Family

A Story And A Song For My Father

Yeah, Another Blogger178 Comments

As many of us know, Sly Stone left this mortal coil early this month, and two days later Brian Wilson joined him in the Great Rock Band In The Sky. Two superb musical minds, and revered figures, gone, just like that. At least they made it into their 80s. Their passings would have been harder to take had they left us while in their primes.

As the masterminds, respectively, of Sly And The Family Stone and The Beach Boys, Sly and Brian helped turn the 1960s into a music wonderland. During that decade, music was vibrantly alive with love and hope and power and innovation. No decade before or since, to my way of thinking, was or has been as sonically diverse and dynamic. I came of age during the 1960s, becoming, among other things, a music junkie, a description that still fits me, though not to the extent it did back then. Those were the days.

I could go on and on about Sly Stone and Brian Wilson, but I don’t mean to focus on them. The idea to meld them into this story, though, came to me on Sunday, June 19, which was Father’s Day in my nation, the USA. They, and their music, were on my mind, as had been the case for a number of days. My father, of course, was on my mind too. Very much so. Many memories about him played in my head, including music-related ones. I’m sure the latter would not have surfaced had I not been thinking about Sly and Brian.

My dad, Hyman Scheinin, lived to the ripe old age of 96, breathing his last on September 1, 2005. He spent the final six and a half years of his life with me and my wife Sandy, and became a dialysis patient about one year after moving in with us. Dialysis is a hard road for anybody to travel, let alone someone in their 90s. But my father bore the burden pretty well, emotionally and physically. Over time, however, his body began to wear out from the strain of three-times-per-week dialysis sessions, and from infections. He died in a hospital bed, with my wife, my brother Richard and myself beside him. It was a sad day, one I thought about a lot on Father’s Day.

Sandy and I did our best to care for my father, and to try and keep his spirits up. Everyone deserves to experience positive things in life, it goes without saying, so we made it a point to get him out of the house for more than his dialysis sessions and his numerous other medical appointments. He went with us to restaurants and art shows, to name two activities. And I would take him on casual drives, just to see what we would see. He almost always had a good time.

And then there were the Friday night jazz concerts at the Philadelphia Museum Of Art, a series populated by established and up-and-coming musicians from the States and elsewhere. The series ran for about 15 years and ended maybe 10 years ago. Being a jazz head, I miss it. My father attended 19 of those shows with us (Sandy and I also went to shows at the museum without him), and felt completely in his element there, probably to his surprise and certainly to ours. We’d arrive early, so as to be able to grab one of the cocktail tables close to the stage area. Out on the town and in a magnificent setting (the museum’s Great Hall), my father was happy as a clam from the moment he sat down.

Growing up, I didn’t think of my father as a music appreciator. He didn’t listen to songs on the radio, didn’t play albums on the family phonograph. And I had little reason to change my viewpoint until those many decades later. I think, now, that the thrill of just being at the museum concerts opened up my father’s ears, made him hungry to truly experience music. And truly experience it he did. His involvement reached a peak in January 2003 at a performance by the quartet led by the then-new-on-the-scene alto saxophonist Miguel Zenón. Zenón is a wonderful musician, adept at various approaches to jazz. He can play softly and melodically, for instance. And, while soloing, he can be ferocious.

In the middle of the show, following a lengthy and intense Zenón solo, the damndest thing happened. Sandy and I couldn’t believe our eyes when my father leaped from his chair, clapping madly in appreciation of Zenón’s mighty efforts. Normally a mild-mannered sort, he was revealing just how deeply into music he could dive. I was duly impressed. No one at the show was enjoying themselves more than the nonagenarian a few feet away from me and Sandy.

It’s fitting for me to conclude this musical story with the title song from Miguel Zenón’s first album, Looking Forward, because the album came out a mere smattering of months before his appearance at the art museum. Undoubtedly, then, he played tunes from it at the concert. Perhaps this song is the one that made my father applaud like there was no tomorrow. Whether it is or not, I tip my hat to Zenón for having brought joy to my father, and to Sly Stone and Brian Wilson for nudging me to write the words on this page.

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!

A Peachy Story

Yeah, Another Blogger173 Comments

For most of my life I’ve enjoyed summer. I’ve spent many hours outdoors in the hot season, frolicking under the Sun or soaking up its potent rays while lying on a blanket or chaise lounge.

Alas, somewhere along the line, perhaps about 10 years ago, my good feelings about summer took a sharp turn southward. Since then, I’ve mostly stayed indoors in summer when the Sun is high in the sky, my body no longer happy to be exposed to temperatures above 85°F (29°C) and to an unrelentingly bright ball of fire. Now deep into my senior-citizenhood, I melt like ice cream under those conditions. Which doesn’t fit the definition of having fun in the summertime.

A week and a half or so ago, though, a northward shift occurred. I have no idea how long this positive outlook on summer will remain in place. In any event, it’s fascinating to me that the change occurred at all.

My favorite fruit, peaches, prompted my new attitude. There I was in early June at a local supermarket, buying this and that, when I remembered that peaches had come into season in parts of the USA and would be for sale in the store. Moments later I picked out a couple of peaches. They’d been shipped from the state of Georgia, one of the peach hubs of America, to Pennsylvania, where I reside and was grocery shopping.

One of those peaches took two days to ripen, the other took three. The waits were worth it. The peaches blew my mind when they entered my mouth, so luscious were they. Their sweetness was exemplary, their texture a dream. In love with the fruit, I realized that peaches galore would be available for the next two or three months. In other words, throughout the summer. And, at that moment, I found myself regarding summer, which officially began in my hemisphere on the 20th of June, in a good light. “You know,” I said to myself, “summer offers more than the opportunities to sweat like a f*cking pig and to come close to passing out from the heat. Neil, you’ve forgotten that summer has its upsides too.”

Yes, I’m in a much better frame of mind about summer than I’ve been in a long time, despite the crazy heat that has Pennsylvania and much of the rest of the world in its grip. And I have more than peaches to thank for that, because what I’m expecting to be enjoyable getaways are on the horizon. Sandy and I will be at a family reunion this summer for a few days. The locale? A village beside a beautiful lake in rural upstate New York. And we’ll also spend time with friends at their beach house in Delaware.

Now, I’m going to stay in the shade, or indoors, a good bit at those gatherings. I’m not about to forget what high heat and glaring Sun can do to me. However, I fully intend to have fun while there. And if that happens, I figure there’s a chance I’ll also approach the remainder of summer 2024, and subsequent summers, lightheartedly, like I used to do.

I can think of no better way to end this essay than to include a song from Eat A Peach, the album released in 1972 by one of the greatest rock groups of all time, The Allman Brothers Band. Fittingly, they were based in Georgia. And, I’d guess, they consumed more than their fair share of peaches. I’ll leave you with Stand Back, one of the Allman songs you don’t hear all too often. Power-packed and gritty, it almost makes me want to go outside and dance madly while engulfed by high temps and intense sunlight. I said almost.

It’s A Wonderful Life . . . Or Is It?

Yeah, Another Blogger153 Comments

My better half and I jointly watch an hour or more of television fare five or six evenings each week. Mostly we dial up series, with the occasional movie thrown into the mix. During the second half of December, however, we went movie-crazy, by our standards, what with five flicks passing before our eyes. In chronological order, they were: A Thousand And One; A Million Miles Away; Maestro; Rustin; It’s A Wonderful Life. All came out last year, excepting It’s A Wonderful Life, which, since its release in 1946, has ascended to an exalted status reached by few films. I’m now going to devote a few words to it and to A Thousand And One, as they, unlike the others on the list, seem to be in no hurry to fade from my mind. They made a strong impression on me and got me thinking.

I’d seen It’s A Wonderful Life once or twice before, but not in ages. Not blessed with the world’s finest memory, I might as well have been viewing it for the first time last month, so few of the scenes did I recall. Well, all I can say is, “Wow!” IAWL deserves its immense popularity and the high esteem millions of folks hold it in. This is a great movie, one that pulls at your heartstrings and does its darnedest to make you believe in the basic goodness of humankind. Hats off to that.

Frank Capra, also of Mr. Smith Goes To Washington and It Happened One Night fame, directed It’s A Wonderful Life. For those of you who haven’t seen the film, be aware that spoilers lie ahead. I’m confident they won’t lessen your enjoyment should you choose to view it.

IAWL tells the tale of George Bailey (played flawlessly by James Stewart), a generous, caring individual who discovers that his company, through no fault of his own, suddenly is on the verge of bankruptcy. Distraught, and finding no way to right the sinking ship, he decides to put an end to his earthly existence. The money his wife Mary (the superb Donna Reed) then would collect from his life insurance policy would keep her and their children sheltered and fed for a long while.

Moments before George is about to carry out his plan, a heavenly force — Clarence, a low-level guardian angel trying to earn his wings — intervenes. Clarence’s efforts, and those of Mary, save the day. George learns that his importance to his family and community is immeasurable, and that his many friends truly love him. Anyone whose heart is not encased in granite will find themselves tearing up at It’s A Wonderful Life’s happy ending, an ending that implies that never again will George allow despair to conquer him. George will be okay.

But will Terry, a main character in A Thousand And One, be okay? That’s a worrisome unknown in the powerhouse drama written and directed by A.V. Rockwell.

We first meet Terry (played by three actors, one for each time period the movie covers) in the mid-1990s. He’s six years old at that time, a foster-care child lonely for his absent mother Inez. Portrayed with swagger by Teyana Taylor, Inez is armed with eyes that don’t miss a thing.  She is barely into her twenties and always has lived on society’s edges. Inez re-enters Terry’s life after being released from prison, soon taking him, illegally, from his foster parents. For the next eleven years she tries as best she can to raise him. Ultimately, however, circumstances catch up with them big-time.

A Thousand And One pulls no punches. Set mostly in New York City’s Harlem section, it often is as gritty as a sandstorm. I’ve given away much of the ending of It’s A Wonderful Life. I won’t do the same with A Thousand And One, whose concluding scenes I didn’t see coming. Those scenes left me concerned, not for street-savvy Inez’s prospects, but for those of shy and gentle Terry. For the most part, I’ve led a stable and comfortable life. A Thousand And One has me counting my lucky stars.

What a world we live in. So much poverty and inequality. So much violence and emotional trauma. So much intolerance, indifference and deception. That’s the way things always have been. And, I believe, always will be. There also is beauty in our world, of course. And love and joy and kindness. It can’t be denied, though, that life is a very rocky road for multitudes of people. Too many Terrys, and other unfortunates, are out there. If only it were otherwise.

A Shorts Story

Yeah, Another Blogger154 Comments

“What the f*ck is going on?” I asked myself two Thursday afternoons ago while at my volunteer job in a medical office building near my home. (I man the information desk there for four hours each week, answering questions and helping people in a variety of other ways.)

The day was humming along. I was busy. But something I’d never seen before in the dozen years I’ve held the gig was becoming more and more apparent as the afternoon progressed. Namely, scads of male visitors, ranging from teenagers to senior citizens, were wearing shorts. Amazingly, in fact, it seemed that more geezers — my peers — were in shorts than the younger members of my gender.

The volume of shorts-clad guys in the building didn’t decrease at any point during my shift. I even saw two examples of those gentlemen, each a strong candidate for the Hairiest Legs In Town trophy, heading for an exit together. What the f*ck, indeed! Was it National Men-In-Shorts Day? Sure, the weather outside was mild. But on nice days about one in ten guys visiting the building normally sport shorts. On the Thursday in question the percentage was at least three times higher. Some pieces of photographic evidence of what I observed are included in this essay.

Now, there’s little doubt that just about nobody but me would have paid much, if any, attention to the shorts situation that day. I mean, who gives a shit about guys in shorts, right? Well, I do, but only when it comes to males middle-aged and above. That’s because I, once very pro-shorts, eliminated shorts from my wardrobe circa 1990. In my mid-40s at the time, I was of the opinion that shorts had become age-inappropriate for me.

Furthermore, I decided that guys in my age demographic or older would do well to follow suit. Needless to say, that didn’t happen and still hasn’t. I’ll never be an influencer.

It doesn’t take a psychiatrist or psychotherapist to understand that what I did and thought regarding shorts revealed and continues to reveal plenty about my insecurities and confidence level. Let’s face it, I feel slightly threatened by and jealous of mature men who appear in public in shorts. Clearly, though, I should admire them instead, as many of them, undoubtedly, are more comfortable in their skins than I am in mine.

So, I’ve got work to do. Mainly, I’ll try to stop asking myself “what the f*ck?” when shorts-wearing guys who are far removed from their 20s enter my field of vision. And it wouldn’t hurt if I bought and began wearing shorts again. Screw age–inappropriate!

Up until six months ago I wouldn’t have needed to buy any shorts, though, as two pairs of same had been residing undisturbed within my clothes closet for eons. One was a multi-colored gem, a work of pop art. Back in the 1980s I wore it proudly.

The second pair, taupe in color, lacked charisma but was cool nonetheless. For reasons I can’t recall, not only did I never wear it, I didn’t even remove the price tag. I suppose I bought this pair in the 1990s, thinking I might one day get back into a shorts frame of mind.

Anyway, six months ago a wonderful event took place: a multi-day, my-side-of-the-family reunion. People came from very near and from very far, everyone, including me and my wife Sandy, spending the majority of time in Philadelphia. For one day, though, the gang assembled at Sandy’s and my house in the Philadelphia burbs, where lots of fun was had by all.

I don’t remember why, but in the middle of that day the subject of clothes, maybe of shorts specifically, came up between me and one of my nephews, who was at the reunion with his girlfriend. Bingo! It instantly dawned on me that I possessed clothes I no longer wore and no longer wanted. I raced upstairs and removed both pairs of shorts from their burial site and bestowed them upon two folks much younger and better looking than I. My nephew and his girlfriend wasted no time in putting them on. The photo I snapped of them in their new duds is a favorite of mine. Have shorts ever looked finer on anyone? I think not!

A Cheer For Beer

Yeah, Another Blogger170 Comments

In June 2015, two months into my blogging career, I composed a paean to beer, and I’ve returned to the subject several times since then. I have my friend Cindy to thank for setting the present story in motion. Here’s why: I mentioned to her recently that, for quite a while, I’d been taking photos at home of beers, alongside their frequently snazzy cans and bottles. And that I’d been sending some of the photos (via email with a subject line reading Tonight’s beer) to a rotating selection of relatives and friends. Those folks included Cindy’s husband Gene. Cindy didn’t say that she thought this was a pretty ridiculous thing to do, as well it might be. Nope, her immediate response was, “You should write a story about that.”

Well, I mulled over her idea for a number of days, finally deciding to wax rhapsodic about beer once again. And so, I headed to my smart phone’s photo archives. There I discovered that my first documentation of a beer purchase occurred in November 2020, and that approximately 80 more beers/cans/bottles subsequently have posed for me. None of the pictures are wonderful examples of the art of photography, that’s for damn sure, nearly all of them having been snapped clumsily in my kitchen or dining room. But what the hell. They are what they are.

Despite their pedestrianism, one thing for certain is that they make me want to down a cold brew right now. I won’t, however, because it’s mid-afternoon as I type these opening paragraphs, and I drink (almost) only at night. And only five beers per week, to boot. Shit, you better believe that I’d like to be able to drink a whole lot more than that, but I’m a geezer with a sensitive system. I know my limits. Maybe that’s why I truly savor just about every quaff that goes down my aged hatch.

In the USA, where I live, the beer world started to turn into a wonderland in the early 1990s. That’s when small breweries began popping up like mad all over the States, producing styles of beer commonly known to some parts of the world, but unfamiliar to the vast majority of American beer drinkers (including me), who downed only Budweiser, Miller and other mild lagers. Around that time, also, beers from other countries began finding their way into my nation more plentifully than before. Lo and behold, I gradually learned about stouts, porters, pale ales, wheat beers and Oktoberfests, to name a few, plus lagers that put Bud and Miller to shame. With hundreds upon hundreds of American breweries each producing their takes on assorted beer varieties and sometimes developing new styles, and with varied beers arriving from overseas, a beer renaissance was under way on my side of the pond.

Over time I’ve become a beer geek. A devotee of most types of beer, I’m amazed by the deliciousness almost always awaiting me at taverns, restaurants and beer stores. And I enjoy few things better than seeking out beers that I’ve never had before, in bottles and cans and on tap. I think of this ongoing quest as a treasure hunt. It thrills and delights me. I’m not kidding when I say that the beer revolution, still going very strong in the USA, has been one of my favorite developments of the last several decades. It has made my life better.

And I can’t seem to restrain my excitement. Thus, since starting the photography project innocently over two years ago, I grab a picture of nearly every store-bought beer that’s new to me when I open its can or bottle (for instance, Iron Hill Brewery’s version of Oktoberfest, which I discovered recently). I also immortalize beers that have held, and continue to hold, a special place in my heart and mouth. Anchor Steam Beer, proudly brewed in San Francisco since 1896, though I didn’t find out about it till almost 100 years later, is a prime example of that.

What’s more, I feel compelled to share my enthusiasm. The dozens and dozens of my beer pix that have landed in a bunch of individuals’ inboxes attest to that. Do any of these people want my pictures? Do they think I’m batty to send them? Who knows? Who cares? The bottom line is that delicious beers deserve to be acknowledged and saluted. To which I add . . . olé!

My Pal Alfie

Yeah, Another Blogger168 Comments

Not a bad photo, huh? The dog, who goes by the name of Alfie and who is in possession of enormous eyes that peer deeply into yours, seeking your essence, is cute as can be. And he was even cuter a couple of weeks before this picture was taken. By which I mean that Alfie, a Wheaten Terrier, was the definition of luxuriously shaggy at that time (I’ve seen photographic proof of this). But when his owners — my brother Richie and my sister-in-law Sara — brought him to a groomer for what they thought would be a trim, the groomer, totally incompetent and/or smashed out of his or her mind, went hog wild and sheared off tons of hair. Alfie was left looking as sleek as a sausage. I’d have sued. Or maybe not . . . after all, the new version of Alfie is still damn cute.

I made Alfie’s acquaintance in early June when my wife Sandy and I visited the aforementioned couple and other family members in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The photo dates from that visit. Alfie was nine months old. At one time a human was prominently displayed in the photo too. Me. But I cropped the picture drastically because I look like absolute shit in it, disheveled and sporting neck folds as thick as ham steaks. I don’t know, maybe I look like absolute shit pretty much all the time. At my advanced age it’s perfectly possible. But I like to dream that such isn’t the case.

The most amazing and unexpected thing for me about the New Mexico trip was that Alfie and I took to each other as though we were predestined to become close pals. This was a wonderful experience. It felt totally natural, making me realize that I’ve missed the boat, pet-wise, never having had a dog or cat as a kid or an adult.

Now, cats ain’t my favorite cup of tea anyway, so I have no regrets about their continual absence from my life. They’re too aloof, though I know there are exceptions. Dogs, however, I feel fine about. I’ve been with a fair number of them, including three that Richie and Sara owned prior to Alfie. But only one canine — a mutt named Maggie who lived with friends of mine during the 1970s — ever showed more than the slightest interest in me. Maggie, exhibiting dubious taste, dug me a lot. The bond between me and her was the strongest I’ve ever had with a non-member of my species. Until Alfie entered the picture, that is.

My relationship with Alfie developed, no doubt, due to my lack of hesitancy in patting his head and rubbing his stomach. Alfie, it was clear to me, couldn’t get enough of those forms of contact. As a result, before I knew it he was paying meaningful attention to me, often laying his head on my legs or resting one of his paws gently on my arm. And gazing with wonder and interest into my eyes. Which resulted in my petting and rubbing him even more than I had, cementing the feelings that flowed between us. Strong feelings, you understand. Alfie, you’re my kind of dog. That is to say, you like me!

As for Sandy, well, she and Alfie had a mutual admiration society going too. But there’s no denying that Alfie seemed fonder of me than he did of her. Sorry, Sandy, but facts are facts!

Will Sandy and I ever get a dog? Probably not. Owning a dog is a big responsibility, one that requires a lot of time. I’m not particularly up for that. I haven’t discussed the topic with Sandy, but I’m pretty certain that she isn’t up for it either. You never know, though. The love and companionship that a dog provides aren’t to be underestimated, that’s for sure.

Sandy and I were around Alfie for eight days. When will we see him again? There’s a real chance that we’ll visit Richie and Sara next year. So, maybe it won’t be terribly long before my new friend and I commune once more. Usually it’s not easy making friends, especially when you’re frigging old, like me. If only all friendships developed as quickly as this one did.

A Family Gathering And A Desert Walk (My 300th Story)

Yeah, Another Blogger172 Comments

It’s good to be around your relatives, is it not? Yeah, it is, but only if you like them! Well, my wife Sandy and I are crazy about my brother Richie and his wife Sara, and their oldest son Ben and his wife Amanda, and the latter couple’s two young boys. Ergo, we had one hell of a fine time recently when we gathered with this family grouping in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which is where Richie and Sara reside.

Now, being Pennsylvania denizens, Sandy and I don’t get to see the folks listed above all that often, as they live so damn far away from us. Especially Ben and company, who call Hawaii home. So, when earlier this year the Hawaiian crew decided they would visit Richie and Sara in a few months, well, Sandy and I wasted no time in making our arrangements to join the upcoming celebration. We arrived in Santa Fe, via American Airlines, on the 31st of May.

We spent three days with the entire clan and, after Ben and company decamped for Hawaii, four more with Richie and Sara. The time flew by at lightning speed, as time is wont to do. Sandy and I did all kinds of fun things with the family. You know, shooting the shit, eating swell meals, playing with the kids, going here and there and there and here, etc., etc. It almost didn’t matter what was going on, though, since everybody was just plain glad to be together.

One activity in particular rang my bell exceedingly well. It resulted from Sara asking me, soon after Ben and his crew began their journey home, if there was anything special that I wanted to do in New Mexico. “Nah, not really,” I thought to myself. But all of a sudden I realized that there was: Below the surface I’d been itching for a desert experience, one that might rival the trek through Plaza Blanca that knocked my socks off when Sandy and I visited Richie and Sara in New Mexico four years ago (click here to read about it).

Right to left: Richie, Sandy, Sara, Alfie. (This photo and the other photos are from the Nambé Badlands.)

When I told Sara that the desert was calling me, almost at once she said that the Nambé Badlands was the place to go to. Man, turns out she was spot-on correct. A day later, there the four of us were (plus Richie and Sara’s trusty dog Alfie), strolling around this stunning wilderness together. Nambé thrilled our eyes and graciously allowed our feet to take us where they might.

The Nambé Badlands is a dizzying configuration, straight out of a surrealist’s mind, of gullies, canyons, hills, level grounds, and sculptural rock formations. It encompasses a huge chunk of territory about 20 miles north of Santa Fe. Sandstone and limestone are among Nambé’s main inorganic ingredients, and a highly surprising number of juniper trees, most of them roughly ten feet in height, pepper the landscape. We arrived at 9:15 in the morning, when the Sun was already more intense than we’d have liked it to be, but less so than it was when we bid adieu to the desert an hour and a half later. The skies were painted a sweet blue, and few clouds were on display. As totally expected, we spotted not a single drop of water on the premises.

For the most part, our group hiked on dusty trails, upon which we crossed paths with a dozen or so other humans, several of whom were zipping along on their sturdy bikes. The trails were easily followed. But I couldn’t resist going off-trail a couple of times, wandering down crumbly hills to peer more closely at canyon sides and dry gully beds. I toyed with the idea of making my way down to a bed or two, but in the end chickened out, though, to tell you the truth I think I could have done it. On the other hand, climbing back up without incident probably would have been a near impossibility for me, an old f*ck whose body contains more rings than 99.99% of the trees on Planet Earth.

Yeah, hell will freeze over before I’ll be mistaken for Indiana Jones. But so what? I lost myself for a while in the Nambé Badlands, my tensions and jumbled thoughts slipping away like yesterday’s news as I grooved on the wonderland surrounding me.

With any luck, some day I’ll be back.

(Girls and boys, this is my 300th story. I’m more than stunned that I’ve typed as many words as I have since launching this publication in April 2015. If I decide to throw a party to celebrate my unlikely feat, I’ll invite you all!. Here’s another important announcement: Anyone who enjoys mysteries that have a social conscience would do well to check out Murder At The Crossroads: A Blues Mystery, which was co-written by my friend Debra Schiff. It came out this year. A lot of info about the book is available by clicking here.)

Thanksgiving, TV-Watching And I

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

It’s mid-morning on the 26th of November, 2020, the Thanksgiving holiday in the USA. Moments ago I placed my fingers upon my computer’s keyboard to begin composing this story. But I ain’t going to complete and publish it on the big day itself. No way! Shit, I’m too old and slow-working for that. But, better late than never, right? Well, actually, who the hell knows?

Anyway, getting back to Thanksgiving: I’m of the non-religious and non-believer varieties, which, among other things, results in many holidays being on my not-to-be-celebrated list. Thanksgiving, though, is a different story. As is true for most Americans, it is one of my favorite days of the year. I’ve always gathered with one medium-to-large-sized combination or another of relatives and friends on Thanksgiving, and by the time I was seven or eight or so, the holiday had burrowed deep into my heart. The burrowing hasn’t ebbed, because every year I’ve experienced Thanksgiving as a day of good cheer and good companionship. It means a whole lot to me.

Today, though, the combination of people with whom I’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving will be, for the first time ever, composed of only two individuals: yours truly and my wife Sandy. Until recently, however, our plans were different. Several relatives were going to join us at our house to shoot the breeze and chow down on roast turkey with all the trimmings, pumpkin pie and a bunch of other dishes. But the skyrocketing numbers of coronavirus-related hospitalizations and deaths in the USA caused Sandy and me to reevaluate the situation. The conclusion that we came to was that it was better for all concerned to be safe rather than sorry. As a result, we cancelled the party. We will have a traditional Thanksgiving meal at home ourselves, but it won’t be nearly the same. We’ll wish that our relatives were with us.

Yeah, as is all too painfully known, coronavirus has f*cked things up real good all over the world. In my case, which is totally trivial in the greater scheme of things, many of the enjoyable activities that used to fill up much of my days are, due to the virus, no longer available. Volunteer jobs, movie-going and concert-going, for instance. And now that it’s too cold in my part of the globe to eat outdoors at restaurants (on warm days, Sandy and I ate outdoors many times this year), restaurant-dining is off the table too. That’s because we won’t eat inside restaurants, where the chances of coming in contact with the virus are far greater than they are in the open air. Bummer, man. F*cking bummer.

But, as I’ve noted on these pages before, one activity has come to my rescue big-time. Namely, focused television-watching. For years my television consumption largely had been a smattering of this and that during late-night channel-flipping sessions. However, in the pandemic era, for an hour and a half or thereabouts most evenings, I have tuned in to series and movies on commercial-free outlets. And that fare has entertained the hell out of me, keeping me in halfway-decent spirits as I navigate life’s currently-murky waters.

I’ll say some words about two of the series that I watched in their entireties in November: The Queen’s Gambit and Patrick Melrose (they are on Netflix and Showtime, respectively, and were released, respectively, in 2020 and 2018). Each consists of a modest number of episodes, so you won’t have to devote half your life to watching them. More important, these productions rightly are series. By which I mean that if each had been condensed into movies, much would have been lost in character development and story complexity.

Who’d have thought that the game of chess would make for compelling viewing? Not I. The Queen’s Gambit certainly proves otherwise. Here we have the saga of an orphaned Kentucky girl, Beth Harmon, who at age 15 is adopted by a couple whose male half is indifferent to her, but whose female member gives her care, love and understanding, sometimes idiosyncratically. Beth, who suffers from substance abuse problems and personality development issues aplenty, has been, from an early age, heavily consumed by chess. Why? Because she possesses an almost supernatural ability to visualize and analyze chess strategies. Her gift eventually places her head-to-head and mind-to-mind with some of the best chess players in the world.

As for Patrick Melrose, I have to say that it was a hard watch for me, as it’s the sad tale of a British boy raised by terrible parents, and of the angry and confused adult that the boy becomes. Parental neglect and cruelty are the cornerstones of Patrick Melrose’s childhood, traumatic truths that don’t dissipate very much in intensity as he ages. Benedict Cumberbatch is the main star (he plays the adult Patrick). As is true in all the productions that I’ve seen him in, he does a superior job. That chap can act!

I’m going to close the proceedings by asking which activities have been boons to you during the pandemic era. And if television-viewing has been one of them, I’d be interested to know the programs and movies that have captured your attention. Oh, and if you’re an American, how was your Thanksgiving?

Till next time!

How Glad Was I When The Kinks, The Byrds And Willie Nelson Visited Me Last Month? Very!

Yeah, Another Blogger123 Comments

As everyone knows, billions of words are written each day about coronavirus, the f*cking demon that has done an excellent job of turning our world to shit. Among those words are repeated recommendations to be in touch with friends and relatives more often than usual. Most of those contacts, by necessity of course, must be via phone and internet rather than in person. We can thank the demon for that.

Good advice, right? Damn straight. After all, we have an innate need for human contact. And if ever there was a time for maintaining, strengthening and even expanding ties, this is it. Expanding? Sure. Now’s your golden opportunity, for instance, to pick up the phone and call that first cousin that you haven’t spoken to in eons because you’ve never particularly gotten along with him and because he absolutely pissed you off big-time by not inviting you to his son’s wedding 25 years ago.

“Guess who this is?” you should say before he has a chance to get a word out of his mouth. “It’s your favorite cuz, that’s who. The pandemic situation has convinced me that I should reach out to you, you loser. You better believe that I haven’t forgotten how you snubbed me all those years ago. Adios, baby. Nice talking to you!”

Okay, that attempt at communication possibly could have been handled more agreeably. But don’t sweat it! There are far more important things to worry about these days.

To continue: So far during the pandemic I’ve done nicely in the keeping-in-touch part of life, though expanding my ties has yet to become a part of the picture. I speak regularly with a good number of my friends and relatives, more regularly than I did in the pre-coronavirus era, and have enjoyed all of those conversations. But what I enjoyed even more were the occasions when old friends of the sonic variety unexpectedly visited me. For it was in late April, over a two-day period, that I heard on the radio three songs that I truly love but had forgotten all about.

Each recording brought a couple of tears to my eyes and made my grizzled heart go all soft and mushy. I sang along with them. I vowed never to let them disappear again, a pledge I plan to keep. No doubt, I’m a happier, more contented individual now that, after long absences, Sweet Lady Genevieve (by The Kinks), Have You Seen Her Face (by The Byrds), and Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain (by Willie Nelson) have reentered my life. And that, by the way, is the order in which I heard them last month.

The songs came out on albums in 1973, 1967 and 1975, respectively. The album titles, again respectively, are Preservation Act I, Younger Than Yesterday, and Red Headed Stranger. I own copies of those albums, for crying out loud. Don’t ask why I hadn’t given any of the platters a spin in a zillion years. Mea culpa.

Each song possesses a personality distinct from the other two, but they have something in common with 90% of all songs ever written. That is, in one way or another they address the prime human emotion. Love. Sweet Lady Genevieve, composed and sung by The Kinks leader, Ray Davies, is a plea for forgiveness and a promise to become faithful and true. Have You Seen Her Face presents a not overly clear-thinking guy who suspects he’d be wise to pursue a certain beguiling lady whom, perhaps, he is destined to bond with. As for Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain, here we have the tale of someone who fully realizes that the love affair of his life has reached its end, and that he never will get over the breakup.

Yeah, to me each of the recordings is something special. Sweet Lady Genevieve’s melody, with its leaps and twists, is irresistible. And the lyrics? Well, the eloquence of the opening line — Once under a scarlet sky, I told you never-ending lies — makes it clear that you’re about to hear a cleverly-spun story. There are many, including me, who consider Ray Davies to be a songwriting giant.

Chris Hillman, who played electric bass in The Byrds, wrote both the music and lyrics for Have You Seen Her Face. Yes, the lyrics are messy, but little matter, considering how freely, almost giddily, the melody unfolds, and how the trippy guitar solos will lift you right out of your body.

And what about Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain? For one thing, Willie Nelson, an ace songwriter, didn’t compose the work. It was written in 1945 by the late Fred Rose, a musician, songwriter and music industry executive. The lyrics are direct and profound, the music likewise. Willie Nelson recognized all of this. His vocals, accompanied by spare instrumentation, will break your heart.

Little more do I need to add, except to mention that The Kinks and The Byrds, iconic rock bands, no longer are functioning units. Haven’t been for years. Many of their once-members, though, remain active musicians. As does Willie Nelson, a mere lad of 87.

And so, without further ado, here are the songs that resonated with me so well recently. Oh, just one more thing: I’d be happy to hear your comments about this article.