Pandemic Walk

24 Pandemic Walk first edit 4/3 4:00 PM

I was sitting in my apartment, staring out the window. Yesterday, I was sitting in my apartment, staring out the window. The day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. Ten days quarantining myself, along with everyone else at Van Schoonhoven Senior Apartments. I used to walk everyday. A half a mile to the village, stop at McGreivey's for beer, and a half mile back. I was doing pretty good. But I haven't walked in ten days. I have a hard time getting out of my chair and walking to the bathroom now. I need to walk. I need to keep moving.

This sitting around stuff can't be good for me. When I get up, my joints ache. I should go for a walk. You won't get any argument from me. Really? That's a first. Well, because for once in your life you're not wrong, that's the first. Just shut up. Fine. Fine.

I looked out the window. It was sunny. The sky was blue. I looked at the weather app on my phone. It was 52 degrees, forecast to go to 56. Damnit, I'm going for a walk. To hell with this quarantine.

I got up from my chair with difficulty. Everything from my hips down hurt. I hobbled to the closet. Which coat? Well, I think I'll just wear a tee-shirt with my lined jacket over it. And a baseball cap instead of my wool Irish tweed cap. That should do it. I grabbed my wallet and keys, and my cane and camera, and out I went.

“Why hello Mr. Gibson!”

“Hello Mrs. Sciocetti,” I answered.

“Going for a walk are we?”

“Yes. We're going for a walk,” I said too quickly, cutting her off. That wasn't nice. At all. So I stopped.

“I haven't seen you leave since the quarantine started,” said Mrs. Sciocetti, staying the required six feet away.

“No,” I replied, “I'm trying to follow the rules, but I think I should be able to go for a walk if I don't stop anywhere or talk to anybody.”

“I think that would be fine,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “We all trust each other to follow rules.”

“Well, I'm glad,” I said, “but yesterday, my door buzzer went off. I answered it. It was UPS. Without thinking, I hit the button to unlock and open the door. As soon as I did it, I knew it was wrong. I ran out my door and I met him at the outside door to the building. I told him that I would take my packages, and he said that he had them on his hand truck and ran down the hall to my apartment, number five. I ran after him. I opened the door to my apartment as he was setting packages down. I pushed them inside with my foot. I reached to grab the remaining packages on the hand truck and he said they weren't for me and went rushing down the hall. So I think I broke some rules.”

“Well, yes it does,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “But let's pray that he and his packages didn't have any viruses.”

“I washed my hands right away, for more than the twenty seconds they recommend,” I responded weakly. “I hope everyone did.”

“Oh, I'm sure they did, Mr. Gibson. Now you don't worry about it and go for your walk,”

“We will,” I replied and went out the door.

No Richie. Good. I don't want to ride, I want to walk. I need to walk. Don't get me wrong, I truly appreciate him giving me rides. I don't understand how he just shows up like he does. And why isn't he here today? Is it the quarantine? Is he afraid of the virus? Is he sick?

I was at the end of the driveway. I took a right down Middletown Road/Sixth Street... I need to find out where the road ends and the street begins... and I shuffled along. The road/street was as busy as ever, it seemed. It took me several blocks before I could cross the street down close to the church hall. Damn kids were driving too fast and I was walking too slow. I had to cross when absolutely no one was in sight, and even then I had to pick up my pace. But I made it.

I hung a louie at Division Street and headed down the hill. St. Mary's School is closed. Just like all of the other schools. And I read that they won't open anytime soon. Governor Cuomo is going to waive the 180 mandated school days requirement. That's a good thing. Cuomo's doing an outstanding job, all things considered, I think. In spite of all of the disorganization at the federal level. He is rising to the occasion. For one of the few times in my life, I admire a politician. He's good.

Coumo said to congress "This was the time to put politics aside and partisanship aside. This is the time for governmental leaders to stop making excuses and just do your job. Do your job. We're one nation."

Strong words.

As I got to the bottom of the Division Street hill at Fourth Street, a woman came up Fourth and took a left onto Division Street. “Six feet!” I said with a smile. She smiled back. It was a weak smile. It was my lame stab at humor. I think she understood that, but she didn't think it was so damn funny.

I got close to Broad Street. The Valero was open. Two kids rode up on bicycles and went inside. Kids have no clue. Social distancing kids! They didn't hear me because I didn't actually say it out loud. But I thought it.

McGreivey's kitchen was going great guns. I could smell the cooking and it smelled real good. Good for them. The Fordian folks are doing as best they can to patronize local businesses. They know their friends and neighbors are hurting. Without the allowed take-out and delivery, these places would be gone pretty quickly. From my years in business, I know that the bills keep coming in. Sure, maybe you stopped your advertising, which in turn hurts those businesses. Maybe you laid employees off and such, but bills come in and income doesn't.

This crisis brings out the worst in some people, but the best in most people. I firmly believe that.

When I got to the intersection of Fourth and Broad Streets, I stopped. I looked around. A fella across the street was walking his dog. Virus or not, dogs still have to be walked. There was a couple waiting across the street to cross Broad. I hope they live together. Social distancing! Quarantine! There were still many cars driving around. Could they all be going to essential jobs? Or doing permitted errands, like grocery shopping? I wonder. But since everything is closed, they must be.

I took a right. As I passed McGreivey's I noticed there was a handmade sign on the inside of the door. The instructions of how to call for pick-up meals was written on it. Part of the instructions, including the phone number, was obscured by grill-work on the door. I should tell Art McGreivey about that.

It was hard to believe, but walking up the slight hill towards St. Mary's church slowed my pace even more.

Everything was closed. The antique shop, the hair salon, the bakery, the sign shop, I've got a mule and her name is Sal..., even the rectory and St. Mary's church looked closed. Of course, I didn't check the church because that would involve climbing stairs... Wait! Don't tell me. Break a hip. Am I right? Just shut up.

Now I had to cross Broad Street again, and again people were driving just too darn fast! I got almost to the convent before I could cross, and at that I held up a car coming. Too bad, you can just wait a minute. I was gearing up to shake my cane at them, but then the car slowed way down. Almost stopped, waiting for me. As I looked at the driver, she gave me a friendly wave. I waved back friendly like. I'm not sure why. Virus and all, you know. Everybody is scared. Who has time to be friendly?

The rest of the walk was uneventful. I knew I was walking slow and I tried to pick up my pace. I tried, but I couldn't. Geez, I hope I make it. What happens if I can't take another step? Don't think about it. Just put one foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Step. Step.

I did that, and was on autopilot. I didn't think of anything. I just looked at my feet. It was like when I ran cross-country in high school. You stop thinking of anything. You just run. You run and breathe. Run and forget what hurts. You run. When you get passed, by another runner, you don't care. You run your own race as best you can.

And that's what I did. An before long at all, I was at the driveway into Van Schoonhoven Square Senior Apartments, and I took a left, and it was slightly downhill. Downhill. Yes! I've got this. I can do it.

As I got there, the mailman was leaving. I waved my key under the automatic sensor and the door opened. Without me touching it. I held my key as I made my way to my mailbox. I opened the mailbox door and I had mail. A catalog of all of the take-out and delivery businesses open. Well, that may come in handy.

I got to my apartment, tossed the magazine on a table to sit for a couple of days for any attached virus to die, and went to the bathroom to wash my hands while I sang the happy birthday song. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you look like a monkey and you are one too. That takes about twenty seconds. You have to wash your hands for twenty seconds, the quarantine guidelines say.

Happy friggin' birthday.

Fort On Stilts

23 Fort On Stilts second edit 3/27 3:00 PM

The governor, Andrew Cuomo, wanted everyone to quarantine themselves. To stay inside and not have any contact with those outside unless absolutely necessary. So that's what I did. That's what we all did at Van Schoonhoven Square. And when we were out in the halls, we had to keep at least six feet between us.

No one was out in the halls when I went to check the mail. Not even Mrs. Sciocetti. It was like a ghost town.

When I was a kid, I had Ghost Town. It was a toy made out of metal, an old abandoned downtown out of the old west. I used to like to set my men up on it and then shoot at them with rubber bands. I loved it. But then our cat peed on it. It wasn't the same after that. It rusted and smelled funny.

I went back inside my apartment. I started working on my book. I was sharply focused, buth then there was a knock on my door. I got up to see who it was. No one ever comes to visit me. I was surprised when I opened the door and saw Mrs. Sciocetti standing there.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson.”

“Well good afternoon to you too, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I replied.

“There's a young man outside who came here looking for you. He said his name is Richie. I couldn't let him come in because we can't have any visitors, don't cha know.”

“Richie? Did he say what he wanted?” I asked.

“No, he just asked for you,” answered Mrs. Sciocetti. “I asked him to wait outside and I would see if you were in.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, as I made my way down the hall.

When I got through the door to the outside, I saw Richie half sitting, half leaning on the railing. I opened the door but didn't step outside.

“Hi Richie! What's up?”

“Well, with this virus quarantine and all, I thought I'd come by to see if you needed anything,” he said.

“No, I'm pretty good,” I replied. “I had groceries delivered Saturday.”

“OK. Do you need to go anywhere?” asked Richie.

“Well, to be honest, I've been cooped up in my little apartment too long. It would be nice to get out of here. But we're not supposed to get any closer than six feet to anyone.”

“Hey man, I've been in isolation myself. I've been getting a little nutty,” said Richie. “I thought I'd get out for a drive and then I thought of you.”

“Nice Richie, thank you,” I said. “But with the quarantine...”

“Look man, if I've been in quarantine and you've been in quarantine, then we can't have caught anything, right?”

“I guess...” I answered.

“So we're good,” said Richie. “C'mon, hop in. Let's blow this popcorn stand.”

“Well... OK. Hang on, I have to grab my cane and camera,” I said.

“Not a problemo, bud,” said Richie after me.

I shuffled quickly down the hall to my apartment, grabbed my stuff, shuffled back as quickly as I could, and went out the door. As the door was closing, I stuck my foot in front of it to stop it and checked my pocket for my keys. Damn, forgot them.

“Hold on Richie!” I hollered. “Be right back!”

I shuffled double-time down the hall to my apartment door. I hope I didn't lock it. Nope, it's open. Sometimes it's good to be forgetful. I ran in, grabbed my keys, and shuffled on out again. Richie was waiting in his jelly bean at the end of the ramp that ran from the driveway to his jelly bean's door. I opened it, and with a little bit of difficulty got in. If only they made these new cars so they weren't so low to the ground, that would be great. Why don't you stop calling them jelly beans? Why? Because it's getting tiresome, that's why. It was amusing the first time you said it, now it's getting annoying. Fine.

“Thanks Richie!” I said.

“It's cool man,” said Richie. “Where too?”

“I dunno. I guess Swayze Acres, take a swing through there and see what the kids are doing. It's Sunday. But St. Mary's canceled all church services because of the virus,” I said.

“What virus?” asked Richie.

“You know that virus. Coronavirus. That's it.”

“Virus?” asked Richie quizzically.

“Yeah, why we were quarantined!” I answered.

“Quarantine? Are you thinking of polio?” asked Richie. “The Salk vaccine took care of that. We don't need to quarantine anymore.”

I looked at Richie long and hard. I don't think he's messing with me. I think he's serious. Just shut up. Get your bearings. You know you confuse easily, especially after your second concussion.

Richie leaned over and turned on the radio. “Walk Don't Run” by the Ventures was playing. Gee. I haven't heard that song in years. Catchy tune. What a great instrumental. Three guys playing guitars and a drummer. I started tapping my fingers to the music.

“Do you like the Ventures, Mr. Gibson?”

“Yeah I do,” I answered. “Great band. They don't make 'em like that anymore.”

Richie looked at me strangely, a frown on his face.

“Didn't you see them on American Bandstand?” asked Richie.

“No. I, uh, guess I missed it.”

“Oh, it was great man,” said Richie. “They were all wearing white bucks like Pat Boone.”

“Really? What are bucks.”

“Bucks. You know, loafers. But yeah man. They were great. And then they played Wipe Out with TWO DRUMMERS! They were out of sight, Like battle of the bands with one band,” said Richie. “That surfing music is really catching on.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said quietly. Mostly to myself.

“Did you know that Dick Clark was from upstate New York?” asked Richie.

“No, I didn't know that. Where?” I asked.

“Mount Vernon,” said Richie.

“Well, I consider Mount Vernon to be a suburb of New York City,” I answered. “I think real upstaters would consider him to be a city boy.”

“Yeah maybe so,” said Richie.

“Well, just splitting hairs, I guess. It's really not important anymore.”

“Here ya go, Mr. Gibson. I'm gonna go for a drive. You want I should pick you up later?”

“That would be great, Richie,” I said as I opened the door and slid out.

These old cars are much better than the new ones. First of all, you can get in and out of them. They weren't built so low that you felt like your butt was on the ground. And the doors were wider. Richie's Olds F85 has style too.

“Thanks for the lift Richie!” I yelled to him as he drove away.

Richie tooted his horn twice and slowly turned around at the intersection of Lea and Barratt, by Jimmy McFarlane's house.

I started shuffling down Lea Avenue. It was as I pictured it. What a pleasant little neighborhood. I saw girls jumping rope down by Bombard's house. One girl on each end of the long rope, one jumping in the middle, and a couple of girls waiting.

Two of the girls waiting were playing patty-cake.

Miss Ma-ry Mac Mac Mac

all dressed in Black Black Black

The twirlers were singing...

Cinderella dressed in yellow

went upstairs to kiss her fellow

on the way her girdle busted

how many people were disgusted?
1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

Fun. I stopped to watch. The jumper took one end of the rope and a twirler sat with the others, as one of them got up to jump.

Little bear little bear climb up the stairs
Little bear little bear say your prayers
Little bear little bear turn out the lights
Little bear little bear spell goodnight
G-O-O-D-N-I-G-H-T!

Little bear little bear turn around
Little Bear little bear touch the ground
Little bear little bear climb the stairs
Little bear little bear say your prayers
Little bear little bear turn out the lights
Little bear little bear spell goodnight
G-O-O-D-N-I-G-H-T!

I laughed to myself. I wonder if little girls jump rope? Or play patty-cake?

I heard hammering behind Chumley's house again. It must be Russ and other kids building something. It always is.

I was by Yager's house anyway, so I walked up the driveway to the back. What I saw was... oddly different. I kept approaching, slowly moving along because the ground was uneven here. Don't want to fall or nuthin'. Would you stop with that! With what? With this falling down nonsense! Hey, don't give me that, because you didn't even exist until I fell the second time and cracked the toilet with my head. Who says I didn't exist? Me. Well you're wrong, I just didn't have anything to say. Well try not saying anything now then. Fine. Fine.

I got close enough where I could see... it. It was a... um... box made out of doors. Not on the ground, but on poles sticking up out of the ground. It looked like something from another planet had landed in Chumley's back yard.

“Hi Mr. Gibson,” yelled someone from the box.

“Oh, hi Bob,” I called up to Bob Van. “Where's Russell?”

“In here Mr. Gibson!” yelled an unseen voice from inside.

“What are you guys building?” I asked.

“Well,” explained Russell loudly, “my dad said we couldn't build a tree house in our tree in the back yard. He said we had to tear it down before it fell down. And we didn't want the doors to go to waste, and we didn't want other kids to knock it down if we built in on the ground, so we did this.”

“Yeah, isn't it great?” yelled Bob Van from the roof.

“OK. I guess,” I answered, “but is that even safe?”

“Safer than if we built it on the ground!” yelled Russ from inside.

“No, I mean it won't fall down will it?” I asked.

“Why would it fall down?” answered Bob from the roof. “We're using ten penny nails we scavenged from a house being built on the Second Street.”

“Yeah,” said Russ. “They were bent and the men just tossed them aside. They don't even try to straighten 'em.”

“Imagine that,” I chuckled.

“Hey Bob!” yelled Russ from inside.

“What?” Bob answered.

“We didn't put a door in. How am I gonna get out?”

And with that, I thought I should be shuffling home.

Pandemic

22 Pandemic third edit 3/24 3:00 PM

I looked out of my apartment window. It looks like a nice day. Bright and sunny. I love sunny days. Eddie Rabbit sang that he loved a rainy night. I don't know why, except if it has to rain, night is a good time to do it I suppose.

I think I'll go for a walk. I grabbed my cap, cane, and camera and headed out.

Camera. One thing I learned is to always always always bring my camera. I am always seeing a shot when I don't bring my camera and then I wish I had it.

I walked down the hall. Where's Mrs. Sciocetti? I didn't see her. I fumbled for my key to my mail box and checked my mail. That should get her attention. I still didn't see her. The door was open to the office, so I stuck my head in.

“Hi Jennifer,” I said. “Have you seen Mrs. Sciocetti today?”

Jennifer looked up from her paperwork, pen in hand.

“No, I haven't Mr. Gibson,” replied Jennifer.

“Huh. Well, I hope she's OK. She's always here.”

“Maybe I'll give her a call,” said Jennifer.

“Why hello Mr. Gibson,” said a voice behind me.

I turned and looked and there she was.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I said with a smile. “I didn't see you. I was worried about you.”

“Well, isn't that nice. Isn't that nice, Jennifer?”

Jennifer smiled and nodded her head.

“Going for our walk, are we?” said Mrs. Sciocetti.

“We are,” I answered. “Do you live alone, Mrs. Sciocetti?”

The smile left Mrs. Sciocetti's face.

“I'm afraid so. My husband passed some time ago,” she answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you have friends, Mrs. Sciocetti. When I didn't see your cheery face, I was just concerned. We'll look after you.”

“That's wonderful,” said Mrs. Sciocetti, her smile returning. “Isn't that wonderful, Jennifer?”

“Yes it is,” agreed Jennifer.

“Well, have a wonderful walk, Mr. Gibson,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “Be careful crossing the street.”

“I will,” I answered as I turned and walked out the door.

I walked up the complex's driveway and took a right and headed for the village. I saw no sign of Richie. I walked to the O'Connor house. It must not be the O'Connor house anymore. The driveway was enlarged at some point and it almost looked like a parking lot. There were several cars parked there, despite having a four car garage. What do you want to bet it's apartments now. That's what happens today. It seems that the average working stiff just can't save enough money for a down payment anymore. So they live in apartments.

I sat myself on O'Connor's stone wall. I still intend to call it O'Connor's. I don't care who owns it now. Not that it matters much because I didn't know the O'Connors. A big fancy house like that means that he was a higher up in a mill probably. Or maybe even owned a mill. Cohoes had a whole bunch of mills tied together named Harmony Mills. I read someplace that it was the largest cotton mill complex in the world in the late 1800s. I wonder why they didn't build it close to where the cotton is?

After the mills shut down, other businesses moved in. Bob Van's father and uncle were 3M distributors and had their business there. I think I heard it was fancy dancy apartments now. When I served on the Gloversville Historic District Review Board, we called that “adaptive re-use”. That's a nice term for “we can't get anyone else good in here, like a factory, so you'll have to do”.

Well, I guess that's progress.

I sat on the stone wall, hands resting on my cane, watching the cars go by. All these dang cars today look the same. How do you find yours in a parking lot? It's times like this that I'm glad I stopped driving. Blind in one eye, can't see out of the other. I didn't stop driving just for my own sake, but for the sake of everyone else on the road. And they don't even appreciate it, probably.

Well, time to get a move on. I stood up, found my feet, and slowly made my way down towards the village. Past the church hall, which looks nice. They painted it or something. Past St. Mary's school. It looks closed. I know it's a school day. What the heck? As I was passing St. Mary's church I saw signs taped to the doors. I wonder what it says? Why don't you go look? Because I don't want to climb the stairs that's why. Why not? I could fall and break a hip. When did you turn into such a big baby? Hey! Sorry. Big baby.

Down over the bridge over the canal I went. I've got a mule... Finally I made it to McGreivey's. It looked closed. There was a sign on the door. It said it was closed on orders of the governor because of the coronavirus. What? How can a governor order a business closed? Why? What's this virus?

To heck with it. I'll go down to Don & Paul's for lunch. There wasn't much traffic. Not much at all. I had no problem crossing the street. When I got to Don & Paul's, it was closed. A sign on the door said it was closed until further notice on orders from the governor. What the heck?

I looked up and down Broad Street. Everything seemed to be closed. The Chinese restaurant, the tattoo parlor, the beauty shop. Hardly anyone was parked on the street, just a car here and there.

I turned and started to make my way home. I need to find out what's happening her. What it is ain't exactly clear. There's a man with a gun over there, telling me I got to beware. Great song by Buffalo Springfield.

I got by McGreivey's and took a right to head to Division Street. I know. I really need a hair cut. I'm starting to look like a hippy. Or a bum, depending on your point of view. Same thing. It is not, just shut up. Fine. Fine.

Joe's barbershop is in the back of McGreivey's. The parking lot there was empty too. I walked up to Joe's door. There was a closed sign on it. What's going on? The whole place is closed. I better get home and see what's happening. Maybe there's a war or something. What was this virus?

I shuffled along as fast as I could, up Sixth Street, over the bridge, to Van Schoonhoven Square. I got to the front door and there was a sign on it. Closed to visitors. I unlocked the door and went in, down the hall. No one in sight. The office was now closed. The common room, where residents congregated, was blocked off with bright yellow tape. It too was closed.

But Mrs. Sciocetti was standing by the mail boxes, checking her mail.

“Hello Mrs. Sciocetti,” I said.

“Why hello Mr. Gibson,” she answered as she turned. “Did we have a nice walk?”

“Yes. No. I mean no. Everything was closed.”

“It's that virus,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “Orders from the governor.”

“What virus?” I asked.

“My goodness,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “Don't you watch the news?”

“No ma'am,” I replied. “I don't have a television.”

“Oh, my my my,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “It's all over the news. It has been for many weeks now. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it.”

“I usually follow the news,” I said, “but I've been working on writing a book and I've been busy.”

“Well, then I'm glad you bumped into me,” she answered. “It's like a flu bug of some sort. Only everybody is getting it. It's very contagious. And it can be fatal, particularly to old people like us.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. The governor is ordering everything closed except for grocery stores, gas stations, pharmacies, and the like. Essential businesses. Many people now work from home.”

“What are those people going to do without their businesses and jobs?” I wondered out loud.

“I don't know,” she said sadly.

“Oh. Pandemic! I did hear about something in China awhile back. That's China's problem, not ours.”

“Well it's ours now,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “They want us to social distance. That means they want everyone to stay home. No groups of people of more than ten. Get no closer than six feet to another person.”

“What? That's crazy. Are you serious?” I asked.

“I'm very serious,” said Mrs. Sciocetti.

“OK, I need to get on the internet. Thank you Mrs. Sciocetti.”

“You stay in your apartment, Mr. Gibson,” Mrs. Sciocetti called after me.

I walked down the hall to my apartment, opened the door, and set my cane in the corner of the closet and hung up my hat and coat. I put my camera in its spot under the coffee table. I sat and turned on my laptop. I went straight to CNN. There it was.

“NEARLY 1 IN 5 AMERICANS ORDERED TO STAY HOME” read the headline. “President announces suspension of federally held student loans”. I saw an article about coronavirus symptoms. An NBC News staff person died. Schools closed. No visitors at hospitals. All church services canceled. People were hoarding things, like toilet paper. Toilet paper ? Must be scared shitless.

16,489 cases of coronavirus in the US with 219 deaths. 267,920 cases world wide, and 11,187 deaths. What?

Geez. I've lived through I don't know how many pandemics in my lifetime. I've never seen anything like this before. Polio, mumps, chicken pox, measles, German measles, swine flu, and so on. Why are people panicking over this one?

Because it's so contagious you dummy. Who asked you? No one. So shut up then. I can't concentrate with you yelling at me all the time. It's my job. Who hired you to do this job? All you have to know is that it's my job. Well, stifle it. Fine. Fine.

This is going to take awhile I'll bet. I better check my groceries, see if I need anything.

I set my laptop aside. I got up and opened my cupboard door. I had plenty of apricots. Cereal is getting low. I went to the refrigerator. Everything was running low. I panicked when I saw that I was almost out of coffee. Only a few days of coffee beans left, at best.

I went back to my laptop. I went to Instacart where I order my groceries online. It's convenient, and I don't have to fight crowds. I place an order and I get it delivered in just a few hours. I looked around their website for things I needed. I filled up my cart. My normal $35 cart was up to $160. Are you hoarding? No, I'm ordering what I need. It looks like hoarding to me. Well it isn't. I need coffee beans and a two pound bag is twenty bucks alone. What about the other stuff? Do you really need ten boxes of Rice-a-Roni? Yes. Mind your own business. Fine. Fine.

I hit the button that said “place order”. I picked a delivery time for later that Wednesday afternoon. A warning message appeared that said deliveries might be delayed. I hit “confirm”. My order came up with a delivery for Saturday afternoon. Crap.

I went to the refrigerator where I keep my coffee. The beans keep better in the refrigerator. I counted out the scoops. Five scoops per pot. Fifteen scoops. OK. As long as I get my groceries on Saturday, I'm good. I'll run out of apples, bananas, chia seeds, and a few other things, but I won't starve anyway. Or go without coffee.

I went back to my laptop. I better read about this virus thing. This could be serious.

Camp's

21 Camp's first edit 3/18 2:00 PM

I had been writing most of the day yesterday. I wrote most of last night. That happens when I write. It's like a fire hose that I can't shut off. I obsess over it. It occupies my days and interferes with my sleep at night. But the book is coming along. About half done now. I need a break.

I haven't been to McGreivey's for a time. Maybe I'll take my walk down there despite the latest pandemic. Gilda Radner's book was famously titled It's Always Something. Well, she was right. In my lifetime we've had plenty of diseases to contend with. Smallpox, mumps, measles, chicken pox, polio, SARs, Ebola, Swine flu... you just can't keep up with the disease du jour. What the heck does du jour mean? It's French you nitwit. It means “of the day”. How can you not know that when I do? Oh.

I put on my walking shoes and grabbed my cane and camera and out I went.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good afternoon Mrs. Sciocetti. We're going for a walk,” I answered.

“It looks like a lovely day for it,” said Mrs. Sciocetti. “All except for the traffic.”

“I know. It's horrible, isn't it?”

And with that, I was out the door. One thing I learned about Mrs. Sciocetti is not to stop. If you do, she'll talk your ear off. Not that I'd mind talking to her necessarily, but every time I saw her I was on my way somewhere. Keep moving. Don't be rude. Stop and talk to her. You mind your own business. I have places to go and people to see. You're retired, so take a few minutes out of your day. Maybe tomorrow. Yeah OK. Like that will happen.

I shuffled on up the sidewalk to Middletown Road. I took a right. If a left is a louie and a U-turn is a U-ie, what's a right? Hang a ralphie? I don't know. I should google that.

And, like clockwork, here comes Richie.

“Like a ride Mr. Gibson!” he yelled out his driver's side window of his jelly bean.

“No, I need the exercise!” I yelled back.

“OK. Be careful!” he yelled as he drove up the hill.

Be careful. I know, the traffic is horrible. How many streets have I crossed in my lifetime? Why is it that young people think you get stupid when you get older? Or maybe they think we were born stupid and by dumb luck lived to get old?

Before I knew it, I was passing by O'Connor's stone wall. I was feeling pretty good so I kept going. Down to St. Mary's church, hang a louie down the hill, over the bridge, I've got a mule and her name is Sal, past the sign shop, and down to Camp's. Camp's? I looked up at the sign. It said Camp's Bar and Grill, not McGreivey's. Here we go.

I opened the door and walked in. It was different, but the bar was in the same place. So I walked over, hung up my cane on the edge of the bar, and had a seat. An older gentleman was tending bar. He wore a white shirt with armbands. Black pants and a bow tie. His salt and pepper hair was parted down the middle. He had a cigar in his mouth in a plastic holder below his pencil thin mustache. White Owl. I recognized it.

“What'll ya have buddy?” he asked.

“Give me a draft,” I answered.

“Bud, Schlitz, Schaefer, or Miller?”

“Schaefer. I haven't had that in awhile,” I answered.

Schaefer is the one beer to have when you're having more than one was the jingle. I don't remember the rest.

I remember seeing an old magazine ad from World War II that said that Schaefer was only available in quarts and not smaller bottles. The caps were steel and steel was needed for the war effort. Imagine beer bottle caps making a difference in the war? It must have left an impression on me because I still remember it. What did they do? Build a tank?

The bartender returned quickly with a V shaped beer glass. The beer had about a half inch head on it. Perfect.

He dropped a coaster on the bar and set the beer on it.

“Here ya go, pal.”

“Thanks Graham,” I said.

He stopped and looked at me. Oh shit.

“Do I know you?” he asked. “Have I met you before? I have a good memory for faces.”

“Um... no. I was talking to a buddy and he said the bartender's name here was Graham, and I figured it was you.”

“Oh. Well yeah, I'm Graham. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” I said. I heard bowling not far away.

“You have bowling in the daytime?” I asked.

“Only when we have pin boys,” said Graham. “Jim was home sick. Too sick for school, but not sick enough to stay home from work.”

“I hear that,” I said with a smile.

A young boy walked out from the back. He looked to be about sixteen or so.

“I'm done Graham,” said the boy. “Mr. Fitzgerald bowled three games. He's done.”

“Are you OK walking, Jimmy?” asked Graham.

“I'm OK. I'm only going to Prospect Hill,” said Jimmy, “and I made seventy-five cents!”

“Don't spend it all in one place!” laughed Graham as Jimmy walked out the door.

“He's a good kid,” said Graham. “He's my nephew. My brother Jim's boy.”

I was about to say I know, but I caught myself. The last time I saw Jim was at his father's funeral. I can't remember what that was. 1980s I think.

Graham was drying a beer glass as he looked at the black and white TV behind the bar. A baseball game was on. The Yankees were playing the White Sox. I remember now that Graham was a huge Yankees fan.

“That's it. Game over,” said Graham. “The Sox are ahead 9 to 1. I don't see how the Yankees could lose. They've got Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra, and Mickey Mantle and that new kid, Roger Maris. He's the kid the Yankees got from the Athletics. And you mark my words, that kid is going to break the Babe's home run record one day.”

“Do you really think so?” I asked.

“I'm pretty sure. That kid is a big stick. He's right-handed, but he bats left. Go figure that one out. He batted .273 last year and his best days are ahead of him.”

“I didn't know that,” I said. I wouldn't know that. I don't like baseball. But I'm smarter than to say that out loud in Waterford. Here, you better be a Yankees fan in the summer, and a Giants fan in the fall.

I looked around the bar. The crowd was small, but it's Monday and the factories haven't let out yet. I picked up my beer for a swig and the coaster stuck to the bottom. I pulled it off and set it back on the bar. I reached for a salt shaker and sprinkled some on it, and then set my glass down. Graham looked at me funny.

“I learned that in Florida,” I said. “It's hot and humid down there and the beer glasses sweat and the coasters get stuck.”

Graham just looked at me and kept drying glasses.

“You lived in Florida?” he asked. “How did you like it.”

“Oh, I liked it fine,” I replied. “But it is definitely hot and humid. Most summer days are at least in the nineties, sometimes in the hundreds.”

“Too hot for me,” said Graham, cigar clenched firmly in his teeth.

“Yeah it is,” I answered. “I spent hot summer afternoons at my local AmVets to stay cool.”

“AmVets?” asked Graham. “Oh right. American Veterans of World War II. Truman signed a bill having something to do with the AmVets just after the war.”

“Were you in the war, Graham?” I asked.

“Yep. Artillery. Europe,” he answered. “Weren't you in?”

“No. I was 4F,” I replied. I was 4F but I didn't say which war.

“Well, you look healthy enough,” said Graham. “They were taking just about everybody.”

“Lousy eyesight,” I answered.

“Eyesight?” he said with surprise. “Where's your glasses.”

Crap. I did it again. I haven't worn glasses in years. Not since contact lenses came out. And then I had cataract surgery which corrected my vision to perfect.

“I was kicked by a mule, giving me double vision,” I lied.

“So where's your glasses?” asked Graham.

“He kicked me again and straightened my vision back up.”

Graham looked at me for a few moments, and then a smile came over his face.

“You know you can't bullshit a bullshitter,” he said as he walked away laughing.

“The mule's name was Sal,” I added.

Tree Fort of Doors

20 tree fort first edit 3/15 5:30 AM

The sun was shining brightly and a gentle breeze stirred the leaves on the trees just a little. With my window open, I could hear the leaves rustle. It was a glorious day. A good day to be alive. Live for the moment.

I decided to go for a walk. I changed my slippers for walking shoes and grabbed my camera and cane. I walked out of my apartment, locking the door as I checked to make sure that I had my keys. I headed to the door, I looked to my left. There she was.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I replied.

“Out for your daily walk?”

“Yes I am. It's too beautiful to remain indoors,” I answered.

“Bring your umbrella.”

“Umbrella? Why? It's a picture perfect day.”

“I feel it is going to rain,” said Mrs. Sciocetti.

“I don't think it will,” I answered with a smile. “Enjoy the day, Mrs. Sciocetti.

Just as I stepped out the door of the apartment building, it started to rain. What? The sun is out. I looked to the west and I saw the dark gray clouds approaching. Well, at least go for a short walk. You have time. No umbrella, but you have time. You won't melt.

I walk as much as I can. Unlike when I was a kid, I don't like to walk in the rain. Sure, I have an umbrella and all that. But my feet get wet. I don't wear galoshes anymore. I don't even know if galoshes are sold anymore. That brought back an old memory. A very old memory.

I vividly remember back when I was small and my folks lived at Steinmetz Homes in Schenectady. Steinmetz was low income housing, and as a lowly GE apprentice, our family was definitely low income. Like most moms, my mom didn't work anymore, so we lived on my dad's meager salary.

It was raining out pretty good. I don't remember where I got it, but I had a small umbrella. I asked my mom if I could go outside and go for a walk. She said yes. She got me in my raincoat and galoshes and out I went, umbrella in hand.

One thing that I remember clearly was that I couldn't see clearly. I was about four years old, maybe even three. I didn't get glasses until I went to kindergarten. I was as blind as a bat. But somehow I knew enough to follow the sidewalk and eventually I would go around the block and wind up home again. I can't even say how I found my home. All of the buildings at Steinmetz were identical. But I suppose I did find home somehow.

Looking back, letting a four year old outside to go for a walk alone wouldn't be done today. Especially in a low income development. Too many weirdos and drug addicts.

I was passed by a tractor-trailer with a big WHOOSH, which snapped me out of my pleasant daydream. I crossed the bridge over the railroad tracks on Sixth Street. I wonder at what point Sixth Street turns into Middletown Road? Not that it's important, I guess. I just always wonder about things. I study things that no one really cares about or even thinks of. That must be why I'm a writer and author. I get hung up on minutiae. Is tractor-trailer one word or two? Why is the truck that pulls the trailer called a tractor? I need to google that.

And then it started to rain. Hard. Shit. I heard a car pull up behind me. Please please please...

“He Mr. Gibson! Hop in, get out of the rain!”

“Thanks Richie!” I yelled.

I got to his car door as fast as my shuffle would take me. I hopped into his '60 Olds. Fairly spry for a gimpy old man, I thought.

“Where to?” asked Richie.

“Might as well take me home,” I answered. “It's raining pretty good.”

“Well, I just came down Middletown Road and it isn't raining up on the hill,” said Richie.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Yep. It must be one of those really small, compact showers,” he answered.

“Do you think it's raining in Swayze Acres?” I asked.

“Only one way to find out for sure,” he said. “Let's go look.”

Richie drove down by the convent, turned, and went around the block. This old Olds rides pretty good, I thought. As Richie drove up the Middletown Road hill, the rain seemed to let up. By the time we got to Prospect Hill, it had not only stopped completely, but the sun was shining brightly once again and the gentle breeze was blowing.

“See? No rain,” said Richie.

“Great! I need to walk,” I said. “Would you drop me off at the corner?”

“Why don't I pull in and turn around by Jim McFarlande's house,” said Richie.

“OK, sounds good to me. You know Jim?”

“Yes. He's one of my customers,” said Richie.

“You have customers? I thought you worked at Behr-Manning?” I asked.

“I do,” he answered. “I have two jobs. One for work, one for God.”

Richie took a right down Lea Avenue and came to a stop at the intersection with Barratt Drive. I opened the big, heavy Oldsmobile door with some effort. I turned in my seat, got my feet on the asphalt, and stood while holding onto the car. I felt a little dizzy but it quickly passed.

“Thanks Richie!” I said as I got out of his car. “I really do appreciate the rides. Really.”

“Any time, man,” said Richie. “Enjoy your walk.”

Richie was able to wheel the Oldsmobile around without difficulty and drove back to Middletown Road, where he took a right.

A right? When Richie picked me up, he was headed down Middletown Road toward the village. Now he's going in the opposite direction. Whatever. None of my business.

I looked up Barratt Drive. It was quiet. No one. I looked down Lea Avenue. Same thing. Oh well, just go for a walk, Gibson. That's what you always say you're going to do. Don't nag. Don't procrastinate. Be quiet. Fine, don't walk. See if I care. Fine. Fine.

As I walked down Lea Avenue, I could make out the sounds of hammering. The closer I got, the louder it got. It sounds like Chumley's house. I walked across Yaeger's abandoned driveway next to their abandoned house, or at least what was left of it as a driveway. There was grass growing up through the gravel everywhere. I don't know who mows the grass once a year, but they should mow the driveway too.

I got to the back of Yaeger's house and the hammering got louder. I looked and didn't see anyone. I walked across Teatrault's back property to Chumley's. I saw no one.

“Hi Mr. Gibson!”

I looked around and saw no one.

“Up here!”

I looked up and saw... something. It was doors. Nailed up in the tree. The doors from the convent. Russ and Bob Van looked back at me.

“C'mon up Mr. Gibson!” yelled Bob.

“Uh, no. No thanks kids. How did you get those big heavy doors up there?” I asked.

“It wasn't easy,” said Russ. “It took awhile, and we kept on dropping the doors halfway up the tree. I pulled from the top and Bob pushed from the bottom.”

“What happened when you dropped a door?” I asked.

“Well, I could feel the door slipping out of my hands, so I'd yell 'LOOK OUT BELOW!' and Bob had to move real fast.”

“Geez kids. That could be dangerous!” I said. “Someone could get hurt!”

“Yeah, but we got them up here,” said Russ. “What's hard is getting a nail through the wooden door into the tree!”

“Those are oak doors, Russ!” I said. “Oak is very hard.”

“Yeah, tell me,” said Russ. “I'd think the nail was going in, and I'd hit it and PING off the nail would fly. Bob is good at finding them and straightening them out.”

“Well, I guess,” I said, remembering how scarce nails were once the houses in Swayze Acres were all built. While they were under construction, we'd walk around outside of the framed houses and pick up nails discarded by the carpenters. We'd also find small scraps of wood that we were sure we'd be able to use somewhere. Kids were scavengers.

I stepped back from the tree. I looked up at the... well... I guess it's a tree fort. There were doors for the floor, roof, and sides. I couldn't figure out what was holding it up there. Just nails into trees? What would happen to it in a breeze? That whole thing could come down and be pretty bad if you were in it or under it. I glanced to my right and I saw a man coming towards us.

“Russell! You get that crap out of my tree!”

I looked over to him. He was mad, and scowling. He was a big man, with tattoos on his arm. Don't mess with this guy.

“Why dad?” whined Russell.

“Because I said so. You do it right now,” said Russell's dad.

“But da-ad,” whined Russell again.

“But nuthin'.”

Russell's dad looked at me.

“Do I know you?” asked Russell's big dad.

“No. My name is... Harrison. Harrison Ford,” I replied sticking my hand out.

Russell's dad looked me up and down. He shook my hand. He almost crushed it.

“My name is Clancy,” he said. “Do you live around here? Why are you here?”

“I, uh, live close. I like to walk around and this is a safe place to do it,” I said. “I met Russell and his friends. They seem like good kids.”

“Russy you be careful! Don't drop a door on anyone!” yelled Clancy. “They can be good kids, but I gotta watch 'em. They do some crazy stuff sometimes. Like this. The damn kids are going to kill themselves.”

“I came by to see what the hammering was all about,” I said. “It doesn't look to safe to me.”

“Well, OK. Good to meet you. I need to get in and get some dinner. Been working hard all day and I come home to this. Russell! Dinner!” said Clancy as he turned and walked back to his house.”

“Boy, your dad was mad!” said Bob Van to Russell.

“Yeah, but I guess we need to knock down our tree house,” said Russell solemnly.

“And then what?” asked Bob.

“Then nothing, I guess,” said Russell. “No more tree houses. And if we build a fort on the ground, other kids will find it and knock it down.”

That was what we did as kids. Build forts. The other thing we did was to look for the forts that other kids built and knock them down. It was kid warfare. I suppose that's why we called them forts.

“Why don't we just build it up off the ground?” asked Bob.

“What do you mean? I'm pretty sure my dad doesn't want to see a tree house,” said Russ.

“Let's build it up on stilts!” said Bob excitedly, as if he just found a loophole.

“On stilts?” asked Russ.

“Yeah! It would be hard to knock down, being up off the ground. And we'd be safe from dirt bomb attacks.”

“RUSSY! TIME FOR DINNER!” yelled Mrs. Chumley out the back door.

“Coming!” yelled Russ.

“RIGHT NOW RUSSELL!”

“I have to go,” said Russell. “Let's talk about it tomorrow.”

Russell ran off to his house for dinner. Bob was smiling. He was in a pretty good mood for a kid who was just told to knock down his tree house.

“I have to go too, Mr. Gibson,” said Bob as he ran off to his house across the street.

I was left alone. I looked up at the tree house made of doors. It's a good thing Clancy came out and saw that monstrosity. Somebody could have been killed in that thing. Either someone would fall out of it, or get hit with a door, or it would just fall out of the tree or something. For the life of me, I don't know why kids don't think. It's a wonder we all survived to adulthood.

I looked around while I was there behind the Lea Avenue houses. I hadn't actually been there for awhile. The sleigh-riding hill was there up towards the Crazy Kid's house. The hill didn't look quite as big as I remember it.

On the edge of the property, Clancy's burn barrel was smoldering. Even though we had garbage pick-up in Waterford, Clancy still liked to burn all of his papers. I wonder if some of the papers were mail that had personal information? Today we use shredders. Back then we used burn barrels. Russ and I used to sometimes wrap potatoes in tin foil and drop them in the barrel. At some point, after the fire burned out, we'd fish the potatoes out and try to eat them. They were always burned beyond recognition, like charcoal, but we'd try to eat them anyway.

There was my folk's garage, and next to it where I liked to play in the dirt with my men. Men. Huh. Little plastic soldiers and cowboys and Indians. I called them men. I liked to set the men up like they were fighting each other and then pelt them all with dirt bombs. Nope, I don't know why. Not anymore. It made sense as a kid, but not to an old man. I can't explain some of the odd things I did back then. But I had one heck of an imagination. That must be why I became a writer. Imagination. Writing puts my imagination on display for all to see. Scary thought.

Speaking of writing, I better get on home and work on my book some more. My eighth book. Imagine that? You say imagine too much. What else would you have me say? You got a thesaurus in your pocket? No, but you need a different word than imagination. Why don't you just shut up?

Fine.

Fine.

Ice Cream Man

19 Ice Cream Man fourth draft 3/13 11:30 AM

I sat in my apartment gazing out the window. It was a cool, drizzly day. Even for March, although I suppose that's when we get cool drizzly days. Better than snow. I used to love snow when I was a kid. We all did, especially when we were too small to shovel our driveways. Well, it's not snowing, and I need to go out to get some groceries. Drizzly works.

I hate going to the grocery store perhaps even more than going to a regular store. People stand and stare at the grocery shelves for the longest period while they calculate unit pricing and which apricots look best. They block half the aisle with their butts and their carts block the other half.

Cart. I remember living in the south, and they call them “buggies” down there. No wonder they lost the war. “The general is getting away! Stop that buggy!” and all the Confederate troops stormed the Piggly Wiggly. Or, as they call it, simply “the Pig”.

But thankfully, most all of my groceries are ordered online. I go to the Instacart website, pick what I want, and within a couple of hours I have the groceries. All without leaving my chair. Today, people act like that's a big deal. Back when I was a kid, we had men. We had the bread man, the milk man, the grocery delivery man, the ice cream man, and the mail man. In my dad's day, they even had a horseradish man.

Nowadays I guess you shouldn't be saying man, but person. Or change the name completely. Once we had stewardesses, but now we have flight attendants. Mail men are now letter carriers. I don't know what we'd call the others, if we had them. Persons, I guess. Newspaper boy would now be newspaper person? But that's OK. Most jobs can be done as well by a woman as a man. Sometimes better. And you just don't see too many stay at home moms anymore. When I was a kid, my mom was always home. My mom didn't have a car, or even a driver's license. It wasn't needed. But women today often have to work because dad's paycheck won't pay the bills anymore. That's called progress.

What was really good about having a milk man, from a kid's point of view, is that there was an insulated metal box that sat on your stoop. The milk man would take away your empties and refill the milk box with full bottles. But I was also able to stand on that milk box and open the back door. I couldn't reach the door handle otherwise. I wonder what kids stand on now? Of course, that's saying they leave the house at all.

I remember quite clearly the red and black Freihofer trucks. The Freihofer man delivered baked goods from the Freihofer Bakery in nearby Lansingburgh. I loved driving past the bakery when I was small. It always smelled like fresh baked bread. Freihofer followed the same model as all the others and had the bread man deliver right to your home. That's how you did it back then. My mom would put the bright yellow Freihofer sign in our house's window signaling the bread man to stop. And he did.

There was nothing special about delivery trucks at the time. But what was special was visiting my great-grandparents' house in Lansingburgh. Sometimes I'd see the Freihofer bread man there on his route. Only in Lansingburgh, he wasn't driving a truck. There he had a horse drawn wagon. The horse knew the route, and would walk from stop to stop and wait for the bread man, who would run between the wagon and the customers' houses with his wares. The horse knew the route, and knew the customers. It's funny, but at the time, it didn't strike me as being odd, having horse drawn wagons. That's just how it was. It's too bad that I didn't realize as a young boy then that it was the end of an era. By the early 1960s, the horses were all retired and replaced with heartless, polluting, noisy bread trucks. Those too were soon phased out of service even. There was no more home delivery of Freihofer baked goods. Or home delivery of anything. Supermarkets were the wave of the future. The modern way of shopping for groceries. Big selections, automatic doors, and double S&H Green Stamps on Wednesdays. The stamps were stuck in books. My mom would save up books to get free stuff from the S&H store in Lansingburgh. One time our moms got Russell and me the same red fiberglass bow and arrows. Free.

I thought back to being a kid in the 1950s and watching the Freddie Freihofer TV show. When I watched it, it was hosted by “Uncle” Jim Fisk. A select group of children would sit in bleachers, and Uncle Jim would come out from behind a Freihofer truck and ask “Hey kids! Who wants to squiggle!?” The kids would all wave their hands excitedly, and Uncle Jim would pick one at random. He'd hold up paper on which the child would squiggle a line or circle or something using a marker. Uncle Jim would look at it, think for a few seconds, and turn the squiggle into something recognizable. Much to the children's delight. It was like magic.

Years later, as an adult selling automobiles, I waited on a man who wanted to look at station wagons. I introduced myself, extending my hand in a handshake. He introduced himself as Jim Fisk. “THEE Jim Fisk?” I asked. It was. I sold Uncle Jim a Dodge Aspen wagon. At this point, with Breadtime Stories off the air, Uncle Jim was drawing maps for a living. His company was named Jimapco.

We kids watched Howdy Doody too. It starred Buffalo Bob and his puppet Howdy. How do you do turns into Howdy out west. The kid audience was called the Peanut Gallery. Clarabell the clown was mute. He didn't speak. He had a box hanging from his neck. The box had two horns, one for yes and one for no. I didn't watch Howdy Doody much mainly because of the horrible acting, and it had no cartoons. Buffalo Bob wanted us to nag our moms for Wonder Buns and Hostess Sno-balls. Put them in the freezer for a cool summer snack. Howdy Doody was lame. I preferred the Old Skipper and Popeye cartoons.

There were plenty of other TV programs for children. Romper Room with Miss Francis was popular, as was Captain Kangaroo with Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. Moose, the Dancing Bear, the Banana Man, and the Bunny Rabbit, who was always tricking the Captain out of carrots. The token old man was Grandfather Clock who we all had to awaken by shouting his name, and who would soon fall back asleep while the Captain was talking to him.

The Captain showed cartoons. Terry Tunes presents Tom Terrific. He wore a funnel on his head instead of a hat. The funnel was his thinking cap that blew smoke when he had an idea. He had a faithful companion named Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog. Calvin and Charlie Brown look an awful lot like Tom Terrific. They all had big round heads. Tom was a shape shifter. He could turn himself into anything, animate or inanimated. Tom's World Headquarters was a tree house. How cool would that be?

Beany and Cecil was a favorite cartoon. Beany wore a beany hat with a propeller. He could fly. Cecil was a sea monster. Whoever came up with this stuff must have been Baker Acted.

The Rocky and Bullwinkle were favorites. Rocket J Squirrel and Bullwinkle were the stars of the show. Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat. Nothing up my sleeve. Every kids show had to have a villain. Theirs was Boris Badenov and Natasha Fatale, spies from Pottsylvania. But what was great about this cartoon was that it was a show, and within it were more cartoons. I loved Fractured Fairy Tales, Peabody's Improbable History, Mr. Know-It-All, Dudley Doright of the Mounties, and Aesop and Son. Unlike Howdy Doody, Rocky and Friends was fast paced. Kids bore easily, and this show kept our interest.

One of the newer cartoons was the Roadrunner. This was when cartoons got really interesting to me. The Roadrunner's villain was Wile E. Coyote, who was on a hilarious never ending quest to catch the Roadrunner and eat him. Wile E. Coyote merely didn't chase the Roadrunner because that would be futile. The Roadrunner was fast, so fast that sometimes you only saw a trail of dust as he ran down the road. So Wile E. Coyote would build various contraptions with parts ordered from the Acme company, all in an effort to catch the Roadrunner. None of them worked. Not only that, they would always backfire and often had Wile E. Coyote falling off a high cliff. So high that watching from above, you would see him get smaller and smaller until he vanished. But there would be a cloud of dust and a thunk sound as he hit the canyon floor. He would sometimes hover for a second or two as he ran off a cliff, holding a sign that said “help”. Great stuff.

But I think kids would all agree that the best cartoons, by far, were the original Looney Tunes. The supposed star of the show was Bugs Bunny, but to me, “What's up doc” has to be one of the lamest catch phrases in all of cartoon history. Other characters such as Daffy Duck, Foghorn Leghorn, Marvin the Martian, Porky Pig, and many others were better.

One of the outstanding things about early Looney Tunes cartoons was the quality of the art work. Characters moved smoothly, and actually had shadows. Later cartoons did not move as smoothly and cast no shadows. I guess the adults running the company didn't think we kids would notice. We did.

No more quality, entertaining children's shows. Kids today don't know what they're missing. SpongeBob SquarePants? Give me a break.

Sigh. No more home deliveries by men. Now we have Instacart and Amazon for, well, everything. I suppose that's better and more efficient than one man for bread, one for milk, and so on. Economies of scale and all that. But one thing Instacart and Amazon will never replace is the ice cream man.

We kids would be outside playing, doing whatever we were doing on our summer vacation, and we would hear the jingle jingle jingle of the bells coming down the street.

Russell, Tom, and I were sitting on my parent's stoop one summer day. We were learning the fine points of negotiation, a skill that would take us through our whole adult lives. We were trading comic books.

“I'll give you one Lulu, one Donald Duck, and one Casper for your two Superman,” said Russ.

“Are you crazy?” said Tom. “Lulu is lame. Tubby Tomkins is funny, but Lulu? No way.”

“Superman is stupid,” said Russ. “A guy who can fly, has x-ray and heat vision, and is invincible? What has he got to be afraid of. Deals off anyway. I'd rather have Lulu than Superman.”

“I've got a Flash here,” said little me. “I'll swap you my Flash for your two Superman.”

“Geez... I dunno,” said Russ. Jingle jingle jingle... “The ice cream man!”

Everyone scooped up their comics and ran for their allowances. Jingle jingle jingle... Quick before we miss him! Into our respective houses we ran, emerging shortly with nickels, dimes, and the rare quarters. Jingle jingle jingle...

“Hur rey up!” shouted Tom.

“I am!” shouted back three or four kids.

The ice cream man stopped his truck, and stopped his jingling. He stepped out onto the street. He was an older man. He wore a white shirt, white pants, black belt and shoes, and a white hat. Gray hair stuck out from under the hat. He was always smiling. He walked to the side of his truck and opened the greezer door as the kids lined up.

Just like at Michon's and penny candy, each of us hemmed and hawwed about our selection. This required careful consideration. Ice cream sandwiches were a favorite, but on a hot day they melted really fast and quickly turned into a gooey mess, so we had to take into account the weather before deciding. Popsicles were dead last. We could get those at home. Freeze-pops were good. Fudgsicles were a favorite.

We would make our selection and hand the ice cream man our money. If change was needed, he had a change dispenser on his belt. It was bright and shiny. He would click the little levers and coins would drop out. That was fascinating.

We felt sorry for the kids who had already spent their allowances, and whose mothers had no change. They had to watch us buy our cold treats. We felt a little bad. But only a little.

Soon, it was gone. Eaten or melted. Sometimes both. The kids who opted for Fudgsicles were obvious with the brown ice cream all around their mouths and, usually, down the front of their tee-shirts. But then it was back to what we were doing. Unless it was playing in dirt, because melted ice cream and dirt was a nasty combination.

Even for kids.

Shepherd's Pie

18 Shepherd's Pie second edit 3/10 4:15 AM

Sitting in my little apartment, looking out the window, can be nice. Believe it or not. It is quiet here. I can't hear the traffic on Middletown Road at all, even though I can see it. It's maybe a hundred yards away. A good 9 iron shot for me.

I enjoyed playing golf when I used to be able to play. As a young guy taking up golf, once I realized I wasn't the next Arnold Palmer, I could just have fun and enjoy the game. Games should be like that. Fun. We played a lot of games in my youth. Besides baseball, in the Fall we'd play football. Touch football. No one had equipment for tackle. A few had helmets. Oh, lack of equipment didn't stop us from trying to play tackle sometimes just like we'd watch on TV.

Back in the days before color TV, when TVs were black and white, one team had to wear light color jerseys and the other dark. That way, we could tell one team from another. But I remember watching Green Bay play one afternoon at home. Their stadium was outdoors, like all stadiums were. They didn't have sissies for players who needed domed stadiums back in the old days. Those guys were tough. I remember it started snowing real hard at Green Bay. Workers were sent out frequently to shovel off the yard markers so the line judges could see them. The ground had not yet frozen, and in no time the field was a muddy mess. Soon, on black and white TV, everyone playing was black from head to toe. I couldn't tell Green Bay players from the other team until substitutes were sent in. They stood right out, having on a clean uniform. But soon they looked like everyone else.

And then along came domed stadiums, taking all the fun out of it. Football was sissified.

Let's see... what other games did we play? We shot hoops. And besides playing teams, we'd play horse, or around the world, or... I forget the others. Many times my dad would play. If he did, the older Gooder brothers would play too. They were older than us and much better, so if they played, we'd just watch. I think they went on to play college basketball. I should google that.

One neighborhood kid that could play against the big kids was Pete Chemilievsky. He was our size and our age, but Pistol Pete had something we didn't. A hook shot. With his hook, he was tough to block even for my dad and the Gooders. And he was deadly with it. I wonder why Pete never played high school basketball? He was good enough. But all of the high schoolers had graduated from set shots to jump shots to shoot over their opponents, which was fun to watch too. But nothing like Pete's hook. I wonder what happened to Pete?

Let's see, what else did we play? When it rained and we were stuck indoors, we sometimes played cards. War was fun. Old Maid was kind of corny. It seemed like a girl's game, but we tried it. Monopoly we attempted, but it took too long and we lost interest pretty quick. Battleship. We had that. When we were real young we had Chutes and Ladders. I had Lincoln Logs and Bob Van had American Bricks. I don't know, I'm forgetting now. Maybe I'll think of more later.

Kids today play those dumb video games, all full of violence and lawbreakers, stealing cars and whatnot. I'll bet they don't know how to shoot horse in hoops.

Heck. I'm wasting the day. It's a bit chilly today. Maybe I won't go to Swayze Acres. Maybe I'll walk into the village for lunch. That's exactly what I'll do. It's only a half a mile, but it takes me fifteen or twenty minutes at my speed. What time is it? Let me check the clock on the wall. A quarter to twelve. And that's another thing kids today probably can't do. Read a clock. Everything has to be digital with kids today. I remember the kid in my computer store asked me one time what time it was. I answered a quarter past one. He looked at me funny. I had to repeat it as 1:15. He didn't know what a quarter or half or three quarter hour meant. They really should teach that in school. How to tell time.

I was muttering to myself as I put on my shoes, grabbed my coat and cap and my cane, and walked out into the hall.

“Good morning Mr. Gibson.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I answered. As usual, that was quick.

“Going for a walk, are we?” she asked.

“We are. I think I'll go into the village for lunch,” I answered and I hurried out the door.

“Hello Mr. Gibson.”

“Hi Richie. I would love to know how you do that.”

“Hop it and I'll give you a ride,” he said out the open window of his jelly bean car.

“Richie, thank you. I truly appreciate it. But I've been writing all day and I really need to stretch my legs a little.”

“Gotcha. OK Mr. Gibson, but you take care. The traffic is horrible.”

“I will, thank you,” I answered as I walked up the sidewalk from the senior apartments at Van Schoonhoven up to Middletown Road. It was a bright, sunny day but the temperature was low and the breeze made it chilly. I zipped my coat up tight and pulled my cap down tighter.

Only one side of the bridge over the railroad tracks had a sidewalk, so I stayed on that side. I usually crossed Sixth Street somewhere around the convent while looking for a break in traffic. I got one and crossed the street. A car came speeding down the hill. I didn't even look. I could hear him coming. Go ahead, I dare you. I heard him brake and slow down, and then speed up and pass when I was halfway across. Damn kids. Rush rush rush.

I got to my sitting spot on O'Connor's stone wall and sat myself down. I stood my cane in front of me and set both hands on top of it. The breeze died down mostly so I unzipped my coat a little. I looked to my right and I recognized Richie's car as he slowed down and stopped.

“Are you OK Mr. Gibson!” he hollered.

“Fine!” I yelled back.

Richie rolled up his window and drove towards the village. There seemed to be more traffic that usual. Horrible, I thought as I smiled to myself. But this is nothing compared to the short time I lived in Stamford, Connecticut. Now THAT was some horrible traffic. I hated it at first, but like all things, you soon get used to it. So what Waterfordians were used to was their normal traffic, and this, to them, seems horrible. In Stamford there is no way that I could cross a street. I don't know how old men do it there. Maybe they don't. Maybe they've all been run down by those damn kids.

After a spell, I stood up. Whoa. A little dizzy there. I sat back down. I tried it again a minute later and it was OK. I found my feet and started shuffling down Sixth Street. The school was closed. It must be a weekend. Good for those kids. I loved weekends. Now that I'm retired, my entire week is a weekend. I have to set reminders in my Outlook Calendar so I don't miss doctor's appointments.

I crossed Division Street. I didn't look, I just crossed. One car approached from behind and slowed to a stop. I glanced over. It was a woman in a red car. As I looked at her, she smiled and waved. I smiled back, but under my breath I thought you're darnn right you're gonna wait. I'm in a crosswalk. I got across and she slowly passed behind me.

Now what was all that, Gibson? You're turning into a grumpy old fart. See, she seemed like a nice lady. She did what she was supposed to do and waited for you. Yeah, but I'll bet she was mad behind that smile. You don't know that. I think she was nice. Probably not. Was too. Was not. Was too. Was not.

STOP! Listen to you, arguing with yourself. Do you know how annoying that can be? Silence. Good.

I rounded the corner by St. Mary's. I looked down the hill. The side of the street across from Don & Paul's looked packed. Too bad some young nimrod turned all the parking places in front into a turning lane. Kids today don't understand business and how important parking is. I'll bet the diner is packed too. It's a great place. Even when they get busy, the service is still top notch and the food is as well. If you can get a seat. Being a weekend, I'll bet all those darn kids are in there.

I shuffled on down past the sign shop and such and I saw the hanging sign for McGreivey's. There was also a new Chinese place across from town hall, the Sun Rise Restaurant. I like Chinese food a lot. Not today. Some other time. I want something American. You can't beat good old American food.

Just as I approached the entrance to McGreivey's, I heard the unmistakable noise of a skateboard coming behind me. I stopped. Sure enough, first a kid on a bicycle swerved to my left and used McGreivey's handicapped ramp as a bicycle ramp. He was followed closely by a nitwit on a skateboard who used it as a skateboard ramp. They both made their jumps and flew across Fourth Street.

“Hey you kids! Get off the sidewalk!” I yelled. But they were out of earshot. I can't yell like I used to. That kid on the bicycle is lucky I didn't stick my cane in his spokes. What if someone had walked out of McGreivey's? They could have been hit. And hurt. Businesses usually have to have their doors open out in case of fire, but McGreivey's was so old that the doors opened in. Good thing.

I looked behind me. Nope, no one else coming. I walked up McGreivey's handicapped ramp. I avoid stairs. I got to the door and opened it. I walked in and was taking off my coat and hat.

“Hello Mr. Gibson!” waved Lindsay.

“Hi Lindsay. But look, Mr. Gibson is my father. Call me Dave.”

“OK Mr. Dave, what will you have?”

I like Lindsay. Oh, I like Terry and Gwen too, but Lindsay is prettier than Terry.

“What's that beer I had last time?” I asked.

“ Czech'rd Past, by Chatham Brewing?” she asked.

“That's it. Give me that.”

I honestly don't remember if that was what I had before or not. I didn't want to seem forgetful. But you are forgetful. Don't start with me. I've had it with you guys. Just shut up and let me enjoy my beer. Fine. Fine. Fine.

Lindsay came over with a pint of... of... that beer and set it in front of me on a coaster. She shot me a smile. Young girls always smile at me now that I'm a sweet old man.

“Here ya go,” said Lindsay brightly.

“Where is everybody?” I asked as I waved my hand around.

“Oh, they'll be along. Usually late in the afternoon the place will fill up.”

“OK. Can I see a menu please?”

“You sure can. Eating today?” asked Lindsay. “That's unusual.”

“Yep. I'm in the mood for some good old American food and besides, I don't feel like cooking hamburgers again tonight,” I answered.

Lindsay handed me the menu and I browsed it while she waited on a few other customers. Everything looks good. Why do restaurants today have so many choices? How am I going to decide? What don't you do what you always do. What's that? Don't pick anything until you're asked for your order and then you pick something on the spot. Hey it works for me. Now be quiet.

I browsed down the menu. Picking something for lunch is like being a kid and picking candy at Michon's. It's a big decision. The biggest one I'll make all day.

“Are you ready?” asked Lindsay as she came over with her order pad and pen.

“Yep. I'll have the Shepherd's Pie,” I said, quite pleased with my selection.

“You've got it.”

While waiting, I was enjoying my beer and the decorations. McGreivey's was all decked out for St. Patty's Day. Green string lights, shamrocks, leprechauns everywhere. Terry had told me that they're having a party there the Saturday before, but I'm not much for parties. I have a hard enough time hearing as it is. Toss in some background noise and I'm done. But if you like that kind of thing, I suppose it would be a good time. Probably corned beef and cabbage. I think that's a law. For Irish-type pubs.

McGreivey's has a nice crowd. Older, I noticed. The youngest person I saw was sitting with an older woman, probably her mom. She looked to be maybe... 25? 30? Is it really important? Well no, but I was just wondering how old she was. Maybe she's wondering how old you are? Do you think so... Shut up.

I looked around some more. Nothing else to do until my lunch got here. Might as well absorb the ambiance.

And then my food got here. Good. I'm hungry.

“Here you go, Mr. Gibson,” said Lindsay.

“Dave,” I corrected.

“Right. Dave.”

She set down a paper place mat and put the bowl of Shepherd's Pie in front of me. She set utensils wrapped up in a white paper napkin next to the plate.

“Can I get you anything else Dave?” asked Lindsay.

“No, thank you. I'm good.”

“Be careful. It's hot,” she warned.

“I will, thanks.”

Sheesh. Be careful of traffic. Be careful it's hot. I didn't get to be seventy years old for nothing. Oh sure, I've stepped out into traffic a few times when I shouldn't, and I've burned my mouth more than once. But that's how you learn. By the stupid things you do. Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.

I finished the Shepherd's Pie in short order and ordered another beer to wash it down. This beer is pretty good. What's it called? Begins with a C. Critical Mass? Something like that. Anyway, it's good. I'm glad Lindsay can remember the name of it because I can't.

I just sat. Just like I do at home, looking out the window. Only I'm sitting here in a different place, looking out a different window. Variety is the spice of life, they say. Who in the hell is they? You know, they. No I don't know. For the last time, shut up. I'm relaxing here. Fine. Fine.

I later finished my beer and placed my coaster on top of my empty beer glass. I learned that tending bar in Florida. When you don't want a refill, cover your glass. A universal sign. I also quickly learned the most common phrase bartenders hear. Just one more.

“All done?” asked Lindsay.

“Yes ma'am,” I answered.

Even though she looked to be extremely busy and swamped with customers now, she returned quickly with my check. I already had my debit card sitting on the bar when she returned. She scooped it up and very quickly returned with my debit card and copies of the tab. I never look to see which ones are merchant copies and which are for the customer. And sometimes there's a third one. I have no idea what that's for. I squinted for the total, took 20% and rounded it up to a whole dollar and added it for a tip. I arose, pulled my cap out of my sleeve, put on my jacket and was out the door.

I didn't look when I stepped out the door. I should have but I didn't. Thankfully there were no kids coming down the sidewalk on bicycles or skateboards. Darn kids. Always in a hurry.

I heard a car pull up and stop at the curb. I knew who it was.

“Hey, Mr. Gibson!”

“Hi Richie. Yes, a ride would be great.”

I like to walk, but I didn't go to the men's room before I left. I forgot. You'd forget your head if it wasn't attached. Shut up. Fine.

I slid in Richies little Hyundai or Honda or whatever it was. I got my cane in and shut the door. Checkered Past. That's it.

“How was your lunch?” asked Richie.

“It was good. It really hit the spot,” I said. “There's nothing like good ol' American food if you ask me.”

“What did you have?” asked Richie.

“Shepherd's Pie.”

Richie just smiled as he pulled away from the curb.