TIME TO PONDER

Take the issue of grandfather clocks. When you think about it, how can something made of wood, metal, and, perhaps, plastic, be considered anything other than gender-neutral? I mean, clocks of any kind can’t be deemed male or female, can they? That makes them gender-neutral, right? 

The dictionary defines gender-neutral as “a word or expression that cannot be taken to refer to one gender only.” A good example of this is police officer instead of policeman.

Therefore, with this logic in mind, there shouldn’t be such thing as a grandfather clock. From now on, it should be called a grandperson clock. Is that politically correct? Just for the record, what is the definition of politically correct now? 

Times, they are a-changin’, but which way are they going?

Thanksgiving 2024

I have Stove Top Stuffing Mix, Idahoan (instant) Classic Mashed Potatoes, Oven Roasted Turkey Spam, and canned peas. All I need is dessert. McDonald’s Baked Apple Pies will do and I will be ready for Thanksgiving! Oh, I’m looking for partially hydrogenated gravy. Any ideas where I can find it?

THE LIMBURGER INCIDENT

The following story is about an old friend of mine from way back. Wayne Trout is no longer with us, but what an incredible character he was. If you were ever to have a gathering of friends and acquaintances and wanted it to be upbeat and successful, you just had to invite him. He was, without a doubt, the proverbial life of the party. Wayne had an incredible wit and sense of humor and, in the central Florida area, was a noted radio personality. He was one of the nicest guys I’ve ever known, too. Very down-to-earth, Wayne was the consummate social director who knew how to throw the best pool parties. All kinds of parties! For example…

Over the years, I spent a lot of Saturday afternoons with the guys at Wayne’s watching college football. Occasionally, a girl or two would slip in, but it was definitely a guy thing doing guy things (whatever that might be in today’s world.) In those days, it was sports, booze, and belching.

One day at happy hour, Wayne asked me what I was doing on Saturday. Nothing in particular, I responded. “Great,” he said, “we’re having a ‘Limburger cheese with onions on pumpernickel party’ and you’re invited. Come on over around noon.”

That meant tequila shots, too, with grapefruit instead of lemons because he had a grapefruit tree out back. Bring your own beer, of course. I had never eaten Limburger up to that point and it’s got to be one of the stinkiest cheeses on the planet. I know, because my father used to eat it when I was young, and I would have rather smelled his feet, to be honest with you.

Eventually, Saturday arrived, sooner than I had hoped, and I dressed in my stinky cheese finest. I mustered up the courage and drove through the drizzling rain to Wayne’s. He had set up a spread of cheese, sliced onions, pumpernickel bread, and the usual sides, like mayo, mustard, salt, and grapefruit slices. My understanding of the delectable cheese was that, underneath its horrid smell, it tasted a bit like heaven, and I was about to find out. Maybe heave was more like it.

One-by-one, we put our food on paper plates and found spots to eat. I will say this: I didn’t gag as I took my first bite, and it’s true, the flavor was soft and smooth. It’s exactly what I’d heard and anticipated — once you get past the smell.

That’s all we had to eat that day, as we watched football, usually the Gators. The more we ate, the easier it was to eat, if that makes sense. It’s as if the aroma simply subsided. Yup. Tequila, beer, and Limburger with raw onions! What better way to spend a rainy day?

I don’t know how many sandwiches we ate but, eventually, the food was gone, the day was winding down and, through the large plate glass living room window, the night was trying to let the darkness in. It was then that most of the married guys decided it was time to go home to their unsuspecting wives. Poor things. The rest of us just lingered for a while until Wayne exclaimed, “Let’s go to Harper’s!” Harper’s was a Winter Park neighborhood bar with an upscale French restaurant attached. The bar was a great hangout and we were all for it.

Slowly, we huddled near the front door. There must have been at least a half dozen of us. Outside, it was still drizzling. Suddenly, without warning, we got a whiff of each other, and it’s an indescribable odor I will never forget. We smelled like the concentrated dregs of… well, you don’t want to know, but it was at least six times the aroma of the smelliest of all stinky cheeses in the world, plus onions.

We looked at each other and said in unison, “Naaaah, we ain’t going anywhere.” We knew we’d have been asked to leave. No, check that. Not asked. They would have DEMANDED that we go. No telling what they’d think we’d gotten into, so we simply went back to our chairs until, one-by-one, each of us decided to go home. Our day was done. So was the night.

It was only that one time I ate Limburger cheese. It was quite an interesting experience and a quirky rite of passage, but would I do it again? Probably not. It would take a special man like Wayne to convince me and, with him, the mold was broken.

TALES FROM THE OTTER SIDE

Many years ago, two days before the first anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I went into New York City with two of my friends, Stew Bacheler and his then-wife, An. I had flown up from Florida days earlier to attend his 50th birthday party in Tom’s River, where they lived. They took me into the city a few days later to see what was going on down at Ground Zero. To say it had an affect on me would be an understatement, but after spending the morning there, we went for NY pizza – the very best in the world! – and then off to the Central Park Zoo. That’s what this little story is about… an incident at the zoo. I had never been there, so it was a nice treat.

We walked around and saw all sorts of animals; a bird sanctuary, a polar bear, seals, penguins, and many more, indoors and out. As we continued along the paths, we stumbled upon a good-sized pool of muddy water with what looked like river banks all around it. It seemed natural, too, with lots of ground areas full of plants to rest upon the shore.

There was a barrier that kept us from getting too close to the swimming creature. On the right side of us stood a few ladies caring for a handful or two of young children. I’d say they were around ten-years-old, give or take. We leaned on the barrier far enough to the left side of them that there was a nice gap between us. Just the way I liked it.

In the water was a single river otter that swam back and forth from the opposite bank to the children. Back-and-forth he went, from bank to bank. Back-and-forth. One way he would swim on his back, and the other way he would flip over and swim on his stomach. The little guy was having lots of fun exercising and entertaining the children.

I turned to my friends and said, “I’ll bet you I can make that otter swim to me.”

“Yeah, right, Dave,” was the response from both of them.

“I’m telling you, I can!” I insisted.

“Uh huh, right,” they answered in tandem.

“I’ll bet you two dollars he will swim to me or all of us.”

“OK, it’s a bet.” We shook hands and I tried to formulate an effective plan in my head. I had no idea because it was just a simple joke worth the bet. Either I would be able to talk to the animals or I’d make a fool of myself, which is usually what happens.

“Come on, Dave, this is taking too long.”

I waited until Mr. Otter was on the far side bank and then blurted out the first thing that popped into my head. It worked for Tarzan. “UNGAWA!” And just like that, the little critter immediately swam to me without missing a stroke, and he continued to do so; from the bank to me, to the bank and me. “UNGAWA! UNGAWA! And he swam to me until we walked away. So had the women and their cluster of kids. They were long gone. I guess I had ruined their little show with the otter. How selfish I was to do that. Meanwhile…

“Where’s my $2.00?” I asked as we continued to walk. Stew pulled two crisp dollars out of his pocket. Reluctantly, of course, because even I didn’t believe I was capable of luring the little guy over to our embankment.

We ambled along a few paths and, about 20 minutes later, I heard it. Those children were crossing a bridge we were about to walk under. All of them yelled over each other, UNGAWA! UNGAWA! UNGAWA! UNGAWA! UNGAWA!

We really laughed, especially me.

I said, “Could you imagine them driving back to New Jersey? In the family minivan, as those kids UNGAWA their poor mothers all the way home?”

Jack W. Little, Jr.

AFTER A LONG DAY

When I was 10-years-old and living in the small town of Ringoes, New Jersey, a restaurant called Weiner King opened in Flemington, the big town a few miles away. Quickly, it became the center of a young boy’s universe. “Can we go to the Weiner King, Mom? Please? Please?”

It was a shack in those days when customers walked up to an outside window to order. It seemed like the parking lot was always filled with cars and people whenever we went, too. It was a big hit and I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to work there. Of course, that was probably many boys’ fantasy then.

By the time 1968 rolled around and I was old enough, I decided it was now or never and my mother took me over to apply. By then, the tiny shack had been replaced with a larger building; one with an enclosed front counter and dining room on the side. Boldly and confidently, I swung open one of the front doors and walked up to the counter. A young woman came to wait on me.

“Hello,” I said, “could I please talk to the manager?” There. That wasn’t so hard.

It wasn’t long before an older man walked up to me. By old, I mean older than me. “What can I do for you.”

He looked me over and I asked him if he was hiring. “I’m looking for a job.” I made certain I looked presentable. Clean white shirt and slacks. I told him I’m a hard worker, too, but that was just around the house stuff.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t really need anyone right now.” Disappointment, for sure. He handed me an order slip and said, “Why don’t you put your name and phone number on the back and I’ll give you a call when I need someone.”

Absolutely, I thought, and wrote my info down. In those days, my handwriting was impressive. Today, it’s chicken scratch. “Thank you very much. I know you’re a busy man and I won’t keep you. I do hope to hear from you soon.”

And out I went.

The following Friday, less than a week later, the phone rang and it was Jack. “Can you start tomorrow?”

“YES, SIR!”

“Come in at 10 and wear a white shirt and nice pants.”

The next morning, I walked in wearing a tie, too. He chuckled and told me I didn’t need it and then helped tie an apron around my waist. Angie Rocco was my trainer and for the next thirteen years, on-and-off, Jack helped mold me into who I am and who I’ve been for all of my adult life.

I’ve always been cool, but Jack was cooler.

I’ve always been funny, but Jack was funnier.

I’ve always been smart, but Jack was smarter.

I’ve always been quick-witted, but Jack was faster.

I’ve always been a hard worker, but Jack worked much harder.

I’ve always been great at customer service, but Jack out-serviced me.

I’ve always been honest, and so was Jack.

He told me I was the best manager he ever had.

Well, what would you expect?

Here’s an example of his workmanship and how it affected me. I wrote it in 2012 due to fighting in the comments section of my blog; comments related to the George Zimmerman case. I tried to calm the masses:

“I took great pride in [becoming a manager] due to one thing; one person. I had the utmost respect for my boss, Jack Little, and I still do. He was the best boss a person could ever have and he helped raise me, whether he knew it or not. If I was his best manager, it was because of what he taught me as an employer, a father figure, and a decent and honest human being. It was the respect he showed others that was instilled in me. And from him, I learned how to be as cool as a cucumber under fire. Don’t panic! Think fast on your feet.

“Inherent in any business, in order to be successful, is customer service. That’s the single most important factor, especially in a restaurant, where a customer wants to walk into a clean place, filled with smiling faces eager to serve you. It’s one of the cardinal rules of the service industry; service with a smile — and what you serve had better be just as good.

“I was much younger then and it was not unusual for me to put in 80-hour workweeks; nominally, 60. I was quite sharp in those days, too. There was a time — I kid you not — that a series of events (call them major breakdowns) hit me all at once and I had to render split-second decisions. In the middle of a lunch rush, of all times, a deep fryer stopped working, a toilet overflowed, a customer complained that their order wasn’t prepared right, and two of the front counter girls decided it was the proper time to pick a fight with each other. Yup, in front of hungry customers, anxious to get their food and go back to work; customers who couldn’t care less about Debbie and Sue, nor their boneheaded boyfriends and who they flirted with.

“From Jack, I learned how to work under pressure — how to deal with the daily events in the life of a restaurateur. Find ‘em and fix ‘em fast. He also taught me how to deal with people at all levels. After all, that’s what customer service really is, but it doesn’t stop there. It also includes the interaction between employees. How can a business run smoothly if there are underlying problems?

“On that particular day, I called each girl to the back room, one at a time. By taking them out of the argument, I accomplished the first thing; they couldn’t fight. I told them that if I heard another word, I would fire them on the spot and handle the lunch rush without them. I had other boys and girls working at the time and we’d just have to work harder. Most importantly, they would be out of a job and I stressed that a thousand other kids were banging at my back door begging for work. Yes, they were kids.

“‘But, but, but,’ they tried to explain in their whiny voices, ‘Debbie did this’ and ‘Sue did that’ and each boyfriend was somehow involved. I didn’t want to hear about it.

“‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ I said, ‘but this is not the time or place. Customers don’t want to listen to your petty fights, do they?’

“Basically, all it took was a minute to talk to each of them alone and things quickly settled down. I had learned a long time ago not to take sides, too. That was most important. NEVER TAKE SIDES because, in the end, I would be the only loser. And darned if it wasn’t the truth. After the lunch rush was over and things got cleaned up, wouldn’t you just know those two girls had already patched things up? There they were, taking their lunch break together, sitting at one of the tables and laughing up a storm. It was as if nothing ever happened. Had I taken sides, I would have been the real bonehead and worthy of the title. Just like Jack said.”

Overall, there are many aspects of my life that I can directly relate to his ethics. Now retired, I’ve never had a boss that reached his level.

Today, I pay homage to the man who had more influence in my life than any other.

Jack W. Little, Jr.

June 20, 1939 — June 6, 2020

A VERY NOSY BEE

The last time I posted this was in 2015. It’s a newly edited version.

Years ago, when I worked at the Weiner King in Flemington, New Jersey, my boss, Jack Little, laid me off during summer months, usually some time in June. Former employees, high school grads, now in college, would return to their old jobs. It was a wonderful opportunity for them to work with their friends and a great opportunity for me to paint houses and businesses, and to soak up the sun and fresh air. I made a decent living doing it, I was quite good, and it was therapeutic, so it was a win/win for everyone. Come September, I’d be back slinging burgers and dogs.

One particular summer, I was painting the Weiner King at Turntable Junction, a touristy area in town with Colonial-style storefronts. Some of the people who worked there dressed in 1770s attire. Not at the Weiner King. We wore aprons. Anyway, behind the restaurant and down the embankment were railroad tracks. An old steam locomotive with antique cars would take people on scenic rides through parts of Hunterdon County. Called the Black River & Western RR, it still runs today, and the old Weiner King is now a Mexican restaurant.

Along that embankment were countless nests of ground hornets. I remember setting empty syrup bottles out the back door and they would fill up with the darn things, but it never seemed to put a dent in their population. They pestered customers but we just couldn’t get rid of them.

Generally, the hornets — we called them bees — were pretty friendly unless provoked. I got used to bees and hornets from all of the outdoor work I did, and they didn’t bother me at all. Except for this one particular afternoon when I was painting an area above the dining room. I was on the patio roof.

At some point, I decided to break for lunch. Despite having the restaurant beneath me, I had packed my own meal that day. Probably a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I unwrapped it and started to eat. Of course, the smell of food always attracted these little hornets and I’d gently wave my hand. Peacefully, of course. Eventually, they’d get the message and fly away.

But not this one pesky guy. He just kept buzzing around me and my food. No matter how much I tried, there he was. Finally, he took the message and off he went. Or so I thought. I distinctly remember that fateful moment; the kind of moment filled with so much pain, you know you’ll never, ever forget.

I took a nice, big bite out of the sandwich and was chewing away. Chewing and chewing and breathing through my nose. Mmmm… tasting and enjoying my lunch when, JUST LIKE THAT, Mr. Bee decided to buzz the right side of my face. A wing lightly brushed against my cheek, and…

I sucked him right up my right nostril. Deep into the sinus cavity. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. I knew what was about to happen. You know, when bees get angry. I gripped myself, and then, THE STING!

S-C-H-W-W-W-W-O-O-O-O-O-N-N-N-G-G-G!

Oh, the pain. Such excrutiating pain deep inside my sinuses. They swelled shut almost immediately and tears flooded down my face like a gushing waterfall. This wasn’t funny at all! But it was. I jumped up and tried to walk it off, pacing violently back and forth on the 6-pitch roof. That was all I could do. No ice or anything would help.

You know, it’s a good thing that, as a child growing up, I got over bee stings in no time. Wasps, too. I had a great immune system and never caught poison ivy. Without this innate protection, I would have been in serious trouble.

I would say it took about 15 minutes and, then, the pain was gone. My nose opened up and I was able to go back to painting, as if, nothing happened.

As I continued to paint, the bees came around again and never seemed to wonder what became of their buddy. I don’t know what happened to him, either, because he never came out. Not that I’m aware of, anyway. All I know is that, after that day, I developed an urge to eat honey and pollinate flowers.

Until the fire ants came along….

AT LEAST THE BARN DOOR WASN'T OPEN

All of the time spent working at the Weiner King helped me grow as a person, and I credit Jack Little for much of the good instilled in me. Not all, mind you, but a lot, because they were my formative years. I’m certain thousands of young people who passed through those doors would say the same thing.

§

You can’t run a restaurant business without maintaining a loyal base of customers, and the Weiner King was no exception. For over a decade, it was the center of my ever growing universe, and I got to meet a lot of interesting people. This is a short story about one of them. I don’t remember his name, but I’m sure I knew it back in those days. Jack made it a point to say hello to as many people as he could. Subsequently, we all did. Most of our regulars appreciated being acknowledged; some more than others.

This particular guy was an engineer of some kind, so he was a little bit different, but not in a bad way. I think his brain was floating around in a loftier place than mine. Quirky? I wouldn’t quite describe him as that. Intelligent? Yes, very, and he was friendly. Anyway, he usually came in every week and, sometimes, more than once.

Generally, Jack and I worked the grills; one day burgers and the next day, hot dogs. Sometimes, we’d change things up and head to the front to greet customers and take their orders. It was great to interact with as many people as we could, and it was a nice break from cooking.

During the lunch rush, we usually had two cash registers running and the lines were sometimes quite long. Waiting in my line was the engineer. Eventually, he made it to the register. He had a mustache and long beard that I’d have to describe as a cross between Hemingway and Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top fame. Dark, but with a good touch of gray.

I took his ‘to go’ order and, while counting out change, made small talk. Yes, I’d have to describe it as rather personal, but it did have to do with food. Kind of. In a roundabout sort of way.

“You had scrambled eggs for breakfast, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. How do you know?”

I pointed to my imaginary beard and nodded. (I didn’t even have a mustache back then.) Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed. Clearly, he was agitated and mumbled a few choice words under that hair.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, because I could clearly see I upset him.

“NO! NO! NO! It’s not you. I’ve been at work since 8 o’clock this morning and not one single coworker said anything.” It’s like having spinach or poppy seeds in your teeth and you expect someone to tell you.

Since he had no problem with me, I decided to make light of it. “Can I have it? I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”

That caused him to laugh. Oh well… all in a day’s work. After the transaction, he disappeared into the crowd, waiting for his number to be called. When he came back to grab his lunch order, we acknowledged each other. The tasty-looking egg morsel was gone. Darn. Anyway, he remained a loyal customer, but never told me how he handled it at work. And I never asked.

Of all embarrassing moments in life, I sure am glad I never had to tell a customer “your barn door is open.” Then, I’d have to tell him “you’d better close it before the pony gets out.”

AN ACT OF KINDNESS

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fan of the ”Empress of Soul” and I think her powerful rendition of the National Anthem at the recent Super Bowl (LIII) stole the entire show — before the game ever began. Gladys Knight, to me, is a national treasure and seeing her Sunday evening reminded me of an interesting experience I had years ago.

This is a Weiner King story. Kind of. Sort of. But not really. Jack opened one at an old Burger Chef in Warminster, PA, in the mid-70s or so. I worked with him to set the place up and hire employees. When it opened, I managed it until it was franchised. I’m pretty sure I lived in Sergeantsville, NJ, in those days and was still heavily into my MGB-GT phase. A few years earlier, I had purchased a beautiful red 1971 and totaled it some time later. Fortunately, I was able to keep it at a local body shop, where my father had a front-end alignment business. Eventually, I found a dull-colored, silver-gray, 1969 model that had a tired engine in dire need of a wiring harness. Hey, the price was right and I worked on my own cars back then. With MGs, you had to. In due time, everything came together. I took the perfect engine out of the wreck and put it in the ‘69. I found a harness at a garage that came out of a 1970 model. Unfortunately, those silly British changed their wiring schematic diagram color codes every single year and it took Stew Bacheler and me three days to get the alternator connected correctly. It sat in his garage in Three Bridges until we got it right. Meanwhile, before I did anything at all, that car was my daily driver and, of course, some of the gauges didn’t work. Because of that, I never knew how much gas was in the tank, so I topped it off quite often. Well, most of the time.

One fateful morning, I cruised over the Delaware River, probably across the Washington Crossing Bridge, which would have been one of my alternate routes, but I’m not sure why. Stockton or Lambertville would have been more convenient, especially the 202 bridge, except it was toll. About a half mile, maybe less, into Bucks County, PA, the car decided to spit, sputter, and roll to a stop directly in front of a mansion-like house. Oh, great, I thought, whoever lives there is going to take one look at my car and tell me to get help somewhere else.

I remember parking as close to the edge of the road as possible. Trees lined the front yard. There were mounds of snow on the ground from a storm long gone, left in the chilled shadows of those trees. Pockets of dirty snow were scattered everywhere I drove, but I don’t remember it being bitterly cold.

I walked up the long driveway and knocked on the huge door, not knowing what to expect, other than a person with money. The door swung open and there stood a tall man, whisking eggs in a big bowl.

“Can I help you with something,” he asked, with a slight look of apprehension.

“Yes, my car ran out of gas.” I pointed to the car, which was almost unnoticeable between the snow and trees. “Could I please use your phone? I’ll pay you.”

It took a few seconds. “Ahhh, yes! An MGB-GT.” That broke the ice, so to speak. “I’ve owned one or two. Come on in…” MG owners were part of a club. I followed him to the kitchen. What a beautiful house! “I’m making a vegetable omelet. Would you like some? There’s plenty.”

I declined. “Thank you, but you eat.” It was nice enough of him to invite me into his home and I certainly didn’t intend to interrupt him. While he prepped, cooked, and ate his breakfast, we made small talk. He asked me about the car. He asked me about my job. I told him about Flemington and Warminster. I asked him if he had ever heard of the Weiner King. I asked him about his job.

When he finished eating, we got down to business. We went outside and he opened the garage door. There sat a beautiful Jaguar sedan. He put a 5 gallon metal gas can in the trunk, pulled out the car and told me to hop in.

“There’s a station across the river. I’ll give you a ride there and you can walk back. Just put the can in front of the garage when you’re finished.” I knew he had things to do and I needed to get to work. Halfway across the bridge, he said, “Look, it’s too cold out. I’ll give you a ride back.”

I filled the can and carefully placed it in the trunk. We got back to his place and off he went. I couldn’t thank him enough. When I finished pouring the gas in the tank, I placed the can in front of the garage door and headed on down the road.

I never forgot that day, nor the gracious man who helped me, and from that day forward, I developed a stronger appreciation for Gladys Knight and her music. Despite never seeing her in concert, it was on that particular morning that I got to know one of her Pips.

FLUOROURACIL, Topical Cream USP 5%

That’s the generic form of Carac, which, in my case, is used to treat basal cell cancers and precancerous cells on my body. I use it on my head.

I saw my dermatologist this morning. I’ve got quite a few things going on up there that warranted nitrogen freezes or the fluorouracil lotion. We opted for the lotion. I think it’s because my head would have hurt too much from all of those freezes, which feel an awful lot like second degree burns. A new prescription was sent to the pharmacy because the old one expired.

As I was getting ready to leave, I told him I’m growing a veritable basal garden on top of my head. He and his nurse got a big kick out of it. Oh, my silly humor.

Just remember to watch your sun exposure or you’ll end up like me. The last time I had my head cut open, the surgeon sternly told me, as he stapled it shut, that cancer is cancer and it’s something to never take lightly. While I might kid around with my doctor, I take it very seriously and that’s why I see him every six months and will for the rest of my life.

Jack Little and Watergate

The young man on the left in this newspaper clipping is my old boss at the Weiner King, Jack Little. I cannot stress enough that Jack was the best boss in the world, with an incredible work ethic, and I’m positive I’m not alone in that regard.

Jack got his degree in economics (if my memory serves me correctly) at Wooster College in Ohio, so he was a natural when it came to running a business that only handled cash. His years at the restaurant are legendary.

Back in the 1970s, I was Jack’s right hand man and many people who were customers remember me from those early days in Flemington, NJ. To me, the Weiner King was the center of the universe, but I recognized that so much more was going on around me, especially in the news.

In June of 1972, burglars broke into the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate Hotel complex in Washington, D.C. For the next two years, that break-in and the Vietnam War were what dominated the television screen. President Nixon and many of his closest advisers obstructed justice, especially Nixon, when he chose to pay off the burglars to keep them quiet. He almost got away with it; almost, that is, until his White House council, John Dean, testified in front of Congress. Right in the thick of the cover-up, he chose to tell the truth, and the rest is history. Nixon resigned in August of 1974.

What’s Watergate (or better yet, John Dean) have to do with my old boss, Jack? While everyone knew about Watergate, including him, he didn’t get to pay much attention to it because he worked sixteen hours a day, almost every day. He had a small B&W television in the back room that was primarily for sports — the Mets and the Jets — and every so often, we’d put Walter Cronkite on.

My second nature was, and remains, to saturate my mind with current events. That included Watergate. One afternoon, I asked Jack if he had seen any of the John Dean testimony that was taking place in June of 1973. It spelled doom for the president.

“No, but my roommate at college was a guy named John Dean.”

That statement, all of a sudden, piqued my interest and I went on a mission to find out if there was a connection between Watergate and Wooster. Wooster and Watergate.

But how was I supposed to find out? In those days, we were many years away from the Internet, let alone Google. I had to look the old-fashioned way… by going to Higgins News Agency on Main Street in downtown Flemington. A friendly place, the family had no problem with people browsing through newspapers and magazines. A neighborhood hub, there was no other store like it. I don’t remember how many titles I searched through — Time magazine, the New York Times, the Courier News, the Easton Express — the list could go on and on. One day, I found it.

The Watergate John Dean was Jack’s college roommate.

I couldn’t wait to tell him the exciting news. “Jack! That’s the same guy!” I brought proof to show him. “Is this him?”

He paused to look. “Well, I’ll be darned. Yup, that’s him.” And he went back to work. (Later on, we did talk about it.)

I guess I could have simply shown him a picture instead of doing all that work, but I needed to do research, just to prove it. Of course, I never doubted Jack from the beginning, but it’s part of my makeup. It’s part of my work ethic… the one Jack Little taught me.

Blacking Out? Or Seeing Red?

I stopped drinking alcohol a long time ago. As a matter of fact, I quit smoking eleven years ago this month, and alcohol, soon after. Mine was due to health reasons or I’d still have an occasional beer and shot of tequila. With lemon, not lime. No salt.

It was never a problem getting hold of a bottle of rot gut, like Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill or Ripple, when I wasn’t quite of legal age. When I was old enough, I graduated to better quality stuff.

One thing I never, ever did… I never blacked out. Oh, I might have fallen asleep a few times, but there’s a big difference. Right now, if any of my old friends were to insist they saw me blacked out, I’d get pretty upset, and I’d fire back.

How dare you say that about me when you were so drunk you didn’t even know what you were doing. I mean, get real. Who do you think I was drinking with? Sober witnesses?

When I sat in the courtroom, there were scumbags out to destroy my reputation. There’s always people like that. What do you call them?

“Knechel was snoring in the courtroom again. The deputies had to throw his drunk ass out.”

“People complained about his smell. He reeked of alcohol.”

You know, there were a few idiots who believed what was written about me because those trolls said ‘they were there in the courtroom.’ But maybe they weren’t. It certainly wasn’t the truth.

Until I hardened myself, it hurt. I learned that there were always going to be people who believe only what they want, and I had to put up a wall and ignore them and their incessant badgering. I focused on my writing, and if you disagreed with it, that’s what was worth discussing!

Chefs Not Included

I don’t understand what’s going on in the marketing world of restaurants. Times have really, really changed. I mean, back in the days when I was in that field - Weiner King in Flemington, NJ, to be precise, we bought our vegetables from Williams Brothers Produce in town. You know, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and the like. You ordered a hot dog with onions or a burger with tomatoes, we slapped it on the bun, and not one single customer ever asked us where any of it came from. Of course, New Jersey was known to grow the best tomatoes in the Solanum lycopersicum universe, and I recall New York City delis bragging that they served “Fresh Jersey Tomatoes,” plucked from directly across the Hudson River. My guess is that those NYC restaurants were the first to come close to using the newfangled term: Locally Sourced.

“Locally Sourced” seems to be in vogue these days, as if it somehow makes the food we eat better, but that’s not necessarily true. Yes, one could readily surmise that the more local it is, the fresher it is, but it doesn’t make it tastier. One of the problems is that produce is seasonal. During winter months, the sign in that NY deli offering fresh Jersey tomatoes would have to be tucked away because they don’t grow that time of year. Not there. Florida has good tomatoes, but they don’t hold a candle to New Jersey’s. It’s the rich soil that makes the difference. Regardless, off-season produce would have to come from other parts of the country or }])SHUDDER([{ the world, jetted in daily. Or the restaurant would have to stop serving salads; salads as they should be according to Panera. Unless they grow hydroponic produce, but I’m not going to go there. You’d think they have gardens out back.

New Jersey is not known as the onion capital of the northeast. Granted, it’s not called the Garden State for no reason, but I vividly remember the days when Jack Little, my boss, practically filled the back room with bag-after-bag of Vidalia onions, one of the best in the world. Vidalia is exclusive to the state of Georgia. Jack hoarded them because they were (and still are) the gold standard, and they have a long shelf life. Meats, on the other hand, are altogether different. I question them. What difference does it make where it comes from when the locally sourced steak you’re eating is aged beef anyway? Some states aren’t cattle producers. Should that mean that restaurants in those states shouldn’t serve what’s not “Locally Gathered,” another term du jour?

I don’t know, nor do I care. I have no problem with fare coming from local sources or from far away, like Kobi beef. I’m more inclined to support all farmers, preferably American, not just ones down the street. Like everyone else, I want it to be fresh and tasty, but I’m not going to give one place a higher standing because it’s locally sourced, which is, to me, superfluous fluff – the marketing phase we’re going through right now. You want to know what else is superfluous fluff?

Do you remember the days when Subway referred to their employees as Sandwich Artists? I got the biggest kick out of it because I was a genuine artist; the kind that made a living at it. Real art. Artists create art, and a sandwich is simply something you eat, not art. (Cake decorators are artists.) Today, restaurants claim that they serve you HANDCRAFTED SANDWICHES and meals. What the hay? Are robots now making sandwiches? No, and anyone can slice a locally gathered tomato. Anyone can chop a locally gathered onion. For as long as I can remember, I could slap mustard on bread. What’s so handcrafted about that? It’s just a simple sandwich! Calling this type of worker an artist is demeaning to me. It’s used to make it seem as if your sandwich was gently created from scratch in a backroom somewhere, fresh bread just brought out of the oven, where food artisans fastidiously design your meal while listening to New Age music. It’s pure Zen. Have you ever been in a restaurant kitchen in the middle of a huge lunch rush? The only thing that’s artistic about it is their use of colorful language.

Anyway, what’s next? Just like everything else, we are equal, right? That means we are all artists. There’s no difference between Van Gogh and the Reuben you were just served. It means that the person working on my car… Well, let me just say this and you decide whether it’s ridiculous or not:

“I went to a locally sourced mechanic, where he handcrafted new front brakes on my artisanal automobile. My mechanic is a repair artist!”

Does it sound… Well, it is ridiculous, and that’s precisely my point. It’s food for thought written by a genuine lexicon artist.

The man who struck out...

This is a story about Charles Franklin Glazner

Way back when, over thirty years ago, I made the rounds when it came to watering holes. I had an old friend, Wayne Trout, who said on many occasions, “If you stay inside your triangle, you’ll never get in trouble.” What he meant by that was simple. Your home and two bars made up the triangle. If you ventured outside of it, your risk of getting pulled over increased. While I quit drinking years ago, I did my best to follow Wayne’s rule.

One of the establishments in my triangle was the Tap Room at Dubsdread Golf Course, a city owned 18-hole facility located in College Park, a very nice suburb of Orlando. The Tap Room was always a friendly place to drink and I had the occasion to eat a delicious lunch there a few weeks ago. It brought back many memories of when it was one of my old haunts; my old drinking friends, and one person in particular… Charlie Glazner, who passed away in 1989 at the grand old age of 95.

For years, two framed pictures hung on a wall above the bar. They were pictures of Charlie from many years past, in uniform, and they were no longer there. No one knew what I was talking about when I asked employees, including the owner, Steve Gunter, truly a really nice and helpful guy. No wonder the restaurant is such a huge success.

Charlie was a grand old fellow and we had many wonderful conversations over the years. One time, he lamented about how disappointed he was; that his mind was still so sharp, but his body was wearing out. (I do recall driving on Interstate 4 through downtown Orlando one afternoon when a car came whizzing by. It was him, and I was speeding. He must have been 90 at the time. And doing 90.)

Charlie had been a professional golfer. That was his second career. The city of Orlando gave him a lifetime membership to Dubsdread. I don’t know if he got the key to the city, but he could play golf any time he wanted. Free. And if you had a 9:00 o’clock tee time, you’d have to wait if he wanted to play. Without a doubt, he still had that swing.

Those two pictures on the wall were from the 1920s, when he was a right-handed pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Philadelphia Phillies. He last pitched on September 24, 1924. Charlie had 266 career strikeouts, and there’s one more important fact that intrigued me.

In all of my 65 years, I’ve met some interesting sports figures, including Arnold Raymond Cream, otherwise known as Jersey Joe Walcott when he was the NJ state boxing commissioner. A consummate gentleman, he beat Joe Louis in a title fight. I used to pal around with Davey Johnson back in the day, and even tried on his 1986 World Series ring. Nick Buoniconti, part of the Miami Dolphins perfect season, was as down to earth as they get. I could name more, like golfers and NBA players, but why gloat? This is about one man, a living legend when I knew him.

In the 1920s, Charlie was known as Whitey Glazner. One day, I walked up to him and asked, “Charlie? In all my years of knowing you, I never shook your hand. Can we do that?”

“Why, Dave? We’ve known each other for many years. Why do you want to shake my hand?”

“Because I want to shake the hand that struck out Babe Ruth.”

All these years later, his handshake still means a lot to me.

Traumatic fact du jour

Those beautiful ruby slippers Dorothy wore in the 1939 movie, The Wizard of Oz? I hate to burst the Good Witch’s bubble, but those slippers weren’t made of rubies at all.

I doubt many of you have read L. Frank Baum’s book. Had you, you’d know that the slippers were made of silver. They were made of rubies in the movie to take advantage of the wonderful marvels of the new technology of the time, Technicolor.

Get rid of the name Oscar*

I never cared about award shows and this weekend welcomes the grandperson** of them all, the Oscars. Whoopee! People are people and we all sit on the Jane the same way (is it fair to only call it the masculine John? If yes, then I’m calling it what it is: blatant discrimination against people named John.)

So, why do these shows exist? After all, if the country truly is trending toward equality and democratic socialism/communism, why are there ceremonies handing out manly looking statues with a masculine name?

Equality means that Jennifer Lawrence is no different from the person who was the Employee of the Month, now serving your salad, right? You can enjoy a salad as much as a movie. Which one is more satisfying? Which one costs more? Why does a “star” make more money than a fast food server when equality also means sharing the wealth? No more Employee of the Month, either. Everyone is the same.

If there is no longer a difference between genders, especially in California, where the award show is always held, why are there separate Best Actor and Best Actress categories? What is the gender-fluid word for an actor/actress?

A performer?

Why not a Best Performer award, no matter what the gender du jour?

Get rid of biased award shows or make them gender-neutral.

*My parody

**Notice I didn’t say granddaddy.

ONE HAIR BEARD

When I was a boy, I’d sometimes watch my father stand at the bathroom sink doing one of his daily rituals. He’d shave. Back then, he used a natural bristle brush with a wooden handle, shaving soap, and a straight edge razor. To me, with only peach fuzz to claim, shaving was a rite of passage I couldn’t wait for. Only then would I be a real man. Even girls go through some kind of… hmmm… it’s not the same thing, but we all go through periods of pubescence.

One day, probably when I was around nine-years-old, he let me stand on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror, lather up, and slide his razor across my cheeks to “shave.” Without a blade, of course. For a fleeting moment, I felt older.

When I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, a lone hair sprouted out of my chin. I woke up one morning and there it was, my very own facial hair. For real. Suddenly, I felt a little bit closer to manhood. I was maturing. It was about a quarter of an inch long and I wasn’t about to lop it off. It was my machismo mark; the leap to future strength and optimum virility. It was there for the world to see! So I let it grow. And grow. All of my relatives saw it and said something. Yes, I was glad they noticed. It grew some more.

“You must be proud of that lonely hair,” my grandfather once remarked. Darn right I was!

Fortunately for me, it grew during the summer recess months, so not many of my classmates saw it.

Then…

One morning, I got up, looked in the mirror and the darned thing was at least three inches long with a light curl or two. What was I trying to do? The more I looked at it, the more ridiculous it appeared. The more ridiculous I felt inside.

“This is stupid looking,” I thought, so I got my father’s old razor out of the medicine cabinet and chopped it off. Gone!

That morning, I became mature enough to realize how dumb I looked. Just who was I trying to impress besides myself? I knew then that I had made the transition from boyhood to – well, I wasn’t really sure yet because… I was still waiting for my voice to change!

GREETINGS FROM ST. EFFENSTINE

Back in the 1990s, I dated a woman whose father owned a house right on the ocean, just south of St. Augustine. We used to spend weekends there when we could. Her young daughter would usually invite one of her classmates to come with us and it was always a fun time. We’d leave on Friday after work, grab some grub, and settle in to watch movies rented from Blockbuster. The next day, we’d cross the Bridge of Lions into the oldest city in the country, where we never ran out of things to see and do.

One particular Saturday, we decided to go to the Lightner Museum. Generally speaking, children don’t want to do that. They want to go to the Castillo de San Marcos National Park, the St. Augustine Alligator Farm and Zoological Park, or Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Things like that. Nope, not this time. This time we’re going to the museum. Kids need their culture, too, you know.

There’s not much I remember about our trip to the museum that day except for when we were just about ready to leave. That’s when we stopped at the gift shop. While moseying around, her daughter called me over to the postcard rack; you know, the kind that spins around. Of course, being the adult and all, I tried to ignore her while acknowledging her at the same time.

“Dave! Dave!” she insisted, “Come here. You need to see this!”

I hesitated, but finally relented.

“OK,” I responded. “What are you trying to show me?”

“A postcard. You’ve got to see it!” Slowly, I shuffled my way over to her. “Look!”

She thrust the postcard into my hand. Hmmm… I studied and studied it and saw nothing unusual.

“Look closely. Look at the girl in the back seat. You’ll see it.”

Suddenly, it hit me and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

“WOW” I exclaimed. “This is quite a find.”

Speaking of finds, I was going through my closet last week, looking for suits and jackets to get rid of. I went through the pockets, not knowing if there was anything in them or not. Then, I found this…

A genuine St. Augustine promotional postcard! It’s so long ago, I don’t remember buying it, but there it was, back in my hands, some 25 years later.

The Times They Are a-Changin'...

I have a Sam’s Club membership. There’s a store in Fern Park, not far from where I live, that is closing. I’m saddened by it because I’ve been shopping there for years. It was a great place to buy bulk items like toilet paper, paper towels, cat litter, and salt for the water softener. Of course, their $4.98 rotisserie chickens are legendary, and it was nice to be able to sample food – and buy it! I also liked the prices of some of the OTC meds, vitamins, and supplements. Oh, yes, I’m going to miss it.

Yesterday, the store was open to get rid of existing stock. Many of the shelves were bare, but I managed to spend $93 with a 25% discount. On Wednesday, it goes to 50%, if anything is left. At some point, it goes to 75%, but I don’t remember which day.

I spoke to a manager while there, despite it being rather harried. From initial news reports, 63 stores were going to close, including my store. “Were going to close” is the key phrase here, because that’s not really what happened. The Fern Park location abruptly locked its doors on Thursday and some news outlets reported that employees went to work as usual, only to find locked doors. They had no idea what was going on.

While it’s true that they went to work not knowing anything, the manager, who came from another location to help out, said that, one-by-one, they were ushered inside where they were told what was going on in a meeting. Everyone else – those on different shifts and working different schedules – were called on the phone.

He said that there are 174 associates working that store and they were given employment options. They could go to the three other Sam’s Club stores to work, or move to area Walmarts. No one, he said, would lose their jobs if they choose to transfer.

Some of the soon-to-be shuttered stores will turn into distribution centers to accommodate online sales and shipping. He said that the Fern Park location will just vacate. It’s a huge building. 

The problem with my store came down to saturation. While sales and volume are keys to success, corporate determined that membership had reached its peak. It had no room to grow, and membership is what drives the stores. The store had stagnated, like 62 others around the country.

Oh well, there’s another one nine or ten miles away. I will give it a try and determine whether it’s worth the annual $45 price tag.

As usual, when leaving the store, there’s a person at the exit who checks out your purchase against the receipt. I’ve known this woman for a long time and felt sad for her. I asked her whether she was going to transfer. She said she’s been with the company for thirty years. No, she said. It’s as if she’s being forced out. Blame it on Amazon, I told her. Yes, The Times They Are a-Changin’…

The Daily Kos

THE FUR TOPPED BOOTS

It’s been two-and-a-half years since I lost my close friend, Doris Willman. June 25, 2015. Not one single day goes by that I don’t think about her. She wrote the following story many years ago and, just before she left, we talked about republishing it that holiday season. It is an honor and privilege to bring you her story once again. I don’t know when it was written, but please enjoy it. She was a very special lady and I’m so proud to have known her…

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THE FUR TOPPED BOOTS

By Doris Willman

[Here is a story I wrote when I was a member of an Amateur Writer’s Club…got 2nd prize, probably because I had all the judges in tears. lol] The Fur Topped Boots

AWC-02

Christmas was only two weeks away. As I sat by the window watching the snowflakes make their lazy descent to the ground, I was suddenly drawn into my past - to a girl of seven who was waiting for the arrival of Saint Nick. The memories came flooding back. I became that little girl again…

The snow was falling and I was thinking I could make a snowman if enough snow stayed on the ground. Snowball fights were lots of fun too, but my older brother always chucked his too hard. When I started crying, Mom would make us stop.

My dog, Patsy, was much more fun than Charlie, chasing and trying to catch the snowballs. When I went sledding, she would chase the sled and try to pull me off. If she succeeded, I would hug her and rub snow on her face.

I found Mom sitting at the kitchen table looking at the Eaton’s catalogue and writing things on a piece of paper. There was a worried look on her face, almost sad at times, as Christmas drew nearer. I heard her telling Dad that there just wasn’t enough money to go around. I had printed my name beside the fur-topped boots on page 32 and wondered if Mom would notice. She would be even sadder if she knew how much I really wanted those boots.

Patsy and I went outside to play in the fluffy white snow. I lay down to make an angel. Patsy tried to lick my face so I gave her a big push and she rolled over. She could make a dog angel.

When Dad came home from work, we went to the hen pen and I gathered eggs while Dad gave them clean water and wheat. I wondered which hen would be our Christmas dinner, and decided it would likely be an old one who didn’t lay eggs any more. As usual, Mom would say, “How can I cook this tough old thing?”, but it was always delicious with stuffing and cranberry jelly.

On Christmas Eve, I helped Mom put the pretty balls on the tree and decorate the house with red and green crepe paper chains. Some big parcels had arrived in the mail and I knew that they were filled with presents from my auntie Grace. I didn’t dare snoop in them because Mom would get mad at me.

Dad said, “Santa’s coming down the chimney tonight. You better get busy and write a letter to him.”

Well I sort of knew who Santa was, but in case I was wrong, I thought I’d better write that letter. The light from the kerosene lamp was poor but I pulled my paper close and wrote: “Dear Santa, bring me anything you want and bring something for my brother and mom and dad. Mom will leave you gingerbread and a cup of water. Love, Sarah” Then I put my letter inside of Dad’s big wool sock and set it by the tree.

That night, lying on the soft feather tick, I said a prayer to Santa. I didn’t figure God would mind. I asked Santa to try and bring me the black boots with the soft fur, which were on page 32 of the big catalogue, because I hated having cold feet. When I fell asleep, I dreamed of walking in the boots on top of big snow drifts.

On Christmas morning, Charlie and I raced to get our socks from under the tree. Reaching in, I pulled out a big red apple, a large orange and some nuts, but I loved the barley toys and ribbon candy best of all.

Next came the present opening. Dad found socks in his, while Mom had some nice smelling powder and a pretty handkerchief. Auntie Grace had given me some tinker toys and a pair of mittens. Charlie was happy when he opened up the plasticene.

I emptied the tinker toys out of the can and started to put them together.

Suddenly, Mom said, “Sarah, look. There’s a present still under the tree. You are the smallest, can you crawl under and get it?”

The present was wrapped in pretty red tissue paper with a big Santa Claus seal stuck to the front.

“Hey, Mom, it has Sarah printed on it!” I exclaimed.

“Well, open it up!”

I tore off the paper and opened the box. Inside were the fur-topped black boots. I took them out and rubbed the fur all over my face. They were as soft as I knew they would be.

I was so excited, I gave Mom a big hug and kiss, although I didn’t understand why she had tears in her eyes. I kissed Dad and Patsy, and I even kissed Charlie.

Suddenly, the oven timer sounded and brought me back to the present, but I will always remember that Christmas and the feel of the soft fur atop those little black boots.

SOCKS APPEAL

I’m always out looking for a girlfriend and every time I think I’ve found the right one, they get to know me and… and… and…

Well, it never seems to work out. Maybe, just maybe… my new one will love me for who I am – a soft, cuddly, sensitive, caring, honest and funny, all around good guy. “Funny” being the key word. I can only hope.

This morning, we were on the phone talking and I was telling her about doing my laundry and how I fold my shirts a certain way before hanging them up in the bedroom closet. You know, the usual routine. She mentioned a few things and one thing led to another.

I think it’s fair to say that everyone has some sort of quirky behavior, right? Peculiarities and the like, and I’m not talking about the bedroom variety. I mean in everyday life. Growing up, for instance, she knew women who starched and ironed their husbands’ t-shirts and handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs, for crying out loud! I remember those days. My father always carried one and I thought it was a hideous practice to pull it out of the back pocket of their pants, blow their nose into it, and stuff it back into their pocket for God knows how long. Days and days. Enough of that.

I mentioned something – and I don’t think I’m alone – that I like to do. I only wear dark cotton socks. No matter what. No whites for me! Nothing wrong with that, I suspect. But I like to iron them. I own a sock iron, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. It’s the best thing I ever invested my money in. Not only do I iron my socks, I collect them. Most of them are folded on special sock hangars in my closet, bought and paid for on Amazon Prime. They’re easy to iron except for the pleated ones.

Yes, I own scores and scores of pleated socks. Boy, are they difficult to iron.

She told me she had to go and hung up. Now, she’s not answering her phone. Do you think she’ll call back?