropped their blossoms. I find it a shame that spring’s delicacy and soothingness don’t last for at least several weeks more than they do. If I were in charge of Nature, they would. Hell, let’s take this a few steps further: If I were in charge of Nature, violence and disease would not exist. Living things would not feed upon other living things. The world, in other words, would be a gentle and wonderful place, one in which all organisms, including humans, of course, would spend their days in fulfilling and pain-free manners.

A boy can dream, right?

Windows Shopping

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

I don’t know about you, but in my neck of the woods (I live a bit outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA) there aren’t too many towns that look like towns. Mine sure doesn’t, though I suspect it did up until 70 or 80 years ago. Today it’s a mess, a hodgepodge of neighborhoods interspersed with shopping centers galore. And of those towns that do look like towns, few have thick roots going back many years. Which is one reason why I’m pleased that the borough of Doylestown, Pennsylvania lies a mere 15 miles from my abode.

Doylestown, large in size and containing a high percentage of structures erected between the mid-1800s and the early-1900s, somehow combines stateliness, quaintness and chicness casually and seamlessly. I find it to be a swell place to hang out in and to stroll around, and have been doing just that pretty regularly for decades. I dig its well-kept houses, its arthouse cinema and museums, its record store (Siren Records), its bookstores, its big collection of eateries. On a recent Monday I spent two hours on the streets and alleys, and within a few shops, of this estimable hamlet. I had a specific purpose in mind, one I hoped would result in a photographic essay for Yeah, Another Blogger. Hallelujah, my hopes have been realized!

I arrived in Doylestown at 11:00 AM under skies glowing happily in blue and white. The temperature was 50°F (10°C), quite pleasant, though not warm enough for me to wander without my winter coat. You better believe that I, an old f*cker, chill easily. Anyway, with my trusty phone’s camera at the ready, I immediately began checking out the town’s windows, as windows were to be the stars of the hoped-for story. Windows? You bet. I’m into themed walks and have reported upon any number of them for this publication. Now and then, for instance, I’ve gone in search of well-decorated motor vehicles (click here to read my latest opus about the subject). That’s the way I roll, wobbly as it may be.

Now, I’m not going to tell you that I saw any Doylestown windows with design elements that completely knocked my socks off. However, a number came close. For example, there was no denying the power of the tall, narrow windows, pointing skyward, that adorn the Doylestown Presbyterian Church. Some of them depict Biblical scenes. In retrospect, I’d have loved to view them from inside the church too, but the idea didn’t occur to little ol’ me at the time.

And I was taken with the asymmetrical positioning of the windows on a lovely mustard-colored home. Unbalanced though it may seem at first glance, to my eye the arrangement makes perfect sense. It demonstrates how components big and small can work together in harmony when the will is there. The nations of Planet Earth have yet to learn this lesson fully.

The coolest thing about windows is that they usually are reflective, and many were showing off their talents in that regard. Reflections often blow my mind, as they are real and not real simultaneously — real in the sense that they do exist, and not real because they are weightless representations, often distorted, of the physical world. In any event, I couldn’t get enough of the reflections proudly displayed in the windows of the Bucks County Administration Building, a sharp red car parked on State Street, and the Doylestown Inn.

Very cool, too, was a window I photographed while inside Siren Records, where I browsed through a box of used CDs (I bought five of them). As ordinary as the window itself is — billions upon billions of its type populate the world — the scenes surrounding it and seen through it grabbed me. The window, delighted to be trimmed in yellow and to be adjacent to a wide array of colors, provided a shimmering, kaleidoscopic view of the outside world, courtesy of a sun that glared as if there were no tomorrow.

Well, the time to leave Doylestown has arrived. But I’ve still got windows on my mind, and I’m also ready to be rocked. So, I’ll end this story with one of the best windows-centric recordings I know of. The song, written by the late Tony Joe White, is titled Steamy Windows, and has been recorded by several artists, including Tony Joe. Tina Turner more than did the tune justice, releasing a bluesy, full-steam-ahead version in 1989 that is strong enough to shatter glass. Go, Tina, go!

Smiling Faces

Yeah, Another Blogger141 Comments

The skies were depressingly grey two Saturdays ago, the wind was not gentle, and rain poured down in buckets. In other words, it was real shitty outside. I’m no fan of such conditions — except for ducks, who the f*ck is? — but I was itching to wander the aisles of a local public library, and my aged body was in need of some exercise. So, out the door I went that morning, scrambled to my car and headed off to take care of business.

Success awaited me at destination number one, the library, where I found a book I’ve wanted to read for a long time (A Year In Provence, by Peter Mayle). Next stop, Willow Grove Park, a three-story, enclosed shopping mall in the Philadelphia burbs. It’s located less than a mile from my house. I drove there not to shop but to walk its every corridor. I go for several walks each week, almost always outdoors. But when the weather truly sucks, and an exercise session is in order, I stretch my legs at this indoor mall.

And stretch them I did, for almost an hour, with plenty of bounce in my step and with an episode of The Many Moods Of Ben Vaughn, a music podcast that features a wide range of tunes, playing through my earbuds. There was a pretty good number of people at the mall, some of them youngsters lined up, in the special Christmas section, to have a chat with Santa Claus. A pretty good number, yes, but nothing much out of the ordinary, considering that the Christmas-shopping season was upon us. In fact, a third of the businesses, as I walked past them, had nobody but employees within. Can brick and mortar establishments continue to hang in there, what with the heavy body blows that online shopping delivers to them non-stop? It’s not an upbeat situation.

Being one with artsy leanings, I took a good look at the posters on display in store windows as I strode through the mall. Designed to catch the attention of potential customers, nearly all of them were great. And halfway into my walk it dawned on me that a considerable number of these artworks had something in common. To wit, they featured one or more people with smiling faces. Not just half-grins, mind you, but broad, joyful, glad-to-be-alive smiles. (A sampling of the posters illustrates this article.)

I was down with that. Absolutely. After all, what’s better than being happy and showing it too? Not much. Anyone who spends a meaningful percentage of their waking hours in that state has found a strong path in life.

When I began composing this essay several days after being at the mall, I recalled someone who would have been a natural for a store poster, as he wore a smile almost all the time. He’s the only person I’ve ever known who fits that description. I worked with Ray, for that’s his name, in the 1980s. Everyone liked him. How could you not like a guy who brought bright light to the workplace? Ray never was stressed, never was in a bad mood. Unfailingly helpful and friendly, he was nothing short of amazing.

The posters at the mall, and thinking about Ray, have made me realize that I should start smiling more than I do. I would have nothing to lose by doing so, and possibly a good deal to gain, right? There’s no doubt about it. What’s more, can you imagine how much better the world would be if everyone upped their smiling quotient? We’d be on our way to creating paradise if that ever were to happen.

With that in mind, give a listen to a song I heard at the mall, courtesy of Ben Vaughn’s podcast, if you’re in the market for something that will put a nice big smile on your face. The one tune Ben played that really jumped out at me, it’s by The Penguins, a long-defunct doo wop cum rhythm and blues vocal group. Their biggest claim to fame was Earth Angel, a syrupy ballad that became a smash hit in 1954. You hear Earth Angel to this day. On the flip side of the Earth Angel single, however, was Hey Senorita, a song so cool it’ll make you want to bounce around madly. Thanks. Ben, for airing it. Here it is:

A Flowering Trees Story

Yeah, Another Blogger142 Comments

Nobody is ever going to mistake me for a botanist, that’s for damn sure. By which I mean that I don’t know shit, basically, when it comes to plants. Yeah, I can identify a few trees and flowers. And I might exclaim “hey, there’s a fern!” when I see one. Beyond that, however, please don’t press me.

Nonetheless, I enjoy spending time outdoors among flora. Who doesn’t? We all want our minds to be expanded, if not blown, you see, even if we know it only subconsciously. And what better way to allow this to happen than to initiate close contact with Nature’s fibrous wonders, absorbing their good vibes?

With that in mind, on the morning of April 27th I eased my aged ass from the living room sofa, hopped, more or less, into my car, and drove to a pretty neighborhood in a nearby town. Specific sorts of flora — flowering trees — not only were on my mind, they were the reason for my mini-expedition.

I’m not sure why, but I didn’t pay much attention to flowering trees until fairly recent years. A big oversight on my part. Since then, though, I’ve made it a point to check them out in April and May, which is when they do their unfurling thing in my part of the globe (I live in Pennsylvania, USA). Their blossomy performance is, of course, a winner. What’s not to like about shades of, primarily, pink, purple and white? Those hues sure liven up the green-dominated landscape around here this time of year.

What’s more, knowing that the performance doesn’t last forever imbues it with poignancy. Poof! — before you know it the petals are gone. Until a new production is staged the following year.

Well, I wandered through the neighborhood for an hour, gazing at the flowers on magnolia, cherry, dogwood and other trees. They looked good. After 30 minutes, though, I found myself disappointed by the relatively modest numbers of those trees. At least half of the properties I passed that day contained none at all, in fact. Man, how cool would it have been if I’d seen 10 or 20 times as many? Very. The blossom experience then would have overwhelmed and enveloped, like an ecstatic fireworks display.

And so, with intensification as my goal, over the next half hour I got much nearer to the flowers than I had previously during the walk, within inches in most instances and nose-to-nose twice. The strategy worked. From those vantages the blossoms made a hell of an impression, intricately designed and decidedly gorgeous as they were. And they instantly became my friends, wanting only to please. “Hello, Neil,” they whispered, “thanks for visiting. We’re at your service.”

“You’re the best,” I whispered back.

“But don’t linger, old timer,” they added. “You won’t be a happy sightseer if someone storms out of their house, yelling at you to get the f*ck off their property.”

True! Thus, I kept my up-close-and-personal sessions short. Thank you, blossoms, for having my back.

Sitting at my computer keyboard now, a number of days after the events described above, I’m wondering what came over me halfway through the stroll, as I’d never felt let down before by any aspect of springtime. Maybe the rotten state of affairs in the world — Russia rearing its ugly head; the growth of fascism in many nations, including my own — was wearing on me, putting me in need of big jolts of beauty. In any event, I’m back to my normal self. Grumpy, as usual, but appreciative too.

Let’s close the proceedings with a tune that, title-wise, is a perfect match for this essay. I discovered it a couple of days after my close encounters with flowering trees. Ordinarily I’m not a big fan of bouncy songs. But the more I listen to Cherry Blossom, by pop and country star Kacey Musgraves, the more I like it. Beneath the sugar and gloss it has a strong layer of soul. Likening herself to a cherry blossom, Kacey hopes and prays that her relationship with her new boyfriend, whom she’s mad about, will hold, that the wind won’t blow her away. I’m pulling for her.

A Doors-Filled Story (Fourth Edition)

Yeah, Another Blogger134 Comments

A lovely day it was indeed. The Sun beamed and gleamed. The skies, nary a cloud within them, were an expanse of blue at its finest. Unexpectedly mild for winter (51°F/11°C), a steady breeze on hand to keep me refreshed, the afternoon of February the ninth presented to me a perfect opportunity to go out and peruse doors in Hatboro, a town in the Philadelphia burbs that’s a couple of miles from the one I call home. I grabbed the opportunity.

Doors? Yes, doors are a favored subject for a fair number of WordPress scribes, including, occasionally, yours truly. I’ve written about them three times before. And, it should be noted, the hub on WordPress for all things doors is the Thursday Doors project run by Dan Antion on his No Facilities blog. So, if you click here you will be directed to Dan’s handsome site, where links to the writings of and photographs by doors enthusiasts may be found.

As I drove to Hatboro I was confident about what I’d find, because I’ve been there a multitude of times over the years — to shop, to dine, to stretch my legs on its sidewalks. It’s a down-to-earth community with pleasant residential blocks and a commercial area that, though hanging in there, has seen better days. Sure, maybe a unique or snazzy door or two awaited me. But no more than that, I figured.

And you know what? I was right. Of the hundreds of doors that passed before my eyes that afternoon as I wandered around many of Hatboro’s streets, alleys and parking areas, nearly all were of one standard style or another and also plain as can be in the color department.

And you know what else? I was absolutely fine with that, as I’ve long believed there is value and beauty in just about everything if I look hard enough and, when needed, adjust my way of thinking. After all, who am I not to admire the seemingly ordinary? I mean, I understand what it’s like to be ignored. I ain’t exactly Bradley Cooper when it comes to looks, you dig, proof of which is the fact that I can count on two hands, probably one, the number of times in my life that a girl has given me the eye. And those occurrences were decades ago. Shit, now that I’m pretty damn deep into my senior citizen era, there ain’t a chance in the world that I’ll ever again be gazed upon with interest, unless it’s by somebody working on a doctoral thesis about old farts. Boo hoo, man! Boo f*cking hoo!

Ordinary and admirable
Ordinary and very admirable

Among the “ordinary” portals that made a real impression on me in Hatboro, two of whose portraits I’ve included above, my top pick is the one identified by a nice big 3A. It more or less stopped me in my tracks because, I now realize in hindsight, its grey-green coloration struck an oceanic chord within me. I’m an ocean lover, and over the years I’ve seen the Atlantic’s waters take on a hue similar to 3A’s. Plus, how could I not fall for a door with a newspaper sticking out of its mail slot, like a tongue looking for attention?

Still, there were two doors that I preferred to 3A, both of which struck me as being a step or two above “ordinary”: a swinging door made of wood planks and metal, and the front door to a house. The latter, alive in orangey-red and decorated with a display of shadows that dazzled, easily garnered the gold medal in the doors competition that day.

In honor of Hatboro’s très cool red door, I’m going to end these proceedings by presenting an equally cool song titled — what else? — The Red Door. It was recorded in 1952 by a group led by tenor saxophonist John “Zoot” Sims and was released the next year. Zoot, who co-wrote the tune with Gerry Mulligan, takes the first sax solo. Mulligan, by the way, doesn’t appear on the recording.

Sims, a hell of a musician, was a presence in the jazz world for about 35 years (he died in 1985, having made it to only age 59). I had chance after chance to see him perform in New York City clubs during the 1970s and 80s, but, stupidly, let them pass me by. I’ve regretted those decisions ever since.

Here then is Zoot and his compadres on the lovely, swinging tune that The Red Door is. Enjoy.