Peace Be With Us

 

April 19, 2020; Second Sunday of Easter

John 20:19-31

I have red hair, when I was young, it was really red…and I was often reminded of this fact, by strangers, old ladies at church, and bullies.

One day, when I was in second grade, I ran afoul of said bullies, and after letting them know that I did not appreciate their teasing, they offered to meet up with me after school to discuss the situation further: a classic set up, right out of the movies.

However, it was not quite as much fun in real life.

So, when school ended, I found myself sheltering in place. I was smart enough to stay near the office, but could see the bullies loitering just outside. I knew I was safe for the moment, but would not be able to stay there for long, and was thinking of an exit strategy, but not coming up with anything practical.

All I knew was that it was not safe to go outside.

I was thinking about my chances of taking another exit, thinking they could not be watching both the front and back doors at the same time…right? Then I saw a rattling old ’65 Valiant pull up to the curb!

It was my big brother Pete!

I was not expecting him, but my mother had asked him to pick me up after school, because there was big news!

When I walked out of the school, the bullies approached, but Pete saw them and told them to “get lost” and they backed away!

I was safe, at least for that afternoon!

When I got home, my mother told me I was changing schools!

(Yes, this really happened)

I would have to get used to a ‘new normal’ but at least those bullies wouldn’t bother me again!

And I knew that no matter what happened, that I would always have someone watching my back, always have someone to support me…just like Pete did, when he chased off the bullies.

In today’s Gospel, we find the disciples, also sheltering in place.

They were afraid to go out…because it was dangerous out there.

I remember hearing this Gospel in church, as a child, and thinking that they lacked faith in God, faith in the words of Jesus.

Wondering why they did not go out boldly and stand up their bullies…although I used caution with my own.

Looking down on them because they were afraid, and hiding.

However, these were thoughts of a child, and I was mistaken. For the disciples, going out WAS dangerous!

It would have put their lives, and the lives of those they loved, at risk because the same people who had executed Jesus wanted to kill them as well!

So, the disciples stayed hidden, and waited until it was safe to go outside; although they did not know when that would be.

While in hiding behind locked doors, they did their best to make sense of everything that had happened:

The arrest, torture and death of Jesus, the threats given by those in power, and now, the stories of his return! None of it made any sense, no wonder the disciples were afraid and confused.

They were facing an uncertain future. They knew it would be different, but had no idea what it would be like…yet.

But, for the moment, they knew it was better for them to play it safe, and stay in hiding.

There are some of us who may be able to relate to how the disciples were feeling on this evening.

Then, in the midst of their fear, sorrow and confusion, Jesus was with them!

And he appeared right when they needed him!

Just like my brother Pete did on that afternoon!

On this evening, the disciples needed hope, they needed to have something to give them peace, they needed Jesus!

He knew this, and so the first thing Jesus said to them was “Peace be with you”.

Usually, it is a simple greeting, but here, in the midst of their hiding place, these words became something more!

The last thing the disciples were feeling at that moment was peace.

Jesus’ greeting was also a sincere wish calm, a message of hope in the midst of a very difficult time.

Telling them, “Peace be with you” was a way of letting the disciples know that they were not alone, that God was still with them…that the promise of Christ, the promise of new life, was at hand…and this was reason for peace!

And this gift was given to them…and to all of us!

Then, Jesus asks us all to go out into the world, to tell others the good news, to share this gift of peace with a troubled world.

It is not an easy task, as our world is unsettled, and not everyone wants to hear this message of peace, nor does everyone want to hear the about God’s presence in our world.

The disciples would discover this for themselves, and that is why their road was not an easy one, but Jesus never promised that following him would be easy. There were plenty of reasons for them to have fear and uncertainty, but in the words of Jesus: “Peace be with you” there is hope, and strength.

Because with these words, Jesus is reminding the disciples that they are not alone, that they were part of the miracle of the Resurrection.

That faith can overcome fear.

Our lives are not easy either, even without a pandemic there are plenty of reasons to feel fear and uncertainty…

And at a time like this, it is even more important to be at peace, to seek out the faith that can quiet our fear, the hope that is found in knowing that God’s love surrounds always.

It is also important to remember that not only did Jesus wish us peace, but he also called upon us to be peace in our world…and to share this gift with our troubled world.

For the more we share God’s love and grace with each other the stronger it grows!

When we show compassion to those who are struggling, offer comfort to those who mourn, we are sharing our faith, faith that speaks to fear and uncertainty.

It is together that we will find the peace that we need to face the challenges of today, together that we will become the peace we need to move forward into our new normal…as we adjust to a new way of life in the wake of the virus.

In our new normal, it will be even more important for us to watch out for each other; not only to share this peace, but to be that peace!

May the peace of the Lord be with us all.

The Biologicals

I have wondered about them my whole life, who they were, what happened, if they were still alive, and if I had any siblings.

As I grew up, I made up some fantastic scenarios, like imagining that they were rich or had become famous, powerful, or even notorious. However, as I got older, I my speculations became more realistic, and figured that they were either young people who got in over their heads, and/or that there was probably some kind of substance abuse involved.

When I was in my late teens, I learned that the latter was closer to the truth when my adoptive parents told me that I had been abused as an infant, which was why I was put up for adoption to begin with.

It turns out that the abuse was so bad that the neighbors called the police, who took me to the Emergency Room at what eventually became The University of Medicine & Dentistry of New Jersey. It was November of 1963, and I was six months old. While there, I was seen by a doctor, a well-known Orthopedic surgeon who knew the signs of abuse and took custody of me and treated my injuries free of charge, just as he had with other abused children…and he also made sure that my biological parents never got me back.

This was quite a feat for the early ‘60s, when people were not as aware of the impact of abuse, making it more difficult to take action.

When I heard this story, I finally began to see how fortunate I was to wind up with a good family, who had to tell me I was adopted, because I never felt like I was, in fact I think that even they forgot about my status.

However, in spite of knowing about the abuse, I still wondered about my birth parents.

Although a naturally curious person, my search for answers never became a burning desire, but I did some research based on what my parents knew about the Biologicals: supposedly one was into the arts, perhaps a graphic designer, they had lived in the Bronx (where I was born) and later moved to Newark NJ, where I was taken away from them. I was also told that the hospital I was born, was in the Tremont section of the Bronx, but it had burned down…and that was about all that I knew.

However, they also told me my original name…as they knew it, information which would turn out to be helpful.

As this was before the internet, my research was restricted to libraries (these were large buildings that were filled with books, magazines and all kinds of records – often municipal, though many were also found at schools). At the college where my dad taught, I searched through birth announcements in the micro-fiche of the New York Times, Daily News and the New York Post, from May of 1963, but found nothing.

The East Orange Public Library was actually less helpful, and a bit creepy, as it was a nice place for the homeless to hang out during the cold days of winter, who were better than the teenagers who went there to cut classes.

Later, when I moved to Staten Island and started working in Manhattan, I spent some time at the New York Public Library, where I looked up birth records, and actually found a listing that could have mine, everything fit, except that the name was wrong!

I later found out that my parents were given the wrong name by the adoption agency, it wasn’t my name, but that of my biological father.

After my trip to the library, my search stalled as life took me on all kinds of new adventures, including working on Wall Street, my own Substance Abuse, marriage, Sobriety and parenthood!

Then, in the late 90’s I read an article about the Kessler Institute, founded by the doctor who saved my life, and I reached out to the hospital telling my story as I knew it…and heard nothing, for a while. Then, one evening, I got a call from Dr. Kessler’s personal assistant, who sounded on the verge of tears as she told me “…you must have been one of the babies that I bought clothes for!”

She went on to explain that most of the babies that he saved from abuse arrived with nothing but a diaper and a blanket, meaning that she often had to go out and buy clothing for the children.

We had a nice conversation, but I did not learn anything new about the Biologicals, as she was retired and did not have access to any records, and even if she did, some of the information was considered private, and it would have been hard to figure out which baby I was. Dr. Kessler had helped many children, not only victims of abuse like myself, but also those with birth defects.

Inspired by this call I began to search the nascent (to me) internet, where I found a message board (this was way before Face Book) where I posted what information I had learned about my past on the site, asking if anyone knew my story. Then I pretty much forgot about it…for two years.

Two very eventful years, during which I lost a family member, my marriage, and discovered the joys of single parenting. Then, out of the blue, I got an email!

The writer introduced himself as ‘Bob’, and said that he thought he might be my biological father. In the email he confirmed some of what I wrote in the posting, and then he provided some information that I hadn’t supplied, but which fit what I already knew!

After a few more emails, we decided to have a phone call. During our phone conversations, Bob filled me in on some family history. He told me neither of them were artists; however, my biological mother had been an aspiring dancer. She was also troubled with mental health issues, and yes…substance abuse. During their marriage she fell deeper into Addiction, got involved with some “strange people” and eventually died from her Addiction before she turned 40 (years after I had been taken away). Of course, Bob made it a point to tell me that he had nothing to do with the abuse.

As Bob told it, he was working long hours in Manhattan while living in Newark, having left The Bronx shortly after I was born (he did not explain why, but my guess is that things were already getting out of hand there and drew the attention of the authorities). He claimed that the abuse happened while he was at work and that he had no idea (I was doubtful, considering the extent of my injuries, and knowing that it is easy to blame someone who is dead). Supposedly, the neighbors heard the noise, the sound of me being abused and screaming, and they finally had enough and called the Police.

I was about six months old when I was taken away from them.

I find it hard to believe that such abuse took place without Bob’s knowledge; however, I did not press the issue when we talked on the phone.

Bob also told me about his second wife, his two sons with her (my half-brothers), and his life since I was taken out of it. He told me about his family, who were all from the Fall River Massachusetts area, how his mother was still alive and in her 90s, etc.

He also mentioned that (as far as he knew) my ancestry was mostly Irish, Eastern European (possibly Ukrainian) and a smidge of French Canadian.

Note that I have yet to take one of those DNA tests to see if he told me the truth.

After talking with Bob on the phone a few times, I was confident enough in his story to agree to meet him. He explained that he would be driving up the Northeast Extension of the Turnpike while returning home to New York State, from a trip to Florida, and we decided it would be a good opportunity to meet.

Before the meeting, I went to see my mother (the one who raised me, put up with me and loved me) and told her about Bob. I remember that she was anxious about the meeting, at the time I wondered if it was because she was feeling jealous, but now I realize that she was afraid about opening old and painful wounds.

In a rare show of common sense, I figured that it would be best if I didn’t meet Bob alone, so I asked one of my best friends to come along with me, this also allowed me to take my daughter along…knowing that there would be safety in numbers.

Of course, I was feeling very anxious about the meeting myself, as I was not sure what to expect, and still had a lot of questions…like whether or not Bob was REALLY my Biological Father.

This, I had to take on faith…for the time being.

That meeting took place in March of 1999, at the restaurant attached to the Best Western in Quakertown, PA.

I do not remember who got there first, our crew or Bob and one of my half-brothers. I do remember that when my friend Al first saw Bob, he picked him out right away, leaning over and whispering to me “He looks just like you!”

The meeting was friendly, we had coffee and my daughter had ice cream, while we talked and I found out some more about my biological mother’s colorful family history!

It turns out that one of my great-uncles had been convicted of murder sometime in the late 20s, and was pulled from the clutches of the electric chair twice, before having his sentence commuted to life. All in all, he wound up spending over 20 years in prison. During this time, he was befriended by Lucky Luciano, after telling him about a plot to jump him in the yard (which made his prison time easier) and he became well-known for his art work, which lead to him having his being released by the Governor of New York, for having rehabilitated himself.

There was even a movie made about him, called Convicts 4, which came out in the early 60’s!

I also learned that my great-grandfather was a bridge-tender, who won a Carnegie Award for jumping into the river in an attempt to save two girls who had fallen in and were drowning…unfortunately, the prize was awarded posthumously, as there were no survivors…but the effort was appreciated.

Although meeting Bob and my half-brother was weird and awkward, it was still an enjoyable evening, and I got a copy of the book written about my great-uncle.

However, I came away from the meeting feeling as if Bob was disappointed that I did not have any money to share with him. Throughout our conversations he continued to tell me about his money woes and how he was waiting for money from a law suit to come through…as far as I know it never did.

Shortly after the meeting, I went to see my mother, and I got down on my knees to thank her for all she and my father had done for me. I could see that I had dodged a bullet when I was taken away from my Biologicals, and adopted by my real family.

A few months after our meeting, Bob’s second wife died suddenly, and I felt it would be nice for me to go to the memorial, and offer some support. It wasn’t a bad visit – considering the reason for it, but it was still awkward, and the last time I saw Bob and my half-brothers.

And it reminded me once again of how very fortunate I was to have been made a part of my family, and I actually felt badly for my half-brothers.

I have only had a few other contacts with Bob, and have not heard from either of my half-brothers since our brief meetings. Not long after his wife passed, Bob sent a series of emails about how he had gotten involved with a Russian woman he met on the internet, and supposedly they married. It seems like she was looking forward to coming to America, but he had other ideas, as he moved to Russia for a while…I assume to escape creditors.

I got one more note from Bob, after many years of silence, when I received Birthday card that was printed in Russian, but had been mailed from North Carolina, it included good wishes, but no news…and that is where the story ends.

Or at least that is what I thought.

I came to the point where I figured that Bob had probably shuffled off this mortal coil; however, I got one of those DNA tests for Christmas, and wasted no time in submitting it. As a result, I reconnected with my half-brothers once again.

I began exchanging emails, and found out that Bob was still with us, and had a birthday coming up, and he wanted me to help celebrate. Therefore, I found myself making plans to travel down to Baltimore in mid-March, to meet up with a family I did not know.

Of course, I had not planned on a pandemic hitting around the same time. I was hesitant about making the trip, but realized that I was not sure where the crisis would leave us…so I went any way. As it turned out, it was the right move, and everything went on lock-down about a week later.

I drove down on a Sunday, and the weather and traffic were in my favor. I got there before my two step brothers, and got a chance to actually sit and talk with Bob. I took advantage of the time to ask questions about what happened to me, about my mother, and what he knew. Of course, he was not very forthcoming with details, and continued to tell me that he had not known the extent of the damage that had been done to me.

He did tell me more that my mother’s problems in life, and how he was not even sure how she died, but that no one really seemed to care about her at the end.

I was also able to offer him forgiveness…if he accepted it or not, I do not know.

What I do know is that before you can accept forgiveness, you must first admit that to what was done. I am not sure he can do that, but I did see the sadness in his eyes, and that was enough for me. Enough for me to think that maybe he understood, even if he did not say anything.

And when it comes right down to it, I have to remember that forgiveness is not about acceptance, just as it is not about saying that what was done is now all right…as if it never happened. Forgiveness is more about letting go of resentment, putting the past to rest.

After this, I also got to spend some time with my half-brothers, and get to know them…a little. We actually got to have a nice lunch together, along with Bob’s current wife, a woman from Russia, and one of their girlfriends, who helped break some of the ice. Sharing a meal is a good way to get to know each other.

I am glad I got the chance to reconnect with these people, this other part of my life, and hope to get to know them better in the future, perhaps once the pandemic is behind us…or has, as least, become manageable.

After taking the first steps in getting to know my biological family, I have come to believe, even more strongly, that any speculation I engaged in about my REAL family, when I was younger, was a waste of time. I knew my real family all along, they were the ones who raised me, were there for me, put up with my Bull Shit and loved me in spite of it all.

These are the people who gave me the best parts of who I am…and for this I will always be grateful.

I hope yo u enjoyed this essay, to read more like it, you can purchase or download the book: Ordinary Adventures from Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Ordinary-Adventures-Essays-itself-ordinary/dp/B08BWGWDXW

Independence Day

The squirrels were playing, just outside of the window. They scampered across the yard, up the tree and then back again…they were a great distraction.

It was a ground-floor room, and while he had it all to himself, he wasn’t alone…most of us were there with him, and had been throughout the vigil. The only one missing that day was one of my brothers, the plan was that he would visit the next day, the Fourth of July.

My father was fading fast, he was having trouble breathing, was on oxygen and could no longer respond. I knew that he would not like being this way, and hoped that he did not know. He was a good man, well educated, hard-working, fun, and taught Math and Computer Science at the college level.

He was also a man of faith, and dedicated to his family.

Lying in that bed, he was not the man he once was, and part of me was looking forward to his struggled being over, to his independence for Parkinson’s.

After a few hours, I said my good byes and we drove back to Staten Island to wait for the phone call we knew would be coming soon…in many ways, the waiting would be harder than the loss.

The next morning was foggy and humid, but not terribly hot.

I made myself go to one of my 12-step meetings, and the speaker was talking about the day his father died, ten years earlier, to the day: July 4^th. Coincidentally, I also heard this guy speak at my very first meeting, when his stories of being in prison for a crime committed while in a black-out, freaked me out, and I did not go to another meeting for a few weeks.

By contrast, the message he shared that morning helped me to face what was to come.

I remember getting home just before noon, thinking there would be news (there were no cell phones then), but there was nothing…I resigned myself to waiting, and tried to get on with my day. Although it was a holiday, I did not feel like celebrating and had no plans to do so. My wife (at the time) tried to be supportive, but I was on edge.

The call came early in the afternoon.

My father died just after my brother arrived, the last of our family to visit, he was able to say his good byes, and surrounded by his family (including those who could not be there) my father breathed his last and was at peace. His long battle was now finished.

Of course, I wanted to get right in the car and drive back down to South Jersey, but my mother asked me to wait, she had enough on her hands, and explained that it would be easier if I stayed home for a day or two while arrangements.

It really wasn’t that long, but as always, waiting is difficult.

After the news, we walked down the hill, near Wagner College, where I could look out over the Verrazano Bridge, and tried to see the tall ships come in for the celebration, but it was too cloudy and I could not see much. Back home, I was too wound to sit still, so we went to another meeting that afternoon, where I shared my loss and got lots of support.

After the meeting, my wife and I decided to go see one of the Lethal Weapon movies, and wound up surrounded by more of our friends from the meetings…there was no way to escape them, which was just fine with me! Then, we ended the day at a third meeting (right after the movie) and finally made it home to eat, pack up and wait some more.

That evening I also began writing a tribute to my dad, which I would read at his funeral, but this seemed far off on that long Saturday evening.

The time past, and soon we were on our way south. My mom wanted to make arrangements for us we decided to rent a motel room (choosing the same place one of my brothers was staying in), so we could have a place to take a break from the intensity. It was not the nicest place, but it worked for us, and I was glad we had our own space.

The next day, my father’s remaining brothers arrived, along with other extended family and friends, turning out mourning into kind of a reunion, as often happens. There was food and stories, and a few tears, along with preparations for the services and burial.

The funeral was nice, and very moving, with many tributes to a good man whose life was unfairly cut short by this devastating disease.

He was 76, but most of his family lived well, into their 90’s.

My father (and later my mother) was buried in Linden New Jersey. When they bought the plots, the cemetery had been close to home and surrounded by a meadows and trees, but was near highways and within sight of some refineries. Still, he had a nice spot, near some trees…and I was okay with it, as I believe that who my father was had already passed on the next world, as a spirit as strong as his could never be stilled.

We were back home that evening, but had little rest, as the next few days were spent showing the uncles around New York and other family obligations…and that was kind of fun, as we got a chance to sightsee places I would not have gone to otherwise, like Ellis Island.

It was not until the end of the week, when everyone had gone home, and my wife went back to work. I was home alone, when it all began to sink in. I remember that it was early afternoon, when I found myself contemplating a patch of sunlight on the living room floor, and felt like I could just capture that moment and hold it forever. 

That was when I realized that life would not ever be “the same”. In a few days I would go back to work, and take up the fabric of my life, but following a new thread…one which would lead to some dramatic changes.

In the years to come, more threads would be pulled, and I would come back to that moment, when all was still and quiet…and I gave myself time to grieve.

And with all the places I have been, and things I have seen since then, I still find myself returning to that little patch of sunlight from time to time, when seeking peace.

I take it as a gift, one of many, from my father.

The Party Line

It was a boring Saturday afternoon. I was about 13, and flipping through the channels when I came across a telethon, raising money for the Democratic Party.

I had a few dollars saved from my paper route, and knowing my parents and older brother were staunch Liberal Democrats, I wanted to help out so I pledged $10.00 (which I sent via money order). I was happy to be supporting the party-line.

I proudly told my big brother Paul, hoping that he would be impressed by my generosity, but instead, he seemed concerned. When I asked him about it, Paul explained that the money might go to help a Democrat that I would not like very much…like George Wallace. I had learned about Wallace in school, and during the ’72 election, and how (among other things) he literally stood in the way of school integration by standing in a door way.

I knew about Wallace, but did not know that this was indicative of the Democratic Party, at least the way it was until the middle of the 20^th century.

My brother told me how many slave-owners and those who sought to impose “Jim Crow” laws, preventing African Americans from voting, working and living as they wanted, and those who supported segregation in schools, were all Democrats! I was shocked to hear this, but have since learned how the party has evolved over the years.

Hence we can have FDR, Henry Wallace, the Kennedys and LBJ, all people who pushed for Civil Rights (some more willingly than others) in the same party with Strom Thurmond and George Wallace!

At one time, the Republican Party WAS the party of Civil Rights. It was the party of Lincoln and of Grant, who worked to give more freedom to former slaves. The Republicans were the party of reason and decency. Even Dr. King was a Registered Republican, due to their history of support for civil rights.

However, times changed, and both parties evolved.

George Wallace, Strom Thurmond and others like them were criticized more and more by the Democratic Party, as it became more Liberal after FDR.

Thurmond actually joined the Republicans, as he saw the party of Lincoln putting up more and more resistance to the changes that were inevitable in our country. As the Democrats became more Liberal and embraced many of these changes, the Republicans became more conservative and reactionary. This change can be attributed to the way the Democrats embraced change by fighting for Civil Rights.

Looking over history, we can see how both parties changed places over the years.

Although he was a registered Republican, Dr. King had grown concerned over the direction of the party as it failed to address issues of poverty, race relations and the Vietnam War. Among many other things, King was a Theologian, who saw the liberation inherent in the Gospel message of Christ. This message calls us to treat each other with compassion and understanding, with a special emphasis on caring for the poor, sick and the oppressed.

While the Democratic party is far from perfect, recently this is the party that has had the strongest voice for social justice and compassion for the poor, the sick and disenfranchised in our nation!

Sadly, the Republicans no longer follow the high ideas of Dr. King, Lincoln, Grant, and others who sought free the oppressed. In the same way the Democrats are no longer the party of the KKK or the “Dixiecrats” who were often oppressors, seeking to stop the march of freedom by standing in a doorway, burning a cross, blocking a voting booth, or out and out murder.

It frustrates me when I see people clinging to the sins of the past to justify why they are sticking so close to their party, while ignoring the misdeeds of the present; however, when I pause and step away from my own prejudices, I am led to another point of view.

Although we are in an unusual (I hope) period today, it’s important to remember that our world is constantly in flux: generations change, our population becomes more diverse, and cultural norms evolve. There is no reason to believe that the positions of the two parties could not change again, and again…or that a new party may arise.

My point, is that rather than sticking so strongly to a party, we (including myself) should be sticking more closely to our own convictions and moral compass. To follow what WE believe to be the next right thing, not what we are TOLD we have to believe by politicians who only care about the next election cycle.

Of course, sticking to our own beliefs does not mean that we need to stop listening to and talking with each other. On the contrary, when we free ourselves from the dictates of our party leaders and pundits, we also give ourselves the freedom to engage in a real conversation about how to move forward.

This is a conversation we need to have as we move into whatever the future holds for us…for as much as some may wish to avoid it, the future is on its way!

And it is something we will share together…for in the end, we are not party members, but members of something greater: humanity!

“Just Five More Minutes”

My bedroom is in the attic.

During the summer it can get very hot, with the air conditioner struggling to keep up; but as there is no heat in the room, during the winter it can get very cold. I don’t mind this, as I do have a space heater for the dog, and I really like being wrapped up in quilts on a cold night! It reminds me of when I grew up and my parents kept the house just warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing (the thermostat only went up to 60 when company was expected; however, we did have a big fireplace).

However, waking up for work on a cold morning can be difficult, especially when I can hear the wind blowing outside, and I am shocked by the cold air as I reach out to put the alarm on ‘snooze’!!

I’ll retreat back under the quilts and tell myself “five more minutes and then I’ll get up” but when the alarm rings again, I’ll hit snooze and go back to sleep…once again telling myself “five more minutes”.

And when I finally do get up, I become annoyed because I am running late.

This reminds often me of when I was a kid, and I got the warning that it was time to go to bed, and I would ask for “…just five more minutes” to finish a TV show, etc. My parents were not surprised by this plea, in fact I think they moved up my bed time to accommodate this request, which was why it was often granted, but when I asked for another ten-minute reprieve I was usually denied and told it that my time was up.

This made those extra five minutes very special to me, and I wanted to make the most of them, enjoying every second of this bonus time…and moving as slowly as possible when on my way upstairs to brush my teeth.

Often our lives can get so busy that hours and days can fly by without much of a thought, and five minutes mean so little to us, unless we are asked to wait for five minutes!

However, what if we had just five more minutes to spend with the people in our lives who have died?

I would love to spend that time with my parents, my older brother Pete, and any number of others, family and friends, who have passed away.

What would I say?

Maybe I would try to make amends for wrongs done, or just express how much I love and miss them, or we could just spend those few minutes together just hanging out and talking…who knows?

Imagine what we could do if we had five more minutes to re-think a bad decision, to take back a mistake, or if we could stop ourselves or someone close to us from being hurt?

What if we had five more minutes to spend with our children, as they were first learning to walk, or spending a long afternoon just playing?

Or what if I had five minutes to spend with my biological mother, to ask her why, and to let her know she has been forgiven?

There are many times when we find ourselves wishing that time would go by quickly: during a long work-day, in the midst of cold winter, when going through one of those ‘life on life’s terms’ periods, or when waiting for something!

We all do it, not giving a thought to how precious each moment is…how just having five more minutes to stop and breathe, to talk, to share, to love, or to heal would be a gift beyond value.

Of course, we can never have” just five more minutes”, we can’t relive the past. What’s done is done; however, we can still do our best to make things right, to heal the brokenness that can settle between us and the people in our lives…even those we love!

What we can do, is to make the most out of the next five minutes, by doing what we can to bring the warmth of hope and reconciliation to a cold and broken world…and then the five minutes after that, and so on.

Whatever it Takes

The weather reports called for another round of bad weather: snow, rain, and maybe some ice, just to make things extra special!

So, we begin to make plans, so that we have plenty of milk and bread to make it through the long hours (may as much as 12) of being snowed in. Trips to the store are made, invitations declined, gas tanks are filled up and we settle in for some binge-watching before having to go out and shovel snow (or ask my daughter’s boyfriend to do it for me).

When it gets nasty like this, I do not like to go out, unless I absolutely have to, because I hate driving in the snow and ice! If I can I will even call off of work if I know the weather will be awful, turn down invitations, and change plans!

There have been times when I was reluctant to walk down the street to church, make the short trip to visit with my girlfriend, or go to one of my 12-step meetings – even the one held just down the street.

Often this makes good sense, driving during a winter storm can be dangerous…I have even gotten seriously injured on my front walk when I slipped on the ice! However, there are times when I have used the weather as an excuse to simply stay at home.

This is significant because when I was drinking, there wasn’t much that could keep me from the love of my life: alcohol!

I remember one evening, while I was in college, and it was snowing intensely, after only a couple of hours the roads had filled with snow, all but halting all traffic! I could have happily stayed in for the night, but I had no booze, and that simply could not stand!

How could I face a snowstorm sober???

So, I put on my boots (which were not waterproof) my puffy goose-down coat (which had seen better days) and gloves, put up my hood, and ventured out into the storm! The wind was howling, driving the snow into my face like little daggers! It was coming down so quickly that the plows could not keep up with it, so I had the road to myself as I trudged along toward the liquor store!

Even in the road, the going was slow as I was walking against the wind and the snow was getting deeper all the time. When I was about halfway there, had to stop for a minute to let a plow go by, chains clinking on the road. As I stood there, I was struck by the thought that the liquor store might be closed! I pushed that horrible thought out of my head, and continued on…I was on a mission!

Due to the weather and harsh conditions, the trip took twice as long as usual. I was cold and wet and had a tough moment as I turned the corner, and it looked like the place might not be open after all! Then I saw the lights, and watched someone leaving, and I was relieved! The front of the place was a regular liquor store, but in the back was a bar. Despite the weather, and the fact that I hadn’t seen anyone other than the plow out on the roads, the bar was packed! I can still remember how warm it was in the store, the smell of cigarette smoke and the music coming from the bar…and it was almost enough to make me forget about the weather!

However, it was not enough to get me to forget about my mission!

I had been going to this place to buy beer and liquor for years. When I was a kid, I would often go with one of my brothers to buy beer or wine for a family dinner, and I would run in while he was waiting in the car, double-parked. I would point outside and tell the clerk the purchase was for him…and as it was the 70s, and he could not care less, I never had a problem when I went there, even when underage.

This time was no different, the clerk just nodded and sold me the pint bottle of cheap whiskey that I wanted, and a six of Old Milwaukee (top-shelf all the way), and I headed back out into the storm! I slogged back to the dorm, desperately trying to keep the paper grocery bag from completely disintegrating!

When I got back, I dried off, warmed up, and then proceeded to drink the pint and the beer while watching my little black and white TV, and when it was all over, I was sick, the room was spinning, and I still wanted more…instead, I just passed out!

When new in Recovery, I was told if I put half the effort into my Sobriety as I had put into getting drunk, that I would be doing sure to be a success!

Whenever I am feeling lazy, and am looking for an excuse to not do what I need to take care of myself, i.e. going to a meeting, I often remember of that long walk through the storm, just to get some cheap booze, and I think of what I was told about doing whatever it takes to stay Sober!

Sometimes I even listen to that advice and get off my butt!

Recovery has seen me through many worse storms that the one I walked through that night, giving me the tools to face some of the most awful challenges that life has thrown at me, and still stay Sober! These tools are not just the steps, but also the people (both in and out of Recovery) who have been there to support me!

In the same way, what I have faced has helped me to give support to other people who are facing some of the same challenges in their lives…and this is how we work together to not only survive the storms, but to thrive in spite of them!

One day at a time.

Going Public

There are guys sit there in the middle of Lincoln Financial Field, during a game, and not care one bit…there they would be, in all their glory, cheering on the team, happy to have such a great seat, right on the field and did not have to miss any part of the action!

I am not one of these guys! 

I am much more private in regard to these personal matters, and have never been a fan of using public facilities to participate in more focused activities. I think they are nasty, and I don’t enjoy over-sharing with others, like strangers and co-workers. This includes my family and my Significant Other – some things need to remain mysterious, even in a long-term relationship!

If it’s a routine trip, where I can remain standing, I am okay with using a public restroom. However, if it requires me to take a seat, I am less than enthusiastic. If possible, I usually wait until I get home, or at least at a more suitable location.

This has tended to be problematic, especially when on a long road-trip, like when driving out to South Dakota or down to Florida. I got exposed to many gas station restrooms during these trips, and one that was still segregated in 1971…where I drank out of the ‘wrong’ water fountain because I was a kid and it was lower to the ground.

The water tasted just fine.

This quirk of mine was also a problem at Summer Camp, where the facilities were cleaned by High School and College students making some summer cash, and more interested in hanging out with their friends once work was done! With dirty cement floors, half-cleaned utilities, and open to insects, the worst part was having the other kids know exactly what was going on in the stalls! This is why I did my best to find some alone time!

At camp our time was structured, and to have the bathroom all to myself, I’d have to sneak off during free-time, when everyone else was playing softball or exploring the woods. I would hope that no one else had the same idea, and that it was relatively clean…although there were weeks when these opportunities only presented themselves once or twice, and I only found relief when I made it home!

When I went camping with my family, if there was one available, I could sneak over to the bath-house later in the evening, or early in the morning, and would usually have the place to myself, though it was still gross, at least I was alone.

However, when we went camping in the Maine woods, I was presented with another challenge: having to use an outhouse!

I have often thought that I would not have lived long if I had been born 100 years earlier, because outhouses are really disgusting: the smell, the dirt, the bugs…and did I mention the smell?

During that week in Maine there was no other choice! I was reluctant to use the outhouse to begin with, and then my brother Pete warned me to be careful because that the pit might have raccoons living in it. When he saw that this scared me (I was 7) he added that it was probably okay, because the snakes might have eaten them all!

I became very close to nature that week, and am still surprised that I didn’t wind up with a case of poison ivy!

However, there was one outhouse that I was okay with…because I helped to build it!

Some friends had a place in Massachusetts, it was basically half of an old house. The previous owner was going to add an addition, but for some reason the project was abandoned. This left the house without adequate bathroom facilities (if it ever had them) so on our first visit, I got to help dig the hole and build the privy out of logs! I did not mind using that one…at least when it was new!

While I am not sure where my aversion to public toilets came from, a contributing factor could be trauma suffered as a young child.

When I was very little (preschool age) my friends and I would tag along with our mothers on their shopping trips. We’d often get lunch out of the deal, and get to play on the coin operated rides outside of the Acme, as well as just generally get into trouble.

After drinking lots of soda, the inevitable would occur, and we’d have to visit the facilities. Stores like Korevettes or Two Guys had pay toilets, so our mothers would give us each a dime; however, since we wanted to keep the money for candy, we would usually slide underneath the stall doors!

We thought we were so clever, and we got away with it, we were little kids, so no one really cared. This plane worked out just fine…until it did not!

The one time that this plan did not work out so well led to some ‘unfortunate’ consequences and it was the last time I ever tried defraud the pay-toilet industry.

I am sure that this incident had a negative impact on my opinion of public restrooms, but this is not the only reason, there were other unpleasant events that I have encountered during my time here on earth.

In fact, there are some bathrooms I would not even use in a dire emergency.

The facilities at the Staten Island Ferry terminals and the Port Authority are atrocious. People actually live in some of the stalls! And then there were the bar bathrooms that were equally horrific! Most of these were unisex and only had room for one person and the cockroaches, but this did not stop me from using the back of the tank to do lines of cocaine!

One of the worst bar bathrooms I ever encounter was at Studio 54. I went there for a work event, the club was a shadow of what it used to be, and on its last legs! The signs denoting gender were largely ignored, which was understandable because the bathrooms no longer had any doors, and neither did the stalls! Everything was sticky, and there were all sorts of inappropriate activities going on in there!

Unfortunately, there are very few public facilities in New York City, this along with being under the influence of drugs and alcohol led to some choices that were not very well thought out.

The fact that this is no longer an issue is another gift of Sobriety, it is amazing how that solved so many of life’s nuisances.

However, there are some nicer public restrooms in the city, like the big one in Times Square (my has THAT area changed) and two spots with very nice facilities are in 30 Rockefeller Center  and the Empire State Building (although these can be hard to find), and the higher-priced mid-town hotels have even nicer facilities…these are actually tolerable!

And before you ask: I have never used the facilities in Trump Tower, although I was once briefly in the lobby, and thought I saw a bad comb-over through the crowd, but I may have been mistaken.

Train stations, museums, shopping malls, and retail stores usually have tolerable facilities; however, I am sure that many of these now have cameras in them, for security reasons. This assumption is based on anecdotal evidence provided by certain associates who have availed themselves of the restrooms at Walmart, only to have been confronted by store security upon exiting, and then invited to chat with representatives of local law enforcement.

The acceptability of work bathrooms can be a toss-up.

Most are fairly well maintained, but I have been in some where the sinks turned into fountains, and the floor was always wet with trash on the floors. There were stalls were coated with filth and graffiti, and many that were clean in the morning, but a disaster by noon.

Once, when I worked in an old office building in Lower Manhattan, one of the ‘units’ in the Men’s Room had a plumbing issue that lasted for months, unfortunately, its integrity had been ‘compromised’ prior to being closed off. The stall was sealed with tape and plastic, but the oblivious (or curious) found their way inside, and the conditions found inside were very troubling. The bathroom also smelled terrible and there were flies but it seemed that the roaches and rats were too grossed out and stayed away.

Fortunately, I had networked my way into the ‘executive’ facilities on the next floor up. These were not all that much nicer, but they were cleaner and did not stink as much. Our Men’s room remained unusable for several months, until a VP walked into it, and walked right out, that a cleaning crew and a plumber were called in.

Speaking of which, it is important that we recognize those brave people who are tasked with keeping these bathrooms clean.

To this day, although I am a Middle-Aged man, with many years Sober, who has been married, divorced, raised a child, held many jobs and earned two degrees, I am still reluctant to take full advantage of public facilities…and while it can be problematic at times (and silly), I can live with it. I still find them gross, and still feel that somethings just don’t need to be shared with the world (which makes it writing this essay a bit of a contradiction).

However, this is one thing that all people have in common, no matter who we are, what our political or spiritual beliefs are, or where we are from, we all need clean water to drink, food to eat, and, at some point, we all will need use the bathroom, and often these are public facilities!

These are the great common denominators in our humanity: what Maslow referred to as the Hierarchy of Needs:

As humans we also share one more thing: that we all have our quirks, yet we are still loved, which meets the important need of companionship…for most of all, we need each other!

The fact that we can find love and acceptance in spite of ourselves says something about the people in our lives. For they put up with our quirks, and more annoying tendencies, but they still care for us!

And this is what really matters: for while I know that using a public restroom will most likely not be the end of me, losing these people that I care for, and who care for me very well could be.

 

Orange Head & Pink Hair

We moved into the big house in East Orange in July of 1969, right around the time of the moon landing. It was a beautiful house, on a tree-lined street of well-kept homes, and much larger than our old house in West Orange.

I had left behind my old school, my neighborhood friends, and moved to a new town. Although it was not a great distance, the move changed everything. The new neighborhood looked nice, and it was close to where my dad worked as a College Professor, but there weren’t a lot of kids my age, and the once who were there did not want to make friends. The folks already living there were well off, and we were not (though we were not poor either) and they came off as somewhat snobby.

In addition, about the time we were moving in, many of the neighbors were making plans to move out!

It was less than two years after the Newark Riots, and ‘White Flight’ was underway. It did not help that the riots took place only a few miles away. One kid told me about watching the National Guard trucks going up Park Avenue (at the end of our street) on their way to the riots.

This is probably why we got our house at such a good price, the family who lived there before us were among the many who were getting out of town. Within the next two years the ‘demographic’ of the neighborhood changed, as the old residents moved away! All of the new families were African-American, and much nicer than those who left…and I actually made a few friends.

When I started first grade in the fall of 1970, I found that I was one of a few white kids in the school, and the only one with bright red hair and blue eyes! This proved to be problematic for me, although most of the kids were fine, a few (like in any other school) enjoyed teasing and bullying me!

Before long, even my friends were calling me “Orange Head”; which was not as bad as getting threatened and chased (with intent to injure) because I looked different from anyone else. This made me a frequent target, and on more than one occasion, the kids who were my friends, helped me to get out of the back door of the school, telling me to hit the ground running…because the bullies were waiting for me at the front door!

This was not the first time being a red-head caused me problems, and while it was an extreme case, it would not be the last time in my life that having red hair caused me problems.

All my life, people have been reminding me of my hair color!

I was adopted by my family after having come as a foster child. As I was the only one in my family who was not biological, it was clear that I did not quite fit in with everyone else! They all had dark blond or brunette hair (except for my dad, who really was mostly bald) and I did not.

Of course, people were not shy about pointing this out! Often, when I was out and about with my family, people would point out “You have red hair!”

Of course, I knew I had red hair, it would be hard not to know that, and if I forgot, there were plenty of people to remind me of that fact!

Then, this initial revelation was usually followed up by the question “Where did you get that from?” to which I would happily answer “Because I was adopted!” Which seemed like a solid reasoning to me…it is true, I was the only one with red hair because I was adopted!

The old ladies at church would comment on how amazing my hair was, and tell me that “…the girls are going to LOVE you!” This made me blush at first, but as I got closer to my teens, I began to wonder when this might happen. While I might have been disappointed, at least they weren’t teasing me…they actually thought my hair was nice.

However, there were plenty of adults who did tease. Although they were good natured about it, I was still bothered. At the Chicken Delight where my brothers worked (and where I had my first job), the boss, Ritchie, took to saying that I had “pink hair”! Something he continued to tease me with until he passed away, and then came back when I wound up working with some of the Chicken Delight people at The Town Pub in 1983!

They called me “Jimmy Olsen” because I was interning with a newspaper, until Frank reminded me that I had “pink hair”! I got teased a lot, but it was a guy thing…and meant that I was now a part of the team (or so I like to tell myself).

Even when I went to a new school halfway through third grade, where my class was more diverse, the red hair made me stand out. Even through college, and entering the workforce, I was always reminded that I had an “orange head” and “pink hair”….that I was different!

No wonder I have often struggled to ‘find my place’ in the world, between being an adoptee and a red head, not to mention that I have never been very good at sports (and generally klutzy). However, I do not believe I was every treated like I did not belong in my family, quite the opposite! As for my lack of skill (or interest) in sports, this has freed me up for other pursuits, like my (attempt at) writing, love of movies and books…as well as hiking, and other activities.

My red hair has caused me to stand out. It has gotten me a lot of attention, both good and bad, and it has led me to become less self-centered (a work in progress), and think more about the feelings of others, giving me empathy for those who are facing their own struggles – even (to a point) for the bullies themselves…as they are often very broken people.

The teasing that I got for my hair color (and a few other things) also helped me to grow a thick skin, I had to…if I took all that to heart, I would have never survived. This thick skin has served me well in business, when working with customers, and in my personal life and volunteering, allowing me to face some awful situations without panic…even when I really wanted to!

My life has also taught me how we are all different, but also have so much in common with each other. I have learned the value of acceptance, and respect for each other, because there are no “minorities” when we are all part of the same human family, and being a part of the family doesn’t mean we have to agree on everything, or even always like each other; it does mean that we are all in this together, and the only way we can move forward is together.

Today, while the color has faded, my hair is still reddish, but my main reason for gratitude is that I still have most of it! Red hair has impacted the course of my life, for better and for worse, but I am glad that I was born with it.

I was also nice pass on this trait to my lovely daughter, who has thick bright red hair…which has caused her some embarrassment. She has tried to tone down her hair color by using black dye, but has been only relatively successful, as her natural color cannot be completely hidden away, much like her personality. Today she is the one who is constant reminded “You have red hair” over and over again!

At least it’s not orange or pink!

The Miracle Fiber

It was in the time of Disco, and the miracle fiber, polyester was everywhere: from outlandish clothing, to sheets, blankets, upholstery, you name it!

It was claimed that it could be worn for 68 days straight without having to be washed, it never wrinkled and never needed to be ironed…it could simply be aired out, shaken out and worn again.

Living in those dark days, I was way too familiar with the material. One of my older brothers was heavily into the whole Disco thing (probably because his girlfriend was into it as well) and he had the polyester suits, quinoa shirts (which opened to the third button, and had wide lapels) along with the two-toned platform shoes!

He even used a plastic sheet, spread out on the living room floor to learn how to Hustle…but that’s another story.

The point is that there was no natural fiber involved.

Although I looked up to all of my brothers (and brother in-law for that matter), I did care for Disco, and hated polyester! Regardless, most of my clothes were polyester: my shirts, pants, jackets and Sunday going to church suits. I even had polyester socks…and they were hot!

The worst was the Leisure Suit that my mother bought me for Easter in 1975 or 76!

It was about a week before Easter, my mom wanted to go shopping for my Easter clothes…this was the last thing that I wanted to do! I wanted to stay home and do whatever I did when I was twelve. So, she went on her own, though getting her to relent was not an easy task. However, as it worked out, going along probably would not have made any difference!

A few hours later, when she returned from shopping, she called me down to the TV room (yes, we had one, my dad and brother in law built it themselves – converting an old porch) to show me what I was going to be wearing to church on Easter morning! When I saw it, I knew I was in deep need of God’s Grace!

It was powder-blue, and made of a thick polyester that reminded me of the living room curtains! The buttons were dark blue with a white border, and I was horrified!

My mother was a smart woman, but it wasn’t too hard to tell that I hated the suit, so she showed me what made it extra special: it was reversible! When pulled inside-out, the suit had a blue and white herringbone pattern! For some reason, she thought this would lead me to change my mine!

Or maybe she was just messing with me…I would not put that past her either.

I didn’t want to even touch it, not to mention wear it, but my mother made me, and my dad knew better than to dissent. So, on Easter, my friends had a great opportunity to tease the shit out of me! Although it was 1975 and such outfits were not uncommon, this suit was still beyond the pale!

My brothers also teased me, as I had to wear the thing all the way through our family dinner, although they were a bit nicer about it…they knew my pain.

I wore the suit twice, and then it magically ‘disappeared’ never to be seen or made fun of again! Though given the nature of the material, I assume the suit still survives, buried under 40 years of trash in a forgotten New Jersey landfill.

Even after the leisure suit was gone, I could not escape the clutches of the miracle fabric.

For many years, I served as an acolyte at my church, which meant that I had to dress up in a choir robe every Sunday morning! This too was also made out of the miracle fiber, green with a white cassock over the top. And, because I could not wear jeans to church, I was usually wearing layers of polyester, along with my nice pleather shoes.

During the colder weather it was not too bad, but during the summer these gowns could be horrific! There was no A/C in the church (we’ll come back to this later), and when it was really bad, it was hard to function. On occasion, the pastor gave us all a break by letting us eschew the robes, I guess he decided that wearing our street clothes was better than watching us pass-out from the heat.

Even the cloth that covered the plate of communion wine on the altar was made of polyester! This proved problematic on the morning that my acolyte partner (who was also the pastor’s daughter) was lighting the candles, and the wick from the candle-lighter fell onto the cloth and it burst into flames! She panicked and knocked that plate on the floor, setting the carpeting on fire! The pastor ran over and started stamping out the fire, which made his own polyester robe burst into flames!!

I stood there in a panic, not knowing what to do, but then no one did, except for the elderly sexton! He was crippled with arthritis, which caused him to move slowly on swollen knees. While everyone else was frozen, he grabbed a fire extinguisher, made his way up the center aisle, and calmly put out the fire!

Fortunately, no one was hurt, but the pastor’s Alb was beyond hope! However, he was able to continue the service, once the excitement was over!

It was in that same church, a couple of years later, that one of my other brothers got married.

It was late August, and still no A/C (note, I went back to the church in 2018, and it remains free of air-conditioning)! For some ungodly reason, it was decided that the men in the wedding party were to wear dark brown (rented) tuxedos, made out of that same thick polyester as the leisure suit! The shirt was also polyester, had ruffles, and I wore a clip-on bowtie and a cummerbund!

The church was built in the late 50’s, in that ‘modern’ style which screams out for central air, so there was no cross-ventilation, and this was New Jersey in the summer – so it was stiflingly oppressive inside, and we were all feeling it in our heavy brown tuxedos! My brother felt it the worst, he was so nervous, he would have been sweating had it been the dead of winter. I am actually surprised that he did not actually pass-out that day…but we made it through!

While I could not take off the tux until after the reception, the hall was airconditioned, and it felt great to walk in through those doors and feel the cool air, after the church service and photographs…and to finally take off the jacket!

By the mid-80s polyester had mostly fallen out of favor for most people, but it was still popular for rented tuxedos! The last time I wore one was in 1986 at the marriage of two of my friends. It was another summer wedding, this time outdoors, in upstate New York! While it was not as hot, it was still very humid, and wearing those suits was rough!

This time, we had powder-blue tuxedos that had no natural fiber, and we wore shoes that did not contain a hint of leather, so I was basically encased in plastic! It did not help that the shoes were a size too narrow (I do have very wide feet), or that I had not slept and was very hung-over from partying the night before.

It was an Orthodox Christian service, which was very neat to be a part of, but it also seemed very long, especially while we were standing unsteadily in the Sunlight…sweating!

After the wedding were the photos, taken out on a big terrace, the view was beautiful, but it was still hot! Once the reception started, we wound up going in and out of the air conditioning, and I got drunk all over again, which made me not care as much about being so miserable, and I was able to lose the jacket and loosen my tie, which helped! While it cooled off once the Sun went down, it stayed sticky and uncomfortable; however, the alcohol surely took the edge off! It was another all-nighter, and as the Sun came up, I found myself alone in the woods, still wearing the tuxedo and the tight shoes!

I remember how good it felt when I finally took those shoes off, and dipped my feet in the stream as dawn broke. I also remember looking up and seeing a deer drinking from the same stream, it stopped, lifted its head, and looked at me before moving away; however, I suspect that this part was really from a movie I saw, and not a real memory.

I do know that it was nice to get out of that nasty tux and put on my street clothes again, before climbing into the back of a pickup for the drive back home. I had to keep my head down to avoid being seen by the cops, and wound up falling asleep for most of the ride…which was just fine.

After graduation, I wound up working on “Wall Street” (42 Broadway) where I had to wear a suit every day. This was common work attire in the 80’s, and there were still many of us who still wore polyester…like a guy I knew who would wear the same pair of plaid pants every day (or so I thought, until I found out that he had 6 pairs of the pants, and wore a different one every day).

I wore my polyester suits because I didn’t have much money, and had to wear what I had, which was polyester. No, I did not wear any leisure suits, these were gone, but what I did have was not great! Fortunately, once I had gotten a few paychecks, a friend and his wife (I could not trust my mother and had no girlfriend) took me out to buy some nicer suits, made of more natural fibers.

I was finally done with polyester…or so I thought!

Even into the 90s, my mother insisted on buying me a pairs of dark brown polyester pants for Christmas (almost) every year! I returned many of these for a refund, but kept a couple as ‘emergency’ pants, only wearing them when nothing else was clean…which was great motivation for me to go to the laundromat on a regular basis! When I complained about getting yet another pair, a friend told me to tell my mom that I could not wear them to work because the static electricity generated by the polyester would short out the computers!

I laughed, but actually considered telling her that the crash of ’87 occurred become someone wore polyester to the stock exchange on that Black Monday!

The brown polyester pants finally stopped coming by the time my daughter was born, I am guessing my sister said something to her, as her gifts became more practical. I’ve made plenty of fashion faux pas all by myself in the years since, but the time of polyester had finally ended.

While a visit to the site “People of Walmart” proves that some folks still prefer the ease and colors provided by polyester clothing, most clothes today have a blend of material, are far more comfortable and just plain look better!

However, for he most part the thick, inflexible material that was so common during the time of Disco, has become a thing of the past, and the past is where it needs to stay!

Polyester truly is a miracle fabric, which will never degrade, and has helped our lives better, one of the true miracles is that the thick, brightly colored fabric ever became so popular in the first place.

And even today, there is still a bit of polyester with us all: the shirt I am wearing as I write this, designed to wick away moisture, is…100% polyester!

 

All Seated At The Same Table

The whole house would smell like pot-roast as the Sunday Dinner was slowly cooking in the oven. It made me really hungry, but I knew I would have to wait until after church…many long hours away!

I was the youngest of five, and my siblings either lived on their own, or had busy lives and were seldom just hanging around the house, so Sunday was the one day that we all had the time to get together as a family.

We would get together after church (not all of us went) share some hors d’oeuvres (cheese and crackers) while waiting for dinner to be ready, signified by the ringing of the dinner bell (a small brass bell that looked like dragon). We would then sit-down for dinner, say grace and begin passing the food around the table.

On the surface it sounds idyllic, maybe like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting; however, this was the early ‘70s, the Vietnam War was still going on, and Nixon was in the White House, giving us plenty to talk about. This ensured that our weekly family meals were not always ‘warm and fuzzy’.

I know that some of the discussions were about the war and politics, but some were also about the legalization of marijuana, the civil rights movement, and other things that I cannot remember now.

While my parents did not believe that pot should be legalized, on just about every other topic there was agreement that there were many problems that needed to be solved, but not on what the solution was…or how to get there.

My parents would often be on the side of promoting change through reasonable means, i.e. voting, petitions, a peaceful march, etc. However, some of the other voices at the table would call for more radical actions, strikes, loud protests, the removal of Nixon from office or full legalization.

Sometimes, things got a bit heated, even to the point of someone leaving the table and walking out of the house.

Yet, no matter how intense the arguments became and no matter how far away anyone would run, we always got back together the next Sunday for dinner. We never let our disagreements tear us apart, or stop us from loving and caring for each other.

Sometimes as I troll (yes, I said it) through Social Media, watch the news, or even talk to someone with an opinion differently than mine, I get reminded of those long-ago Sunday Dinners. It can seem like everyone has an agenda, a point to make, and most everyone wants to be ‘right’. Of course, we can’t all be right, because no one has all the answers, and while this can be hard to accept, we just have to.

In many ways, we are ALL part of the same big, dysfunctional family. This means that why we may not always agree, or even get along, we are still connected and have no choice but to find a way to work and live together, despite our differences.

Even as a child, I learned a lot from those Sunday afternoon discussions, from things like not to goad my mother into an argument during dinner, to many of the issues that were impacting our world during the first half of the ‘70s. If everyone at the table had agreed on everything, we would have had more peaceful dinners, but there is so much we would not have learned from each other…including how to disagree while still loving and respecting each other.

It is okay to disagree and it is okay to lose an argument, but it is not okay to forget we are all seated at the same table. We all want health and happiness for ourselves and those we love, and we all want to make this world a better place…and while we may not always agree on how to get there, we will have to work together and listen to each other in order to get to the table.