When I moved to Washington, D.C. in 1969, my wife and I had been married a little under two years.  She was pregnant with our daughter.  My body, meanwhile, was bursting with a different kind of excitement.  I had a new, dream job at a radio station soon to initiate an all-news format in the nation’s capital.  I was 24 years old.

I had been to Washington only twice before for brief, one-day visits.  That’s all it took—I fell in love.  I actually felt it was some kind of destiny that brought me there and made it my new home.  I usually don’t believe in that way of thinking, but there was just that kind of feeling I had.

I was in awe as I wandered from one landmark to another–sites I’d seen on television were now right before me.  What I found incredible was how easy it was to tour the This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is doors-3.gifbuildings. It was as if there was so much respect for these institutions that security was not a concern.  Case in point: the front doors of the U.S. Capitol building.  You’ve all seen this side of the Capitol.  It has that long, steep flight of steps leading up to the entrance that opens into the great rotunda.  The doors feature bronze sculptures showcasing the life of Christopher Columbus.  Traffic is too busy through this passageway when the building is open, making it impossible to stop and view the doors. The doors, however, are totally visible in the evening after the building is closed. 

When I had visitors from out of town, we’d all go see the doors.  I would park my car along the curb at the bottom of the steps. We’d all get out of the car, I’d wave to the guard and tell him we were just going up to see the doors and he’d smile and wave us on.  Sometimes we walked around to the other side to see the outrageous evening view all the way to the Washington Monument.  When we were finished our tour, we’d go back down the steps, wave goodnight to the guard and drive off.  Can you imagine that?  We stood at the front door of the nation’s Capitol, free to roam around at will and no one bothered us.

In the next ten years that I lived in Washington, my exposure—and close it was at times—to all the glitz, all the glamour and all the very serious elements of how our country runs, left me with a deep appreciation for our democracy.  Likewise, my interest in the history of our country went to a whole new level.  Washington will do that to you.  And that is why I do not know how to feel this night after watching an ignorant and disrespectful mob invade the Capitol.  Yes, I feel insulted and hurt, even embarrassed for my country, but it is so much more than that…and none of it feels good.



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So Long 2020

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Just a quick note about Henri..see my posting for October 7. After a month-plus of our new parakeet (Henri) getting used to Rosemarie and me sticking our faces up to the side of his “house” and attempting to communicate simple greetings, we decided he appeared lonely. So, of course, we bought him a cage mate. She’s a gorgeous yellow with a smudge of green on her back.

Well, it was love at first flight as the two of them spent the next several days fluttering around joined at the beak and constantly attending to each other. Then one morning last week as I pulled off the covering we drape over the cage at night, there was Henri…flat out on the floor of the cage, having died sometime that night.

Well, I’ll tell you…not only was I startled, but I found the episode extremely sad. In a brief two months Henri had brought some happiness to our household which has been confined by the concerns over the corona virus and my own tedious issues following some surgery last spring.

As curious as we are, we will never know what caused Henri to die, but we’ve learned even a small little bird can make life soar, only if just briefly.


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There they were, positioned on the prestigious eye-level shelf in the freezer right next to the fresh seafood counter.  I see them there every week when I’m at the supermarket and every week I think about putting a box in my cart and every week I decide not to.  Ten bucks for four frozen crab cakes is a little much no matter how mouthwatering the picture on the box appears….and on this box, the picture is outrageous.  Take a look…

So guess what?  This week the crab cakes are on sale.  They’re knocked down to seven bucks.  I look at the picture on the box again.  They look like real crab cakes.  They wouldn’t put a phony picture on the box, would they?  Would they?  I bite (pun intended) and toss a box into my cart.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been through this routine.  Nope.  I’ve written about this before.  It’s one of my pet peeves.  It’s even one of the first things I’ll outlaw by executive order when I’m elected president.  As far as I’m concerned, when you buy a product that has its picture on the package, that picture better pretty damn well match what’s inside.  In fact, my new law would demand that all pictures on a package must be of a sample taken directly from the factory assembly line.  It is simply the right thing to do!  What you see is what you should get.

Now, the crab cakes.  They were horrendous.  Having grown up on honest-to-God Maryland crab cakes, I admit I am a bit particular.  I rarely buy them or order them at restaurants because too many times they turn out to be awful.  The picture on the “Original Recipe” box was absolutely, positively NOT a photo of the contents—not even close!   So remember…if you see my name on the ballot, vote for me and make frozen food great again!



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The day has finally come.  I would have never believed it was possible. If you have visited ‘round these parts of the Internet at this time of the year you may have the slightest memory of the annual debate my wife and I have every Christmas. It’s a cantankerous bickering we engage in, sometimes in private, others time right in the middle of holiday shopping in the busiest of locations.  And what is it we so passionately argue over?  The Christmas tree!  Rosemarie wants an artificial one; I reject anything but the real version…always have, always wiwiwiwiiiiii.  And so, this year, holiday season 2020, it has come to this:  we spent the afternoon decorating our Christmas tree…an artificial Christmas tree.  Oh the humanity!

I guess I should count my holly jolly blessings.  After all, I have won the great Christmas tree debate 52 times…in a row!  There were several factors that influenced my relinquishing my reign this year.  First of all, I’m old.  Lugging a heavy log in and out of the car, then in and out of the house does not seem as easy this year what with my spinal and back surgeries.  I am not as agile as I used to be and certainly not as strong. 

Then there is the issue of appearance.  C’mon admit it—a fake tree always looks fake…except lately.  The technology and manufacturing process have really branched out.  Some of these trees actually look real if you don’t get too close. And the ones that come pre-lit—well that’s a game-changer.  If I don’t have to string lights on the tree, you’ve got my attention.  And yes, we got a pre-lit tree.  And get this:  it has a remote control that allows you to choose eight different patterns of lights—white only, colored only, a mix of both blinking or fading in or out.  Gadzooks, it’s a cosmic Christmas experience!

The only thing that’s missing is that holiday smell of pine that works its way through the house.  Guess I’ll have to buy a smelly candle or two. Meanwhile, as I do every year, here are pictures of our annual arbor endeavor…shown in both white lights and color.  Note, even the woody driving through the branches has an artificial tree lashed to its roof this year. 

HoHoHo Everyone

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The Holidays go Viral

This is a bizarre holiday season that is unlike any we have ever experienced.  The coronavirus presents a formidable Scrooge and we have no choice but to utter bah humbug in agreement.  Rosemarie and I, as the senior members of the family, have traditionally hosted most, but not all, of the dinners.  Some credit must go to our having a table that opens for 12 place settings upon which we place family recipes that have been perfected over the years.   Regardless, there will be no holiday feasts at our house this year, nor will we attend any festivities that may be planned elsewhere.  We are extremely virus-sensitive.  Not only is our age a factor that leaves us vulnerable, but we are both having health issues that are not conducive to fending off the virus.  

Even without the virus threat the holidays would have been a logistical challenge this year.  Rosemarie and I left Fort Lauderdale after 28 years and moved across the state to the Gulf side.  Now, the family is spread all over Florida, from Davie to Jacksonville to Naples. 

So, what to do?  Well first, I am insistent that Rosemarie and I carry on with some semblance of holiday celebration if only between the two of us.  I am a traditionalist and big on nostalgia.  The thought of Thanksgiving without turkey or Christmas without presents under the tree is…well it is unacceptable is what it is.  So, the two of us—just the two of us—will proceed accordingly.

The first item on our holiday to-do list is the annual debate—make that, robust confrontation—on whether or not we buy a real or artificial Christmas tree.  I’m the naturalist and have insisted that only God and Santa Claus can make a Christmas tree and, as such, nothing but “live” shall bless our humble holiday home.  I have won the battle a relentless 52 years in a row.  Yesterday, we pondered a 7-foot phony tree on display at Costco.  I agreed the tree-making technology has improved impressively and this tree came with the lights already installed—a game changer for me.  It was the closest I’ve come to giving in to Rosemarie’s preference…but maybe I need more time.

Next, I will have to make sure everyone in the family is familiar with Zoom or Skype since we will want a video link Christmas morning.  We can have a rehearsal on Christmas Eve when all the grandchildren open the pajamas we will have sent them.  This is a Christmas tradition that Rosemarie and I are charged with every year…and yes, all but one pair have already been ordered or sit in a box in our closet waiting to be wrapped and mailed.  It’s hit or miss all the time as we guess right or wrong on sizes.  It’s easier once each child stops growing.

As for gifts for Rosemarie, that gets more difficult each year. Other than a big ticket item–say, a cruise which is out of question right now–she’s getting to be a challenge. Now that she is retired clothes for work aren’t needed and I can buy her only so much knitting wool or artist paint. Yikes, I’ve got to get thinkin’ on this one.

Well then, there’s my plan for this year’s viral holidays, so far.  I am not sure I’ve embedded enough HoHoHo yet…guess I’ll have to work on that.


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Thank you Bill The Dog

I’ve put off writing this particular posting.  The topic is not a happy one.  In fact, I’ll make the assumption that many of you have gone through the same experience.  And that is, having to put down your pet dog or cat.

Bill The Dog, as I have always referred to our 14-year-old Maltese on my postings, has been a member of our family since he was just a few weeks old. He followed Nicki, a Golden Retriever, who we also had to put down, but after only six years.  She developed throat cancer which eventually did her in.  I took her death heavily after she was put to sleep while my son and I held her.  I had never had a dog before so this episode in my life had a heavy impact beyond anything I expected. 

Bill’s death was a little different from Nicki’s.  Bill lived a normal life until age began its nasty annoyances. He had issues with arthritis, but what eventually had the greatest impact were his loss of both hearing and sight.  It was heart-breaking to watch while he would walk into walls and furniture or just stare into space.  Meanwhile, his plumbing broke down, causing daily messes that had to be cleaned up.  Rosemarie, bless her, kept the hugs coming and put up with the inconveniences.

Over the past few months, Bill developed a hacking problem that caused his ongoing panting to become audible throughout the house, especially at night when things were quiet.  He and I stayed up together on his last night…I had no choice since I am a light sleeper and could not escape his struggle to breathe. We bonded with a final bath I gave him after he messed on the floor and then proceeded to get it all over himself.

Exhausted after hours of panting heavily, he finally fell asleep around 5 in the morning.  It was off to the vet first thing after he woke up.  We left him there while they did a few tests and scoped his airway.  The results were no surprise.  His quality of life had reached the decision point and the humane choice had to be made.

Bill the Dog brought innocence into our household. While we struggled and stressed over the usual issues and ordeals of family life, Bill remained ignorant of the chaos and chose to stay cute, cuddly and showing pure happiness when someone gave him a treat. Unless you have had a pet for some time, it it difficult to explain the attachment that develops.  That first time when you arrive home and your pet is no longer there to greet you…well, that says it all.


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Since we moved last January, Rosemarie’s interest in birds has taken flight, pun intended.  There is a bountiful supply of her feathered friends to watch because our new home backs up on a reserve.  This is an area of land that the state has set aside for just being woodsy and remaining so.  This is just fine with us and I guess with the birds too.  It has, however, resulted in a new line item in the family budget, precisely a monthly 40-pound bag of wild birdseed.  So now the daily routine around these parts includes a refilling of the bird feeder and a few moments or more observing the initial feeding frenzy.

Flashback now to the late 1960s when Rosemarie and I got married and Freidmont moved into our kitchen.  Freidmont immigrated from Rosemarie’s family to ours.  Freidmont was a parakeet, but not your average, everyday parakeet.  Nooooserrie.  Freidmont could push his toys around the tabletop; he would sit on your shoulder and nibble at your ear and enunciate perfectly phrases like “hold me” and “pretty boy” and “love me” while he held your finger, fluffed up his feathers and masterbated. WHILE HE DID WHAT???  Yeah, that!

So here I was sitting in my thinking chair outside in our screened-in lanai (that’s what they call our patio in this fancy-schmancy community we live in) and I gets to thinkin’ about how much Rosemarie loved old Freidmont back in the day when he used to–well that’s been discussed already.  But golly-gee-whizz she enjoyed that pet so I thought what a great surprise it’d be if I got her a new parakeet.  And that’s how Henri was purchased, boxed up and taken home from the Petco Store down the street.  By the way, did you know there’s a shortage of parakeets goin’ on right now.  Yep, I had to go to three pet stores before I located Henri.  By the way, that’s Henri in the pictures.

Now I’ll tellyuh, Henri succeeded right off the bat, at least in one way–Rosemarie sure was surprised when she discovered him, sitting on the third-floor perch of his new, blue 3/2 wired bird house with water view and free wifi.  And I was a bit surprised, too, when I heard her talking to our niece on the phone.  “Yeah, a parakeet,” she was sayin’, “I’ll never know what was going on in that man’s brain when he bought me a parakeet.” 

Oh well, a bird in the hand is worth…what the hell is a bird in the hand worth these days?


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If there is ever some kind of sophisticated review of my works I am confident that the term, “profound,” will be noticeably absent. That said, here’s a summer rerun of a little ditty that I wrote. It appeared here on my blog back in May, 2013…

I’ve got places to go but I don’t know exactly where.

There’s no sign on the road, or map to get me there.

All I know is that I can’t stand still because things move on,

And I’ve got no choice but to be there or else be gone.

No, I don’t know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is I’ve got places to go and I’ve got to be there.


I’ve got people to meet but I don’t know who they are.

There is no list of names; some are near, some afar.

They come from different places and do different things.

Some are simple and humble, others might be kings.

No, I do not know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is I’ve got people to meet; I know they’re there.


I’ve got thoughts to think but I know not what about.

Some are simple, others more complex no doubt.

They all demand some quality time within my mind.

I suspect some individual attention of some kind.

No, I don’t know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is I’ve got thoughts to think, should I dare.


So I’ve got places to go, people to meet, and thoughts to think.

I been given no directions, no compass or charted link.

The people are diverse, the places everywhere and the thoughts are deep.

I don’t know where I’ll go, what I’ll say, or how far I’ll leap.

No, I do not know when or how, or if I must pay a fare.

All I know is these people and places and thoughts expect me there.


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So there’s this wheelchair, the one that sits in the bedroom waiting to see if the paralysis I suffered after a fall and subsequent spinal surgery last May returns and forces me to give up my walker and take a seat. This chair haunts the hell out of me, but I have no place to put it where it can’t be seen.  In fact, when I first laid eyes on it, it had a pretty profound effect on me.  I wrote about it in my June 24th posting on this blog. Today, the chair continues to be an intrusion, this time because I got to see how much it cost.

Folks on Medicare get a monthly statement that itemizes their medical expenses. It includes the cost submitted by the caretaker or provider, whether or not the Medicare Gods will sanction payment and how much.  The claim is always set substantially high by the doctors, hospitals and other providers because it is normal that Medicare will pay only a percentage of it. It’s a ridiculous game.

Unfortunately, part of our American culture is greed.  Many folks have no problem asking an exorbitant  amount of money for something they are selling.  They hope to get more than the item is worth…and often they do.  The entire medical industry is super greedy.  I’ve have had a pretty robust accumulation of medical bills this year. I am sure my caretakers will say the claims are accurate and justified. Uh-huh.

The cost of my wheelchair showed up on the Medicare statement I got today.  I won’t bother detailing the cost of the chair itself (the claim was in the thousands) along with an incredible list of options that came with it.  In fact, this wheelchair offered more options than a new automobile.  I’m surprised it didn’t come turbo-charged or with mag wheels.  It did however come with a “supplemental” back for the chair that I have never installed.  It, too, sits in the corner of the bedroom, still wrapped in sealed plastic, That’s it in the picture.  It’s a basic cushion that’s 20 inches wide, 17 inches high and 2½ inches thick.  How much do you think the provider billed Medicare for this item?  No, you’re wrong.  Medicare shelled out $260.92 for it.  The provider originally claimed it cost $425.55.  No wonder medical insurance is so outrageous.

Stupid me thinks the cushion–and all the other goods and services in the medical biz– should be priced the old fashioned way:  calculate the cost of the item to manufacturer and distribute, add on a reasonable profit and slap a price sticker on it.  “Reasonable” is the operative word there. But you know, as I do, trying to lower medical bills these days, well good luck with that.

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