Dirt Truth

After a while the soil sticks to your clothes and your skin, but you’re oddly proud. You’ve been thrusting your hands in mulch and fertilizer, flicking away the occasional slug, bug and–though you’ve been told they’re good for the plants–worm. You pack the soil around the base of a green thing, careful of the thorns. Every so often you stand back and gaze at what you’ve done, confident that by putting thing in the ground, you’ve made the world a better place.

How much better? Voltaire infamously ended Candide with a shrug: though ours is certainly not the best of all possible worlds, about the best thing you can do when bad things happen is go home and tend your garden–if you have one.

My mother had one. After a summer rainfall her rose garden smelled of coffee because she read somewhere that used Chock-Full-‘o-Nuts (the HEAVENLY Coffee, for those who remember the slogan) was a great soil enhancer. Our suburban house was on a corner bounded by three streets, so we had a little bit more than the typical quarter-acre and my mother planted it up, with a big circle of flowering annuals and perennials, a row of evergreens in the back and a few ornamental fruit trees whose rotting fruit stank up the yowling lawn mower that yours truly had to push once a week (sometimes twice in the spring and fall) while sneezing my guts out because I was allergic to just about everything that bloomed.

She even had a compost heap in distant corner by the neighbor’s fence where I dumped grass clippings, withered pieces of plants, vegetable fragments that weren’t good enough for the salad bowl and whole chunks of hedges that fell to the trimmer’s electric scream. After a while the pile would lose its fresh-cut chlorophyll aroma and become a darkening, malignant mound that gave off steam on cold winter afternoons, which, I was told, meant that all this organic matter that normal people put in the trash (except for the coffee grounds) was transforming itself into stuff she could scatter over the flower beds and around the trees next spring–with ground-up stuff that smelled like the wrong end of a cow from bags marked humus (not to be confused with the Middle Eastern bean dip).

Did the flowers bloom? I guess they did. Another of my sneezy outdoorsy jobs was watering them, after which I had to hose myself down because, as much as my mother loved fertile, loamy, fragrant dirt, she wouldn’t have it inside, unless it was in a pot nurturing a houseplant.

My mother became a member of the Pennsylvania horticultural society, attended the annual Philadelphia Flower Show religiously and filled nearly every horizontal surface of her house with plants. Some of those plants are in my house today.

And they’re doing just fine.

I did not inherit my mother’s green thumb. For many years I hated going outdoors because of my allergies. As I grew older, my allergies ebbed. I could survive the few weeks in the spring and fall with over-the-counter remedies.

Then I married my high school sweetheart, who, despite allergies, loves plants that bloom, especially roses. After buying a few supermarket bouquets, I went with her to a garden store where she took home a pot of a thorny bush called Princess Alexandra of Kent. This, she told me, was a David Austen rose, from the famed English rose breeder.

She bought bags of soil and asked my help putting it in the ground. Some of the dirt creeped under my fingernails.

The Princess, as we called her, did well for a while but, for reasons we still can’t figure out, perished. She was replaced with a Crown Princess Margreta and a Falstaff (both Austen roses). Both had slow starts. Margreta almost perished but Jan nursed her back to life.

And I bought more roses. We planted one spectacular bush called Tequila that became the marvel of the neighborhood. That led to more Austens (Windermere, the Lady Gardner, Port Sunlight and a few more Crown Princesses so we could grow them up our fence), a tree rose, a mini rose with small pink blossoms, a dwarf rose (a little larger than a mini) with orange blossoms, roses without names, roses found on a discount shelf at Home Depot, roses with such names as Paradise, Super Hero, Old Timer, Twilight Zone, Ebb Tide, Empress Josephine, Maggie, and Ringo Starr. Did you know Ringo had a rose named after him? We haven’t bought the Paul McCartney yet, but…

One rose whose name we forgot is now the Kai rose, for our grandchild.

I discovered I’m a sucker for plants with great names. In our garden is something called a Starship, a Turtle Head, a King Tut, and a Bengal Tiger. These aren’t roses. In fact, I’m not sure what they are, or what they’ll look like when they bloom.

But they’re growing and, a few days ago, when I was digging holes in the front, some people stopped and told me how nice the garden was. I invited their kids to smell the roses. “Always smell the roses,” I said, quoting a golfer who was actually misquoted (he never said anything about roses but, I guess when you’re a good golfer, people think you say marvelous things).

I stuck my nose in one of the roses and, though I’d smelled them many times, I felt like my grandchild when he ate ice cream for the first time. He said, “wow” but wow wasn’t enough.

After putting the gardening tools away, and watering the what I’d planted, I came into the house, cleaned myself up and watched the TV news. I saw terrible things happening elsewhere. If it isn’t violence, it’s horrifyingly bad weather.

We don’t get any violence on our street and, for reasons I don’t understand, the floods, tornados, hurricanes, earthquakes and forest fires have not found us. Several years ago a few feet of snow came down from the heavens. My back ached as I shoveled (a similar ache to how I feel after lifiting up big bags of ORGANIC garden soil) and I had that heartbreaking moment when I had cleared the driveway and the municipal snow plow truck roared by and put a new wall of white where I had briefly glimpsed the open road.

But I dug us out and we were okay.

I look at the news on TV, online and in the newspaper that arrives every morning, and I wonder, how are my wife and I so lucky?

Then we go outside and tend our garden.


After the Dragonfly

Running slowly, under a balmy, cloudless late-summer sky, my eyes fell on the grassy border between the wooshing traffic and my plodding feet and saw a tiny black dragonfly following me.

I looked again. It was definitely following me, buzzing fast enough over the recently mowed grass to match my plodding pace. For a moment I admired its shimmering wings and effortless grace.

Could this be my mother-in-law?

Some time ago my wife told me that, long before she passed, her mother warned her that if she could reincarnate herself, she’d come back as a dragonfly. My wife said she asked her mother why, and her mother, an Australian native known for long silences and longer distance stares that presumably connected her to her homeland, did not reply.

I’ve met people who believe in reincarnation. Some claimed they could “regress” into their past lives, in which they turned into the wide-eyed actors you see on DNA ancestry commericals, delighted to know that they were descended from severely interesting people, some of whom were royalty, heroes, famous, admirable. No one was a peasant pulling up potatoes or doing what almost everybody else was doing all the way down the evolutionary tree: hoping to outrun disease, famine and marauding armies in a desperate scramble to survive.

Reincarnation came up in a college religion class, in which my professor cleverly noted that, because more people are alive now than ever before, if every soul is unique and immortal, there simply aren’t enough to go around, unless there is a vast bank of souls somewhere all of whom have nothing to do until they’re born. Add to that the ethical judgement built into some religions: your new life depends on how nice you were in your previous existence.

If you believe that, you know that some people–I’m not saying who–deserve to come back as a bacterium.

So the dragonfly probably wasn’t my mother-in-law.

But (you think these things when you’re running and a dragonfly continues to follow you after you’ve explained it all away as a bug’s attraction to some aromatic element in your soap, shampoo, deodorant or what you ate for breakfast) how can you be so sure? Just because something doesn’t make sense now, with what you might know about the “real” world, doesn’t mean it may not make sense, somehow, with added knowledge.

The reason I was running was not to get additions–of anything. I wanted some portion of those extra pounds to leave me, the sooner, the better.

Though it would have been a treat, the dragonfly did not pause and speak to me in a noticeably Australian accent. Nor did it pause and stare off at the Melbourne streetcar line where she met my father-in-law, or back at the house I share with her daughter.

After about a hundred feet of close pursuit, the bug veered away.

I was left with a feeling that, no matter what we believe about life, death, souls and efficacy of exercise on a summer day, I was not alone.


The Other Mainstream Media

As a former member of “the media,” I still consume the news.

It wasn’t always that way. As a child, I devoured science fiction and fantasy, quickly exhausting the local library’s supply and then going on to raid the town bookstore’s wizard-and-space-ship encrusted paperbacks.

This horrified my parents, who considered themselves tethered to reality by numerous newspapers, news magazines, news radio on the car, and evening news broadcasts on TV.

Though I would eventually write news, features and arts reviews for more than 40 publications, I looked down on all journalism. Who reads yesterday’s newspaper when you can be thrilled by Jules Verne’s and H.G. Wells’ tales of submarines and time machines?

I took science fiction and fantasy so seriously that I began to write it. I sent my work to science fiction and fantasy magazines. To this day, I don’t know why every story was rejected. I worked long and hard on them.

After college I moved to Washington D.C.’s Georgetown neighborhood, where I pocketed minimal wages working in restaurants, retail shops and at the popcorn counter at a local movie theater. I wanted to be published, just to prove to myself that what I pounded out on a portable typewriter early mornings and late at night might be worth reading.

I “broke into print” with an assignment from a local “shopper” (a free publication supported by advertisements) to interview homeless people. The editor hated them and wanted me to urge residents not to put spare change in their hands. I felt differently after sitting with them, speaking with them, making dinners for them in my tiny apartment and giving away some of my clothes.

Each of the dozen or so I spoke with had a different story to tell. The stories had only one thing in common, that, when you get to know a person, no matter if that person isn’t well groomed, dresses in old clothes, hasn’t bathed recently and tells you things you may not understand–that person isn’t so different from you.

By the grace of God we go…

Was that new? Was that news? I wrote my article, showing how, despite physical appearances, we shared a common humanity with the homeless. To my surprise, the editor accepted and printed it. “All this will lead you to someplace great one day,” he assured me. Over the years I’d hear this from every publisher and editor–some of whom worked for the most prestigious publications in the world. I wasn’t merely exploited by an industry that depends on cheap, idealistic, highly motivated labor. I was gaining valuable experience, they insisted, that would “pay off” later.

It did, but not where, or how, I thought.

I got a clue when, toward the end of long day of making sandwiches, I glanced through curtains of the window of the row house next to the one that housed my apartment. An old woman in a wheel chair stared right back at me and motioned me to come to her door.

If I hadn’t interviewed those homeless people, if I wasn’t reminded of how so much of what results in success or tragedy defies easy explanation, I would have turned the key, rushed up the steps to my apartment and tried to forget about how hard I’d worked that day.

Or I would have turned to my typewriter and created another science fiction story that would never see print.

Instead I opened the woma’s front door and smelled old dust and older perfume. The wheelchair was a throne giving her a full view of the bay window. She turned her chair toward me. “Did you see the sunset?”

I recalled the undersides of the clouds turning gold and vermillion. “I think so,” I replied awkwardly. She hadn’t asked me who I was or introduced herself.

“But did you see it?” she repeated.

I was confused. “I saw some colors. I look at it some nights.”

She raised a thin arm ending in an arthritic finger pointed at the heavens and said as if it was her God-given right. “I see it every night!”

Then she smiled. I smiled back. After a few seconds of silence I mumbled nice-meeting-you and scurried out. I went up to my apartment and put a sheet of paper in the typewriter.

I didn’t make much progress because I couldn’t let go of that woman’s message: that watching the sun set is a gift that everyone deserves, and how important it is to accept that gift. Life overflows with such gifts–the sounds of birds in a tree, the giggle of a child on a playground swing, the warmth of a cup of tea held in our hands on cold day, the famous cherry blossoms that briefly transform Washington into a happy place, the sigh of wind playing with the trees at Dumbarton Oaks (a spectacular landscaped garden a few blocks from where I lived), the aroma of roasting beans wafting out of Georgetown coffee and spice shop, the sudden chill of water encircling our feet when we first reach the tideline at a beach…

These gifts are not merely sensory. Sometimes it’s the knowledge that someone we know and love is happy, or that a terrible accident has been averted. Sometimes it’s a sign that a painful wound has begun to heal.

These are the gifts that hold us together, keep us going and, perhaps, create for us a place of peace and contentment, especially when so much else around us seems to be falling apart.

I became a news consumer (to my parents’ delight) because it was a business I was in. Because I had excellent history professors in college, I became fond of history finding out with where things came from, and how our values change.

But nobody ever asked me to write about a sunset.

While waiting for my writing to take me someplace, I interviewed many famous people who were experiencing career highs. They agreed that they deserved their good fortune, having started out at the proverbial bottom, and had faith that so much hard work would take them to the top.

You hear about people getting what they deserve in the mainstream media. You also hear about people not getting what they deserve. People die in accidents, terrible storms. They come down with horrible illnesses. They’re shot by crazy people with guns. Or they’ll say something or do something wicked and seem to get away with it.

In saying this, I don’t mean to belittle or trivialize the suffering and loss that good journalists show us happens all-to-frequently where we don’t expect it. Nor am I reducing the importance of the work most journalists do, and the consequences some reporters suffer for shining a hard, bright light on injustice, malfeasance, corruption and other brutal deeds around the world. What we call the news has made vital differences throughout history. We need responsible reporting now than we ever did, with so many liars, frauds, propagandists and scammers vieing for our attention on our screens.

But sometimes, even the most attentive, concerned and compassionate media consumer needs a break. We have to turn away from the screen and seek the other mainstream media.

Which brings me to the place all that hard work took me to.

I’m lucky enough to have an outdoor deck, though you can do the same thing in front of a window, or by pausing for a moment in your daily routine to find out what else might be happening around you. Give it time. The more you sit and just watch, the more you begin to notice.

My wife puts bird seed on the deck’s railing, so we can see the family of finches, as well as pigeons, cardinals, blue birds, redwing black birds and the occasional crow, swoop in for free treats.

Over the years my wife and I have planted many different roses. It is an event when they bloom! We can smell the astonishing scent when our lillies open up, and the magnolias flower.

Beyond our fence and a line of trees is the street that, despite numerous stop signs, is used as a cheat for those who want to beat a nearby traffic light. I see big cars and small cars and trucks going so fast on that road, sometimes with the windows down and that hard driving music coming out.

The street arcs through our neighborhood of townhomes and single family pallazzos. I mow my own lawn when the neighbor’s kid forgets. The other lawns are carefully tended by guys in hats steering mowers that scuttle like black crabs. When the crabs are sent back to their trailors, the guys in hats swagger around with roaring leaf blowers so loud that it’s a wonder that the birds aren’t deaf.

The doggie parade begins on the sidewalks and trails at around 7 a.m. and continues through most of the morning, up until around 10. I can see so many different people, some with kids in strollers, some with cell phones pressed to their head, and the dogs whose slow trot signifies that all is well, especially if they can stop and sniff and…

The parade resumes from 4 p.m. to 5:30, and again from 7 to 8. Our dog has a crush on three local dogs, and makes cooing sounds for them. The rest she barks at as if the dogs are members of another political party AND THEY JUST DON’T GET IT! She has to let the world know that she’s in control of the world behind our fence.

Then come the two-legged types, the runners, the walkers and kids on bikes, skateboards and scooters. Every so often a big passenger jet climbs into the sky, or slows into a graceful glide toward the nearby airport. I’ve been on a plane flying over my neighbood, and others and I know hat’s the one thing you always think about when you’re up there looking down: who would ever want to live down there, so close to the jet that I can see who is in your swimming pool?

Sitting on my deck, I remind myself that I have arrived. In fact, I can think about the travel journalism I did and be grateful that I don’t have to put up with a zillion minor discomforts, indignities and international snark in order to write about somebody else’s idea of a great place.

I can just sit here and take in a view that changes all the time, especially at night, when tfireflies dance and he moon bathes the clouds and pine trees in a silver light. Or during the day, when I see a big thunderhead rushing in, with a gray skirt of rain below, and a gusty, angry wind turning the landscape into a square dance where you can’t hear the caller saying step this way and that, but you marvel at how everyone seems to know what to do.

All that hard work I did as a journalist has taken me to this place, where the sun will soon set,

But I won’t write about it.

Seeing it is news enough.


Birthday Tree

Some years ago I stood on the muddy banks of the Schuykill River in southwest Philadelphia and gazed, not at the industrial ruins across the water, but up at the long, verdant slope behind me. Here were the remains of a cider press, and, just beyond them, the scruffy plantings of shrubs, trees and flowering plants that had been gathered 300 years ago to become John Bartram’s Garden, the oldest botanical garden in the United States.

Created in 1728 by an American born Quaker and self-taught botanist, the fifty acre farm was an incubator for what were then considered exotic “New World” plants. Bartram and his sons regularly explored the American colonies, bringing back seeds and cuttings fof the interesting and unusual for many international patrons. Among Bartram’s patrons was King George III, and Benjamin Franklin, who would eventually help take the colonies away from the king.

Franklin often visited the garden when he was in Philadelphia, arriving by boat close to where I stood. He would have long conversations with Bartram about the natural wonders Bartram discovered.

Among those found by Bartram and his sons was one of several “curious shrubs” growing on the banks of Georgia’s Altamaha River. With its ruddy red branches, delicate white blossoms with golden centers, the specimen was uniquely beautiful. Bartram planted it in his garden and named it Franklinia Altamaha in honor of his good friend.

During subsequent southern trips, Bartram’s sons failed to find the tree growing in the wild. Additional searches by botonists who literally followed in their footsteps also had no results. Franklinia no longer existed in the wild.

The trees in Bartram’s garden thrived and remain there to this day. While Franklinia is not popular among American “garden variety” plantings, it is prized by collectors, specialty gardeners and those who like to feel that by keeping a green thing alive, they are maintaining one more natural wonder for future generations to admire.

About a year ago, a neighbor told me that, for the past 25 years, he bought and planted a different tree for his birthday. I told him the story of Franklinia. He looked at his oaks, pines, cedars, maples and cherry trees and frowned. “Don’t have that one. They’re supposed to be tough to grow.”

Last year my wife Jan got me a green Japanese maple for my birthday. I was nervous about it because, my mother was the gardener in our family. I used to have a black them but I had learned a tiny bit from Jan and had graduated to the put-it-in-the-ground-and-see-what-happens school of horticulture.

So, thanks to my Jan’s care, the tree thrived. When this year’s birthday came around, I told her the Franklinia story. I e-mailed Bartram’s Garden to find out if they shipped Franklinia saplings. Bartram’s had sold out. Our local garden supply shops didn’t have it, and didn’t want to order it. “That plant is too fussy.”

Jan made some calls and found a nursery in New Jersey that could ship us a tree in a pot. My birthday came and went and then, the tree arrived in a box.

It was in perfect health. We’re going to put it in a large pot outside and we’ll give it as much love, and fussin’, as we can.


Oh Deer

I was out with the dog, thinking of what I would do when the dog was done with her doo, when I spied two big white-tailed deer looking at me.

I could tell they were looking at me because, after the dog made her environmental contribution, one deer tensed as I reached into my pants pocket to pull out a biodegradable poo bag.

The dog glanced up at me and then caught the deer’s scent. She turned, glared and bent one foreleg, as if to say, I may be small and terminally cute, but nobody watches me poo without my knowing it.

I held the dog back because I had heard from a local naturalist that a deer will attack and stomp a dog to death if it feels threatened. This naturalist, whose full-time job is to take groups of all ages, abilities and disabilities on tours of the wilder parts of our county, told me the key to appreciating nature is to look, listen, smell (especially in the springtime) take pictures but and don’t even try to get close. Animals can carry ticks, fleas and bugs that can give you anything from Lyme Disease to Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

So much for that kid-type attitude, encouraged by so many children’s books and Disney films, that animals are just like us except they’re…animals. But, as I admired these deer from afar, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if my grown-up life were just a little bit more like my childhood, when everything was alive, everything could talk and nobody asked questions about where the hamburger came from.

If I was a regular kid-type kid, I would want to talk to those deer. The first thing I would do is wave. Then I’d slowly approach and tell the deer I’m not the neighbor who lives across the street and likes to hunt.

The deer doesn’t believe me. Right off the bat, the deer asks me. “Why do you think you’re doing us a favor by killing as many of us as possible?”

“I don’t. But those that do say they want to thin the herd so there are just enough of you to eat whatever you find in the forests and not be tempted to mess up our gardens and eat all our vegetables.”

“I wouldn’t eat your vegetables if they weren’t so good. You should take it as a compliment.” The deer looks at my pocket. “You packing? You carrying anything that needs a permit?’

I shake my head. I see a worried expression cross the deer’s muzzle.

“I’m still not understanding this hunting thing. Why is it that you like having us around and then one week comes around where you’re our worst enemy?”

“Human beings can be nice neighbors,” I say, somewhat embarrassed. “We can do nice things for each other. But then we become offended, greedy, nasty, reckless or just plain inconsiderate, and that starts us hunting.”

“Us?” the deer says, offended.

“Ourselves. We hunt each other.”

The deer tells me I should learn how to hide. “Wear camo. Move silently and fast.”

“We can do that, but, most of the time, it isn’t anything that shoots that destroys us. It’s the words.”

The deer looks at me oddly. “What did I say about moving silently? You can’t go fast if you’re talking. Move fast enough and you don’t have to listen. Just go! It works for us. It should work for you. One of these days we’ll figure this hunting season out and we will be somewhere else when the shooting starts.”

I can’t help but add, “we also have people who just go crazy and start shooting.”

“At us?”

“At everybody.”

The deer shakes his head. “We don’t do that. Life is too precious.”

I become silent and then, as it happens with any encounter with the town’s wilder inhabitants, the deer suddenly run away, back to the no-human’s land of meandering creeks and towering trees that developers didn’t cut down.


Guys and Ties

The only guys I see wearing neckties right now are politicians, newscasters and newsroom talking heads who hope we won’t notice that they have nothing to say.

I have two tie racks in my closet. I pass them as I reach for the shirts, sweaters, hoodies, jeans and other covid body decor. I know where all ties on those racks come from, starting with the solid black, a souvenir from a trip to China. Some are hand-me-downs. After my uncle died, my aunt gave a bunch to me and said “he wanted you to have these.” Others were acquired from vintage clothing shops, from department stores that have gone out of business, and discount dungeons.

I have expensive ties, too. When a guy goes into a clothing shop to buy a suit, alarms go off. You’re suddenly surrounded by shoes and belts and ties and shirts as white as the beach at high noon. They’re WAY overpriced, but they look cool together so you buy them anyway. To me, the pricey ties are no better than the cheap ones I bought on the Internet, but my wife says she can tell the difference.

What is it with guys and clothes? My father once took my brother and I to a warehouse in Northeast Philadelphia because he thought he’d get a better price on sportcoats and slacks in a building that didn’t have a carpet, three-panel mirror and a place to change in. We wriggled into all kinds of stuff behind racks of plastic-shrouded garments. My father paid for it all, including a tangle of neckties that made people blink.

Could the salesman tell that my father was color blind? Several years later I challenged my wife to search the closet and put together an ensemble for me that would include one of the North Philly Specials. She did. It worked.

Some of my ties are gifts. Guys get ties when people think we have everything. Gift ties tend to have muted colors, polite stripes, subdued patterns, and little motifs that are supposed to suggest a hobby (bicycles, guitars), an interest (a sports team logo, cars, dollar signs) or a career.

One tie I found in a used clothing store that I did not purchase had little hearts on it. These were not the cute red or pink symmetrical symbols of Valentines Day, but the real, lub-dub hearts, with a snarl of thick organic plumbing on top like the wrong kind of pasta.

I guess you would give that tie to a cardiologist. What, I wonder, would you give to a plastic surgeon, or a gastroenterologist?

One of my gift ties consists of randomly printed words. Because it is easy nowadays for people to take offense at just about anything, I have read every single word on that tie to make sure no inadvertant up-down-across–diagonal combinations would blow anybody up. So far, so good, but you never know. Wearing the wrong tie can be more than a fashion sin.

Remember power ties, those arrogant, out-of-my-way-or-I’ll-eat-your-lunch chestplates worn on chilly, air-conditioned battlefields where the goal was to make the other guy sweat?

I have only a few left. I used to wear them at lunches with editors, publishers, administrators, business types and anyone else whose superiority I had reason to doubt. Because the power food served at power lunches can drip and splatter, most of my power ties have perished heroically as they took the bullets that would have killed my shirts.

I said good-bye to those ties because, with ties, things don’t always come out in the wash. You take them to the dry cleaner. You get them back wrapped in plastic. You take the plastic off and notice that the stains are now tiny, ghostly shadows. A power tie with an ectoplasmic blotch is sad. The only thing sadder is a tie that’s badly knotted.

How many mornings have I spent in front of a mirror tying and retying the damned thing because one end was too long or the knot was lopsided or the pucker wouldn’t come out in the center?

Of course, it was a relief when the lockdown descended last year to stuff the uniforms of business, presentability, formality, pedegree, authority, propriety and hierarchy way back in the closet, and just grab a sweatshirt, T-shirt, hoodie or a pair of jeans that, as the isolation continued, began to feel tight.

I fought against my expanding waistline. I ran a mile or more each day. I watched more closely what went into my mouth. I did other exercises. I lost 20 pounds.

And then, one night, I absentmindedly buttoned up my no-iron shirt and stuffed the tails into my looser jeans. I ran my fingers through the tie rack and found one that contrasted favorably with the shirt. I swore I’d put the tie back on the rack if it gave me any trouble with the knot. The knot came out okay.

I added a sportcoat. My wife saw me and told me to wait. She ran up staris and came down a few minutes later dressed like a goddess.

I don’t remember what we ate and drank. I know things felt different, as if those slightly dressy duds that werr so useless during the pandemic suddenly transported us back to a time when things were better.

I began to dress with ties and, wouldn’t you know, I had one of those mornings (or was it an afternoon?) of tying and retying and retying some more.

Neckties can be like spoiled children. If you don’t care enough about them, they let the world know.

But when the knot and the length come as they should, the colors match (or sometimes didn’t–I have a few screaming orange ties that are the equivalent of a morning hangover cure when worn with a dark shirt) and the jacket hangs just so, you begin to understand why uncles leave ties for their nephews.

Ties are really about the future. No matter how wide, short, thin, pointed, blunt or eye-searingly loud they may be, you can trust that a day will come when that tie–yes, even THAT tie–will be the right one for you to wear.


He’s Writing Poetry Again

Turn off the laptop! Don’t go on-line!

Pick up a pencil and pound out a rhyme!

Mix those metaphors. Count out the beat.

Pile up similes. Enjamb your feet!

Hurl forth words like stones from a sling.

Demand importance from a trivial thing!

Harvest cliches that stick like burrs

And trust the dust inspiration stirs.

Now lift that veil, raise the shroud

Say on a page what you can’t say aloud

To your friends and co-workers who simply don’t get it.

You know when you’re famous one day they’ll regret it!

While you trust the dust inspiration stirs

And harvest cliches that stick like burrs.

Don’t give up! Break every rule!

Go cruisin’ for a bruisin’ on the ship of fools!

Cling to your hope. It won’t last long.

Later or sooner, you’ll hear a new song.

That sounds so much better than your loved labors lost

And sends you brooding about the awful cost

Of slicing, dicing and caking the icing

Half-baked food for the soul.

Oh come on, you say. It can’t be that bad.

A rhyme in the bush is still more than you had.

Writing is always worth doing

Even if there’s more cowing than mooing.

You never know where your words may lead

Or who listens as you read

Your rhymes to four walls, three or two.

It’s about pleasing one person, and that’s you.


Winter’s Bounty

We had so much wild, dead, ugly stuff to cut down that I had to go out and buy more of those big paper bags that are supposed to be kind to landfills.

At first, I didn’t find any bags. This was winter, with cold, brutal winds blowing big, spinning mini-tornadoes of leaves that had once looked so bright and colorful on tress. Most of what remained planted around our house had to be pruned, trimmed or pulled out before the snow came.

The largest single thing we had to take down were the tomato plants. What had started as seeds in raised beds had become a fragrant, tangled, snarled green wall at least two feet taller than I was. I watched my wife disappear behind it, the pruning shears going snick, snick, snick.

And then we discovered that what we thought was a mass of useless warm weather vegetation, was still bearing fruit. Nestled among the leads were long strands of tomatoes, most of them green, but round and ripe enough to pluck away.

As I took off one strand, and then another, I remembered a warning I had heard while watching a gardening show on TV: when harvesting, bring a bucket or a basket, because your hands will be full before you know it.

Our buckets had been put away for the winter. I found a small container. Within a minute, my wife and I filled it with bright green fruit. I emptied it on a small table top that was soon covered with several hundred under ripe tomatoes.

I wished I hadn’t put those buckets away. We used our hands to carry the tomatoes in. Then we put them in a cool, dark place to ripen. Would they taste as good as summer or autumn tomatoes?

I had to smile at how summer’s gift became winter’s bounty, not just in tomatoes, but in two important truths:

Whatever appears old, overgrown, or to have outlived its purpose, may hide surprisest may have some surprises and

Don’t be so quick to pack away your buckets. You never know when you’ll need something big to bring good things home.





Twenty Push-Ups

Sit-ups are worse: the position is uncomfortable, unusual. You’re on the floor, on your back, going just a little bit up and back, and if you hunch over or strain or let your feet fly up, you’ll hurt your back.

Push-ups give you a pumped-up sense of accomplishment while you get to know the floor below your eyes a little more intimately than you’d like. That patch of carpet, tile, wood or dirt intrudes and recedes as you go up and down, breathing in and out, but before you feel absolutely ridiculous, your pectorals firm up. It’s not quite the same as devouring too much pizza, sawing through a 32 ounce porterhouse or feeling your brain freeze as you lick the last spoonful of that super-premium ice cream pint.

No, when you do twenty push-ups, you feel like you’ve done something.

A writer I once knew–a product of Ivy League schools who ran marathons and resembled a Nietzschiean ubermench–once wrote an entire article in a highly respected newspaper about how doing push-ups made him feel “manly.”

I envied him, not because of his educational pedigree (I went to a small but significant liberal arts school in the middle of rain-soaked Ohio cornfields), or his ability to finish a marathon (the most I’d gone was about fourteen miles, when I was living at the Jersey shore and put some terrific music on my Sony Walkman, set out on a blissfully balmy day and trotted so far from my home that the only way to go back before sundown and some fool in a pick-up truck on a typically badly lit beach island causeway turned me into roadkill, was to run all the way back) or the way he would turn the heads of so many female journalists when he strode through a newsrooms.

I was jealous because he was a staff writer, that is, a full-time newspaper employee with benefits and privileges and a little head-shot above whatever he wrote, while I was a self-employed freelancer, which meant I couldn’t just dash-off a blithe-and-easy first-person piece about the blood-pumping joys of a single exercise that I had hated for most of my fat-kid existence. If I wanted to write for that newspaper, or any of the other 40 or so publications that printed my work, I had to come up with ideas that were more difficult or more interesting than what the staffers churned out, sell them to jaded editors, do the work and hope the publications paid me on time, if at all.

I also had a secret: push-ups were once MY thing! Me–a former fat kid who lost his flab by running and refusing to eat carbs for seven months–used to do as much as a hundred a time. I even won a few bets with them.

It started where many obsessions do, in college. For most of a semester I wore a cast on my arm after wrist surgery to fix an injury I had several years previously. When the cast came off, I had to prove to myself that my wrist was okay. It had stiffened up somewhat–I’d never be able to bend it in every way that I liked.

So went down on my knees, planted both hands flat on the grimy, gray tile dormitory floor and could barely do one.

I eventually worked my way up to well over 100, got bored with it and stopped doing them.

Some months ago, as part of an effort to say “no” to the aches, pains and despair that can

I went down and could barely lift myself off the floor. The next day I did two push-ups.

Lesson learned, and easily forgotten: most achievement consists of little things done regulary that accummulate to reveal unexpected strength.

Many years later, after I had let go of the reasonably good physical condition I had built up over the years, I gained weight, became more than usually grumpy, and then suffered two heart attacks.

That was five years ago. At the beginning of this year, I decided to do something about it. I went for a run every day. Now I can do eight miles at a stretch. I began to watch what I ate and lost 22 pounds. I’m hoping to shed more weight in the future.

I asked the cardiologist why, if I could run so many miles, I would quickly tire if I dug a few holes with a shovel in the garden. He said I needed isometric exercise and suggested push-ups.

You know that first one was even harder than the one I did a half century ago when my cast came off.

On the next day, the two I did after that were even harder.

You can guess the rest: I’ve finally been able to do do twenty push-ups. I don’t feel “manly.”

I just feel good.


Sock It To Me?

I put on two different socks and waited for the world to change.

I didn’t mean to wear them. I was putting my laundry away and just grabbed them. At the time, I thought they were identical. A few minutes later, when putting on my shoes, I discovered the ugly truth.

I sat there contemplating: what is the truth in this situation? Where are the facts? What is my personal connection to the historical use of hosiery?

If I looked at my socks as articles of clothing that provide warmth, insulate my skin from possibly abrassive seams and surfaces within my shoe, and serve as an interior foot covering when moving above carpetted floors, then it really shouldn’t matter if one has an obvious and dramatically different pattern than the other. From a utilitarian point of view, these two socks were providing the maximum good with the maximum benefit.

So why is it that wearing two different socks is considered egregious–a custom “outside the herd” of people form whom a matched pair is a statement of uniformity, symmetry and the rudimentary economic sufficiency to own identical pairs?

I put on my shoes and walked the dog, carefully observing, between long glimpses of seasonal splendor, and the dog’s occasional need to stop, sniff and make environmental contributions, if anyone noticed.

A police siren wailed in the distance. I reflected that when I first moved to this suburban paradise, such sounds were rare. Having seen forests removed, roads widened and blocks of apartments “on a Parisian street theme” rise from unanticipated heights, I now hear sirens at least once a day.

Do more people bring more problems? In the best of all possible worlds, would we never hear a siren because no one with authority would need to hurry to save a life or catch a law breaker.

My socks weren’t breaking a law but I recalled that one of the reasons English peasants revolted during the 13th century were laws that forbade them to wear kinds and colors of clothing. High taxes may have been more of a motivation for them to march on London, where they demanded to meet the king so they could tell young Richard II how bad things were.

Richard fearlessly rode into the thousands gathred at Smithfield, appeared to listen and then abruptly left when his soldiers could surround them and cut them down.

Socks had something to do with that, but not much.

The dog did what the dog must. We walked our customary path and returned home, where I reflected on a belief common among those in my generation who found that after embracing a “counterculture,” their world didn’t really change that much (unless they were willing to cut their hair, go back to school, get a degree in law or finance and work for the very people they protested against), so they decided to look inward and change themselves, having the faith that “incremental” changes–like that joyous, endorphin rush you get in a long run or a short yoga position–would eventually achieve what public protests, blue denim, Richard Nixon saying “Sock it to me?” on Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In, and natural foods did not.

Did wearing two different socks count as an incremental change?

I looked at my socks and waited.