Time

Puzzles

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

I get about six hours of sleep daily, less than the majority of folks. This means I have 18 hours to fill, which is a lot. Overall, I do a fairly decent job with that, I guess. Some combination of the following occupies me pretty well most days: family life; household chores and duties; social life; volunteer work; reading; listening to music; watching TV; dining out; long walks; pecking away at my computer’s keyboard to produce content for the dodgy publication you’re now staring at.  And I’d be remiss not to mention scratching my balls while belting out the melodies of my favorite Gregorian chants. Yes indeed, I love doing that very much. It’s just about my only activity that isn’t on the mild side.

But wait, there’s more! After attending to personal hygiene matters and downing hot coffee, I kick off most every day by tackling one or two sudoku puzzles online, via the Brainbashers website. Man, I’m addicted to sudoku, a logic-based game involving the correct placement of numbers in a grid. I quickly became hooked when, in 2011, I researched and deciphered sudoku’s inner workings. I’ve interacted with thousands of sudoku puzzles since then.

After satisfying my sudoku jones and then eating breakfast, I retrieve the copy of The Philadelphia Inquirer newspaper that has been tossed onto our driveway by my family’s paper-delivery guy. I postpone reading any of its articles and head straight to the crossword puzzle, for sudoku is not the only puzzle genre I’m addicted to. Settled comfortably upon the living room sofa or at the dining room table, I do my best to fill in the crossword’s blank spaces accurately.

All told, I devote an average of roughly 90 minutes daily to puzzles. That’s nearly 8.5% of my waking hours, a significant figure. I’ve often wondered if I should cut back. Addictions, needless to say, can be seriously unhealthy. And so, several weeks ago, at my most recent session with my psychiatrist Dr. R. U. Forereel, I brought up the subject.

“What? You do puzzles for 10 or more hours each week? What in the world is wrong with you, Neil?” Dr. Forereel commented.

“But, sudoku and crossword puzzles relax me. And they help to keep the old brain cells in shape.”

“Old is right, Neil,” my doctor said, after glancing at my chart. “You’re soon to turn 78, I see. Neil, you’re ancient, and should be doing your utmost to live life to its fullest at this point. After all, who knows how many more tomorrows you have left? Stop squandering time on puzzles. Do something exciting instead. Take up rock climbing, for instance. Or Formula One race car driving. I could give many more suggestions. The possibilities are almost endless.”

“Dr. Forereel, are you trying to get me killed?” I asked her. “I’m not a daredevil. I’m not sure what I am, actually, but built-for-thrills sure doesn’t fit my description.”

“Neil, where oh where have I gone wrong? You’ve been my patient for years and years, and yet, despite my strongest efforts to build it up, your self-confidence remains at the meh level. Sometimes I question my efficacy as a physician.”

“Efficacy is such a wonderful word, Dr. Forereel, one I haven’t heard in ages. For that alone, I consider today’s session to be valuable. But, getting back to puzzles, have I truly been on the wrong track by giving substantial amounts of time to them?”

“Of course you have, Neil. Puzzles are frivolous. If I’d wasted time on such nonsense, I’d never have become the respected healer that I am.”

“Doctor, I’ll follow your sage advice. You’ve convinced me that I absolutely need to amp up my life. Nothing I’m involved with right now pushes the envelope.”

“That‘s the spirit, Neil. It seems I’ve underestimated you. Well, the clock on the wall tells me that today’s session has reached its end. Go get ’em, tiger!”

Over the next few days, my vision of how I might better allocate my time began to crystalize. There are so many paths, I realized, that would lead me to becoming a more-daring version of myself. Alas, I’m sorry to report that things have remained unchanged. My gas pedal is stuck. Dr. Forereel will be hugely disappointed.

What can you say? Life’s a bit of a puzzle, isn‘t it?

Time, Trump, A Book, A Song

Yeah, Another Blogger142 Comments

Time marches on, of that there is no doubt. I can barely believe that July 2024 is here. Just like that — zoom! — the first six months of the year have disappeared into the ethers. And before we know it, 2025 will have begun, possibly full of promise, possibly not.

In the USA, where I reside, 2025 and beyond will be nightmarish if Donald Trump wins the upcoming presidential election (November 5, 2024 is Election Day). A fascist, a scoundrel, a convicted felon, a master at lying through his teeth, a riot-instigator and a vindictive bully, Trump is champing at the bit to damage democracy even more than he did during his first term. Are there enough sensible voters in the States to deny him a second occupancy of the high throne? One can only hope. Yes, Joe Biden performed miserably at his recent televised debate with Trump, and is aging right before our eyes. Nonetheless, Biden has done a solid job as president and is an infinitely better choice. For the record: If Trump were running against a box turtle, the turtle would get my vote.

But enough about Trump. Writing about him always puts a knot in my stomach. So, I’m going to move on to more agreeable topics. Such as books and music. Ahh, already I can feel my stomach untangling.

For quite a few years, some of the books I’ve read have entered my life via a largely random process: I sometimes wander through library aisles with no specific authors or titles in mind, pulling volumes off shelves and giving them the once-over. This willy-nilly approach to book selection at times has brought gold my way. For example, the novels Flight (by Sherman Alexie) and The Middlesteins (by Jami Attenberg).

The latest beauty I discovered by employing this method is Holding Her Breath. Published in 2021, it is the first and to-date only novel by Eimear Ryan, an Irish lass. It took 20 or 30 pages for the book’s rhythms to grab hold of me. After that, I remained hooked. Firmly.

Beth Crowe is Holding Her Breath’s main character. A college student in Dublin, Beth suffered an emotional breakdown a year or two before the book opens, and tentatively is hoping not only to rediscover but to further discover herself.

While in college, Beth, a one-time champion swimmer who ultimately couldn’t deal with the pressures of her sport, does her best to come to terms with her athletic past. She also begins a romantic relationship with a teacher at her school, probably not the wisest decision in the world. And she learns much about herself and her family when she becomes fascinated by the life and writings of her grandfather Benjamin Crowe, a famed Irish poet whose stature and mystique did nothing but increase following his suicide at age 43, many years before Beth was born. Before entering college, Beth was far less familiar with all things Benjamin than she should have been, although her mother is the poet’s daughter and her grandmother his widow. Beth and Benjamin entwine in a very real way during the course of Holding Her Breath.

Ryan’s writing is as clear as spring water, as lithe as a gymnast. Take, for instance, this section about Beth:

Later, as she’s going to bed, it occurs to her that she’s never actually heard her grandfather’s voice. She googles it—”Benjamin Crowe” + “audio”—not really expecting much. But there’s a page and a half of results. She clicks, pops in her earphones.

Here he is, in full flow, reading his famous long poem “Roslyn.” Voice deep and raspy, struggling up from great depths. The hitch in his voice is so croakingly alive. The lines come back to her like a nursery rhyme: “In that dark sash a comet appeared . . . trailing its afterburn . . .”

Beth closes her eyes. His voice vibrates through her. She falls asleep that way.

I’ll close this essay with Days Can Turn Around, a song I first heard a week and a half ago.  It captured me immediately. Sung and co-written by Sarah Jarosz, Days Can Turn Around is a gentle reflection on life’s bumpy road. The lyrics remind us that we need to keep our heads up and, as best we can, follow our hearts and dreams.

Days Can Turn Around appears on Jarosz’s latest album, Polaroid Lovers, which came out in January. When I close my eyes and listen to the song, I feel as though I’m floating on air. Maybe it will have the same effect on you.

This Is My 350th Story

Yeah, Another Blogger214 Comments

Huh? What? Are you shitting me? I can hardly believe that 350 stories have emerged from my cobwebby mind. I mean, when I first began pecking away at my computer’s keyboard a little over nine years ago, writing an initial batch of articles that the WordPress gods were good enough to allow to be published, I doubt if I’d have guessed that the number of opuses residing within Yeah, Another Blogger eventually would turn out to be somewhat impressive.

Sure, many scribes publish stories at a pace incredibly faster than mine. (Take a look, for instance, at bluejayblog, penned by an anonymous gentleman whose handle is swabby429. He produces a piece every single day, and many of them are as astute as all get out.) Still, I’m fairly proud of myself. Writing ain’t easy, for me anyway. But my plan is to continue turning out product, and I’d like to think that I have many more stories in me. As I often note on these pages, though, I’m older than dirt, so my future isn’t necessarily wide open. As it always does, of course, time will tell.

Speaking of which, time has been on my mind a lot of late, along with some of its related matters. Many of us, including me, take time for granted. But, amorphous and difficult to conceptualize as it is, time nonetheless rules. Seeing that we each have only a finite number of days to spend above ground on Planet Earth, it seems pretty clear that trying to become better versions of ourselves should be among our priorities. Pursuing our peaceful dreams, for example, is where it’s at. As is standing up for the little guy. Most important, though, I’d say, is being as open, respectful, loving and kind as possible. Can you imagine how fine the world would be if those four qualities increased by twenty percent or more among humankind? Why, we’d almost be living in paradise.

Believe it or not, my thoughts have been running in these directions because of a television series my wife Sandy and I devoured over the last several weeks. Sandy purchased a new smart phone recently, and with it came a free trial subscription to Apple TV+. There was no reason to put that subscription to waste. Thus, a few days later we began to watch Ted Lasso, which probably is Apple TV+’s most well-known production. I’d heard of Ted Lasso, but knew nothing about its premise. Sandy, on the other hand, knew plenty. And was champing at the bit to discover if the series’ popularity is deserved.

The answer is yes. Ted Lasso isn’t perfect, mind you. The acting and dialogue fall flat here and there, and the occasional plot line heads nowhere in particular. However, little matter. For the most part, Ted Lasso goes down as satisfyingly as your favorite beverage, and provides uplifting messages along the way. It’s inspirational, just what the doctor ordered to get your mind off the world’s woes and to inject you with hope for the human race. The show sure as hell made Sandy and me feel better about things for a little while, as it has done for millions of others.

Ted Lasso boasts an enormous cast, most of whose members receive generous amounts of screentime over the course of the series’ 34 episodes. The show’s biggest focus, not surprisingly, is its title character, a coach of American-style football at a college in Kansas, USA, who, in the series’ first episode, is wooed by the owner of an association football (i.e., soccer) team in England. Almost inexplicably, she wants Ted (portrayed by Jason Sudeikis) to become her squad’s head coach, despite the fact that Ted’s knowledge of association football/soccer is nonexistent. Nonetheless, due to problems in his personal life, he accepts the offer and moves to England.

For me to say much more would spoil the series for anyone who might be thinking of giving it a try. So, I won’t. Except this: Ted is a hell of a fine guy. He’s kind, gentle, empathetic and smart as a whip. He sees the good sides of people, tries to instill self-confidence in those who need doses of same, and unwaveringly supports everyone within his circle. He’s a difference-maker, in other words, in nothing but positive ways.

I also should mention that F-bombs, in a dazzling variety of iterations, drop pretty much continuously throughout each episode. Ted Lasso, therefore, should be avoided by anyone with sensitive ears. My ears are anything but. Which is one reason I liked the show as much as I did. And so, in closing, let me remind everyone that time totally fucking flies. Hence, for anyone so inclined, now is the time to try and become even better than they already are.

Amen.

Rocking On!

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

Here in the northern hemisphere, autumn is not all that far from drawing to a close. Winter soon will arrive. Having spent way too little time admiring the changing colors of tree leaves this autumn, a week and a half ago I decided to try and rectify the situation by taking a walk around my suburban neighborhood. And so, after murmuring a fond I’ll be back to the sofa I’d been resting my bony ass upon, out the door I went. Though many trees had already dropped all or most of their leaves, I quickly discovered that some still were proudly displaying plenty of their wares. Those leaves, masterpieces in shades of amber, burgundy, russet and gold, moved me. I was glad to be around them.

It wouldn’t be long, of course, before just about every deciduous tree was bare. Which is why, as I strode along, I found myself thinking about time’s relentless forward thrust. Man, not only will winter soon arrive, 2024 will too. Huh? For me, 2022 absolutely zoomed by. And 2023 is setting an even faster pace. It’s scary how time seems to accelerate when we get up there in years.

And there’s no question that I’m up there. I’m 76, for crying out loud, a number that stuns me. In my mind I may be 45 or 50, but the mirror tells a different story. As does this obvious truth: Even if I remain above ground for another 20 or more years, I’m ridiculously closer to the end than to the beginning. Holy shit, who designed this system?  I don’t like it! If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have expiration dates. Or, at the least, the expiration dates would be a hell of a lot longer than they now are.

What to do, what to do? Well, we all know that a good approach to life is to keep on keeping on as best we can. Meaning, we should be loving and giving individuals, and should pursue those activities that bring us joy. And it wouldn’t hurt if we spread our wings too. Yeah, that’s a game plan to embrace, no matter what our age.

There’s not enough room on this page for me to delve into my successes and failures in attempting to meet each of the criteria suggested above. But I will describe one recent activity that brought me joy. Namely, my attendance, with my wife Sandy, at a Willie Nile concert, which took place at City Winery Philadelphia. Willie is a songwriter, vocalist and rhythm guitarist. And, most important, a high-potency rocker. I’d seen him in concert before, and was at City Winery because I expected to be rocked righteously. For rock and roll — guitar-based, take-no-prisoners rock and roll, to be exact — is a form of music that meshes exceedingly well with my internal rhythms. When the songs are hearty and the playing is powerful and the musicians’ commitment knows no bounds, I’m transported to higher realms.

Everything came together magnificently that night. Willie and his band were on fire, unleashing torrents of energy. I’d been feeling rock-deprived for the previous two or three months. The Willie Nile concert put a halt to that.

The concert not only excited me, it got me thinking too. Willie, you see, is a mere eight months younger than me. He’s been part of the rock scene for decades, has played thousands of shows, and hasn’t lost his passion for the music. I tell you, Willie shines as a role model for seniors who are a bit dismayed by the thought that the Grim F*cking Reaper might be lurking around the corner. I’m one of those seniors. Willie is doing what he loves, and shares his gifts generously with his audiences. I believe he’ll rock until the day he drops. That’s a truly worthy way in which to live a life.

In closing, I’ll present you with a video from the concert in question. Dig Willie’s leg kick towards the end of the song. He might be old, but he’s still got “rock star” moves:

75 And Counting

Yeah, Another Blogger155 Comments

Eleven months ago I published a piece in which I noted that I couldn’t believe how fast 2021, and hence my life, was flying by. Well, somehow 2022 has equaled or maybe even surpassed 2021’s fleetness. And I have no doubt that 2023 will tear out of the starter’s block like Usain Bolt and then do nothing but pick up speed. Man, time unquestionably is the most precious commodity of all. It’s unsettling too.

Now, not everybody would agree with my perception of time. Most young people, for instance, don’t sense time as being a high-speed train.  Hell, for the most part they don’t think about time at all. Like many senior citizens, however, I have time on my mind pretty often. Meaning, I’m anything but oblivious to the facts that I’ve been on Planet Earth for a good long while, and that I’m a whole lot closer to the end than to the beginning. I don’t become badly depressed about it, or anything like that. However, the reality of the situation definitely gets my attention now and then.

I mention the above because I was stunned big-time a couple of months ago as I neared the completion of my 75th journey around the Sun. I did not feel at all celebratory about the upcoming birthday. The cockles of my heart refused to warm even one little bit. “75? Are you shitting me?” I asked myself. “How is it possible that I’ve become so f*cking old?” I mean, it seems like only yesterday that I was in my twenties, let alone in my 40s. Holy crap, where in the world did the time go?

By anyone’s definition, 75 is old as frigging dirt, or nearly so. Yeah, I know that plenty of people are older than me. Not as many as you might think, though, nor as many as I thought until I researched the subject earlier this month on a website that can tell you where you fit, age-wise, on the human population ladder. (Click here if you’d like to see the site. When it opens, click on Let’s Go. Next, click on My Place In The Population, which is where you enter your age.)

The answer, for 75-year-old me, was not joy-inducing. That’s because I learned that I am older than 96% of the people on our beautiful, polluted planet. That figure was an absolute kick to the balls. All I could do was shake off the pain and acknowledge the bad joke with a half-hearted chortle. And then I got right back to doing the things I love, such as palling around with my wife and other friends, exploring the natural and man-made worlds, writing, reading, and imbibing cool music. They make for a good life. With luck, this regimen will continue for a bunch more years.

With 2023 a mere handful of days away, the time now has arrived for me to wish all of you a most Happy New Year. May it be rewarding. And may peace, love, understanding and freedom fully permeate the human condition one day. They are in short supply in many parts of the globe, as we know all too well. So, as I’ve been thinking about freedom a lot lately, I’ll conclude this essay by presenting a song, Miles And Miles, that knocked me off my feet when I heard it for the first time recently. It’s a brilliant rocker, released this year by The Heavy Heavy, a young British band that I wouldn’t mind hanging out with for a while, traveling with them from gig to gig and absorbing their vibes. For the song’s about being flushed with freedom as you groove to life’s rhythms and grab hold of the good stuff out there in the world. I tell you, that orientation has appealed to me exquisitely since I reached adulthood many moons ago. I hope I never stop feeling, and acting, that way.

Here’s Some Of What I Liked In August. What Rang Your Bell?

Yeah, Another Blogger159 Comments

Yup, August has come and gone. And in a few blinks of an eye, 2023 will have arrived. Zoom! I tell you, there’s no doubt that time flies at accelerating rates the older we get. And being genuinely old, I ain’t happy about that. To say the least. I don’t know how many grains of sand remain in the upper part of my hourglass. But, whatever the number, a shitload more would suit me just fine.

Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about it. So, to steer my mind away from the above paragraph’s depressing direction, let me mention some things that brought a smile to my crinkled face during the month that waved goodbye to us a handful of days ago.

First up are peaches and corn on the cob, without which life wouldn’t be as sweet. It being summer here in the USA, the harvesting season for those fine forms of produce, my wife Sandy and I would have been fools not to indulge in them during August.

I’ve loved peaches for nearly all of my life. I think, though, that their deliciousness began to make truly deep impressions upon me somewhere in my 40s. Man, what a treat it is to bite into a peach. A good peach, that is, not one of the mealy ones that have become more commonplace in recent years. Such beautiful flavor, as luxurious as you could hope for. And a texture, in the happy zone between soft and firm, that was made to seduce. I had some real good peaches in August. And tossed aside a couple of very sub-par examples too. You win some, you lose some. In any case, the peach season in the States hasn’t all that much longer to go, a damn shame.

Likewise, fresh corn’s availability already has peaked. Last month, getting while the getting was good, Sandy and I chomped down on boiled ears of corn at dinnertime three or four times. We gave them a thumbs-up. Helpful public servant that I am, I’d like to give you a tip for dressing corn on the cob: Peel back the paper a bit on a stick of butter, then rub the exposed butter all over the corn while twirling the cob. This method is much better than attempting to place pats of butter on the corn with a knife. Those pats, as we know, usually end up skidding all over the f*cking place. I’ve already accepted your thanks in advance!

Now it’s time to talk about television series, a media format that has pleased the hell out of me since the start of the pandemic. Hungry for entertainment, I began watching series in earnest at that time, something I hadn’t done in years. Sandy has been my viewing companion. And, even though Covid’s roar has lessened, we haven’t slackened our pace, for during August we devoured two limited series (We Own This City and the scripted version of The Staircase, not the documentary by that name) and one season each of multi-season productions (Capitani and Never Have I Ever). The first three that I mentioned are very much worth watching, but they are grim. Ergo, I’ll limit my commentary to the sole smile-inducing series among August’s fare.

Never Have I Ever, a thoughtful comedy on Netflix, tells the tale of Devi Vishwakumar, an Indian-American public high school student in California. Devi, smart as a whip but fairly low in the self-confidence department, isn’t one of the cool, popular girls at school. She has a loving family, fortunately, and several trusted, loyal girlfriends. Thus, her situation overall is quite decent, despite the cruel fact that the death of her father, during her freshman year, was a blow that tests her mightily.

There have been three seasons of Never Have I Ever so far. Sandy and I have watched them all, polishing off the latest run in August. During season three’s ten episodes, Devi loses a boyfriend, attempts to land a new beau, contemplates losing her virginity, and completes her junior year of high school with top grades. And her pals are no slouches in the busy-lives department either. Wow! There’s a lot going on in this show. Cleverly too, partly because of the sarcastic, sometimes-exasperated voice-over narration by, if you can believe it, John McEnroe. He’s the former tennis champ who was known for his verbal outbursts on the court as much as for the beauty of his game. McEnroe does a great job, adding volleys of whams and bams to a coming-of-age story that’s handled with insight and care.

With that, I’ll toss a tennis ball into your half of the court. What rang your bell last month, food-wise, entertainment-wise, nature-wise, anything-at-all-wise?

Time Flies!

Yeah, Another Blogger133 Comments

“Doctor, you’ll be pleased to know that I don’t have any major problems to discuss with you today,” I said to my psychiatrist, Dr. R. U. Forereel, at the start of our most recent monthly session. “But there definitely is something that’s perplexing me.”

“Neil, I’m happy that you’ll be taking it easy on me,” she replied. “I’ve had a rough week, what with patient after patient yapping away about their lives, complaining about this, that and the other thing. What is wrong with these people anyway? I’m sure that I don’t know. Don’t they realize that life isn’t a bowl of cherries, let alone a bowl of oatmeal? I tell you, I should have listened to my parents and become a dairy farmer instead of going into medicine. Cows aren’t demanding. Oh well, live and learn. Neil, let’s proceed. Time’s a wastin’.”

“Funny you should use that word, doctor,” I said, “because time is precisely what I’d like to talk to you about. It’s moving too fast, isn’t it? Why, you’d think that 2021 has a fire cracker up its ass, pardon my crudity. Before we know it, Santa Claus will be shimmying down chimneys all around the world. And a week after that, 2022 will have arrived.”

“Your perceptions are interesting and valid, Neil,” said my psychiatrist. “Did 2020 also move quickly for you?”

“Indeed it did, doctor, despite all my worrying about COVID. But 2021 is zipping along faster than any year ever has. What gives?”

“Well, how can I put this politely, Neil? Hmmm . . . a quick glance at your patient information chart reveals to me that the last time you might have been described as a spring chicken was five decades ago. To put it another way, your glory days are ancient history. Here then is the bottom line: You officially are old as shit, pardon my crudity. And it’s been proven that, as the years pass, time moves unusually quickly for a particular segment of males in the old as shit category, far more so than it does for anyone else. Sadly, you are a member of said segment.”

She sighed and shook her head, gazing, with pity in her eyes, at the abundant prune-like creases on my face. Then she said, “Neil, I refer you to the writings of Albert Einstein. Apparently, you are not familiar with his Specific Theory Of Relativity For Heavily-Wrinkled Old F*ckers, a brilliant treatise that explains how time affects those gentlemen with your dermatological condition. Pardon Professor Einstein’s crudity, by the way.”

“You are in your life’s homestretch, Neil,” she continued. “This is true even if you manage to hang on for another 25 years. And as if that isn’t bad enough, your remaining years are absolutely going to zoom by so fast they’ll make 2021 seem as though it had been in slow motion. Poof! In the relative blink of an eye your days above ground will be over. All of what I say, of course, paraphrases the Specific Theory, which I urge you to read. Einstein certainly was a genius, no? Fascinatingly, he was a prune lover too.”

“Holy crap, Dr, Forereel! You’re bumming me way out! What am I to do? I feel one hundred times worse than I did when we began today’s session.”

“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of truths, Neil. And I would like to help you dissolve the bleakness that you’re experiencing, but I’m afraid that this session has reached its end. Please try to keep your chin up. It’s sagging, you know. I hope to see you in four weeks.”

As down in the dumps as I’ve ever been, I shuffled out of her office, got into my car and made my way home. Not surprisingly, I arrived there in no time at all.

Seven Pix For Seven Months

Yeah, Another Blogger135 Comments

I don’t know about you, but for me this year has been flying by at an insanely fast pace. I have no idea why. I mean, time seems to zoom when a person is busier than usual and/or is having more fun than usual. But those conditions haven’t applied to me. And yet, boom! Just like that, seven of 2021’s months are over and done, and month number eight is nipping at their heels. What the hell is going on?

January 20, 2021 
(Sunset viewed from Willow Grove, Pennsylvania)
February 11, 2021 (Willow Grove, Pennsylvania)
April 12, 2021 (Abington, Pennsylvania)

So impressed am I by 2021’s fleet-footedness, I think it’s only right to offer up an essay that photographically honors its seven departed months. One photo from each month. I took six of the pictures and would have taken all seven if such had been possible. However, seeing that it would have been a major no-no for me to snap a selfie while being inoculated against COVID, I asked my wife Sandy to document the event.

May 14, 2021 (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania)
June 5, 2021 (Jenkintown, Pennsylvania)

I’ve decided against using any of the dozens of 2021’s photos that I’ve already placed in this publication’s stories. As for the seven included herein, only two hold any special personal meaning, and I’ll get to them in a minute. The other five just look good to my eyes, and would have been mad as hell at me if I’d not deposited them on the internet. The parking lot scene, for example, which contains a lady so wrapped up in her thoughts that she’s oblivious to the sharp red car doing its damndest to get her attention. Hey, the car threatened to sue if I gave it the cold shoulder!

Now, on to the two pix that, plain and simple, had to be presented, and about which I’ve got a few things to say.

March 19, 2021 (Elkins Park, Pennsylvania). Photo by Sandra Cherrey Scheinin

Sandy and I frantically and tirelessly tried to schedule appointments for COVID vaccinations when vaccines became available early this year. Basically, it was an exercise in frustration. But then, five or six weeks later and from out of the blue, appointments for March 19 fell into our laps. I tell you, it was a powerful day for me, one I ain’t going to forget any time soon. As the needle entered my arm I breathed great sighs of relief and shed some tears of joy.

Four weeks later my second dose of Moderna was administered, and since then I’ve felt free. Yes, coronavirus remains a major concern, but far less so for the vaccinated as opposed to the unvaccinated. Man, vaccine refuseniks, brimming with loopy and misguided beliefs, astound and annoy me. The common good is suffering because they won’t grab hold of the lifelines being tossed their way. I tell you, we reside in a world that too often is surreal and disappointing.

Due to the f*cking pandemic’s intrusion, the fireworks event that Sandy and I attended on July 4 was the first impressive show of any kind that we had been to in 16 months. (In the USA,  July 4 is a holiday that commemorates the states’ declaration of independence from Great Britain in 1776.) It took place on the sprawling grounds of a public school, in a town a couple of miles away from our suburban Philadelphia home.

We walked and walked on the school’s ball fields and lawns till we were very close to where the explosions would originate. And then we waited and waited as the skies grew dark and the time advanced to 9:40. At that point I got up from my chair to try and find someone who might know the scoop, as the show should have begun no later than 9:20. No luck, natch. So, I walked back to where our chairs were set up, looked at my phone to check the time, and said to Sandy, “It’s 9:49. I don’t think the fireworks are going to happen. We should leave.”

July 4, 2021 (Abington, Pennsylvania)

Three seconds later I was proven wrong, as the skies lit up with wonderful shapes and colors and thunderous sounds erupted. For the next 25 minutes Sandy and I oohed and aahed. In the end, we were in the right place at the right time.

(Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. Gracias.)