Walks

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 Red-Themed Tale

Yeah, Another Blogger160 Comments

A not-so-fun fact: Outdoors, I almost always melt like butter when it’s hot and humid and the Sun is relentlessly glaring. This has been true for quite a few years, though I melt quicker now than ever before. None of this is surprising, because, as I’ve often noted on this publication’s pages, I’m old as hell and not improving with age.

Which brings us to Monday morning of last week. When I stepped out at 7:45 to retrieve the newspaper that had been tossed on my driveway (my wife and I subscribe to The Philadelphia Inquirer), I was stunned by the heat, the heaviness of the air, and also by the Sun’s intense brightness. Any thoughts that I might have had about doing yard work at some point during the day immediately disappeared. Man, we are in the middle of what has been a very tough summer here in southeast Pennsylvania, USA.

However, two and a half hours later, feeling restless, I decided to get out of the house. And being one who attempts to keep his cardiovascular system in proper running order, I wanted to exercise too, something I hadn’t done in two or three days. But where and how? Well, as had been the case many times before, I turned to a local resource: the three-level, air-conditioned shopping mall (Willow Grove Park) within walking distance of my home. I didn’t walk to it, of course, as succumbing to sunstroke and/or heat exhaustion wasn’t part of my plans for the day. So, I hopped, figuratively speaking, into my car and drove there. And spent the next 40 minutes moving my legs at a pretty good clip upon the gigantic structure’s floors.

I was in a bit of a blue mood when I arrived at the mall, thanks to a couple of personal worries simmering in the back of my mind. Figuring that a themed walk through the complex might raise my spirits, I came up with the idea to seek out (and photograph) those establishments whose business-name signs were illuminated in red. Though I think of red as the most eye-catching color for advertising purposes, there were fewer such signs than I expected. I counted nine, though maybe I missed one or two. Anyway, I grabbed pictures of the nine and have placed three of the photos within this story.

Here’s the thing: The themed trek did not lessen my blue mood. Actually, it upped it a little, largely because there weren’t a heck of a lot of shoppers in the mall. The lack of human vibrancy chilled the atmosphere and made me more aware than I would have been of the mall’s vacant spaces and of the several stores that, though fully stocked, had not opened for the day. Willow Grove Park once was a thriving place of business. But thriving hasn’t fit its description in a long while, certainly not since Covid descended upon Planet Earth in 2020. Is the mall doomed? It might be. I’ve read that its ownership group has had significant financial issues. What a potentially sad situation. If the mall goes under, hundreds of people will be out of work.

Let me be the first to say that, without a shadow of a doubt, the red-sign pics in this article are dull as f*cking dishwater. Meaning, it now is incumbent upon me to add something that’s red-related and also deliciously lively. What instantly comes to mind is one of my favorite songs by the insanely talented Prince Rogers Nelson, the guy known simply as Prince, who left us in 2016 at age 57. The world would be a better place were he still among the living. And so, I present to you Little Red Corvette, a magnificent rocker about a one-night stand. The recording (which Prince made with his band, The Revolution) came out in 1982 and in no time was shaking the world mightily. It is great.

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.

I Don’t Like Winter, But I Liked This Winter Walk

Yeah, Another Blogger166 Comments

In 2023 I penned an essay, Summer Kind Of Sucks, in which I expressed my strong distaste for hot weather. My feelings about the overheated season turned around meaningfully in 2024, however, due to the concerted effort I made to change my mindset. I’m still impressed I was able to accomplish the partial transformation, which found me embracing summer with a fairly warm hug and with an unforced smile on my heavily wrinkled face. I’m hoping to do the same when the temperatures skyrocket later this year. It’s very possible I shall.

But what about the other problematic season? Namely, winter. Here, in southeast Pennsylvania, USA, we’re moving toward the end of what has been, overall, a quite frigid winter, one peppered with numerous but small snowfalls. Have I enjoyed this season at all? Barely, because the days when I loved to frolic in the cold air and snow ended decades ago. Ever since then, I’ve gritted my teeth and slogged through each winter as best I could, staying indoors as much as possible. I’m hardly alone in this. I’m pretty sure that winter enthusiasts make up only a smallish part of the adult population.

And yet, good winter moments can emerge. As they did nine days ago when I ventured outside to take a look at the state of affairs in my suburban neighborhood. Unlike the conditions during previous walks I’d taken there this year, the temperature (45° F/7° C) was totally tolerable. Bundled up as I was, I didn’t get chilled at all.

I had something specific in mind for the hike. And that something was to spend time admiring leafless trees, which tend to be extremely underappreciated. I wanted to photograph them too, planning to aim my phone’s camera carefully in order to avoid having any houses or cars or other distractions enter the scenes.

Off I went at 2:00 PM. Though the onset of budding was visible, nearly all of the deciduous trees I encountered were bare basically, and they stunned me. They looked primeval, and would have appeared even more so in that respect had their backdrop been a grey sky rather than the afternoon’s gorgeous blue one. Their trunks and branches were things of beauty, the former as resolute as prizefighters, many of the latter delicate and poised to dance. And the no-nonsense, medium-to-dark hues of the trees made me concentrate on shapes, patterns, angles and intersections much more than I would have if the trees had been in leaf. What can you say? Mother Nature, as everyone knows, is the artist supreme. No large-scale, man-made sculptures surpass the big, bare fellas I tipped my hat to during the walk.

Now, none of this is to imply I might once again become a fan of winter. Cold weather activities, other than walks, don’t interest me. At my advanced age, I’d undoubtedly break a bone or two, or worse, were I to attempt to perform any winter sports. And, seeing that over the last few years I’ve become more sensitive to the cold than before, I’m averse to spending more than 30 consecutive minutes outdoors in winter anyway, unless the thermometer is nicely above 32° F/0° C. In other words, yours truly does not relish freezing his ass off.

Nonetheless, I’ll enjoy venturing outside occasionally for brief periods in future winters, to take in the wonders of Mother Nature. Assuming I remain above ground, of course. Fingers crossed about that. As for now, I’m looking forward to spring’s arrival. Which, I’m mighty pleased to say, will be soon.

It’s My Kind Of Place (A Cape Cod Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger157 Comments

Not knowing what to expect, my spouse Sandy and I first visited Cape Cod, Massachusetts, in 1998. We enjoyed the experience enough to return one year later. That second sojourn sealed the deal, and we have vacationed there just about every year since then. We can’t get enough of the Cape’s expansive areas of natural beauty, its arts scene, its wide choice of restaurants, its delightful old villages, and the healthy vibes that permeate the air. By now we’ve spent, I estimate, more than one year’s-worth of days on this 65-mile-long island. We think of it as our second home and in some ways prefer it to our primary home in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. We’d possibly move there for keeps if healthcare were as good, or almost as good, on Cape Cod as it is in Greater Philadelphia. But it isn’t.

Last month Sandy and I were Cape-side for 11 days, in a rented house in the township of Orleans. As usual, we were far more active than we are back home in the burbs, devoting about eight hours each day to this, that and the other things. Such as: beach walks; a forest walk; visits to museums and art galleries; moviegoing; theatergoing; chowing-down in restaurants; shopping in and wandering around villages. We played mini golf too, and flew our tattered kite on a stretch of sands beside the Atlantic Ocean. I like playing with our kite, even when the f*cker refuses to stay up in the air for more than two or three minutes at a time, which was the case that day.

One section of Cape Cod always has intrigued me more than any other: the desert on the ocean side of Provincetown and neighboring Truro, the townships comprising the Cape’s farthest reaches. It’s hard to believe that this rugged territory is within walking distance of Provincetown’s famed and cool-as-can-be village. The Cape is full of surprises.

I’d hiked in the wonderland any number of times before, including last year. No way was I not going to explore it again. Not in the mood to risk getting lost in desert sections I was unfamiliar with, I decided to walk to the Atlantic Ocean, sticking to the established sand trail that leads there. (Sandy didn’t join me. She has been in dunesland only once. She found the trek to be too physically demanding, and has no plans to revisit this desert.)

The steep sand hill, near Snail Road, that one must climb to reach open sands.

The access to the trail in question is via a wooded area that abuts Snail Road, in Provincetown.  A ridiculously steep dune partly lies within this wood, and up it one must go in order to reach open sands. In the past I’d had little trouble ascending the dune. Last month, however, I began to huff and puff well before reaching its crest, my thigh and calf muscles not performing as well as I’d expected. What can you say? I was four days shy of my 77th birthday. I sure as shit am not what I used to be, and apparently wasn’t even what I’d been one year prior.

Anyway, after conquering dune number one, I set off for the ocean, about one mile away. The trail, easy to follow because of thousands of footprints in the sands, goes up and down dune upon dune before reaching level ground, after which dunes emerge again. Some of those sand hills are incredibly wide and tall. They’d fit right in on the Moon.

I’ve never been less than awestruck in the Cape desert. This time was no exception. It’s so beautiful out there, so unlike anywhere else on Cape Cod. Amazingly, a tiny number of people live in this demanding land, most of them in shacks, the rest in very modest houses. The abodes have no running water, of course. Maybe some have electric generators . . . I don’t know. In any event, it’s not your average person who chooses to reside in such an environment. I wouldn’t. I like my comforts too much.

The Atlantic Ocean is very nearby. Two dune shacks are in the distance.

Well, eventually I made it to the ocean. Almost to the ocean, that is, as I saw no path leading from my sand-cliff perch to the beach and waters below. Some years ago I’d walked onto the beach easily. Not sure why access is difficult now. I suppose that powerful storms have shifted the sands around, creating barriers. Mother Nature has the last say.

My tank dangerously low on gas, I eventually made my way back to Snail Road, stopping every few minutes to drink some water. It’s a good thing I’d had the sense to bring water with me. Otherwise, I might have collapsed somewhere in the lunar-like landscape and drifted off into eternal sleep. If that had happened, the WordPress gods would have been very disappointed, for they’d recently honored me with their Your Articles Kind Of Suck, But We’ll Let That Slide award. What’s more, I now wouldn’t be looking forward to my next vacation on Cape Cod. Yes indeed, it’s my kind of place.

Europe 2024, Part One: Paris

Yeah, Another Blogger175 Comments

My spouse Sandy and I hadn’t seen our close friends Alan and Martine in the flesh since vacationing with them in Edinburgh, Scotland in 2019. Post-COVID, the four of us had tried to arrange another reunion, preferably in a locale that would be new to us all. But for one reason or another the plans didn’t get very far.

Well, one day four months ago, Sandy and I, who reside in Pennsylvania, USA, figured the best way to uncomplicate the situation was to visit the married couple on their home turf: Paris, France. And from there, we decided, we’d extend our trip by spending time in Brussels, Belgium, a city we never had set foot in and which by all accounts was appealing.

We made the travel arrangements pretty quickly. The weeks went by. Finally, on the 19th of September we found ourselves with our pals in their beautiful home in one of the world’s greatest cities. We bunked with them for four days, enjoying our time with them immensely, and in their company explored a good bit of Gay Paree. Sandy and I give our Parisian sojourn a rating of 10 out of 10. It absolutely was that good. The subsequent four days spent in Brussels, though, were another matter.  Compared to Paris, which is a significantly magical place, Brussels seemed quite lacking. We had a nice amount of fun there, sure, but rate that leg of the trip only a modest 6.5 out of 10. Alas, you can’t have it all. Not always, anyway. In Paris, however, we did.

Now, though Paris is superb, it’s not perfect, so let’s get a few of the downsides out of the way: Like any big city, parts of town contain an unnerving volume of vehicular traffic. And annoying numbers of people maneuver on the sidewalks of many streets, such as those in the popular area where Alan and Martine reside. Not all of Paris is necessarily worth a tourist’s attention, either, though, to me, the gritty neighborhoods I briefly saw exuded a je ne sais quoi sort of charm nevertheless.

Enough about the negatives. Man, so much of Paris is straight out of a delightful dream: Elegant architecture; the comforting heights of its buildings (Paris is almost skyscraper-free); the parks, museums, bistros and baked goods that far more often than not impress; the sense of history filling the air; and the river Seine, quietly commanding respect as it flows peacefully from west to east through the middle of the city. And that’s just for starters.

I’d been to Paris four times before, three of those visits with my wife, and was fairly familiar with its major attractions, layout and vibes. When Martine (via Facetime a month before the latest get-together) asked me what I might want to do in Paris in September, I left it pretty much up to her and Alan. Except for one thing: I was curious to see what condition Notre- Dame Cathedral is in. A devastating fire, in 2019, destroyed the roof, spire and other upper portions of the church, and caused severe damage elsewhere in the structure. Since then, an intense effort has been under way to restore the medieval icon to its former glory (click here to read an excellent article about the fire and Notre-Dame’s rebirth). The cathedral’s official reopening is scheduled for December of this year, barring complications.

A view of the Louvre museum and its courtyard.
The Seine, as seen from Pont Neuf (New Bridge).

Martine and Alan granted my request. One day after our arrival in Paris, they led Sandy and me on a most-satisfying walk. A couple of minutes after leaving their abode, we strolled through the gardens of Palais-Royale. In no time after that we reached the Louvre, an astonishingly large museum, and its enormous courtyard. The courtyard was mobbed. The Louvre’s galleries probably were too. We walked a few more blocks, then crossed the Seine by way of the Pont Neuf (New Bridge), soon descending a stone staircase to the river walkway. Everything I’d seen so far struck me as picture-postcard-perfect, or damn near close to it. I am not exaggerating.

The river Seine.
Notre Dame Cathedral.

Along the left bank of the Seine we ambled, and after about 10 minutes Notre-Dame came into good view. We climbed up another stone staircase, returning to street level, to see the cathedral properly. Heavy equipment still was on the scene, indicating work remained to be done. However, Notre-Dame looked remarkably healthy all in all. I’m anything but a religious person, yet was relieved and happy that incredible efforts, not to mention nearly a billion euros, had saved one of Paris’s and the world’s most famous creations.

Cafe G.
A section of Luxembourg Garden.
The section of Luxembourg Garden reserved for kids and their caregivers.

But we weren’t done for the day. Our walk continued, taking us through the Latin Quarter (where we stopped for refreshments at the lovely Café G), the sprawling Luxembourg Garden, Place Saint-Sulpice and beyond. I was especially smitten by the area of Luxembourg Garden set aside specifically for young children and their caregivers. It was touching to see little ones at ease and having fun.

Place Saint-Sulpice.
Left to right: Alan, Sandy, Martine.

I could go on and on and on, describing the other activities that filled those four days. But I think you get the picture. It’s not by accident that Paris is one of the most-visited cities on our planet. It’s got what it takes, and more.

Good Friends, A Fine Beach Day, A Rockin’ Song

Yeah, Another Blogger148 Comments

Up until a few weeks ago, the state of Delaware, which shares a border with my home state of Pennsylvania, was foreign territory to me. Even though Delaware is not terribly far from Pennsylvania, where I live, I’d never spent any time in Delaware whatsoever, except to pass through it on visits to Washington D.C., my nation’s capital.

That changed, all to the good, when my wife Sandy and I spent three mid-August days with two good friends of ours, a married couple who own a house in Rehobeth Beach, Delaware. They fed us well, showed us around their town and neighboring areas, and had us bunk down in their guest bedroom, among other acts of kindness. Good friends make life better, right? Just about everyone needs love and companionship, after all. And if there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no such thing as having too many good friends. The more, the merrier.

Rehobeth Beach, I discovered, not only is the name of a town, it also is the name of a stretch of sands within said town’s borders. That beach, about one mile in length and backed by a boardwalk, is kissed every moment of the day by the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. On day two of our visit the skies were clear, the winds were mild, and the mid-day temperatures, though we were in the middle of summer, were far lower than normal. Perfect conditions for a beach encounter. So, to the beach the four of us headed.

We soon were sitting on comfortable beach chairs beneath a huge blue umbrella. Umbrellas abounded on Rehobeth Beach, as did the humans who employed them. A selfish f*cker, I prefer to have beaches more or less all to myself, which is often the case on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, where Sandy and I vacation in the off-season nearly every year. You know what, though? I didn’t mind the crowds that day at all. In fact, I grooved on the Rehobeth experience right from the get-go. What was there not to like? I was in fine company, the weather was kind, and a fair number of cute girls were in view. What’s more, Rehobeth brought back nice memories of forever-ago summer days when lying, and sometimes frolicking, on crowded beaches, while slathered with tanning lotion in the hopes of becoming a bronze god, were de rigueur for me.

Sad to say, I didn’t become a bronze god back then, and I sure as hell am not one now. What I am is pale and wrinkled and barely suitable to be seen in public. Nonetheless, those realities didn’t stop me from rising from my chair on two occasions to set off on 40-minute walks on Rehobeth Beach. A boy sometimes has got to stretch his legs and take in the sights.

During the hikes I saw scads of folks standing or splashing around in the ocean. I watched a few kids burying two of their peers up to their necks in sand, and gazed at a prop plane flying by lazily. It dragged a banner that promoted, of all things, Pennsylvania tourism. And at a far end of the beach, a section that people hadn’t congregated on, a flock of seagulls was impossible to miss. The birds stood almost motionless, but ready, undoubtedly, to pounce on something tasty when they deemed the prospects to be favorable.

All in all, the beach day pleased me just fine. As did the entire mini vacation. Delaware, I still barely know you, but I’m glad to have made your acquaintance.

Seeing that writing this essay has put me in an upbeat mood, I have decided to raise the good-vibes quotient by including a tune I heard the other day. It’s by a young, pretty popular British rock band, The Heavy Heavy. The song is titled Happiness, and it’s from One Of A Kind, which is the group’s brand-new album.

Man, if you’re a lover of the type of rock and roll defined by potent guitar riffs, pounding drums and ecstatic vocals, then Happiness is for you. Ironically, though, the song’s lyrics aren’t all that joyful. But I think The Heavy Heavy, by virtue of the rousing sounds to which the lyrics are put, are implying that a nice amount of happiness is within the band’s reach. Without further ado, here’s Happiness:

I’m In Love: A Philadelphia Story

Yeah, Another Blogger173 Comments

In 1974, while floundering in life, I moved from a town in New York State to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania for employment reasons. I knew almost nothing about the city when I started my new job as a caseworker with the Pennsylvania Department Of Public Welfare. Well, I lucked out. The job became the first section of a PDPW career that lasted well over 30 years. And, right from the start, I felt at ease and at home in The City Of Brotherly Love.

I was wowed by Philly’s music scene and museums, its art galleries, bookstores and record stores, its beautiful parks and plethora of houses and other structures erected in the 1700s and 1800s. I had landed in a place loaded with history and culture and, as it turned out, poised to embrace the future. For, Philadelphia has gotten better during the subsequent years. A world-class restaurant scene has developed, for instance, something almost nobody would have predicted back then. And the looks of downtown Philadelphia improved, taking on a modernistic slant when a crop of skyscrapers, as sleek as can be, began to rise in the 1980s.

To this day, Philadelphia’s assets have resonated with me quite perfectly. Which is why I’ve never tired of Philadelphia. There’s zero chance my love for this city will end before I bid farewell to Planet Earth.

In 2005, for reasons too banal to go into, my wife Sandy and I moved from Philadelphia to a nearby suburb, where we still reside. However, the relocation didn’t mean that my need to absorb Philadelphia’s vibes had lessened. On the contrary. For the next four years I continued to get my Philadelphia fix regularly, because I worked in an interesting section of the city and also because I frequently indulged, during non-work hours, in good stuff the city had to offer. And, since retiring from PDPW in 2009, I’ve journeyed to and immersed myself in Philly two to five times each month, often with Sandy. I just can’t stay away.

During the last decade or more, one of the activities I’ve most enjoyed is taking long walks, with no agenda in mind, through different Philadelphia neighborhoods. Nearly every block contains one thing or another that grabs my attention, and the rhythms of my legs in motion make me feel free. My latest expedition took place on the final Tuesday of July. That’s when I drove sleep-deprived Sandy, who was too groggy to be behind the wheel safely, to her hair salon appointment in Philadelphia’s Queen Village section. After I parked the car, Sandy entered the shop where magic occurs, and I ventured off to see what was up in Queen Village.

Over the next hour and a quarter I walked along many of Queen Village’s blocks, some of which I’d never been on before. This neighborhood, which is a bit south of Philly’s far-better known Old City section (Old City contains Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell and other famed American landmarks), has a fair number of green spaces and a few funky commercial corridors. On those corridors, one finds taverns, fabric stores, a Jewish-style deli and other eateries, a bookstore, tattoo joints, craft shops, and on and on.

Most of the blocks, though, are primarily residential. They are calm, partially shaded by trees, and just plain lovely. The majority of houses, I’d guess, date from the 1800s. There are plenty from the 1900s and aughts too, and some that remain from the 1700s during Philadelphia’s early years of development. If Sandy and I ever seriously contemplate moving back to Philadelphia, Queen Village might be a neighborhood for us to consider landing in.

Before heading back to the hair salon to retrieve Sandy, I popped into Three Graces Coffee, in the heart of Queen Village, to rehydrate and have a bite to eat, as the outside temperature (85°F/29°C) had begun to drain my aged bod of energy and had put me on the verge of sweating like a frigging pig. Three Graces saved the day. A glass of iced peppermint tea went down swimmingly. And a blueberry muffin, as good as any I’ve ever eaten, put a smile on my inner face. I was content, and already looking forward to my next round of exploration, whenever that might occur, in the city I know best.

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!

Art On Wheels, Part Thirteen: Which Of These Are Your Faves?

Yeah, Another Blogger175 Comments

When, in September 2017, I published my first Art On Wheels essay, I doubt if I’d have guessed I’d still be tracking down artistically decorated vehicles nearly seven years later. But I am. Why? Because after my second or third expedition in search of same, I knew for certain that I get big kicks from the endeavor. It’s fun. And, even though your correspondent is older than f*cking dirt, having fun remains high on his These Are Important Aspects Of Life list.

And so, on the final morning of April 2024, I found myself in the center of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, having been transported there by a commuter train I’d boarded in my suburban-Philadelphia town. The hunt was on. Based on past experience, I was confident that a large number of excellently adorned trucks, vans and other wheeled assemblages were out there. The question, as always, was how many would cross paths with me. I was hoping for at least ten.

Well, I walked and walked and walked, covering about five miles of territory. In the two and one quarter hours I was on the street, I aimed my phone’s camera at 16 wheeled objects and then snapped their portraits. I enjoyed pretty much every minute of the treasure hunt. The fact that the adventure took place in a fascinating locale sure didn’t hurt. Believe me, I know I’ve oohed and aahed about Philadelphia time and time again in Yeah, Another Blogger. But I just can’t help myself, as this city truly has got what it takes. Philly is a winning combination of the old and the new and the in-between, of the chic and the stately and the funky. Plus, the sections of Philadelphia I traversed that day were popping with people whose collective energy rocked the air. I was in my element.

Now, all of the 16 wheeled subjects looked fine to me. While caught up in the excitement of the chase, however, I wasn’t precisely sure which were the standouts. Since then, though, I’ve examined and graded the vehicles, using the photos I took, and have whittled down the 16 selections to my top five. I have no idea how the 11 omitted carriers are able to make their presence known right now, but I hear them cussing at me. “Up yours, Neil! We deserve to be included in your story!” they just shouted in unison. I understand their pain and frustration. I empathize. Nonetheless, here’s what I have to say to them: “Tough shit, guys! Deal with it!”

Although my five faves are displayed on this page, I now will limit my commentary to the two that, in my book, tie as the gold-medal winners. No offense, of course, to the trucks promoting JDog junk removal and hauling, Surfside Iced Tea + Vodka, and White Claw Hard Seltzer. They look very cool, but I feel they don’t quite reach the heights achieved by the graffiti-covered truck and by the Tea Around Town bus.

The graffitied wonder struck a major chord with me the moment I spied it in Philadelphia’s historic district. The truck was parked about one block from where Benjamin Franklin, one of the USA’s so-called Founding Fathers, lived. I can’t get enough of its composition’s controlled wildness. The design is an invitation to visit, mentally, unusual realms. Seeing that voyages not of the ordinary appeal to me, I’ve accepted the invitation several times. The resultant trips, short though they were, delighted me.

As for the Tea Around Town bus, my eyes opened wide when I spotted it on a block near Rittenhouse Square, one of Philly’s finest neighborhood parks. I’d never seen this behemoth before. My best guess is that Tea Around Town is a new business venture. A quick look at the company website showed me that Tea Around Town offers, for $80 and up, a bus tour of downtown Philly, during which teas and pastries are served. And what a bus it is, blessed with exterior artwork as delicate and sweet as a butterfly. I’m at heart a softie. Not surprisingly, then, the Tea Around Town vehicle made me go a bit weak in the knees. I was smitten. Its style of painting, an excellent example of classic beauty, never will go out of style.

That does it for today, folks. I’d be interested to learn your thoughts about the art on view in this story. Goodbye till next time!