Photography

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.

I Have My Favorites, How About You? (Art On Wheels, Part Fourteen)

Yeah, Another Blogger156 Comments

On the final Monday morning of this year’s penultimate month, I boarded a train in my sleepy suburban town. One hour later it deposited me in Jefferson Station, smack in the heart of The City Of Brotherly Love: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. After exiting the station, I walked one block north on 10th Street, entering Chinatown, one of my favorite Philadelphia neighborhoods. My mission — to wander around the city, photographing well-adorned vehicles that cross my path — seemed to be off to an auspicious start, for I soon spotted a magnificently decorated truck, one belonging to the Rosenberger’s dairy company. Whipping out my phone, I took the truck’s picture, figuring there was a good chance it would be the best-looking vehicle I’d see all day.

Well, as it turned out, things slowed down considerably after that. I saw only eight more commendable wheeled objects during the two and a half hours I spent pounding the streets, at least five or six fewer conveyances than I was expecting. What’s more, a look into my blog’s archives two days later showed me that Rosenberger’s, and another top-tier truck I encountered that Monday, had made previous appearances in Art On Wheels installments. My policy is to exclude previously presented vehicles, so those two are outta here. Ouch!  . . . their loss pains me. One day I may need to rethink said policy. In any event, I’ve given some thought to the seven remaining transports, and have chosen the five I favor most. Their photos reside on this page.

Which of the five do you like best? My top picks are Freda Deli Meats (see above) and Office Basics (see below). Freda’s bold colors are balanced carefully. They reach out and grab you, but don’t slap you too hard upside your head or upside any other part of your body. Hell, you’d have grounds for a lawsuit otherwise. And I’m impressed by the asymmetry of the Freda canvas, its righthand portion extending a couple of feet below the rest of the design. That’s a sophisticated touch you don’t see too often on vehicle art.

As for Office Basics, I find myself almost mesmerized by its stoic presence. Its artwork proves that perfectly positioned concise shapes, and a limited palette, are all that’s needed sometimes. I have a hard time choosing between Office Basics and Freda. However, if some motherf*cker were holding a gun to my head and ordering me to make a decision, or else, Office Basics it would be. Sorry, Freda, that’s life.

I’ll say a bit more before being on my way, starting with this: My visit to Philadelphia took me far and wide. By no means was I only in Chinatown. According to my phone’s Health app, I totaled six miles of walking. And I did so with just a couple of brief pauses, so focused was I on trying to locate art that sits above wheels. I tell you, I am extremely thankful that I’m still able to carry on like this, seeing that I’m distressingly close to being old as dirt. My Art On Wheels ventures, and other long walks I indulge in, help to keep my spirits up and fulfill my need for adventure.

Finally, I’ll add that I’m amazed by the unpredictable nature of the Art On Wheels expeditions. I never know what I’ll find around the next corner or on the block straight ahead of me. These jaunts are treasure hunts. They are fun games, and a healthy way in which to spend some hours. I now have done my Art On Wheels thing 14 times, and haven’t begun to tire of it in the least.

Watery Pix Of The Cape

Yeah, Another Blogger161 Comments

During the 11 full days my wife Sandy and I were on Cape Cod, Massachusetts, last month, my right index finger was busier than it normally is. For it is the digit I usually employ to tap the big button on my phone’s camera when I notice a scene I want to immortalize. I snapped 137 photos during that period, which averages out to about 12 per day. That’s a substantial amount of picture-taking, an activity I enjoy. And I thank the stars above for making digital photography, via camera phones, so very easy and so very convenient. If it weren’t, I probably would say f*ck this, and then look for another hobby. Yours truly, you see, likes things to be as simple and problem-free as possible. But enough about that proclivity. Let’s now spend a few minutes with some of my pix from the Cape. All of them are water-based.

I’m not surprised that water features prominently in a significantly high number of the 137 photos, because it was on Cape Cod, which Sandy and I have visited almost annually since 1998, that I fell in love with water. Open, endless waters particularly, and ponds too. I don’t know why this love affair blossomed when I was in my 50s, rather than much earlier in my life, as I spent plenty of time at ponds and lakes and the Atlantic Ocean during my younger days. But people — a category I’m fairly sure I’m a member of — sometimes evolve.

Cape Cod is the area shaped like a flexed arm. The land mass above Buzzard’s Bay is not part of Cape Cod.

Four bodies of water surround Cape Cod. I don’t know squat about one of them, Buzzard’s Bay, because it’s too damn far from where Sandy and I stay on the Cape. On the other hand, I am real good pals with the other three: the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. They are majestic. As many times as I’ve stared out at them, I’ve never tired of their looks and auras. They make my jaw drop even farther than old age already has. If I had to choose a favorite among the three, the Atlantic would get my vote. It’s beyond mega-huge, and one never knows what temperament it will display on any given day.

Mill Pond (Orleans, Cape Cod)
Atlantic Ocean, as seen from Nauset Beach (Orleans, Cape Cod)

I’m continually amazed that our rented house, in Orleans township, is deliciously close to the ocean. A 15-minute walk will take you there. And what a walk! From the house, which is nestled in a wooded area, you stroll two blocks to luscious Mill Pond and then head eastward along Mill Pond’s marsh-grassed edges. Soon you reach low dunes, beyond which lie Nauset Beach and the big fella himself. The Atlantic. Sandy and I trod this route at the very tail end of our trip in October. We were not disappointed. Natural beauty bathed us every step of the way. The ocean was fairly calm that day. We took our time watching it, listening to it, letting the waters soothe our minds. Then we bid farewell to our friend, whom we hope to meet again next year.

During the first few years we vacationed on Cape Cod, Paine’s Creek Beach (in Brewster township) was our favorite vantage point from which to imbibe, figuratively speaking, Cape Cod Bay. Subsequently, we discovered other Cape Cod Bay beaches with exceptional views. But Paine’s Creek Beach remains high on the list.

Cape Cod Bay, as seen from Paine’s Creek Beach (Brewster, Cape Cod)

The scenes at Paine’s Creek Beach last month made us question why we haven’t moved to Cape Cod. The sea grasses poking out of the waters were showing off their autumnal amber hue. And the waters themselves were a dream, as calm and gorgeously blue as anyone could want. There is nothing even remotely close in beauty to Cape Cod Bay in the region we call home (southeast Pennsylvania). Unfortunately.

For one reason or another, we don’t feast our eyes on Nantucket Sound as often as we do on the ocean and Cape Cod Bay. However, I’d been impressed by Chatham township’s Hardings Beach, bordering Nantucket Sound, a bunch of times over the years. And so, after catching a movie (“Saturday Night,” which is super-entertaining) at the cinema in Chatham’s village section, we drove to Hardings Beach to watch a sunset.

A sunset at Nantucket Sound, as seen from Hardings Beach (Chatham, Cape Cod)

Though not a knock-your-socks-off spectacle, the feathery, misty sunset was way better than meh. And, as always, Nantucket Sound captivated us. Massive bodies of water have that kind of power. For two and half decades I’ve been losing myself in the Atlantic Ocean, Cape Cod Bay and Nantucket Sound. I doubt if I’ll ever get my fill of them.

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 Two: Brussels

Yeah, Another Blogger145 Comments

In my previous opus I mentioned that the Brussels leg of our recent trip to Europe didn’t turn out anywhere near as wonderfully as my wife Sandy and I had expected. But, shit, that’s the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. Life ain’t perfect, that’s for damn sure. Though I’d do anything but complain if it were.

We fully were expecting to dig Brussels, the capital of Belgium, a lot. Advance research had indicated to me there were quite a few museums, parks and neighborhoods worth investigating, and that the chances were good that we’d attend one or two concerts during the four full days of our stay.

Alas, we attended no concerts and didn’t see all that much of the city. Basically, we were thrown off our game. The bad cold that Sandy came down with had plenty to do with that. It bummed both of us out. And the on-and-off rain showers we encountered on several days were not exactly spirits-boosters.

A view of Grand Place.
A street in the old section of Brussels.

In the end, then, our explorations were limited substantially to the old, tourist-thronged, cobblestone-streets section of Brussels, whose hub is Grand Place, an imposing plaza. That old section looks similar to how it did long, long ago, and at times we had fun taking in the sights there. On one of its many narrow streets sits Choco Story museum, a place we’d put near the top of our things-we-want-to-see-in-Brussels list. So, after paying the admission fees, we embarked on a self-guided tour of the museum’s galleries.

Choco Story’s unpretentious layout appealed to me. Its exhibits explain the history of chocolate, a product first developed and enjoyed, as a beverage, by the Mayans and Aztecs. Solid chocolate, a European creation, made its appearance in the 1800s. I found all of this pretty interesting. And I became especially interested when I reached the end of the exhibits. For, lo and behold, I noticed a sign that said a chocolate-making demonstration was about to begin in the room just beyond the sign. Sandy and I wasted little time in sitting down on a bench in that room. Moments later, a chocolatier walked in.

The chocolatier at work.

Speaking in heavily French-accented English — though French, Dutch and German are Belgium’s official languages, I imagine he used English for the benefit of the museum’s largely non-Belgian clientele — the gentleman explained to the 20 or so folks in the audience the processes required to produce solid chocolates. Temperature control plays a big part. And, while talking a mile a minute with wit and confidence, he demonstrated each step of the operation. Voila! At the end of the show everyone lined up and grabbed a praline (the pralines he offered to us had been prepared earlier, to allow them to solidify properly). Belgium is famed for its chocolates. And, I’m pleased to say, the chocolatier’s creations didn’t let his nation down.

Choco Story wasn’t the best of the two museums we visited in Brussels, as it turned out. Not even close. That honor belongs to Musical Instruments Museum, commonly known as MIM. What a place! And not in the old part of town, either. I’d never seen anything like it. From the moment I began touring the premises, I was certain I was in a truly great museum.

Musical Instruments Museum.

Hundreds and hundreds — thousands? — of instruments fill MIM’s several floors of gallery space. They come from every corner of Planet Earth. Most, it seemed to me, date from the 16th to 20th centuries. And two are from 14,000 or more years ago: pierced animal bones used as whistles by our ancient relatives.

MIM’s cornucopia is meant to please more than our eyes. Our ears are blessed at the museum too, because recorded music performed on a goodly percentage of the instruments can be heard by entering designated code numbers on the headset device given to each museum visitor. Simply put, I was blown away. I listened to saxophone pieces, harmonica pieces, sitar pieces, you-name-it pieces. MIM, on its own, is not reason enough to pay a visit to Brussels. But it almost is.

I hate to be remiss. Which is why I’m going to mention one other aspect of the Brussels vacation that agreed with me well. I’m a bit of a beer geek. And, through reading, I’ve known for years that Belgium produces fine beers, most of which (save for beers made by Leffe, Stella Artois and a couple of other breweries) do not find their way to the USA, the nation I call home.

I’m happy to report that I downed delicious brews in Brussels, each of which I’d never heard of before. The majority of them entered my system at Bier Central, a cozy, handsome tavern whose food is very good. More to the point, its beer selection is out of this world. 366 beers, all of them from Belgium! If you’re a beer lover and ever find yourself in Bier Central, I recommend trying, among others, Floreffe Dubbel (made by Brasserie Lefebvre). It put a contented smile on my frigging face.

In conclusion, I regret not seeing more of Brussels than I did, and never getting a feel for the city. I had a good enough time there, though, to consider the visit a reasonably enjoyable one. And, here in the States, I’m now going to make it my mission to try and find some elusive Belgian beers. Cheers, skoal, bottoms up!

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:

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!

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!