On Thanksgiving eve, our town mourned the passing of two residents, a nanny and her 9 year old ward, a student in the local elementary school. In a horrific auto/pedestrian accident, the lives of three families were changed, forever.
As often happens following a tragedy, towns people came together to mourn the losses. Some gathered in houses of worship, neighbors lined their streets with candles, and others likely took a moment in personal prayer and reflection in a demonstration of collective grieving.
Counselors were available in the school to comfort and support young children dealing with the challenge of reconciling the sudden loss of a friend.
A simple wooden cross was erected along the roadside, site of the tragedy, to serve as a solemn place for people to share their grief by leaving flowers and tokens of remembrance for the deceased.
The local school district coordinated with town police to post a crossing guard at the memorial sight, to assure the safety of children who might be want to cross the busy street and visit the memorial. As one of the town’s school crossing guards, I was assigned to this post.
This would be a different duty, very different.
With quiet respect, I stood stationary at the spot, my bright yellow uniform jacket drawing attention of passers-by to the memorial, by now flush with a potpourri of colorful flowers and trinkets laying against a dusting of fresh snow. Vehicles slowed, some waved, but many stared, mournfully and solemnly.
The near total absence of foot traffic gave me time to focus on the memorial, myself, offering a brief prayer for the deceased and their families. As the weekdays passed, I seemed to transition from a crossing guard to an honor guard.
A few neighbors stopped to express appreciation to the school district and police department for posting a crossing guard. By week’s end, there seemed to be a general sigh of relief on the faces of the same drivers who passed daily. People were beginning to accept what happened, as sad as it was.
Life moves on, doesn’t it?
An Eskimo Proverb
Johnny Carson had Ed McMahon, Groucho Marks had George Fenneman. My ‘straight man’, here at the ‘curbside classroom’, was a middle schooler with a contagious laugh, perfect for the role.
Me, to a group of kids gathering at the crossing post: “Joe’s pizza is so good, I ‘et’ seven pieces!”
My ‘straight man’: “Don’t you mean ‘ate’?”
Me: “Hmmm, maybe it was ‘eight’ I ‘et’.” (drumroll, please)
Confused looks, then some smiles and an occasional, ‘oh, I get it’!
‘Get it’, or not, for me it was ‘mission accomplished’: a few smiles, some laughs, a language lesson and a feel good moment to start the school day.
The morning banter offers an opportunity for kids to communicate with an adult, me. For most, it’s easy, for some it’s awkward, and for a handful, it’s difficult. However, as days turn to weeks, weeks to months and the school year rolls along, a change is noticed, the awkward and the ‘difficult’ become less so and we become ‘comfortable’ with each other.
Early fall mornings have graced us with pristine skies and an opportunity for a new word at the ‘curbside classroom’, ‘contrails’. We watched planes zig-zag across the open spaces above and wondered aloud where they were going while marveling at the straight trailing lines behind each one, not exhaust, but vapor, these ‘contrails’.
It was a bit comical the following day to ask about another ‘trails’ word, ‘entrails’. And here, a couple of weeks later, the mention of either word caused upward glances for the former and disgusting looks for the latter.
Our ‘curbside classroom’ challenges me to find new material to share with these middle and high school students, careful in avoiding ‘overload’ yet satisfying appetites for those eager to hear something new, daily.
This week was the anniversary of the Gettysburg Address and one girl accepted my challenge and memorized Lincoln’s epoch speech, overnight. No surprise, accepting challenges seems to be her forte. Another student brought this ‘curbside classroom’ lesson into school and reminded her social studies teacher of the speech. I think those efforts deserve an A for initiative.
More new words, more ‘days in history’, more questions about school activities, more, more and more. The ‘curbside classroom’ continues to be a bevy of conversation, fun and ‘wonder’! They wonder how I know so much. It comes down to three things, read, read, and read! If there’s a fourth, it’s life experience and there’s no shortage of that.
Today, November 22, was the 56th anniversary of the assassination of President John Kennedy. We discussed the phrase, ‘it seems like yesterday’. Not too many ‘yesterdays’ for these kids, yet, but give them time…
Shout out to Audrey, Alice and Zoe
In a bar on a hot summer night with three friends, presumably to ‘howl at the moon’, but we all knew better. Maybe years ago, but not now.
However, if we wanted to howl, it’s certain that we would have had good accompaniment. What is it about barroom dogs that they are always friendly, generally calm, and usually asleep, stretched out paw to paw, tail to nose, pressed hard on the beer stained hardwood? Our clinking glasses alerted them enough to stand and exchange pleasantries, sloppy maybe, but sincere.
Caverly’s Irish Pub, our usual spot, was relatively quiet. A baseball broadcaster was droning on about ERAs, RBIs and OBPs on the oversize flat screen TV in the corner, no one seemed interested.
I didn’t have to cup both ears to capture tonight’s conversation. Good thing, because tonight, our 26th Bar Night, we gravitated to a subject that was both riveting, spooky and mysterious. I know, that’s more than ‘both’, isn’t it? Drop spooky.
Are you a believer in ‘ETs’, extraterrestrials? A few years ago, you may have been mocked if you said ‘yes’. Today, not so much. Even the United States Navy has released documents that address sightings or engagements with, shall I say it, UFOs.
Governments are beginning to let the public in on their big secret, that something ‘may be watching us and we don’t know what it is’. Actually, we don’t know what it isn’t, either.
It’s becoming more mainstream to talk about ‘what’s out there’ without being considered ‘out there’. And this isn’t ‘Senior talk’, or four Seniors talk, as was the case tonight. And we were only halfway through our first beer (our first is our last, too).
Respected news outlets have written extensively about ETs and related incidents, the New York Times* and Popular Science**. There are clubs with respectable citizens and expert speakers meeting to talk about it. Really!
We finished our beers and stepped out to head home. What a brilliant sky, plenty of stars and other ‘stuff’, up there. It’s fun looking at the sky, but now it’s even more intriguing.
By the way, here’s a great phone app for sky viewing, ‘SkyView’. Hold it in any direction and see what’s in the sky at that moment. Here’s the view in the southeastern sky at 10:45 am, EST…Mercury, Venus and Mars, and Virgo, but no UFOs, darn…
Keep looking up…
Steve (August 2019 … ‘srbottch.com)
* Dec 8, 2017
For Robbie, a ‘big fan’ of ‘The Bar Chronicles’.
I stood resolute at my post, the early morning calm about to be broken by the approaching din of young voices and squeaky bicycles, a familiar and welcoming sound. It’s the first day of the new school year in Brighton, New York.
I stood prepared, blue book in hand, to take names and review notes, notes to refresh my memory of ‘old faces’ and add new names for new faces. As a school crossing guard, these are ‘my kids’ for the next ten months, learning their names is important.
And the ‘Curbside Classroom’ is reopened for business.
“Pick a card! Point it in the direction according to its label: North, South, East or West!”
That was the first day of school, a month ago, and I’m getting better with names, and the kids know we cross in an easterly direction.
It’s my job to see the kids make it safely across this section of busy roadway. A byproduct is to pick up a little knowledge along the way and start the day with a smile.
Students are familiar with my routine: expect questions, expect challenges, expect to learn something and expect to laugh. Remember, this spot along a busy roadway is a classroom, too, a ‘curbside classroom’.
In the month that has passed, we’ve discussed words and meanings (moot vs mute), the power of positive words (‘encouragement’…’some people have done more than they thought they could because others thought they could’…Zig Ziglar), setting lofty goals, like going to Mars (‘do you think we will land a person on Mars in your lifetime?’), and other sundry topics
A couple of boys have become teens since the first day, so we serenaded them with ‘Happy Birthday’. Remember being 13? There’s a gaggle of new middle school students whose confidence is growing. At the opposite pole are Seniors with pending decisions. Will it be college and the selection of a career path, or joining the workforce, maybe a military option? It’s nice to have plans but they’re still so very young.
Some things haven’t changed, though, since the end of the last school year, especially the smiles and the enthusiasm to learn or be challenged. So, pick a card and point it in the right direction. Directions are important, we need to know where we’re going in Life.
Together, we’ll go through the school year in heat, cold, rain and snow. We’ll cheer for ‘snow days’, high-five Fridays’, stress over exam days and continue to build strong foundations to support us when we finally ‘arrive at our destination’.
It all begins with a ‘good morning ‘ and a smile at our ‘Curbside Classroom’! Wish us well…
Steve (Oct 2019)
‘S’amusing’ blog at ‘srbottch.com’
Reverend Higgins was his usual dry self as he delivered a solemn message to the Pilgrim Church congregation. I always found him a bit dull, but he had good intentions. After all, he was the parson.
I visited ‘the old neighborhood’ recently, and, surprisingly, it began with a Sunday morning service. My sister joined me, unexpectedly. Our father, who never attended service, encouraged us to attend church, made us go, actually.
We usually walked home together after service and today was no different. Like an earlier time, we were expecting mother had a traditional roast leg of lamb ready for Sunday dinner. Ohhh, the skin, always crunchy and tasty, but not so healthy, was a favorite part.
Lucky day, the aroma of cooked lamb guided us past the Boling sisters’ house and down the long blacktop driveway to the screened back door of our ‘three decker’ house. Our big yellow house stood out from others because dad maintained it well, scraping and painting wherever necessary, every summer. Three families lived here, the ‘landlord’ on one floor and renters on two and three. Dad was the ‘landlord’, the first floor was ours.
‘Three deckers’ were typical of New England and Hollywood Street was lined with them, like old ships cleated to the dock. Front porches and big backyards, long driveways and spinning clothes lines attached to the enclosed back porch, these houses were working class domiciles in every sense of the word.
A small market store anchored the our street to the corner. Fresh cold cuts and ground beef, ground on demand, were staples there. The red cooler, filled with ice cold water, always had a variety of tonics* bobbing for the taking. A quarter more than covered the cost. The proprietor was busy, so I’ll catch him next time…
While old neighbors were stirring about, it seemed odd that no one acknowledged me with anything more than eye contact. The Sullivans, a good Catholic family of six kids, a mother and grandmother, were coming home from church. The dad, would come later, from a bar, drunk as usual. Sad to see.
Next door, old man Gibson is going about his property, head down, probably still looking for evidence of last night’s disturbance when some kids threw firecrackers and it sounded like gunshots. A long string of crackers would do that.
There’s my father tending his small tomato garden alongside the neighbor’s fence. It’s Sunday evening, now, and he’s waiting for mother. They’re going bowling, something they enjoy together in their retiring years. I’d love to talk but don’t want to make them late. Next time, maybe…
I saw a lot more today than I could recall, I’m certain. They say we don’t remember all of our dreams. I realized that when I snapped awake in my bed this morning, hundreds of miles and many years removed from Hollywood Street and Worcester, Massachusetts.
It was an enjoyable ‘visit’ home, albeit short, but more nights and chances to dream await me. I’m excited about it. Maybe I’ll visit Beaver Brook Park where I saw the circus, played ball and went to summer day camp. I’ll do that the next time, maybe…
You know, I should call my sister…
Steve (August 2019)
*a common New England word for soda, pop, etc.
Mosquitoes! We talked about mosquitoes. Sober and provocative conversation has never been a priority at ‘Bar Night’. We’re just content to gather, wish each other well, have a cold beer, and talk about whatever! When we leave, we’re relaxed, a little smarter, happy and ready to sleep.
A warm July summer evening found us around a wobbly wooden table, by the screen door at Caverly’s Irish Pub. This was our 25th gathering and what began for two of us as a night to ‘howl at the moon’, two years ago, has become a relaxing evening of beer, brotherhood and BS for six of us, although only four tonight, a ‘quorum’. We reached high to the center and touched our glasses in a toast, then began.
Sometimes, it’s a slow beginning. But we up the tempo a bit, find a topic, hash it around, then move on.
Books, underground cities, poetry, UFOs and the paranormal, Asian worms, ants, first jobs, wives (how we met them), and more, Aristotle, Fibonacci and recalling our favorite teacher. We’ve touched it all, but no politics. You might say that we’re an ‘eclectic’ group, but that would be presumptuous.
I’ve heard the same tale more than once with the same funny lines and same embellishment, nevertheless, we listen and drink. We’re Seniors, when telling and retelling is a right of passage.
As for Caverly’s, it’s become our favorite watering hole. Relatively quiet, if there’s such a thing for a bar, I like the intimacy. It’s small with old hardwood floors, old furniture and even old dogs. A perfect setting for old guys. I hope you visit it and are impressed with its wide assortment of beers and excellent prices.
I had hoped to plan something more exciting than just picking up the guys, driving to the pub, ordering a round, talking and going home. However, we enjoy getting picked up, driving together, ordering a beer, talking and driving home. So, we kept the routine. Order and familiarity are comforting to Seniors.
As for the mosquitoes, well, it’s been a warm and buggy summer, lots of pesty insects and nasty bites. One of us* suggested a fan to repel them, after all, and here’s tonight’s takeaway, a mosquito’s top speed is ‘1 1/2 mph’.
Not too many can get excited about tonight’s adventure or this story, but I know a few who will…might. Until next time, Happy 25th to my ‘Bar Night’ friends.
Steve (July 2019)
*reads The NY Times
The more time I put between my youth and today, the more challenging it becomes to remember that youth and its many halcyon moments. But then something happens to jog my memory, filling it with vivid pictures from that time. People, places and events will flash through my mind with clarity and detail.
Summertime begets a beehive of activities in neighborhoods around town. The better weather invites folks outside to work on their grounds and homes, to beautify and repair. Recently, I saw a hired painter wearing the stock and trade white bib overalls of his profession, and I couldn’t help but recall my father, a painter himself, and how important his overalls were to him.
A businessperson wears a suit, a doctor dons scrubs, a teacher a tie, well, not as much nowadays. My father, a painter, wore bib overalls. He had several pair, and wore one proudly, every working day of his career, representing the company that bore his father’s name.
I remember him beginning the week on Monday mornings, on the job site in a clean, creased pair of the white bib overalls. Overalls are not worn as a fashion statement, mind you, they are utilitarian, functional, worn for a purpose, and comfortable. However, when my father put them on over a white, long sleeved button-down shirt, he presented a handsome, confident and professional figure.
Overalls, clean and creased? How? It was a process, a production. And it was a team effort, husband and wife. In the early days, she scrubbed them by hand over a scrub board, my sister recalls. Later, a washer with wringer and then a fully automatic washer. The smell of lye, the ‘secret’ ingredient added to the wash for whiter than white overalls, permeated the house on ‘overall wash days’.
Washing was followed by drying on an outside clothesline, even in winter. The crease was made by a taut wire frame inserted in each leg. When they dried, those overalls were almost too clean and ‘pressed’ to wear painting. but he wore them on every job.
A proper uniform, or suit, tells the world who you are and what you do. About a painter wearing anything less, he would scoff, sarcastically,
“Look at that guy! You want him painting your house?”
‘That guy’ would not work for my dad.
A former sales executive once mused to me,
“If you want to wear a sport coat, go work for someone else!” (Bob R)
Fortunately. I was wearing a suit that day. But the message is the same one my father would send by his own code: dress for success! And he did.
Steve (July 2019)
My sister and I enjoyed recalling the scenes around our household during our youth. ‘Overall’ wash day brought back wonderful memories of our parents on such an ‘important’ event. I hope you enjoy reading it and it tickles your own memory of good family affairs.
Did you know that two of the US ‘Founding Fathers’, John Adams, second President of US, and Thomas Jefferson, 3rd US President, political arch enemies for much of their lives, died on the same day, July 4th, 1826, the 50th Anniversary of the Declaration of Independence (7/4/1776).
Today the US celebrates its 243rd year of Independence and, as a proud American, I’m happy to bring you this bit of historical trivia.
To all proud Americans
Whatever possessed me to buy a pair of ‘skinny pants’? Make that two pair, last summer.
Skinny pants’ are the popular pants that fit evenly at the waist, slightly snug at the hips, and taper down the legs where the hem wraps narrowly around your ankle area. Not the skin tight, stretchy style, mind you, but still ‘skinny’. They can be seen on a variety of young men, everywhere ….. young, slim men.
They’re not seen on ‘old men’, anywhere ….. old and ‘filled out’ men. Define ‘old men’ as you please, but when you reach a stage in life when your hair is gone, your ears are long, your skin is saggy and your waist is baggy, you’re fittingly described as old, or older, and too ‘mature’ for skinny pants’.
Me, I exercise and eat a healthy diet. My weight is well managed. However, Mother Nature has won the body battle, albeit in a slow and deceiving, maybe even cruel, way. One day, you wake up and you’ve changed: the little roll around your waist is permanently problematic, it takes longer to get up and go, and you ache, even if you’ve done nothing, you ache.
Yet, here I was, browsing through the pant rack. And I saw them, khaki ‘skinny pants’ and I was feeling young. So, naturally, I felt even younger when the dressing room clerk complimented my selection and the cashier doubled down on it. Have you ever heard a sales clerk tell you otherwise?
I’m an easy mark for sales people, especially those who compliment me. I swiped the credit card, and walked out with a hop in my step.
Fast forward to today, a year later, a new summer. My life long critic (in a good way) finally found it in herself to bring me back to reality, “You know, those pants really aren’t meant for you”. As if I didn’t know. I knew a year ago, when I bought them. But I was feeling young.
Now, back to the drawing board for this summer’s fashion buys. Probably will be the old standby, blue jeans. One thing for certain, it won’t be the pants that hang halfway down your backside, unless of course, the sales clerk compliments me.
Incidentally, I haven’t discarded my ‘skinny pants’, yet. I’ve been doing a lot of yard work and my waist line seems to have shrunk ever so slightly, enough to make me look respectable. I’m thinking about keeping them, at least through the gardening season.
To all men young at heart, slim or not!