The Write Stuff

Before delving into today's topic, just an update: My last entry was rather gray, reflecting the stark reality of the  four-month anniversary of my departure from the world of the working and the frustration I am/was experiencing at moving onward.

It's an up and down process, hunting for work, and I see now that I wrote in a very down frame of mind.

Suffice to say that my mood has lifted since that post, and although I'm not singing and dancing every time I electronically apply for UC benefits, I'm not quite in a bottomless pit, either.

So if any potential employers are monitoring my online presence and are concerned that, faced with a difficult situation, I'll be prone to burn a superior's eyebrows off, hair by hair, with a hot poker, let me offer the assurance that that is wholly not the case.

Okay, moving on...

Yesterday, I volunteered at our church for a major writing project. It's a daunting task, probably calling for initial caps, so that it's more of a Major Writing Project. It's not the length that will cause me some sweat, but rather, the breadth.

But I'm eager to get going and look forward to a new challenge.

In the process of gathering info about what I'm supposed to do and how I'm supposed to do it, there was a lot of back-and-forth talk between me and the project leader, who knows of my music abilities but not really my writing ones.

At one point she casually asked me: "So, what kinds of things have you written?"

And it got me thinking. I've been writing for a long, long time. I remember creating stories in the sixth grade, where, ScoobyDoo-style, I and my friends would enter creepy houses, run from ghosts, and inevitably uncover a smuggling ring or a counterfeiting operation; I routinely cast myself, yes, as the leader of those "meddling kids," without whom the thievery would have been a snap.

And I've written all kinds of things: business writing, marketing, public relations. But also fiction, profiles, feature stories, and columns.

Along the way, there were some notables:

Top Nine Really Cool Writing Accomplishments

Most of these still exist, either on well-worn paper (loose leaf, in some cases) or electronically. I'll list them and tell you a little about how they came to be. They're chronological, just for convenience sake.

• 1977 Parish Anniversary Celebration Address, Sacred Heart Church, Manoa, PA

In 1977, the parish to which our family belonged celebrated the 50-year anniversary of its founding. As part of the celebration, a grand and glorious Mass was offered, followed by a parish-wide reception in the school hall. This latter affair was a catered dinner, at which various dignitaries would speak.

It was decided by the organizing committee to solicit three parishioners to offer addresses, one reflecting on the parish's past, one on its present, and one on its future.

I was in eighth grade that year, on the cusp of moving onward to high school. And somewhere along the line, someone had the idea to enable the eighth graders to submit essays on what they thought the future of the parish would look like 50 years hence.

Cut to the chase: I won. My essay was selected, and I got to deliver it at the gala affair. What I remember most about that evening is that my parents and I were comped tickets for the meal; you see, my mother's sense of frugality had put the dinner out of our budget, and we weren't intending to go. The committee was rather horrified at this revelation, and we were given seats gratis.

The speech elicited the intended chuckles, especially as I mentioned the sale of jet packs, ala The Jetsons, as a fundraiser. And my theory that confession would be administered over the telephone, 1-800 style.

None of my predictions came to pass, except one: I did envision that girls would be welcomed eventually as altar servers. How prescient!

• 1984-1985 Columnist, The Hawk, Saint Joseph's University, Philadelphia, PA

In January of 1984, I took advantage of the opportunity to study abroad, travelling to London with 25 other SJU students for a semester. It was a six-month period that I'll never forget.

The 25 of us naturally got very close, as we lived in a large residence together. Among them was the E-in-C (that's Editor in Chief, by the way) of our college newspaper, The Hawk. She was looking for writers to encapsulate the London experience for a special edition of the paper back on campus.

I wrote a very lengthy and in depth piece on what it was like to leave Philadelphia on a blustery January day, fly across the ocean for the very first time, and try as best as possible ton integrate into British culture. It was the ultimate fish-out-of-water story that touched on all our experiences: the school, the surroundings, the history, the food, the people, the academics, the pubs, even the bouts of homesickness. All of it.

I told her that it could be cut. That it probably should be cut, especially if it covered ground that was already covered by others who were tackling the assignment.

What I didn't know is that nobody else was tackling the assignment.

My article, therefore, was the lead story in the paper that edition. It started on page one, jumped inside, and ran four columns.

Upon returning home, the E-in-C tapped me again. I was offered a role of columnist.

I wrote on anything I felt like -- parking issues, study pressures, current events -- and my material appeared in every issue.

This was the first time my writing was recognized by readers I never really knew. I was shocked after the appearance of a piece to be stopped on campus and acknowledged as not only being read but being enjoyed.

• 1985 Entertainment News, Berwyn, PA

In an attempt to bump up the content of an eventual resume I would soon be needing, I undertook an internship my senior year of college.

I landed a job at a small entertainment-themed newspaper. It was about 75% ads and 25% copy, so I had no aspirations of Pulitzer-style investigative reporting.

But I did manage a very memorable and interesting interview that resulted in one of my favorite articles.

Gone with the Wind was coming out for the first time on videocassette. I pitched a story idea to my editor to track down, find, and interview Cammie King, who, as a girl, played the role of Bonnie Blue Butler in the film. I knew that in all likelihood she was still alive, and it was just a matter of finding her.

The editor agreed that it sounded like a good story, and I began the hunt.

The exact details of how I found her -- especially in a pre-pre-pre-Internet world -- are lost in my memory, but find her I did. She agreed to a phone interview and, at the appointed time, I called her, she answered, and we talked for quite a while.

She spoke of her memories of the film and the cast (barely recalled Vivien Leigh at all; remembered that Clark Gable had a scratchy beard in the scenes where they had to hug) and her excitement at its revival on video.

Cammie King (Conlon) is gone now. But in my memory -- and my portfolio -- she'll never be gone with the wind!

• 1989-1996, The Montgomery County Post, Film Critic, Valley Forge, PA

I took my interest in movies and married it to my interest in movies and pitched to a slew of local newspaper editors the idea of joining their staff as a film critic. I wanted no salary, just enough of a stipend to cover expenses.

The Montgomery County Post, a small, local paper, bit. The editor agreed to give me space and a byline, which is all I really needed, and reimburse the cost of movie tickets and gas to/from a theater.

I was in heaven. Eileen and I were newly married and not exactly rolling in dough, and the opportunity to enjoy entertainment on someone else's nickle was truly appreciated.

Plus I got the chance to play Roger Ebert and write about the movies and my reactions to them. It was a dream job if ever there were one.

Eventually, the paper began to pay me for these reviews. Not a princely sum, as I recall, but something in recognition of my efforts. We began receiving comps to attend movies at their critics' screenings in some of the larger theaters downtown, and it all became very heady, sitting with some of the film reviewers from The Philadelphia Inquirer and The Philadelphia Daily News.

Sadly, the plug on this assignment was pulled quickly when the paper changed management and the new owners wanted to purchase syndicated film reviews -- along with crossword puzzles, horoscopes, and marital advice -- from a service.

• 1990-1994, Editor, Robert Morris Associates, Philadelphia, PA

This was one of my first legit jobs out of college. Robert Morris Associates is a trade association -- now called the Risk Management Association -- for commercial bankers worldwide. I was hired as its newsletter editor.

As such, there were three assignments that really stand out among all the banking and lending issues I covered.

The first was an interview with the Ombudsman from the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency (OCC), one of the regulatory agencies that oversees banking in the U.S. The mind-blowing thing about this interview is that it took place in conjunction with a speech he made at the National Press Club.

So yes, I traveled to Washington, attended his speech, and questioned him as an official member of the press. Just seeing that podium -- as I had seen it on MSNBC and countless other news shows -- was a thrill

The other story at RMA that has stayed with me involved the Meridian Bank Fire in February of 1991. The bank building had its 38-stories gutted by a fire that claimed three Philadelphia firefighters. Couching the story as a reminder to readers about the importance of disaster recovery, I was invited by the bank's director of security to the site (weeks after the fire was extinguished) and shown some of the less-damaged, more secure floors. 

The third was an interview with one of the presidents of Mellon Bank in Pittsburgh. I flew out and back the same day for this interview, which led to some nail-biting scheduling at the airports. But the real challenge was that he scheduled the interview during a lunch at an exclusive downtown club (think The Union League in Philadelphia, folks). And one of the rules a this club was that while at the table, there were to be no recording devices and no note-taking.

So I prepped all my questions in advance and memorized them as best I could.

And during the interview -- while trying to eat -- I did my best to lock his responses into my brain as he was talking.

When it began to become a little too much for me to handle, I excused myself and went to the men's room. Shuttered in a stall, I took out an errant scrap of paper and scribbled some of his more interesting quotes then and there.

The article came together and was published with his blessing. But it remains one of my most difficult assignments.

• 1996, Provident Mutual Life Insurance Company, Philadelphia, PA

I was hired as a communications supervisor by Provident Mutual, where my responsibilities included two monthly newsletters, one for in-house employees and one for the sales force across the country.

Provident Mutual had, at that time, a tutorial program with a nearby (and very needy) Catholic elementary school. A few days per week, the company provided employees and transportation to go to the school and work 1:1 with students who were struggling with math and reading skills.

It was an incredibly rewarding experience. I was sucked in by its benevolence and migrated from merely reporting on its successes to participating in them myself; within a few visits, I became a mentor, helping a sixth grader who was struggling to read. It became one of the most rewarding professional experiences I've ever had.

When Provident Mutual began a similar program in its Delaware Service Center, the effort caught the attention of then-Governor Tom Carper. He came to our offices and spent the day talking to our participants and students, culling ideas to plant these seeds with other local companies and schools.

I was there as a representative of the company newsletter and as a principle in the tutoring program myself. So I spent a day talking to, interviewing, joking, and eating with Governor Tom Carper. It remains my only touch in the world of politics -- and a fond memory.

• 2004, Just Labs Magazine, Essay Contest Winner

In 2000, we welcomed Wesley into our home, our Black Labrador Retriever. Succumbing to my renewed interest in dogs in general and Labs specifically, I subscribed to Just Labs Magazine, a monthly publication of articles, photos, columns, and information all centering around these magnificent animals.

In 2003, the magazine announced an essay contest. It was open to all subscribers, who only had to write something memorable about their Lab, sticking only to a pre-determined word length. The winners would be published and receive a year-long subscription to the mag.

That first year, I passed by the opportunity to participate. I'm not even sure at this point why. But I did not enter.

And I didn't give it much thought until I read the winners' writings in a follow-up issue. They were good -- heartfelt and touching and funny and engaging. But I knew I could do better, and I resolved to keep watch for Year Two's competition.

Eventually, it came around. I knew if I wanted to do well, I needed to take my entry in a different direction. Most of the previous year's material centered on glowing prose about the bond between an owner and his/her Lab. If I wanted to stand out, I needed to do something different.

I read the rules. And re-read them. And confirmed that my idea would work. There was nothing stating that prose was a requirement.

So I rolled up my sleeves and wrote in poetry. I riffed on Longfellow's "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" and came up with "A Midnight Black Lab that I Revere."

I also made sure to include some of Wesley's more challenging episodes with us. Owning him was not all rainbows and butterflies, and I made sure to mention, in rhyme, some of the moments he truly tested our patience.

I submitted. I waited. I received a letter back. I had won.

Out of all the entries across the nation, mine had been chosen. A truly proud moment indeed.

For what it's worth, though, Wesley was completely nonplussed at the news. Leave it to a Lab to put you in your place.

• 2006, 2008, 2010: Saying goodbyes

In 2006, very suddenly, my dad passed away. It was a devastating loss on a number of levels, not the least of which was how quickly he left us. 

I knew one thing: At his funeral, I would not and could not handle the music. It was just beyond me emotionally to spend his Funeral Liturgy up in a choir loft, attempting to do something worthwhile on the organ bench. But I was committed that it would be I who delivered his eulogy.

I chewed on this writing assignment for a long, long time. Many of my early-morning walks with Wesley were spent crafting what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it, and when I would dissolve in tears brought on by grief, Wesley never judged, never scolded, never jeered.

Eventually, it all came together and made its way to paper. I delivered it during the Mass --fighting that hitch in my voice -- and was grateful to bring him so clearly one last time to the memories of those who loved him most.

In 2008, we lost Mom. Her's was a more lingering departure, which made us a bit more ready with the goodbyes. But again, I was called upon to write a reflection of her life. Combining her work as a wife, a sister, a mother, a friend, and a nurse helped us say our farewells.

In 2010, Wesley was felled by a massive tumor that ruptured his spleen. No eulogy was required, but I wrote a very fond reflection of his life for an online Lab forum to which I have belonged for years.

That one's online, here: Godspeed, Wesley Matilda Murphy

All three of these writings were among the most difficult of my life. And the most heartfelt. And the most gratifying. 

• 2012, Ebook to Be Named at a Later Date

I've been contacted by a friend who is professionally involved with an e-publishing business; she queried me about any fiction I have or could produce, wanting to know if I have any interest in publishing online.

As luck would have it, I had a short story, written many years ago, that could possibly fit the bill. I sent it to her for her reaction.

She likes it. It needs work -- especially expansion to a publishable length -- but she sees great potential.

Stay tuned....

Prospects Are Dim

This weekend -- August 19 to be exact -- I will have been away from full-time employment for four months. That is 120 days. 2,880 hours.

During that time, I have concentrated diligently on re-finding full-time employment. To that end, I have answered more than 100 Internet postings for jobs in my field, corporate communications, marketing, writing, PR, etc.

In response, I've had exactly four interviews. Two were by phone. To which there was no follow-up face-to-face interview.

One resulted in a first interview, which failed to get me the position.

The other resulted in three face-to-face interviews, all of which resulted in my not getting the position.

Job hunting, I've determined, is one of the most soul-sucking, psychologically crippling, professionally humiliating exercises on the face of the planet. Adding to the entertainment is the knowledge that the longer it goes on, the more you get the unique thrill of watching your savings ebb away to nothingness.

Nest egg? Cracked open months ago! We're now slurping the yolk, sopping it off the plate as if we're holding an piece of economic rye toast.

Retirement fund? You're next, meaning that we'll be eligible to retire, oh, somewhere around age 105.

The pursuit of employment basically comes down to this:

Hi, Biggity-Big Corp. (BBC). I see by your ad you want someone with exactly my qualifications. To launch my candidacy, I've got to survive your electronic screening process, which is basically a computer program designed to look for keywords you've pre-entered -- marketing, writing, editing, success, management -- as essential for your opening. Ping on enough of those and I'll advance to the next level.

Where I'll then be subjected to automated searches on esoteric concepts such as social media marketing, Search Engine Optimization, best-practice communications counsel, strategic advancement, skill leveraging, and stakeholder maximization.

And then and only then do I stand a chance of human interaction in this search, albeit over the phone.

And glory be! Should that go well, I'll stuff myself into a suit (have these pants gotten tighter or did I pack on a few pounds from the stress of being unemployed?), drive like mad to the BBC headquarters (Mapquest directions clenched in my teeth), wait in your antiseptic anteroom, and, at the appointed time, finally shake your hand and look at you eye-to-eye.

A period of waiting follows. And waiting. And waiting. During which time I am knock-knock-knocking on other doors, hoping to advance with some other Biggity-Big Corp.

If all of this sounds incredibly time consuming, it is.

It is said that looking for a full-time position is a full-time position. If that's true, the pay sucks. And there are no benefits.

Actually, that is not entirely true. There have been some benefits to the mountains of time this period of unemployment has afforded me. True, none of them involve a traditional paycheck, at least not yet. But hope springs eternal.

The most significant plus to this little adventure has been the additional time with my family. Being summer, I am now home with my girls in a Mr. Mom arrangement, as my wife earns our daily bread working as a bank teller. I am, thankfully, able to supplement her income (and our Unemployment Compensation) with my musicianship, which has had me covering for vacationing accompanists as requested. The time home with my girls has been enjoyable; I know that I will never again recapture them to such an extent in their present realities: Sophomore in college, Sophomore in high school, and sixth grader.

In addition to looking for work and attending to parenting duties, I have spent this summer:

• Putting the finishing touches on a music composition that has sat fallow since 2010, with the eventual hopes of getting it published

• Embarking on an e-book publishing project

• Fantasizing about burning off my former boss' eyebrows hair-by-hair with a hot poker

• Attending to a number of household repairs and fix-its that have been hanging around

• Placing an American Kennel Club (AKC) rally obedience title on our dog, with the goal of further competitions

• Training in earnest for the 75-mile bicycle trek for charity, for which I volunteered to ride

• Serving as taxi-driver to my non-license-holding offspring, supplying transpo to movies, mall trips, and swimming outings

• Wasting far too much time on Facebook

• Fantasizing about burning off my former boss' eyebrows hair-by-hair with a hot poker

• Volunteering for some copywriting needed by my church

• Volunteering an additional night as an assistant at a dog training class

• Fantasizing about burning off my former boss' eyebrows hair-by-hair with a hot poker

But as I watch daylight recede in the mornings and evenings, I realize that the summer is quickly ebbing away. With September in the wings, it is time for the girls to return to school.

And me to return to the world of the working.

I'm trying to keep a positive outlook on this dilemma. To trust in the Lord. To remain prayerfully faithful and faithfully prayerful.

But I may have been talking to the wrong guys.

Rather than the Lord Himself, it may be time to ring the bell of St. Anthony, finder of the lost.

Or, when I'm feeling really blue, St. Jude.

Patron of lost causes....

A Fan of Fans

Just as there are scents that immediately bring back my childhood, there are sounds as well: The jaunty, jingly theme to Captain Kangaroo's morning show, the droning buzz of cicadas cycling up and down their repetitive songs, the heart-skipping call of our school number on the radio, signifying a snow day.

But one of the most evocative is the comforting whine of the large box fan my parents had.

An air conditioned home was a rarity in our neighborhood back then, so the summer heat was escaped only with the air that could be circulated through the use of fans. And yes, that meant that, in the swelter of a July or August mid-afternoon, all we were doing was blowing hot air around. But it was better than nothing.

The day that the fans would be dragged up from the basement and dusted off for the season was an exciting one, indeed, for it meant that school was almost out for the summer, that our pool membership would soon kick in, and that shoes and sneakers were soon going to be ditched for bare feet.

We had a number of fans in the house. My parents had a large window fan that screwed into the casing. The placement of this unit was key: It was put in a window that not only blew air across my parents' bed but also blocked the steady, screamy noise that came from our neighbors' use of their in-ground pool. This fan was dual-action, meaning its rotation could be reversed, therefore making it suitable for both blowing cool air in but also sucking hot air out.

My bedroom had a side-by-side fan that we inherited from somewhere. It looked like a 1940s prop plane, with its two blades left and right. Dad used to sit it in my window and close the sash to keep it in place. Airflow could be directed by the pivot points that were built into each side, but for the most part, I was content to let it blow forward. I also distinctly remember that one of the blades must have bent just a centimeter or so, causing it to touch repeatedly on the metal protective grating that covered its face. 

I learned very early on to ignore this soft ping-ping-ping, especially at night.

I loved sleeping with the fan on. I not only enjoyed the rush of coolness that it brought in after the sun went down, but I also let its steady drone lull me to sleep. The concept of "white noise" wasn't formally known back then -- at least to me -- but I understood at an early age its power and comfort.

The granddaddy of all our fans, however, was the green giant that occupied the kitchen.

This was a heavy-duty monster that my parents received as a wedding gift in 1957. It weighed a ton, had a motor that looked like it could drive the screws on the Titanic, and best of all, it moved a hurricane's worth of air.

The casing had gotten a little battered over the years. And one of its features -- a set of louvers that could be set to oscillate back and forth to vary the direction of its breeze -- hadn't worked in a long time. But this powerhouse served us well season after season.

The big fan had a tough job: Cooling the kitchen. My mother directed summer meals to be as least reliant on the stove as possible. And the oven was an absolute no-no in July and August.   But even still, the five of us would gather at the table each evening, the roasty setting sun blasting in from the back window, and eat, relying on the big fan to make the meal bearable.

This thing was loud, too. When it would start up, you'd think a B-52 was readying for takeoff: Brrn-Brnn-BRNN-BRNN-BRNN-BRNNNNNNN... Conversations around the table were often shouted to be heard above the din: "CAN YOU PASS MORE CORN, PLEASE?"  "CAN I HAVE SOME MORE ICED TEA?" "ANOTHER SLICE OF TOMATO, PLEASE!"

My mother also employed the big fan to help with that chore that is now long extinct: Defrosting the freezer. Once a summer, she would clean the refrigerator from top to bottom and then turn her attention to the large, drawer-like freezer unit below it. After unplugging the appliance, she'd remove all the contents, open the drawer, and let the mounds of accumulated frost melt away. This involved a steady emptying of the drip pan below. And to force more hot air inside, speeding the task, she'd position the big fan right in front of it and let it do its work.

This whole affair was fun for we kids because: A) we could stand nearby and enjoy "air conditioning," as the fan disbursed the cool air. B) we could wriggle off large pieces of the frosty accumulation, form them into snowballs, and pelt each other in the backyard.

Fast-forward to today. The summers are now less arduous, thanks to central air conditioning throughout our home. We flick it on without a thought, let it keep us comfortable, and pay the jump in the electric bill each month.

But we still have  a couple of fans, for that late-spring and early-summer period when it's too cool to use the A.C. full-time but it's still worth moving some air around.

And as much as I appreciate air conditioned comfort on those humid nights when, without it, our sheets would be a sodden mess and sleep would be difficult to find...

I still prefer the nights when I can leave the bedroom windows open.

Nestle under a cool sheet.

And let the steady sound of the fan lull me off to sleep.

Getting to First Base

Growing up, I was terrible at sports. Just awful.

I don't know if it was my bad coordination. Or my poor eyesight, which wasn't corrected until I was 11 and, thanks to the alphabetical order that ruled Catholic schools, was sat in the back as a W and, for the first time in my academic career, struggled to see the board accurately. 

Or maybe it was the bronchitis that felled me continually as a kid. Running became difficult, so sports like basketball were clearly beyond me. And soccer wasn't even a term I could define back in those days.

It's rather ironic that I was so bad at sports, having been raised in a sports-oriented family. My elder brothers played a variety of sports: baseball, basketball, football, swimming. As the youngest sibling, I would be bundled off to see their games and meets, which bored me to tears.


Ah, the curse of the youngest child.

Both Mom and Dad were ardent Philadelphia Eagles fans, camping out in front of the set each Sunday afternoon and yelling at the screen. How clearly I recall being in my room and doing homework while they bellowed: "Go-GO-GOOOO!" or "Get 'em-GET 'EM-GET 'EM!!"

It all went by in my periphery, football. I didn't really understand the game (these guys bash those guys; and then those guys bash these guys). So I rebelled, declaring it all stupid and annoying and not worthy of my attention.

It took me to adulthood to back off from that stance, and now, Eileen and I sit in front of the set each Sunday afternoon and yell at the screen, while our girls do homework. Somewhere in the cosmos, my dad is shaking his head at the irony of all this.

But as a kid, I did try my hand at Little League. Mostly because that was what was "done" in those days; if you were a boy between the ages of 10 and, say, 15, you played Little League. And partly to emulate my older brothers. They played and won the respect of peers and gained the value of team-participation and even took home a trophy or two (back in the day when trophies weren't awarded just for showing up), so I would attempt to do the same.

So each spring, I'd get the mitt out of the basement, blow off the cobwebs, moisten the leather with generous amounts of smelly Neatsfoot Oil, rub it in thoroughly with an old rag, and repeatedly pound the palm with a baseball, to create a good "pocket" that would assuredly help me field grounders and fly balls.

I was on the Tigers, with its white and blue uniforms.

And, truth be told, I sucked.

I was assigned to the no-man's-land of the outfield. Right Field, as I recall. Where I could presumably do the least damage defensively.

What that usually meant was long, long, stretches of doing absolutely nothing. Until the crack of a bat would send a pop-up fly my way. At which time, I would track it, running in circles trying to get underneath it, and promptly watch as it thudded at my feet.

Or a grounder would come hopping toward me at lightning speed. And as I was taught to do, I'd crouch down on one knee in front of the ball and prep my glove to scoop it up... Only to watch it dribble three feet to my left.

All the while, my teammates were screaming instructions. All of which went over my head. As did the ball. Usually.

I wasn't the only stumble-bum in the outfield of the Tigers, however. Danny Abrams, who was assigned to the outer reaches of Center Field, would become so bored and distracted that he would take off his glove and fill the pocket with yellow dandelions as the inning crawled along. You should have heard the din when a ball was shot his way.

I wonder what became of Danny Abrams. I imagine he's an attorney now, out-earning every single member of the old Tigers, watching MLB from a personal skybox somewhere.


He who laughs last, Danny. He who laughs last....

But as bad as I was at fielding, I was even worse at batting.

Here's my recollection of each time at the plate: Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Yer out.

The pressure would be enormous. Especially if we were behind. The coaches--including my Dad, who volunteered to help out with the Tigers, and Mr. Farrell, our head coach--always offered encouragement. But the outcome was always the same: Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Yer out.

I also had to endure the humiliation of "Sink-in!"

Sink-in! was an ironic (and insulting) spin on the fielders' phrase "Sink-out." Sink-out was reserved for heavy-hitters, those batters who could be relied on to send the ball soaring toward the fence each time, so the guys in the field would trot a step or three backward, in hopeful anticipation of being able to shag something outright or at least field a screamer more quickly.

Sink-in sent the opposite message: This loser is an easy strike out. Or if massive doses of luck are with him, he'll dribble something as far as the pitcher's mound.


But in either case, move in, fellas. Might as well position yourself closer to the dugout so that when he's either handily tagged at first or whiffs three in a row and the inning is over, it's a shorter jog to the dugout.

I was the very embodiment of Sink-in.

Except one time. There was one instance where a hit actually enabled me to advance to first base.

Well, sort-of a hit.

I had gone through my first Whoosh, and when the second whoosh followed, the umpire, nearsighted Mr. Beaumont, barked out loudly, "Take your base."

Huh?

Take your base? Wasn't that ruling for batters who'd been hit by a wild pitch?

To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't been hit by a wild pitch.

Had I?

I wasn't really sure, but I wasn't going to let the technicality keep me from my first toe on a bag ever.

So I tossed the bat and trotted to first.

At which time the opposing coach exploded.

"What are you doing? He wasn't hit! I didn't see him hit!"

Mr. Beaumont looked a little puzzled, put his hands together in a capital T, and called "Time."

He then started down the first base line toward me.

Mr. Farrell jumped off the bench; "Dan! Dan! Don't say a word. Tell him you want your attorney. No questioning the accused without the presence of counsel! DO. NOT. SAY. A. THING!"

I froze.

A minor confab then developed at first base, with each coach arguing his side of the dispute.

Dad stood by the sidelines, holding his palms up to me comfortingly, telling me just to hang in there and no nothing for the moment.

We never reached the point of kicking dust on Mr. Beaumont's shoes, thankfully, but to settle it all, he point-blank asked me: "Were you hit?"

I didn't know what to do. So I let honesty be the best policy.

"I don't think so."

More conversation erupted, and after a moment or two of mayhem, Mr. Beaumont raised his hand and silenced both sides. He looked right at me and announced: "For being honest, I'm giving you first base."

My side of the bullpen cheered in response. Everyone returned to their assigned positions, coaches included, and the game continued.

I cannot remember the ultimate outcome of that game. My suspicion is that I died on first.

Maybe.

But perhaps my integrity survived.

How the Pony Express Helped Spur Me Toward Maturity

We grow up by degrees, don't we? A small revelation piles atop a small revelation, and before long, we put the pieces together that Santa's handwriting on our Christmas packages looks an awful lot like Mom's. Or that the monsters on Lost in Space do not, indeed, live in our closets. Or that the Geography teacher that makes our heart go thump-thump leaves the classroom at 3PM and falls into the loving arms of her fiancee, zooming off in his red convertible.

It's  series of small awakenings.

And in looking back on them, they can bring bitterness and disappointment, as we mourn the the veil of innocence and wonder that sometimes gets violently torn away.

Or it can bring a feeling of warmth and goodwill, as we realize the good fortune in growing up in an environment where such fantasy was possible in the first place.

I tend to lean toward the latter.

~~~

Mom was a Cub Scout Den Mother.

I've Googled this term, and it is now "Den Leader," in deference, I suppose, to the trend to de-genderize roles like this. But back in the day, they were Den Mothers.

A Den Mother was the adult leader of a Cub Scout pack. Cub Scouts were the entry point on the way to being a Boy Scout.

Den Mothers, armed with nothing more than perhaps a semi-finished basement and an official Cub Scout Den Mother Handbook, bravely volunteered who agreed to have 10-12 eight year olds meeting in her home once a week. Back then, these meetings usually comprised the Pledge of Allegiance, some sort of civics lesson, planning sessions for events like the annual Pinewood Derby or camporee, discussions on the advancement toward Boy Scout, a craft, a sugary snack, and lots of mayhem.

My older brothers were Cub Scouts when Mom agreed to host the neighborhood pack.

And in the name of efficiency, I was included in the weekly proceedings, even though I was officially too young to be in the Cub Scouts at all.

I provided a good testing ground for Mom and her activities. For example, she reasoned that if I could handle a craft or the memorization of a list of Scout virtues or whatever, that the older boys could as well. So I'd often work with her a day or two before the actual meeting, ensuring that her plans would unfold as planned.

So well before my peers, I learned things like how to fold a U.S. flag according to regulation.

And how to roll the official Scout bandanna.

And how to make a bald eagle out of gold-sprayed macaroni.

What the pack did, I did. Where the pack went, I went. I'm not sure how my brothers reacted to their younger sibling tag-along, but Mom said it was okay, so that make it okay.

Ever in search of new activities for us to do, Mom somehow got us tickets to attend the live morning broadcast of a kid-vid T.V. show.

Sally Starr and Her Popeye Theater was a daily dose of cartoons, jokes, games, guests, Three Stooges shorts, and other pee-wee entertainment hosted by Our Gal Sal, a western-themed lass with a giant grin, broad hat, handy holster, and spangly chaps.

Every local market back then had a show exactly like Sally Starr and Her Popeye Theater, hosted by a hometown "celebrity" who could also be counted on to make personal appearances, sign a slew of autographs, star in the yearly Thanksgiving Day parade, lead a bunch of charity fundraisers throughout the year, and bask in the glow of prepubescent televised adoration.

Sally was just such an icon. And I watched every day.

So attending this event was a big deal. A very big deal. And not just because it got us a dispensation from school attendance.

One of the highlights of Sally's show, for me, was the delivery of the daily mail. At some point in each of her broadcasts, Sal would get a faraway look in her eye and cock her open hand to her ear.

"Hey, boys and girls!" she'd chime. "What's that I hear?"

And in the distance, a sound would emerge. Faint at first but growing in intensity: hoof beats. And I would nestle closer to the set, bathed in the black and white backwash of light.

"Why tarnation! It's our trusty pal the Pony Express delivery man!" Sally would beam. And the sounds of the William Tell Overture would kick in. My eyes would widen. My heartbeat would quicken.

Thundering louder and louder, the unseen horse, surely flying at top speed, was racing toward Sal and her waiting brood. I could picture the rider, reins flapping behind him, buckskin jacket flared at his sides as he rocketed forward, one hand on his hat to keep it in place, one hand pounding the rump of his trusty steed, urging the muscular beast faster and faster to finish his assigned rounds.

The hoof beats ceased their rhythmic pounding and became a series of staccato percussions as the off-camera rider reined in his mount. The horse protested the halt with a loud whinny, eager to be off to the next destination.

"THUD!" A large mailbag flew on-camera and landed at Sally's feet.

"Why thank-ye!" waved Sally.

And with one more trumpeted whinny, the hoof beats started up again in their presto-tempo. They faded into the distance, taking the strains of Rossini with them, assuredly leaving nothing more than a dusty streak toward the golden horizon.

This was exciting stuff. Sal would then reach into the bag and read aloud a letter or two -- perhaps showing a piece of artwork that had been submitted -- and the cut to a commercial or cartoon.

The prospect of seeing this unfold LIVE was the highlight of the trip for me.

The morning of our show, I don't remember much at all about how we got there or what it was like entering the studio. I do know that someone told us that we would only be able to watch the cartoons and Stooges shorts by looking off to the monitors on the sides of the stage. And that we had to be quiet during the show, except when Sal asked us to hoot-and-holler. We could wave during the one shot of the audience when we were welcomed. But we had to stay in our seats.

I remember nothing about the show itself. I do recall being rather blase about the rotations of Popeye cartoons that morning.

But then...

Sal cocked her head and gave that faraway look. And my palms began to sweat.

"Hey, boys and girls!" she chimed. "What's that I hear?"

I knew! With every fiber of my being, I KNEW!!

In the distance, a sound emerged. Faint at first but growing in intensity: hoof beats. And then William Tell! I was electrified.

Louder. More intense. Closer.

I scanned the set. I watched the wings. I would be first to see the Pony Express rider. I would catch sight of that winged horse the very nanosecond he approached.

I would!

There was motion off to the side of Sal.

A horse?

No.

A grizzled stagehand. Saggy jeans. Wrinkly flannel shirt. Cigarette stuck in his lips. Walking slump-shouldered to just aside the camera. Sally's mega-watt smile never dimmed. The sound effect whinny kicked in right on cue.

And this pot-bellied grip slung the mailbag at Sally's feet and sauntered off.

But...

I...

The horse...

The Pony Express guy...

Sally excitedly opened the mailbag and shared the delights of her mail with the audience.

And I grew up a whole bunch that morning.

~~~

As I say, I look back on this episode and smile. Sure it was disappointing for the moment. But  the magic and imagination represented by my belief in that Pony Express rider are things that I would't trade for all the horses in the old west itself.

The Tobacco Road Not Taken

I do not smoke.

Anymore.

I did smoke. Back in college. For a while.

But I was an English Major. And smoking for an English Major was pretty much a given.

At least back then.

So I succumbed to the habit.

Not that it ever got out of control. If I were to characterize my usage back then, I could honestly classify myself as a moderate smoker.

But it didn't last. And well before graduation, I quit. And haven't looked back since.

Both my parents smoked regularly. In fact, Dad imbibed not only in cigarettes but also, on occasion, a pipe.

Larks were their brand, and he started each day with a bowl of Wheaties, a mug of black coffee, and a smoke, all habits learned from his time in the U.S. Navy.

Mom smoked, too. Larks. And I suppose her habit was born from the stress and pressure of being an R.N. and working crazy hours in a demanding, life-and-death career.

They both quit as they aged, he as the result of a heart attack at 53, she as a precaution against the high blood pressure and other physical ailments that were starting to catch up with her.

But as for me, I walked away from the smoking demon because it seemed to be trouble, for the most part.

My interactions with tobacco were ill-fated, especially early on.


During my newspaper delivery-boy days, one of my customers was Jerry Crawford, who was then a Major League umpire (you can Google him if you have no idea who he was) but to me, a non-sports fan, he was simply "Mr.Crawford," customer, reader of The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.

Mr. Crawford was early on the route, one of the first or second houses.

One summer evening, while collecting my weekly fees, he was sitting on his stoop, enjoying the sunset and the waning heat.

And he was chomping on a chaw of tobacco.

I was fascinated. I'd seen chewing tobacco used on television. Old movies, mostly. But yes, the occasional baseball game, where the hock-and-spit action was grossly appealing, as it would be to any 13-year-old male.

I cannot recall how the conversation went, but I probably remarked that his chaw was "pretty cool."

And in his wisdom, he probably responded that it was a bad habit that he wished he had never embraced.

But somehow, I guess I persisted, and so he offered me this challenge.

He offered me a $5 bill, which was a pretty significant amount of money, if I could take a plug of his tobacco and keep it in my mouth the entire route.

COOL! The chance to not only earn some serious dough (the weekly cost of the paper, without tip, was a whopping $1.40, so he was basically offering me more than a month's earnings in one shot), plus I could earn some serious bragging rights.

"Okay!" I accepted eagerly.

He broke off a piece of the brown fibers and offered it to me. He even instructed me as to where to place it between the teeth and gums and how to chew it softly. I may have even gotten a spitting lesson or two in the deal.

He waved me on, and I mounted my metal steed (my Schwinn bike) and continued delivering.

First house, my throat dried up.

Second house, my vision blurred. My throwing became wildly inaccurate, and I was having to leave my seat to retrieve errant papers. And by then, my legs were getting wobbly.

Third house, my stomach began this uncomfortable rolling that caused me some alarm.

Fourth house, my bag of papers, pounding on my shoulder with each pedal, became and anvil-and-hammer in my head.

By the fifth house, I threw up not only the chaw of tobacco but also the remnants of my lunch. I continued to dry-heave into the gutter until even the vestiges of breakfast -- eaten a full 10 hours prior -- were gone.

I somehow finished my routine and returned dejectedly to the Crawfords. Mr. Crawford asked if I were okay, and I assured him I was. He also asked me if I still though chewing tobacco was "cool."

"Gah, no!" I said greenly.

"Good," he replied, sending me on my way.

You'd think a lesson like that would take hold and cause me to never touch tobacco again. And you'd be right.

Except for a sanctioned episode in high school.

Our senior year musical was My Fair Lady, and I was fortunate enough to be cast as Henry HIggins' sidekick and confidante, Col. Hugh Pickering. I donned my best British accent and got an Act 2 solo ("You Did It"), but the capstone in the characterization was smoking a pipe. Dad's pipe. And cherry-flavored tobacco.

Fortunately, this piece of stage business was limited to the scenes in Act 1 where, over time, Higgins and Eliza drill their elocution lessons. But I milked it for all it was worth, producing the pipe, stuffing the bowl, flaming the match, and puffing away.

It was more just creating a series of clouds that floated around the set than out-and-out smoking, but the effect was very convincing.

But as I said, in college, I succumbed a bit more fully to the allure of smoking.

And that ended badly, too.

I was driving to class one morning, late as usual, and fumbling with the car radio, the cigarette lighter, and the unlit coffin nail in the corner of my mouth. My attention wandered from the road for just a second or two, but that was all it took; I looked up and saw the back-end of a stopped city bus looming in my windshield.

I stomped on the brake, but it was too late.

Luckily, the result was only a fender-bender on my car and no damage at all to the city bus (which was blessedly light on passengers, for I was imagining case after case of whiplash litigating their way toward my future).

But that was enough.

Tobacco and I were through.

And as for smoking any kind of other substances, the appeal of that activity passed me right by. Not that I wasn't exposed to it at various parties in high school and college. But I could never quite see the point.

I've cautioned our girls on the dangers of tobacco. I've also warned them that I have become hypersensitive to the smell; so if they believe they can sneak a smoke, gargle some mouthwash, spritz on some body spray, and get away with it, they're dead wrong.

In adulthood, I've developed a weird association with the smell of cigarettes; it has become a trigger for the migraines that occasionally knock me sideways.

I also watched what an addition to cigarettes did to my mother-in-law, who could never toss that monkey from her back. Thanks to the cancer sticks, she fell victim to a very rough passing.

So all the associations I have with tobacco are now negative. Extremely so.

And I don't see anything changing that.

Go, Fourth! Part 2

The picture attached to today's blog entry was taken July 1969. I am about halfway to being seven years old.

I am standing next to my trusty Radio Flyer wagon, which, prior to my Schwinn bike, was my main mode of transportation back then. This tank was indestructible, and I can recall numerous times I would bend one knee into its payload space, use the other free leg to propel myself forward, and rocket down our street, trying to steer using the black handle that, owing to my position and lack of height, came roughly to my lower jaw, making any kind of movement with any kind of accuracy a total joke.

As we boomers are fond of saying: It's a miracle any of us survived our childhoods.

This picture was taken the morning of our community's Fourth of July parade. Our parade had the usual array of bands and Boy Scouts, of flags and veterans, and even a rag-tag band bleating out a half-hearted version of "The Washington Post March."

But it also included a competition for the kids in the neighborhood who marched in a number of categories, competing for prizes.

There were a number of brackets in which entries were possible. I remember Decorated Bicycle being a biggie. Mostly because it never took much effort to thread some red-white-and-blue streamers through the spokes of your Schwinn (be sure to wrap your sissybar and banana seat as well!) and ride forth.

There was also a float category, which is the one Mom always advised for us. "The bike category is always too crowded," she'd say, craftily plotting how to beat the odds. "Go for the floats! Fewer kids means a better chance for you to win."

And I believe there was a category for kids on foot, but this always seemed to be won by some girl whose mother, a seamstress from the old country, could fashion a Betsy Ross costume accurate to the thread count of the duster and the exact hue of dye for her flag as commissioned by the Minutemen.

Jerks.

On July 04 1969, the space race was in full swing, just on the cusp of Armstrong's landing some two weeks later. The space mania of the time coincided with an absolute stroke of good fortune -- and a healthy dose of imagination from Mom. Somewhere, somehow, she was able to put her hands on a discarded refrigerator box. Whether it came from one of her sisters or a neighbor who had invested in a new appliance, I can't remember.

I do recall spending hours on the back patio, spraying it silver, decorating it, nestling it into my wagon, and otherwise prepping for its Independence Day debut.

The nose-cone proved to be a challenge. The box's square top didn't exactly scream aerodynamic, so we took the flaps and cut them into trapezoids that were then duct-taped four to a side. Ah, the magic of duct tape!

But we still needed a pinnacle. And in a fit of inspiration, Mom took an empty bleach bottle, inverted it, cut off the bottom, and voila! It was ready for its foil heat-shield and installation.

As you can see, we weren't exactly up to the NASA standards for plumb, but hey, close enough for government work.

The only drawback to this massive creation was its lack of mobility. Not that it was heavy, but in my rickety wagon, as in my streaking down the street, steering was an issue.

No mind, we hauled it off to the starting point of the parade, found our age-appropriate category, and set forth.

As a side note, I do recall that my one brother was also a participant in this parade, in the dreaded bicycle category. But Mom used the opportunity to make the peacenik point that the war in Southeast Asia had gone on too long -- thank you, Mr. Nixon -- and that it was time to bring it to a close. So his bicycle had a small tableau in the front basket of two G.I. Joe action figures engaged in battle. And a cardboard sign behind them, advising "BRING OUR BOYS HOME!"

We wended our way through the neighborhoods, where crowds of people watched from the sidelines.

I do recall having some technical difficulties with that damned bleach bottle. Luckily, just like the real astronauts, I did have a ground crew, even though I can attribute the assistance more to luck than preparation. Just as my rocket's nose was threatening to tip over, I caught sight of an uncle in the crowds. I somehow expressed to him my plight and, glory be!, he had a spare roll of duct tape!

A few zips of tape, cut by nipping the raw edge with his teeth, and we were back in orbit!

With several hundred other competitors, we made our way to the local baseball field, where, armed with a sound system that never quite worked correctly, we would participate in a program that included a flag raising; the Pledge of Allegiance; the emotional playing of the National Anthem courtesy of a scratchy 45 rpm, amplified by the aforementioned lackluster sound system; and the Pièce de résistance, the awarding of the parade prizes.

I don't remember much about the ancillary pieces of this culmination of small-town patriotism. I was too excited to find out how we'd fared.

From the loudspeaker, the categories started being called, with winners trotting to center field to accept their accolades.

Soon it was time for my bracket.

And for just a second I stopped breathing.

And heard.

MY NAME called!!!

Our spacecraft had won!

I leapt forward, yanking the wagon behind me, and bounded across the grass, my winning entry clattering behind me.

And bouncing.

And teetering.

I was oblivious. I continued to run, arm stretched out behind me, fist locked on the handle of the wagon.

The clapping of the crowd filled my ears. I was delirious.

I had won! I had won! I was on the top of the world...

...

Until the entire rocket tipped over and landed in a heap of crepe paper, cardboard, foil, and duct tape.

I didn't see this happen. I heard it. And I felt it, as the wagon and its payload became a heap of disappointment that I was now dragging across the dusty infield.

The crowd gasped. The Emcee, seeing my distressed, called forward to me: "It's okay, son. Come on!"

And so I left the wagon behind and ran to the dais. I was still greeted with firm handshakes, backpats, and big grins, so any disappointment I may have felt by the accident was quickly overcome.

I got a crisp $20 bill for my entry.

And when the Emcee asked me what I was going to do with the money and shoved the live mic in my face for the response, I came out with this: "My mother's birthday is tomorrow, and I'm going to buy her a birthday present!"

Aww....

The rest of that morning is something of a blur. Somehow, my parents, I'm sure, managed to collect our dashed pile of patriotic pride and get it back in the car. And for what it's worth, my brother's decorated bike didn't win a thing.

So although my rocket was no longer soaring in the clouds, my spirits sure were.