I was trapped at an extremely boring sales department cocktail party. Our vice president, Mr. John Bumble Jr. gave an “inspirational” speech that could have been used as emergency anesthesia in an O. R.

I was recovering later with the aid of a double martini, when a little fellow with a badly fitting toupee walked up, lifted a trouser leg and said, “See these socks? Would you believe I bought them in a dollar store?”

I really hate small talk. I usually counterattack with tall talk. “Socks are very important, Mr. ToUpeEe continued. They should be the right size, the right weave and…….”

“Fireproof! I shouted over my martini olives, not really knowing why. Heads turned as AkA Mr. Dollarsocks gaped and I began: “I’ll never forget it. My Uncle Willy was sitting out an Elk’s Hall dance one night years ago, ” I began, creating on the run as I was wont to do. “Uncle Willy had been puffing on his cigar when the ashes fell off and ignited his Woolworth socks. He jumped up and began to stomp wildly as his ankles blistered.

The dance hall crowd didn’t notice the smoke, but was attracted to Uncle Willy’s intriguing choreography. Five minutes later on that crowded dance floor, Uncle Willy was awarded a trophy. He’d accidentally won the Charleston contest, and without a partner! (If you don’t count the flaming socks.)

“You mentioned, ‘Elks,’ Mr. Dollarsocks said, completely unfazed by my invented tale and prepared to start one more of his boring monologues. “They have an interesting mythological history. The native Americans….. ”

I definitely had to stop this. “I was almost killed by a crazed elk once,” I interrupted, and the crowd began to edge in again.

“We were panning for gold on the Malarky River in Colorado when one night a curious elk wandered into our camp and poked his head into my pop-up tent. I punched his big nose and he tried to exit, but his antlers got in the way and he lifted the tent with me inside and ran off in panic.

“The shouts of my pursuing friends began to fade as the blindfolded crazed elk galloped away. I was afraid this was not going to end well and began to pray. “Please, Lord, get me out of this!”

Suddenly I heard hymn-singing and figured it was the Lord’s rescuing angels, but the singing changed to shouts and screams. The elk and I had run smack into a revival meeting!

A quick-thinking parson sliced open the tent and I dropped out like Jonah out of the whale. The elk ran off wearing the tattered tent and a full clothesline which I could have used. You see, I usually sleep in my underwear and, while my escape was miraculous, it was also embarrassing.

“You know,” Mr. Dollarsocks interrupted again, “Jonah’s so-called ‘big fish’ was not really a whale,” he announced, completely unmoved by my created-on-the- spot adventure. “Whales are mammals, not big fish. Some Bible scholars.”, he began…..

“Big fish, was it” says I. “Must have been something like the twelve-foot carp that chewed off the prow of my rowboat on Lake Parsippany in ’79 while I was trying to reel in something that looked very much like a mermaid.” I was off and running again. Mr. Dollarsocks had met his match.

A

Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote, “Without music, life would be a mistake.” That still makes a lot of sense.

We earthlings have always used music to celebrate life and love and to solace our grief during hard times. The human voice was the first musical instrument used by our ancient ancestors to express their emotions.

Adam and Eve probably sang a lamentation as they trudged out of Eden and Captain Noah might have crooned the first sea shanty to quiet his nervous animal passengers.

Archeologists have discovered the oldest known song score inscribed on a clay tablet in cuneiform figures 3,400 years ago and the Cro-Magnon artists who painted hunting scenes on the cave walls in Lascaux, France 20,000 years ago most likely hummed as they created their dramatic illustrations by lamp light.

It’s an instinctive human custom. I often find myself singing a sad tune while scraping peeling paint off a ceiling or changing a tire during a rainstorm. I usually select Gershwin’s “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” which is appropriate, but my added lyrics are not suitable for a family audience.

Over the years troubadours added to the Gregorian chant and then came opera in the 17th century. Ragtime, jazz, swing and the blues were born in the early 20th century, but new music has, so far, not completely replaced the old. Thank goodness!

Way back when I was a kid on a car trip with my family, we would sing the latest Bing Crosby or Kate Smith hit and follow with a golden oldie like “Danny Boy” or “Down by the Old Mill Stream”.

And there was that heroic combo in 1912, on the deck of the sinking Titanic, playing familiar tunes to calm the frantic passengers climbing into the lifeboats. All eight musicians perished that night. “Nearer my God to Thee” was their final number.

A great rift was created in the 1950’s when rock ‘n roll was born. Many of us fogies have just never got it. And it can’t be avoided at a modern wedding reception where the D.J. insists on an ultra-high decibel level that results in shouting matches for the old folks trying to converse. There’s the joke about a rock club waiter dropping a large tray of drinks which caused all the youngsters to get up to dance.

Recently I was bombarded with raucous “music” while shopping in a supermarket. For a while I paused to listen closely. The screeching went on for five minutes. The lyrics consisted of one short ungrammatical sentence: “I ain’t got no lovin’ baby!” which was repeated a dozen times. Was the cost of broadcasting this cacophony being tacked onto my grocery bill?

The “song” ended with a five-second scream. I went to the courtesy desk to register a sarcastic complaint. “That was either the most annoying music I have ever heard, or someone is being attacked in aisle five.”

a

Belief in life after death has been widespread over the centuries and throughout the world. The details about rewards and punishments, however, vary significantly among the believers.

There are some who argue our one and only life is limited to the here and now with no provisions for an appeal or another go around. Others expect we will stop at a Pearly Gates toll booth where we can argue our case. Beyond that booth there is a fork in the road leading to two very different destinations for eternity-bound travelers.

There is another group who anticipates a possible U-Turn area on that road providing a round-trip and a chance for better and cooler accommodations.

Mark Twain’s last published story in 1907, “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven” was an imaginative celestial travelogue with humorous jabs at the prevailing ideas about heaven. For instance, the captain reported earthlings are a minority group approaching the Gates compared to the trillions of afterlife travelers from billions of other solar systems in our universe.

Twain’s yarn was delightful, but I wish he could have sent back a revised edition with factual details after he passed away three years later. There have been many so-called afterlife accounts. Some are intriguingly convincing; others are questionable and a good many were probably invented by comedy and blog writers.

There’s the one about the fellow who’d led a reasonably decent life and expected to be provided with at least 4th class accommodations, but Saint Peter, the gatekeeper, wasn’t convinced.

“The Book shows you obeyed the Commandments most of the time with only a few close calls, but you were a habitual liar and told hundreds of tall stories. I have serious doubts about admitting you.”

“But, Saint Peter,” the man pleaded, “I thought you’d understand. I was a fisherman just like you.”

“A fisherman? Why didn’t you say so? Go on in. The tackle shop is on the third cloud to the left. Tell Jonah I sent you.”

A U-turn believer was being returned for a second chance to live an unselfish useful life, but he needed help. “Please, Your Saintliness, I was too self-centered, foggy-minded and unmotivated to be effective down there. Please provide me with common sense, a willingness to work and a kinder heart and I promise I’ll do better.”

So he was sent back as a mother.

A Dead-Ender who’d led a very selfish, depraved life was greatly surprised to wake up after his elaborate funeral to find there actually was a life after death. “I had no idea it wasn’t a dead end,” he told Saint Peter. “So there really is going to be an accounting? Well, I’ll be damned!”

“I’m afraid, my son, you’ve got that right!”

On VJDay in ’45 I stood on a rooftop with my high school pal Frankie watching our Fairview neighbors on the street below celebrate Japan’s surrender. I suddenly realized World War II was over and my brother Jim, a battle weary Purple Heart G.I. in liberated Europe, would be coming home instead of going into a bloody campaign inside Japan.

Fairview NJ is about five bird miles from Manhattan. We could see the tops of its skyscrapers across the Hudson. “Let’s go to Times Square!” Frankie shouted. “There’ll be a big happy celebration!” So we hopped on a bus and were on the West Side in less than an hour, trotting towards the roar of the crowd.

The New York Times reported 750,000 happy people gathered that day in Times Square. I’m sure you’d see Frankie and me in a lot of the news photos if they were greatly enlarged.

Very soon, we saw a sailor kissing a girl in a white dress. Maybe it was the kiss that was photographed and widely circulated in newspapers . But there were many happy and tipsy G.I.’s kissing girls there that day. I could tell hot-blooded Frankie wanted to get into the act. He was a wolf on the prowl. One or two quick kisses in this crowd wouldn’t be difficult for a determined, quick-footed teen age boy.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” I shouted. “You should have worn your Scout uniform. Then people might have thought you’re a foreign G.I., like from India, with the short pants and sleeves.”

Frankie wasn’t listening, too busy scanning the crowd. Suddenly I saw him stiffen. A pretty girl, about our age, was approaching. Frankie made his move, a rather awkward lunge while reaching out with puckered lips and grasping the surprised girls shoulders.

But suddenly without warning and before he could make osculatory contact, his lips were intercepted by the target’s mother (?) using her anti-kissing weapon, a very heavy purse.

On the bus ride home, Frankie complained through his swollen lips, “You should have helped me, you know. I could tell that girl was just waiting to be kissed.”

“But, Frankie,” I said. “Maybe she was just the bait. Maybe that woman was out to slug someone in Times Square as part of the celebration. Your picture might be in the Times tomorrow.”

“Listen to your body. It rarely lies,” the experts tell us. Sorry, but I don’t enjoy listening to my body. I can’t stand all the constant complaints, excuses and the undeserved accusations. 

Of course I don’t engage in actual verbal conversations with my body parts although Microsoft is probably creating an app right now that will provide them with vocabularies in several languages, making it possible for our joints, organs and bones to nag us more fluently.

I can imagine what it will be like. My right knee would have asked me this morning, “Can’t you feel my spasms? I’ve been talking to Lefty and he agrees, we’ve got to get some real exercise soon or we’ll seize up!”

So I’d decide on a long walk, but around the half-mile point, both feet would start yapping: ”Are you still wearing those cheap sneakers? We’re just getting over the silly flip-flops you wore all summer. The toes told us if you don’t shell out for some decent walking shoes you’re going to get a large painful corn crop.”

My toes, even the pinkies, have always been cranky and mean. They’re quite callous.

One day I’d be reaching up for a top shelf book at the library when my right shoulder would shout, “Ouch! That really hurts! You’d better stick to the lower shelf books and please have me looked at or at least spring for some Advil. And is all that head-scratching necessary? That hurts too, you know!

About then my head would butt in: ”And don’t stoop down to the bottom shelf books either. You know how dizzy it makes me when you stand up fast.”

This kind of talk could really limit my reading selections. Maybe, for instance , I wouldn’t be allowed to read books by some authors whose names begin with S, from  George Sands to the Szabo’s.

“Trust your gut,” the experts say, but sometimes my gut gets voted down. I’d be in the frozen dessert section of the supermarket intending to buy some low fat yogurt, but with the new app I’d be second-guessed.

My eyes would cry out, ”Wow! Look at that! a half-price sale on banana split royale ice cream with genuine milk chocolate syrup!”

“Yes, buy that! Buy that!” my salivating mouth would shout, dribbling on my hoody.

“Where am I supposed to put that stuff?” my intruding and protruding stomach will ask.”You’d better talk this over with the gall bladder and the arteries first.” It would be much too difficult to get a consensus of opinion in this type of situation.

I’ll  have to end this futuristic report soon. My right wrist, the one with the carpal tunnel problem is reminding me, the old-fashioned way, that it needs a rest and my arthritic thumbs are signaling that if I continue to type, therewillbenospacesbetweenthewordsfromthispointon 

This blog is based on the strange story a man recited to me years ago when I was a reporter. Here is a dramatization of the details captured by my answering machine.

The tale begins before sunrise on an August day. A groggy woman reaches from her bed to answer the phone. ”Hullo?” she mumbles, “Who is this?”

“Martha, it’s me, Ollie. You’ll never believe this!”

“You’re right, Ollie, I don’t believe this. Are you calling from the bathroom? I remember you were headed there to brush your teeth not long ago. This had better be good!”

“It’s very good, Martha. It’s wonderful! Let me tell you all about it.”

“Harumph!” said Martha.

“About 10 o’clock I turned off the TV and told you I was going to brush my teeth. You were almost asleep.”

“I’m wide awake now, Ollie. Keep talking.”

“You’ll never believe this, Martha.”

“For your sake and the children’s, Ollie, I’ll try.”

“On my way to the bathroom I remembered to lock up the house and noticed the basement light was on. Just before I turned it off, I saw Junior’s 10-speed through the window. So I went out to get it.

That’s when I noticed Charlie Otis working on his car next door and I went to see if I could help. You know how helpless Charlie is.”

“Ollie, are you at a party? I hear a Frank Sinatra record.”

“That’s not a record, Martha. That’s Frank Sinatra. I’m in Las Vegas.”

“How did you get to Las Vegas? You’ll max out our credit card flying back!”

“I’m trying to tell you how I got here, Martha and don’t worry about money. I happen to have a small fortune. Now where was I?

When I got Charlie’s car started he told me he had to get a very important package to Newark Airport. His job depended on getting it to his boss, Mr Ogilvie. He asked me to go with him in case his car broke down again.

Poor Charlie. I couldn’t say no. His old Pinto was unreliable and he was too upset to drive so I drove him to the airport in our car. 

We got to the terminal in good time, but as we entered we could hear Charlie being paged to report to Gate 25 immediately. We were jogging to the gate when Charlie’s bad knee gave out and he lateraled the package to me.

The gate was closing but they let me run down the ramp after I explained the emergency. I located Mr. Ogilvie in first class, gave him the package and told him about valiant Charlie’s injury. He was extremely grateful and went on at length explaining why. I tried to interrupt him but it was too late. We were taxiing down the runway.”

“And that’s how you got to Las Vegas?”

“Yes, in my corduroy slacks, hoody and slippers.”

“You’re in a Las Vegas casino wearing slippers?”

“It’s okay. I’ve affected a convincing limp to explain them. Mr. Ogilvie paid for my round trip and I had a four-hour wait for the next plane and about twenty dollars in my wallet so I started playing the slots. I did prettty well, pretty darned well. Then I tried the black jack table and I just walked away winners again from roulette. What a streak!”

“Winners, Ollie? How much?” Martha’s tone was softening.

“I don’t know, exactly, but it’s around $12,000 altogether.”

“Come right home, Ollie dear. I miss you.”

“I’ll be taking a limo to the airport soon, but I have something to do first, Martha.”

“No more gambling, Ollie. Quit while we’re ahead.”

“Don’t worry about that, Martha. I just have to find a place to brush my teeth.”

My part-time reporter job many years ago added spice to my rather routine life, sometimes scary spice. My full-time engineering job was interesting, sometimes challenging, but never spicy. It was a nice mix.

Editor Gordon Glover, a former World War II bomber pilot and a reporter who’d covered President John Kennedy for the Associated Press, for some reason always chose me for what I considered hazardous assignments.

“It’ll be a lot of fun,” he’d say and send me off trembling for my very first lessons at a riding academys, ski resort or flying school, believing, if I survived, it would make interesting copy.

He was a veteran four-engine pilot, but when he became interested in zero-engine flying, he sent me to check that out. So off I went for my first (and last) glider flight, soaring five thousand feet above Sussex County, helping my instructor spot circling hawks to find the necessary updrafts to keep us from plummeting into the forest or the Delaware River.

I was more comfortable during my single engine flying lesson assignment until the instructor said, “Okay, start climbing and get her into a stall.” A stall?!  I thought. I’ve had cars stall on me, but then you just got out and walked home. “What do I do when it stalls?” I shouted.

“No problem, just put her into a dive.”……”A dive?!”

Another aeronautical assignment had me up in a Piper Cub with a very recently licensed young pilot who made several failed attempts at a safe landing and finally acheived one that was successful, but cost the lives of several ducks splattered across our windshield.

Gordon, from Maine, was a veteran skier and sent me to check out a new resort. I wanted to bring my Flexible Flyer, but he insisted I take my first ski lesson. After several scary falls, Olaf, the kindly instructor said, “You’re learning fast. Let’s go to the T-bar. ”I’d prefer coffee,” I said.

I got half way down the beginners hill before I wiped out . “You were doing very well until you hit the mogul,” Olaf said as he helped me find my left ski. ”I hit a rich guy?” I said. ” Is he okay?”

My instructor at the new riding academy, a former Polish cavalry officer, insisted he could quickly turn me into a saddle bum. And in just a few minutes I was trotting in a wide circle on gentle Ginger with my arms extended and hoping Ginger wasn’t going to suddenly throw me like that nasty pony did in 1935.

At the Pocono Mountains lodge for my trail-riding assignment, the group was already trotting off when I arrived. There was only one empty horse left and I was happy to hear her name was Violet. 

“You heared that wrong, Mister,” the wrangler said. ”This here horse’s name is ’Violent’. Now don’t get her riled!” Violent and I quickly caught up and passed the others. In about five minutes, with Violent trying to brush me off using the lower tree branches, she decided to get back to the barn as soon as possible, empty-saddled if necessary.

When I told Gordon I was going to Bermuda, he said, “That’s great! I’ll give you two assignments that’ll help pay for your trip.”

As I was clinging to the stubborn steed who insisted on tiptoeing on the very edges of the dune overlooking the Atlantic 200 feet below us, I thought “If I survive this ride, I’ll have to get back on that perilous motor skooter again and drive five miles in the left lane back to the motel and then write about it later as if it was all a lot of fun.

“I’m glad to see you had a good time in Bermuda, ” Gordon said when I turned in the two stories. ”And I like the way you pretended they were dangerous experiences..”

“Pretended?”

It was the week before Christmas many years ago. I came home from school to an empty house one afternoon, anxious to see the live, sweetsmelling tree our family had put up the night before and decorated it with ornaments old and new, some left by grandparents, lacey gems not so pretty by then, but with memories and stories of Christmases Past.

There had been the usual tinsel debates about precise hanging versus random tosses and the stringing of lights. Back then one dying bulb would extinguish an entire string. I was in the replacement bulb squad.

Often, as we worked, we would join Kate Smith in the carol she was singing on the parlor radio . We were always a close family, but on Christms tree night we were even closer.

I came home from school to an empty house the next afternoon, anxious to visit the sweetsmelling tree we’d put up and sang to the night before. I walked briskly through the house toward the living room and swung open the door.

THE TREE WAS DOWN! I couldn’t have been more shocked even if Santa was lying there unconscious on Mom’s new oriental rug. I thought, ”This could be the year the tipsy tree ruined Christmas.”

Somehow I got the fallen fir vertical again, removed a few broken ornaments and twisted it around so, if it decided to topple again, the wall might hold it up. Then I left. I didn’t want to tell the tale of the fallen tree just then. Some others might feel it was a sad omen.

I thought it might be okay to fess up late on Christmas Day after we’d oohed and aahed at the brilliantly lit symbol and the thoughtful presents.

When Dad began to carve the turkey and Mom was sqeezing the last big dishes of dressing and cranberries onto the table, I blurted out, “I saved Christmas this year!” Which, of course, turned heads in my direction.

“Our tree, that beautiful tree, fell down the day after we’d decorated it. I found it on the floor and got it back up quickly before anyone else saw it or it might have ruined Christmas for us.” I confessed.

There was a moment of shocked silence and then my older brother Jim, the quiet one, spoke. ”I raised it off the floor the day after that and didn’t want to mention it either,” he confessed.

Dad put down his carving knife.”When I picked it up yesterday morning,” he confessed, ”I nailed the stand to the floor, right through the oriental rug.”

“I thought something was going on,” my sister Anne said, “I’ve been straightening tinsel all week.”

“And I’ve been sweeping up broken ornaments every day,” Mom said. I was going to write a complaint letter to a clumsy Santa. And what’s this about nails through my new oriental rug?”

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