We are not required to be thankful on Thanksgiving Day…or any other day. For much of the year many people endure constant pain – physical and emotional. Many suffer losses that dwarf our own and that thwart any effort to appreciate what good remains. I know someone who within a year lost his marriage, his job, his dog, his home, his new pickup truck, some of his friends and all of his savings. I still see this guy every day… in the mirror.
Too often for some folks it is really, really hard to be thankful. And yet it can be therapeutic. Like physical therapy after a hip replacement or psycho-therapy after emotional trauma. It can be really hard to stick with it and we truly want to give up. But, don’t. Do not quit.
Remember, there is no rule that says you must never compare yourself to others. If you were told so when you were young, consider how the context has changed today. You alone can decide if you want to compare your luck with that of others. You decide: compared to a healthy, wealthy and happy person you might feel “cheated.” Comparing yourself with a poor, starving and unloved person can present a glimpse of the “lucky” aspects of your life. It is true that everything is relative. Use that to your advantage.
And, just as with physical therapy, we don’t do it all-day every day. Be thankful when you can. Try for one thankful thought per day. Every little bit helps.
Feeling thankful.
2023
Writings
Non-fiction
How I Became Who I Am Today 2023
For many years people who were close to me, especially parents and teachers, made decisions for me. If it wasn’t a decision, it was influence.
At the age of thirteen or fourteen I decided I was in love with Christine. She decided to break off the relationship without explanation.
I decided as a high school junior that I would apply for admission to a fancy school of photography in Santa Barbara, California. Then I decided the requirement of bringing along $3,200 of my own photographic equipment (in 1962 dollars) was out of the economic equation.
So, I decided to apply for admission to five prestigious schools of architecture. They decided my high school grades in math were beneath their standards.
“Do you think I could get into Yale or Harvard,” I asked the school Guidance Counselor.
“Steven, I’m not sure that your grades are good enough. And can you afford those schools?”
So I asked Mom and Dad, “What can you afford to pay for my college education?”
“State college tuitions for residents of Connecticut are a few hundred dollars a year. That doesn’t include meals, books, and incidentals. Yale is nearly two-thousand per year. We can probably get you through your first two years at the University of Connecticut…if you’re accepted. And after that you’d be on your own,” said Mom with Dad nodding agreement.
I decided to apply to the University of Connecticut and was accepted.
Grandma Grace was aghast at the idea of her Steviekins going all
the way to the frigid “Yukon” for school. I gently set her straight.
At the end of my sophomore year I elected to drop out of UConn for just one year because my grade point average was deeply embedded in the proverbial doo-doo and I was “fresh outta cash.” I needed motivation to study and time to earn some money. Moving back in with the family I worked at a couple of jobs before receiving a letter from the President of the United States of America graciously inviting me to become a fulltime employee of the U.S. Armed Forces. After passing my pre-induction physical exam I continued to work until the government decided exactly when they would induct me into the branch of my choice, the U.S. Army.
I was about to apply for readmission to UConn to avoid the draft when a decision beyond my control was made by a very drunken driver in a very heavy Pontiac convertible. He decided to pull out into oncoming traffic. Were there airbags and seat belts in a 1955 Chevy Belair? No, but the steering column did a good job of restraining my head from further forward motion.
On my fourth day in the hospital my father sat down at my bedside and pulled out a packet of condoms.
“I found these in your glove compartment.”
“Uh…those are Denis’s. He asked me to keep them for him,” I respond through a broken mouth now devoid of truth-telling front teeth.
Sternly, “I doubt that. And I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”
Recuperating at home after a horrid week in the hospital I received an updated response from Selective Service System, “Due to suffering a severe concussion you must wait six (6) months before being administered a second pre-induction physical examination based upon which a determination can be made regarding your Selective Service status.”
Three months later the President sent me an induction notice after which I began Basic Training at Fort Dix, New Jersey (June 1965), got married, trained soldiers “to war and prepare for killing” until June 1967, earned a BS from UConn, got divorced, earned an MBA and immediately retreated to teach young Jewish girls how to ski on a lake in Maine.
I’m not clear on how I got to be who I am today. A popular couple in my high school got married after a few years of university. We were all happy for them. They were wonderful people and the perfect couple. They are both dead …as is my dear Christine. Don’t know exactly how I got to be who I am, but I do know that luck gets top billing in this production.
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Grandma Grace
An Important Influencer in My Life | A Character in My Memoir
How is it spelled? Steviekins? Steveykins? No matter. It blew only through the lips of Grandma Grace. A term of endearment. It seems she delighted in me and conveyed that delight when she greeted me, “There’s my Steviekins!” I echoed that delight internally whenever we met and I absorbed that special way she had fun with my name. She called me Steeveekins right through high school.
In 1948, when I had achieved Level 5, Mom and I moved from Venice California to Haddam Connecticut and began the unscheduled routine of driving to the Bronx to visit their parents, usually for a two or three day weekend. My maternal grandmother, Grace, had divorced and lived in a small apartment on the fifth floor on Kingsbridge Avenue with her parents. She embodied a magnet for me, full of free smiles, a bohemian style, and an elder beatnik of the beat generation.
We had so much fun together. And, if my memory serves, we always had fun together.
Short bursts of laughter came easily to her. Just a bit pudgy, but not short and not a classic beauty, but attractive and full of energy. I loved being left alone with her and her parents in the Bronx while Mom and Dad visited his parents or some childhood friends in the borough. Though supporting herself and her parents with seamstress work, Grandma truly lived in the artist’s space as did her ex-husband, brother, and father. The apartment, chock full of paintings, small sculptures and wood carvings, held me fascinated by so much creativity inhabiting such a small space.
I lived without a bathtub in Connecticut until age fourteen. But Grandma had one! And how I loved playing in the bathtub. What a treat to play with floating ducks and baking soda propelled boats and submarines. Nonetheless, the most treasured time with Grandma Grace found us outside of the apartment. She seemed to know what a country beach boy wanted to experience. The Museum of Natural History, the auto show at the Coliseum, the Planetarium, the Guggenheim, MoMA, the Bronx Zoo (oh, the stench of that monkey house), and a movie! After all, what can possibly beat the 1954 release of Prince Valiant starring Robert Wagner, Janet Leigh, James Mason, Sterling Hayden and Debra Paget in Technicolor!? Grandma and I saw it together.
Central Park! That’s even better than a movie and all the rest. Grandma took me there. And she loved it too. She kept her loving eyes and warm smile on me and let me play on the huge bedrock rocks of Manhattan. Then we’d sometimes take a rowboat out on the pond. And exploring the trimmed and pruned treed areas and fresh mown lawns brought a sense of civilized surroundings so different from the wild, wooded hills of Haddam.
After her parents died Grandma moved to Connecticut in a small house down the road. What a joy to be able to spend more time with her, although I become increasingly busy with the stuff of high school and college. Yet before she achieved ‘old’ and nearly blind she took me to The Big Apple to help me pick out a used camera. She knew where the street bargains were. I bought a used Exakta 35mm SLR that saw many months of light and dark colors and characters through its lens. Because I can, I’ll share a photo of Grandma Grace sitting in Cedar Lake one summer in Chester, CT.
I miss her.
Sitting with her in the lake (out of frame) is my 3-year old sister.
This is how I remember Grandma Grace, a happy girl when
reacting to and interacting with her beloved grandchildren.
Steviekins is a lucky boy.
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Coming of Age 2023
Nine hundred miles from home on a dark December night. How did I get here? Why? Suitcase tugging at my arm, I find the fraternity house and start down the long concrete walkway toward the large front door. Then comes the unexpected and unwelcomed warning, a deep guttural growling from shrubs to my left. I freeze. I see nothing, but this is clearly a large, unfriendly guard dog. More growling. A light comes on behind a second floor window. A young man slides the window up and leans out to shout, “Ox! Come!” Relief as the very hefty bulldog shakes himself out of his bushy bed and saunters up to the door. Ox was convincingly dutiful but friendly after all.
What drives my journey? Independence? Exploration? Manhood? Sex? Relationships?
I had just celebrated twenty years as a virgin when winter break divided my sophomore year at the University of Connecticut. What better time to visit my high school girlfriend who was also on break as a freshman at Indiana University.
How did I get here? Well, I hitchhiked nine hundred miles in winter.
Somewhere around New York City a big black man pulls over in the largest Cadillac I’ve ever seen. We head toward New Jersey and I compliment him on his wheels. He proudly replies that the Caddy has “four pods.” I struggle to understand and ask if he means dual carburetors. “No, no. We have four pards – pardners who share the expenses and alternate days using the car.” A lesson in sharing to make every dollar go farther.
In New Jersey I’m lucky to ride in a tractor-trailer full of bananas right off of the boat. When we enter Pennsylvania the load must be weighed and the driver jumps down to sign the paperwork and yells to me, “Get down from there, son. You’re a whole crate of bananas.” First and last time I’ve been so identified.
At the western end of Pennsylvania I thumb a ride from two young men in a smallish sedan. Sweet! They are heading to Indianapolis. After a while I see that the driver whose right arm is hanging over his seat back is inching his hand slowly toward my knee. When he touches my leg I squeeze hard on his wrist and place it back in his space. Not a word is spoken. Today my reaction would be different.
On a dark street on the outskirts of Indianapolis a station wagon drives slowly by my outstretched thumb. A man driving with a young woman seated next to him. To my surprise they drive around the block and stop to ask me where I’m headed.
“Bloomington.”
“We’re going there too. You can put your suitcase in the back.”
And when I do, I see two babies sleeping under blankets with the rear seats folded down. The interior is about 80-degrees and the fragrance of baby powder fills the air. Under the dash board sets a small light that illuminates the three of us. The bench seat keeps us very close which I don’t mind as I’m seated next to a very attractive twenty-something. But a few miles down the road my assumptions are challenged. The heat is to keep the babies warm. Right. Her uncle is taking her to the Bloomington campus and no one is home to mind the babies. Her short sleeve dress with a single row of buttons down the front is chosen because of the heat. Right.
From the corner of my eye I see the young woman fiddling with the buttons of her dress. My country bumpkin assumption: I don’t blame her. It’s hot in here. It soon becomes clear why she is going all the way to Bloomington with no luggage. Her dress opens wide, the dash light bathing her perfect form as she turns to me and reaches up for my cheek. My virgin mind is racing. I gently pull her hand from my face and surprise myself with, “Sorry, but I’m going to see my girlfriend tonight …and I only have travelers cheques.” Not bad for a country boy. They let me out and head back to the city.
There were other adventures that night before I was greeted by Ox. But what drove me there besides some interesting characters? Independence? Exploration? Manhood? Sex? Relationships?
All of the above. My university was less than an hour from home. I needed to prove I could go farther. Exploring new places and subcultures along with added independence gave me a stronger sense of my manhood. I returned to Connecticut with my virginity intact, yet I knew the sex drive drove me to be with my girlfriend across so many miles in the dead of winter.
Relationships. When I left home to begin my passage it was the only time I ever saw my father cry. I carried that with me. To this day I’m not certain why he cried. I’m guessing it was from a combination of guilt and love. Or those emotions melding with a realization that I had come of age.
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FIFTH FLOOR 2023
Up on the roof. Me and Mom. Kingsbridge Avenue where her mother and maternal grandparents lived on the fifth floor. The top floor of their Bronx walk-up. No elevators. I don’t remember anything about my first year when all five of us lived in the small apartment. My father was serving in the World War II in the Philippines.
After one year Mom took me away to the beach in sunny Venice California. Four years later she took me away to the woods of Haddam Connecticut. It was then that we – Mom, Dad and I – began regular visits to see both sets of grandparents in the Big Apple. After another two years my infant sister Karen would join us.
We would pile into the ’49 Ford and head down a dusty dirt road for three miles before turning onto the blacktop that carried us on toward the winding Sawmill River Parkway.
Contrasting homes. Smells, tastes, sights and sensations.
Venice in a trailer park on the canals. Salt humidity fills the air. The wind carries the faint, almost undetectable whiff of hot sandy beach. The odor of dead, decaying marine life-death fills the nostrils. So easy to forgive the smell of death when it is part of the ocean’s allure. At the trailer, the sounds of dogs barking, the hum of LAX holding patterns, landings and take-offs. If the wind shifts, sometimes the Berea tar pits can be detected and remind me of the fresh hot oil spread years later on the dirt road in Haddam. Oil in the summer heat.
Haddam in the woods. The familiar scent of the deciduous and coniferous trees. The decaying leaves and fruit. Spring brings the flowers and chirping of wooing birds. June the wild blueberries and currants. Winter has little sound, taste or smell, but seeing and feeling reign supreme in the frosty air, snow and ice. A snowball can be wet, dry or in between. One falls apart before it reaches its target. Another is a ball of ice and forbidden by parents. Summer sounds mark cicadas, tree frogs, owls, hawks and dry leaves rustling under rodent’s feet.
The Bronx. An absolute delight for a six year old, an eight or ten year old boy. I would jump up a few brownstone steps into the marble and tiled foyer then bound up five flights of marble stairs with excitement. Automobile exhaust fumes fill the air. Windows are open. The cars are beeping and bus engines roaring. It’s that wonderful hustle and bustle that surrounds my Grandma Grace and her parents.
The apartment began with a narrow hall leading to the left and passing the tiny kitchen where my great grandfather would often be sitting with the morning oatmeal scattered in his beard. His greeting required that he slowly feel my face, neck and shoulders with his fingers. He would exclaim how much I had grown and how handsome I was. He was blind. Yet he did wood carvings of figurines by touch alone and that hobby filled the air with the fragrance of fresh cedar. Only here would I bathe in the love and attention I craved. Nannie, my great grandmother always tended tenderly to me, Mom, Grandma and her husband.
Only at Grandma’s place would I taste and smell fresh coconut. Only there would I savor hot oatmeal with raisins for breakfast or sit in a bath tub and play with floating toys of all sorts: ducks, fish, frogs and little self-propelled boats and submarines. Every wall was cloaked with paintings by my grandfather, great uncle and grandmother. The smell of old oil paints formed the olfactory base upon which the aromas of coconut, chicory and cedar dwelt. Oil.
The night sounds generated mixed feelings for me at a young age. On one hand, I didn’t fall asleep right away. On the other hand, they were fascinating sounds: horns blaring at midnight, sirens from police and emergency vehicles, a steady din of traffic which was constant day and night. Also very unlike my country home in Connecticut, there was light all night from street lamps below.
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Ya Got Your Dead Skunk… 2023
Lenore’s Volkswagen crept slowly up our blacktop driveway. The night was dark and the moon was new. Clouds hid the starlight. The car moaned, getting old and tired. Hell, we too felt old and tired. But our eyes were mostly open and the headlights lit up the garage doors after a three-day weekend in Maine and oh how we did yearn to sleep in our own bed…immediately if not sooner. Exhaustion sat back in a recliner and said, “Don’t even think about unpacking tonight.” So who can argue?
Lenore with hands still gripping the steering wheel turned to me and exhaled a whispered, “Home.”
As she said it I saw tension sliding off her neck and shoulders. Home at last and just yards away from the finest king-size bed in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. We were convinced of it.
But then there were the dogs.
Arrakis and Kaiser, two of the best poodles on the planet; I say that with a smile, with pride and with certainty. For them I had built the perfect chain link pen behind the garage, eight feet wide and running the entire length of the two-car garage. A third of the pen’s floor was sand for doing the doggie’s duty. Overhead in the heat of summer the broad leaves of two Niagara and two Concord grape vines – which I planted outside the fence – climbed up four strands of twine to the garage roof and provided all the shade that twin poodles could expect on a hot summer day. A doggy door led into the garage where four wood pallets held two human-size, single mattresses covered with bed sheets. While we were away Arrakis and Kaiser enjoyed huge bowls of dry food and water. Better than a Quality Inn. And they rarely barked – without me teasing them – and the arrangement was as good as it gets. We never left them for more than two nights and when Lenore and I were at home they were in the house all day…unless they were on the front lawn chasing and leaping for tennis balls tossed high into the air.
As usual we had left the right side garage door up four inches for air flow. The space on the right was reserved for my new 1986 Dodge Daytona Turbo-Z with T-tops and the Carroll Shelby handling package. Bright red, of course. The left side housed Lenore’s 1980 VW Scirocco in flat, boring grey. The mattresses fit nicely between the vehicles.
Dragging our tired selves out of the front seats we hear only a lone cicada and the distinctive eight hoots of barred owls calling to mate or date. One sounded like it had perched in a tree just behind the house – while the matching hoots came from way back up in the woods, “Your place or mine tonight?”
“ Hoo, hoo are you?”
Lenore remarked, “What’s that smell?”
Clearly it involved more the fresh night air. We lifted the Dodge’s garage door and the poodles came rushing out to greet us and absorb the hugs that we had at the ready. But something was wrong. Initially I thought there might be an electrical fire. The odor was so caustic and strong it stung the mucous membranes. A pungent concentration of the odor seemed to be coming directly from Arrakis. We turned on the lights. And Lenore answered her own question saying softly with angst, “Skunk.”
Arrakis had been sprayed. Kaiser still smelled like poodle. After considerable jumping and wagging of tails the dogs were delivered to the laundry room for quarantine. I grabbed a flashlight and began to study the garage interior when I heard something rustling along the back wall. It seemed to scurry behind some boxes and I was sure that this was the skunk that had been cowering in the corner since being scared odorless by two dogs in the darkness. I immediately turned off the lights, left the garage door open and went into the house. The dogs would sleep on the laundry room floor that night. Lenore and I crashed in a king-size way. Mañana is soon enough for me.
Our morning sniffing of Arrakis led us to conclude the strongest stench was on his head. We agreed that in all likelihood the skunk had smelled the dog food, slipped through the four inch high opening, began chomping on the dry canine cuisine thereby waking Arrakis who then went to investigate in the pitch dark. Who was taking his food in the middle of the night? That’s when the myopic pseudo-weasel was frightened enough to let loose on whatever was growling at her.
The skunk was gone in the morning, but when I looked at the Dodge it appeared as though someone had thrown grey ink low on the driver’s door. Ouch! My baby! I was aghast. This had to be from that skunk’s two special glands. We were going to take Arrakis to the groomer to get the de-skunk-stunk-dunk, but what about the paint on my dear Daytona?
I drove to the office hoping insurance would cover the re-painting even if rodent damage is covered and skunks are not rodents.
The next morning we had to get a nose right into Arrakis’ fur to smell a tiny hint of skunk. We declared that he had been successfully de-stunked. And to my astonishment the stain on the car door had disappeared!
But the end to this story came six months later. ________________________________________________________________
Over five months passed and we began to smell something rotten in Westford. Not a strong stench at first, but over the course of two weeks it grew progressively stronger and more caustic. After a morning of sniffing we believe it comes from under the cellar stairs. But the stairs are totally closed. They would have to be dismantled to find out what’s beneath them. And how would anything get under those stairs?
I begin by removing a few risers and pointing the flashlight into the darkness. The tale is told.
The ghost of a skunk that had caused such a fuss six months earlier had come back to haunt us. Peering under the staircase we could almost taste death. Only the pelt of the animal covered its bones. No flesh had been left as the maggots were at work on the carcass and had done nature’s bidding. Furthermore, the terribly offensive odor had waned in the past few days. Decomposition complete.
How did it end for Flower the skunk? It turns out that Ms. Flower had never left the garage that warm summer night. Instead she “escaped” through a small opening at the top of the stairs and fell nine feet only to be impaled on two three-inch nails sticking up out of a piece of scrap lumber left by the builders.
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SOCIAL WORKERS 2023
Upstairs we are naked under the covers …and we freeze. Our soft, loving eyes snap wide open and become hardened orbs of fear.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Is that really my mother’s voice downstairs at the front door?
“Hello. Anybody there?”
Why is she here?
Knock-knock-knock! “Hello in there. It’s Dee.”
Had Bonnie locked the front door? Should we get dressed fast and answer the door?
No. We remain quiet and still while sexual arousal which engaged all of our senses evaporates to be replaced with a mundane fear of being “caught in the act.” Our brains now racing in high gear. Why would my mother drive half an hour to seek me out? And how would she know I’m at Mrs. Ryan’s house…in bed with Bonnie? It’s not as if we have ever done this before.
After another five minutes we hear Mom’s car as she drives away.
The high school senior in love with the gorgeous, red haired junior, Bonnie Ryan. Bonnie with those modest, smiling Irish eyes, a ready laugh and straight A’s. Her mother worked that day. Mrs. Ryan became an excellent social worker and then a seasoned supervisor. Not surprising then that after graduating from Indiana University her daughter also headed straight into her own MSW. We dated for three years before a boatload of bickering floated in between us while working together as wait staff during the summer of 1964.
That same year I met Sharon at a fraternity party on campus. Animal attraction, mating olfaction, chain reaction, consensual transaction, that special contraction and safe satisfaction. The next year we marry and when we return to Connecticut from Fort Dix, New Jersey, Sharon lands a job in social work. The following year she is earning an MSW at night. And we divorce.
Merely a year passes and I am again in love and wed to Maria from New Jersey who had recently graduated from Springfield College where she majored in …yes indeed…social work! Two years later we divorce.
Back to bachelorhood. “Playing the field.” That’s what they called it when I met Patricia Corbett, another Irish-American social worker, and we dated for three years. But I struggled to overcome what felt to me like a mismatch of “chemistry.”
To my great surprise, decades passed before I discovered the common thread connecting these four passionate, intelligent, attractive and adoring women. Social workers all and I’d never even noticed the connection.
So who was I in these failed relationships? Was I drawn to caretaker-types or were those four helping professionals attracted by me and my vulnerabilities? Could it have been both? Or had I identified a purely coincidental thread?
A product of my mother and father, I can offer some clues. Behaviors modelled for young, little Steviekins? Constant bickering, shouting, distancing, scaring, bullying, exploding, raging, tantrums. And a focus more on differences than on commonalities.
And how about behaviors not modelled at all: responsible drinking and happy couples.
There was no alcohol ever in our home. And subservient women were nowhere to be found there. My mother was not a woman to model anything other than equality with men. When she was 33 she could have taught 20-year old Gloria Steinem a thing or two. She was that advanced when I was growing up. So, my expectations of alcohol and of significant others were many degrees off course from the beginning.
At some point in each relationship – with Bonnie, Sharon, Maria, Pat – my inner child was hooked by my home-grown weaknesses. I would not tolerate the tiniest bit of bickering, shouting, distancing, scaring, bullying, exploding, raging, tantrums. I expected women to be capable of and want to do whatever my mother did. I expected alcohol to be no more than a social enzyme or a catalyst for more fun. Both expectations led to severe disappointments and pain for me and for those I held dear.
Today I believe that the social workers wanted to help me and others, and I have slowly learned to be someone who is better in relationships than were my mother and father. More tolerant, self-aware and more accepting.
I’m pleased to continue my education and to never stop learning.
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The Little House in Haddam Connecticut 2023
We called it “the little house” only after we built the “new house” about a hundred yards away in 1958 when I was just fourteen years old. And for nine years, 1949-1958, the little house was our home high above the Connecticut River Valley, south of Hartford and north of Old Saybrook – up on Turkey Hill.
At five years old I began to learn about responsibility when I walked with my mother or father on the wooded path down the steep hill and across the dirt road to the cold, clear water of a pristine woodland stream where one or two buckets of fresh spring water would be filled daily and carried up to the house for drinking, bathing, and washing of clothes and dishes. Soon I would be entrusted with the task on my own. Without running water or electricity in the first few years I found myself helping to carry water and fill the kerosene heater in the colder months. I doubt that anyone can become accustomed to the pungent odor of kerosene which smells similar to gasoline but not quite as hard hitting to the senses. Yet it may have given me a greater appreciation of the outdoors with its fresh air.
And we did not in those first few years need to sit on the cold wood seat of an outdoor toilet or outhouse. The plastic seat on our indoor, chemical toilet was cold enough. The odor from that commode was less than pleasant, if I may understate. This device held poop and pee in a large can without releasing their stench as they were covered with a milky looking chemical that masked the more offensive smells. Both pungent and antiseptic at the same time, that chemical with its odorous liquid is not something I need to ever smell again – thank you.
We managed without electricity for a year, thus adding more kerosene to the mix for lanterns. Inside of two years we enjoyed running water, a septic system, a real shower and no more trudging buckets to and from the little brook down the road. Finally the strongest scent to fill the little house became Mom’s cooking.
A very special family event when I am eight. In this photo my parents have stepped out of the little house and are ready to take me and my first sister Karen, to her baptism ceremony at the Roman Catholic Church.
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The President’s Audience
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Family_Research_Council
President Donald Trump will address the Values Voter Summit on Saturday, the White House confirmed.
#1 grandson
We had the best time with Adin last week. Visits to the Boston Aquarium, the Children’s Museum (lunch at the Barking Crab) and the Roger Williams Park Zoo
“Hello! I was going to park there.”
The best aquarium ever!
“Mmm! Wood flavored ketchup! The best!”
“SORRY! But this is much more interesting than animals. This red thing needs to be OPEN.”
“Okay. So elephants are cool too.”
Why do they call it The Barking Crab?
The Great Leveling
Nice to read Steven Pinker supporting my 2011 post as he writes, “extreme poverty has plummeted and may disappear; and both international and global inequality coefficients are in decline. Now, it’s true that the world’s poor have gotten richer in part at the expense of the American lower middle class, and if I were an American politician I would not publicly say that the tradeoff was worth it. But as citizens of the world considering humanity as a whole, we have to say that the tradeoff is worth it.” excerpted from Enlightenment Now: the Case for Reason, Science, Humanism and Progress, Pinker, 2018.
My 2011 post:
“Briefly describe how you would improve the [U.S.] economy more quickly – without a revolution.” with credit to Alan Kitty at .. [www.linkedin.com]
Wow. Lots of great ideas here. It’s like a …hmm…now, when’s the last time you heard the term “Think Tank?”
I take a MACRO-view because that is what I feel most confident in.
1. Private and government think tanks need to be given the highest priority possible. This includes 100% sharing and cooperation between both types.
2. Those organizations should focus ONLY on QOL/SOL [quality of life/standard of living] issues …in the global economy framework.
3. If we only focus on individual facets of one economy, how would we achieve any improvement in QOL/SOL which are made up of dozens of measures? It’s like trying to wave off one raindrop at a time rather than opening the umbrella.
For a decade I have been talking about what I call “The Great Leveling.” People of good-will want everyone on the planet to have high QOL/SOL. As that is happening some national/regional economies will suffer while others grow. The most developed nations might suffer the most while The Great Leveling is in process. All of this is being accelerated by global communications becoming as easy as talking with the person sitting next to you. A focus on QOL/SOL, I believe, is the best way for any developed country to identify ways to minimize relative decline and maintain strength in the global economy. * Wikipedia and the World Bank are places to start to examine QOL measures.
WHY I BELIEVE HER
I am very proud of my cousin, Barbara Buck, who had the incredible bravery to share this on her FB page:
“Why I Believe Her
“I don’t remember how, or even why, I was in that house. In the two years I’d lived next door, I’d never been inside.
I don’t remember why I was running down the dark, and darkening, hallway. Was it a game?
I don’t remember his first name. He was home from college, very tall, dark hair, he wore glasses and had on a short sleeve shirt.
In the hallway, an opening, an area with windows, and a bed.
I turned, and he was there. He picked me up and threw me – backwards – on to the bed. As he approached, he seemed to slow down, and he grew giant-tall. Suddenly, I couldn’t see or hear. My heart pounded like a wild horse set free, and I whispered, only in my head, “my heart, my heart.”
I don’t remember how I got home.
I know I told no one.
Usually brave, I became skittish. I looked over my shoulder; ran when I could have walked. I became dark, brooding.
I sat in my closet for hours. My memories suddenly had no people in them.
I don’t remember what day or month it was.
I don’t remember the season.
I don’t remember so much of that day. There are many, many days and months and years after I can’t recall.
All I remember is the terror.
The absolute helpless, powerless feeling that, against my will, I was becoming nobody.
I was 8.”
Meat
Successful Kill, early 20th Century, German East Africa
This past June there was a ton of outrage expressed online over the killing of a beautiful giraffe in South Africa by a Kentucky hunter. As I have often said “There are two sides to every story. Or is it five?” While living and working in Africa for two years I learned that many countries on that continent have successful conservation programs to protect many species including the giraffes. While I do not know the backstory of this particular hunt of an 18-year old giraffe, I do know that hunters often pay Rand or NAM$50,000-150,000 for the experience. These fees are usually a large portion of the funds required to maintain a successful conservation effort. I also know that giraffes are not an endangered species. Many of these countries have such meager tax bases that important conservation programs would not be possible without hunting fees. Usually the hides and meats of the slain animals are freely given to the poor people in local villages. A 4,000 lb. giraffe would provide nearly one ton of meat. The protein rich food rarely, if ever, goes to waste. Typically, the conservation authority plans carefully when issuing a license to hunt and animals that are too old to mate are usually targeted. I understand the emotional responses to seeing a hunter astride a dead giraffe, rhino, lion etc. The photo ops may be in poor taste, but the killing of the giraffe benefits many when the targets are selected by those managing the conservancy. I would not expect Frank Purdue to pose for press photographers with a hatchet in his hand and his boot on top of a mound of bloody chickens. Even so, I enjoyed my chicken parmesan tonight. So unless you object to a big game hunt as a strict vegetarian or vegan believing that no animal should be eaten, please consider the other side of the story. I am not a vegetarian, so I can’t claim to be horrified over hunting a giraffe. I’ve enjoyed kudu, oryx, springbok, goat, pig, ostrich, rabbit, bison, sheep, deer, turkey, chicken, beef, horse, frog and dozens of species of fish and shellfish [,,,and I may now add water buffalo raised and served hamburger-style right here in southern Ohio]. (The Mopane caterpillars… not so much.) And I appreciate how much income is required to maintain a conservancy that ensures certain species will continue to grow in numbers.
How to divide your own country
So yesterday an old college fraternity brother – call him Greg – sent an email to some buddies and the subject line brought promise of a nostalgic walk down memory lane: “Fwd: toy gun adds.”
As a boy growing up in the 50’s and loving the Cisco Kid, the Lone Ranger, Hoppalong Cassidy, Kit Carson, Roy and Dale and many more, I already had a grin of anticipation at the subject heading. You see, I had a few really swell toy guns back then, dual holsters for my six-shooters and cattle brands on my Thom McCann shoes. My cowboy hat was red felt and so neat! I had a real coonskin cap and a rubber Bowie knife (for the rubber bears in the woods). If we had to play the Injun, we’d make bows and arrows by hand.
The body of the email message contained a link to a youtube video. More anticipation. But the personal message was, “Ahh, When America was great! I can only imagine the Libs convulsing if these were aired today. Funny, the kids who grew up on this aren’t the ones shooting people. Great stuff!” I immediately came to a full and disheartening stop at the edge of the chasm ‘Greg’ had created. I didn’t even bother to view the video until today. It’s what you would have expected to see from Mattel in black and white, TV ads from the 50’s. Nostalgia. I did not convulse. Today from the White House, “We continue to see a pervasive messaging campaign by Russia to try to weaken and divide the United States.” Isn’t ‘Greg’ doing that as well?
Picture Cuba 2018
AFTER this pictorial post you will find some narrative text. Feel free to post questions and comments at the end…
Geared up for the zip line.
The beach was also beautiful!
On Papa’s bed: to the right “Hemingway, wife in plane crash” and on the left next to Ike’s photo “HEMINGWAY’S SECOND PLANE CRASH”
The art of Lester Campa [above]
Obama strolls past the sand painting in 2016.
¡ Cuba Si !
Nine Days in Cuba
When I say ¡Cuba Si! I am not speaking politically or economically. Rather I say “Cuba Yes!” for a terrific travel experience. For starters, we must thank “the agency” for making arrangements that worked perfectly for us. If you’re considering a visit to this island nation, please visit Manny and Caroline at www.cubatraveladventuresgroup.com. They set us up with Daniel to guide us and Jorge, our driver, without which we would have been wasting precious time and energy trying to figure out our itinerary, directions, transportation, dining options, etc. A guide and driver are indispensable on a first visit to Cuba.
Our flight departed 6am on 25 March via Delta Airlines from Cincinnati to ATL, then direct to Havana for two nights followed by two nights in Viñales before returning to Havana for another four nights.
Accommodations were beyond our expectations. While in the city we enjoyed a spacious master bedroom and large bath in the home of a prosperous, well-heeled woman who is a producer of live music events. This is where we stayed in Havana… Casa Odette.
Some writing by a different Odette… https://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/odette-casamayor
Day One Daniel and Jorge met us at the airport and our passage was as smooth as Cuban rum. Settled in Jorge’s taxi we headed to our accommodation at Casa Odette, met the agency’s admin who delivered our CUC’s, and soon were off to dine with a very enthusiastic and knowledgeable professor to talk about various aspects of Cuba’s economy and culture. He is political science professor and diplomat Camilo Garcia. We enjoyed our time with him and discussed Cuba’s history, government, politics, U.S.-Cuba relations, role of women in society, gender and LGBT education issues, Fidel’s Literacy Project, and Cuba’s predominant Santeria spiritual faith. And we sipped – okay, slurped – our first mojitos…mmmm! Later we danced under the stars to the salsa band Moncado…sort of like Conan O’Brien did. And we really did sip the beloved and iconic rum, Havana Club (7 Year).
While Jorge speaks no English, Daniel’s English is excellent. More importantly he is very knowledgeable. I can’t recall a question that he couldn’t answer – well a couple of times he did consult the internet on his mobile phone.
Each breakfast was prepared by our host’s staff and was consistently delicious. Typically we enjoyed fresh fruit, juice, bread or toast, cheeses, little sandwiches, scrambled eggs with bacon or ham, pastries and, of course, fresh coffee with hot milk. Every morning Jorge and Daniel would pick us up – usually at ten o’clock – to begin our adventures.
Day Two After a very fine breakfast we toured some of Havana where Daniel talked about many aspects of Cuba’s history and current conditions. Like any big city there are wide ranging conditions from serious slums to current construction and re-construction. Modern buildings were underway and old Spanish architecture was in total disrepair, perfectly gorgeous or being restored. Cuba’s violent crime rates are low and guns are in the hands of the policia aka military in this communist country. Yet there was one neighborhood where Daniel would not even drive through in daylight for fear of …what? We saw a level of police presence no different than we do in Cincinnati or Boston. (The only “assault style” weapon we saw was in the hands of an airport security guard – in Atlanta.) And we always felt relaxed without any fear of violence. The occasional Cuban might ask for a “donation” on the street, but only a few times in our seven days there.
Ernest Hemingway, 1950-1960’s American automobiles, rum and cigars are all of interest to American tourists. But we were blown away by some of the artwork, music and dancing.
“What we are doing is demanding that the Cuban government respect the basic human rights of their people,” Helen Aguirre Ferre, White House Press Director, said. Trump’s policies restrict visits by Americans that are not related to education and culture. They require a “face-to-face encounter with the people.”
No person subject to US jurisdiction can legally conduct direct financial transactions with approximately 180 business entities and sub-entities, including hotels, travel agencies and shops, because they are run by the Cuban military, intelligence and security services.
The US attempt to restrict individual trips reportedly cost Cuba about US $1.5 billion. The other political changes have resulted in economic losses for Cuba of US $4.3 billion between April 2016 and June 2017, according to the island’s National Institute of Economic Research.
Though the US represents an important tourism demographic for Cuba, its blockades still cause significant economic losses. However, tourism on the island has increased nonetheless. Last year the island broke its record when 4.7 million visitors, with Canada being the country that visits the island the most.
The markets in France, Italy, Spain, Argentina and Brazil have also shown significant growth on the island. However, the most surprising statistic of the year was the growth of Russian tourists to Cuba, which exceeded 100,000 for the first time, with 100,310 visitors as of December 18.
On Day Two we took a peek into one of Hemingway’s favorite haunts, a tiny bar called La Bodeguita El Medio. A small but enthusiastic crowd enjoyed the memorabilia and the three musicians who managed to scrape out just enough floor space and elbow room to actually play their instruments.
After a satisfying siesta we enjoyed fine food and drink at paladare El Cocinero where the Queen of Spain and Beyoncé have dined. Fish tacos and rabbit for me. (I forget what Barbara ordered.) After dinner we visited another Hemingway favorite and today’s tourist draw, Floridita, where we enjoyed a couple of daiquiris and a grovin’ band.
Day Three As always, breakfast was excellent at Casa Odette. Jorge and Daniel then whisked us away to the beautiful land of Viñales…where we were in a depression. Viñales Valley (Spanish: Valle de Viñales) is a karstic depression in Cuba. The valley has an area of 51 sq mi and is located in the Sierra de los Órganos mountains just north of Viñales in the Pinar del Río Province. For more on this World Heritage Site see http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/840
Our accommodations were in the clean, comfortable home of Lourdes and Reynaldo and their daughters. All wonderful people! Sitting on the small terrace enjoying a beautiful view, a good cigar and a Cuba libre…priceless. I must mention that while southern Ohio has lots of turkey vultures, Cuba seems to host 3-4 times as many. Not the prettiest raptors, keeping in mind that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But I always enjoy seeing them soar and glide with so little effort. They know all about the air currents and seldom even have to flap their wings to stay aloft.
*** HEADS UP! FOR MY NEXT POST WHICH WILL BE PHOTOS ONLY ***
Jose Garcia showed us how he hand rolls cigars. After smoking a fresh one I purchased twenty to share with friends in the U.S. Lunch included a scenic vista of the valley and was followed by a visit to Viñales Mural de la Prehistoria, neo-cave art on a macro scale. After dinner we were surprised to find that a couple of venues in this rural, touristy town offered up Tropicana Club style entertainment. Both nights found us dancing and enjoying a show performed by professional dancers and musicians. It was great fun!
Day Four Wednesday we hiked through the valley with Duarte, our guide for the 2-3 hour walk. We encountered a Santeria shrine in the nook of a tree and Duarte explained to us the useful plants, homeopathic remedies, crops and landscape. I was impressed by the changing colors of the earth, especially the shades of yellow and red. All week the weather was sunny with temps in the mid-70s to low 80s. The Caribbean breeze was fairly constant and the climate for sleeping was quite comfortable.
Day Five Thursday morning we said farewell to our fabulous host family and headed toward the planned community of Las Terrazas. Lester Campa welcomed us to his studio and I wish we had the funds to purchase a piece of his art. In a way, Lester Campa, 50, is a political artist, his primary subject the politics of the environment. Mr. Campa lives in Las Terrazas, a planned town built in the 1960’s and 1970’s near the ruins of a coffee plantation in the Sierra del Rosario mountains an hour west of Havana. Las Terrazas is part of an environmental center and botanical garden that specializes in nearly extinct indigenous plants. Being a communist country the entire property is owned and operated by – you guessed it – the Cuban government.
After lunch we hired a guide named Leonardo to take us on a walking tour through the forest, along with Susan and her daughter Tess who are from Arlington, Massachusetts. Afterward Barbara wanted to try the zip line. I had been on one once up in New Paltz NY, but this was a first for Barbara. It was the shorter leg of the lines because they were about to close for the day. We zipped over the lake, climbed another platform and zipped back to another point on the lake shore. “Age limit: from 2 to 80, being not recently operated and not be under the influence of alcohol and not be hypertensive.” I guess I almost qualified, right?
After a one-hour return to Havana we found were invited to a big birthday bash at Casa Odette, honoring her close friends, popular singer-musicians Polito Ibáñez and David Torrens https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrEbij2drzk They both performed for family and friends on the patio. It was a miraculous evening and so unexpected.
Day Six On Friday we did some shopping for a Polito CD. A few hours at a very beautiful beach. No coral reefs for snorkeling but I did see two lovely little white-silver fish swim past my mask. The lone pelican seemed to be happy diving for sushi. Dinner included vodka martinis! I had a seafood bisque and ground peccadillo – excellent.
Cuban beef picadillo is a traditional dish made with ground beef, potatoes, onions, garlic, cumin, bell peppers, white wine, tomato sauce, raisins, olives and capers.
Day Seven We did a little shopping for rum, cigars and gifts; had lunch at La Vitrola at Plaza Vieja. Back to Casa Odette for a nap, plus a sunset cigar on the balcony with the national beer, Cristal, while watching the vultures soar and glide to their nightly roosts. They float as high as possible to catch the warmth of the setting sun and when that is done they descend from great heights to roost in trees overnight. Dinner at Café Laurent where a solo violinist enhanced our experience by playing a lot of Sinatra. Barbara had lobster (a bit over-cooked and rubbery) and I savored a white fish covered with shrimp and mussels and for dessert a to-die-for chelos de limón. Then on to the Havana Jazz Café, another highlight of our musical adventures in Cuba.
Day Eight Easter Sunday seemed like no big deal in this country of saints. We viewed dozens of the old American cars on display, almost all of which are income vehicles aka taxis. After a siesta and dinner we soaked up some of the Buena Vista Social Club’s performance…and some rum.
Day Nine Our final morning in Havana we loved a walking visit through the neighborhood ceramic art project of the “Picasso of Cuba” José Fuster, dubbed “Fusterlandia.” More a mix of Picasso and Gaudi influences really. Amazing tile art, small to huge. We purchased two small paintings.
Later we bid farewell to Jorge and Daniel at the airport and headed to Atlanta…both of us already missing our Cuba experience and agreeing to return and see more of the island.
What's Next? ___________ 