genenewman

ON SANTA’S LAP

A half century ago I was a New Jersey reporter eavesdropping on Santa’s conversations with children who came to remind him of their written requests. Perhaps you will recognize one of the little visitors from Morris County, New Jersey in this excerpt:

They waited in line outside the little house in Santa Land, bundled to the ears and shivering with the cold and excitement. ” Who’s hiding out there?” a jolly voice called out and two large brown eyes peeked inside. Shad Jones pulled himself up to his full three feet and marched in, not noticing the twinkling tree lights or the very large bag of candy canes. He saw only Santa.

“So you’ve grown up to be five,” Santa says to Shad, now nestled snugly on his comfortable red lap. “Last year, as I remember, you were only four.” Shad nods and smiles . Santa’s memory is correct.

“What do you want me to bring you for Christmas, Shad?”

” A fire engine!” Shad replies loudly, without hesitation. Santa nods and asks, “And what else?” Shad is caught unprepared. He wants a shiny red fire engine with ladders. That’ll be enough, but wait a minute. He has an idea! “Okay Santa, bring me another fire engine.”

The little ones keep filing in, sometimes forgetting their list items and even their names. “And what school do you go to, Robert?” Santa asks and Robert starts scratching his head. “I’ll bet it’s a good school,” Santa coaches and Robert whispers, “Yes, Santa, it’s a good school but the teachers yell a lot.”

There’s a glow in the room, more than the tree lights. There are Santa’s twinkling eyes and the love shining from the faces of the little ones and even the warm smiles of the teenagers that were just smirks before they crossed the threshhold into the Presence.

The Duphiney family enters with a squadron of children. Santa smiles down at 3-year old Glen who’d hopped up onto his lap. “Isn’t there somebody missing, somebody bigger?” Santa asks. Glen’s eyes widen. “Yes, Peggy,” he says.

“Ah yes, Peggy “How old is she now, 13?” Glen shakes his head. “No, Santa, she’s 14. She said to tell you she wants a pair of Jeans,” “I know just the thing,” Santa replies, “with bell bottoms and probably patches on the back!”

Gregory Wald leaps onto Santa’s lap with a long list which Santa studies. “Tools? What kind of tools do you want, Gregory?” The 4-year old replies, “Real ones, Santa. A real saw and a real hammer.” Santa is caught up and they begin to discuss construction projects.

A 4-year old future nutritionist doesn’t hop onto the waiting lap. She stands beside her Mommy who is wearing platform shoes and a boutique outfit. “I’m not going to leave you a dish of cookies on Christmas eve, Santa,” she says. “You’re overweight! I’ll leave you some cottage cheese on diet crackers.”

Santa turns to me. ” Apparently she’s been in touch with Mrs. Claus,” he whispers.”

LATE DELIVERY

It was the week before Christmas and I was home alone sipping Pinot while I waited for my wife to return from her shopping trip , when suddenly I heard a hammer-like knocking on the front door. There was a little man standing outside dressed entirely in red cap, coat, pants and stockings. I assumed that “Trygg” was his name since it was embroidered in green on his wide lapel.

“I’ve made a delivery, Sir. There’s no charge,” he said. “It’s safe and snug in your back shed.”

He seemed exhausted standing there shivering in the falling snow, so I suggested he rest and tell me what this was all about. “Would you like some hot tea or coffee?” I asked and he said he preferred grogg. “If it isn’t too much trouble, Sir. I can give you the recipe. It’ll warm your heart.”

I soon noticed a definite rise in my body temperature as I sipped my first ever mugful. “Now what’s this delivery all about, Mr. Trygg?”

“Well, Sir, a letter you sent us fell behind a cabinet with a dozen others a long time ago. We found them during a recent renovation. Santa was quite upset and assigned some of us to find the writers and fulfill their requests.

“How old are the letters, Trygg?” He tilted his mug and scratched his head. “None are dated, Sir, but from the names of the toys mentioned, they seem to have been sent about a half century ago.”

“And why is my present out in the shed?” I asked and Trygg looked shocked. “Sir, Christmas presents are always supposed to be happy surprises when opened on Christ’s birthday. Now, thank you for your hospitality, but I’ve got to be leaving now.” He tipped his red hat and ran out the door.

“You look puzzled,” my wife said when she returned. “Maybe even troubled. What have you been up to, Dear?” I gave her an abbreviated account of my encounter and said I was worried about what was out in our shed. ” I included a pony in most of my boyhood letters to Santa. I’m afraid to go out to look in the shed now.”

“Don’t worry Sweetheart,” it was only a dream, a pleasant Christmas dream.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You said you and what’s his name, Trigg, sat before the fire talking and sipping that grogg drink.”

Well, that’s what we did.”

“In your dream, Sweetheart . We don’t have a fireplace.”

WEATHER OR NOT

Some people joke about the Weather Bureau being a non-prophet organization, but that’s unfair. The National Weather Service, as it’s officially known, makes consistently reliable short term forecasts now.

” A 50 percent chance of rain, sleet or snow late in the day” may not be that precise but it’s useful enough for you to postpone your golf game or parachute jump and to check your sump pump and don your long johns.

One of the worst inaccurate forecasts for the New York City area was in March of 1888 when warm rain showers were predicted, but instead, the disastrous Blizzard of ’88 brought 40 inches of snow, 50-foot drifts and over 25o fatalities.

I was sidetracked by the bureau’s second most inaccurate forecast. I was a truck driver’s helper, headed for New York City from Jersey on December 26, 1947 when four inches of snow were predicted for the Metro area. My truck driver said his powerful Reo could handle that easily so we crossed the George Washington Bridge to make our deliveries. We ended up snowbound in the Bronx and spent the night in a saloon with a tipsy crowd of stranded commuters whose street cars stood outside behind snowbanks.

Two feet of snow had paralyzed Manhattan and closed the G.W. Bridge. I was too young to accept the consoling Irish bartender’s offer of a warming snort on the house. The saloon’s radio confirmed the G.W. Bridge was closed, but some stalwart Jerseyans were walking across to get home.

Long range forecasts of seven days or more can be meteorological educated guesses based on a number of computer models trying to make sense out of the dynamic nature of the atmosphere. What we hear on the evening news is a description of next weeks “most likely” weather, but “stand by”.

We can also make use of time-honored signs like aching arthritic joints that indicate low barometric pressure and other bad weather signs like mare’s tail clouds, mackerel skies and rings around the moon that are said to predict storms.

If the birds start heading south earlier in the year and squirrels have bushier tails, tune up your snow blower. And if you hear I’ve rented a bungalow at the Jersey shore for a week next summer, expect drenching rain all seven days.

There’s the story of the modern Indian chief who was asked by his tribesmen if they should prepare for a severe winter on the reservation. The chief, fresh out of Harvard, had no idea, but to save face, he recommended they begin gathering firewood immediately and during the following weeks, he urged intensified timber chopping.

Around the end of November he was getting nervous. So he made an anonymous phone call to the local weather bureau to ask for that winter’s prediction.

“It’s going to be very severe, a record breaker, the head meteorologist told him.

“Is that based on a jet stream shift, or satellite data?” he asked.

“Somewhat, but to a greater extent it’s based on observations of a local Indian tribe that has stored up a mountain of firewood on their reservation.”

OOPS, SORRY!

As a young boy I asked my father, “Dad, will I ever grow out of this clumsy state?” He looked at me rather strangely and replied, “Son, before I can answer that….”

“Yes, Dad?”

“You’re standing on my foot!”

I came back a year later, after my dancing school expulsion, and asked the same question. Just to be safe, I wore sneakers. “I’m hopeful the years will give you the precision and grace of movement you now lack,” my father said while picking up the lamp I’d toppled. “But promise me one thing, Son…”

“What’s that, Dad?” I asked and he replied, “Never get a job at the Picatinny Arsenal!”

He was just being kind. Dozens of years have passed and they have given me practically no precision or grace of movement. I never go to Picatinny Arsenal on their Armed Forces Day events. It wouldn’t be fair to the surrounding towns.

There are thousands of clumsies like me, tripping along life’s highway, ungracefully and uninsurable. You can recognize us by our rallying cry, “OOPS! sorry!”

My theory is that each of us has his own private poltergeist, a mischievous spirit who stands by our side knocking things out of our hands and throwing invisible banana peels in our paths. Normal people will never understand. They think accidents can be prevented by exercising simple precautions.

“Just feel the weight of this exquisite teacup,” a friend insisted one day as we stood before his valuable porcelain collection.

“I’d rather not,” I said. “I’m not very lucky holding delicate things like tea cups and puppies.”

“Nonsense!” He insisted handing me his treasure. “You won’t hurt it and handling it is the only way you can appreciate the featherlike quality of the….OH MY GOD !”

“Terribly sorry, Alphonse. It was so exquisitely light I lost my grip. You were right, though. It was a magnificent object.” I said all this as calmly as possible while edging toward the door, past his gun collection.

Alphonse never forgave me. Like everyone else in the world he doesn’t recognize my clumsiness as an affliction that should be pitied and possibly cured. I would certainly donate to an organization seeking a cure for this psychosomatic condition.

Is it any wonder that we are unfairly guilt-ridden? Isn’t it enough we spend our days in fear, in casts and in traction? Consider my friend and fellow sufferer, Harry who happened to be in Washington State when Mt. St. Helen erupted back in 1980. He telegraphed his anxious family: “Safe and sound. Untouched by the exploding volcano. Arriving home tomorrow. P.S. : I had nothing to do with it.

TV or not TV, That is the question.

When the cable system crashed the other night it reminded me of a time when TV watching was more interactive and personally challenging. Now, when the screen goes black, I spend an hour listening to the cable company’s busy signal or its recorded reassurances that an associate will soon respond.

In the old days if something disrupted our viewing of Jack Benny, the entire family would spring into action. That’s when we had real parental controls.

“See if the cat’s on the antenna again!” I’d shout, reaching for the check list. My son Steven would start pounding the set just above the RCA emblem. That sometimes revived it. My wife Barbara would operate the channel selector to make sure it wasn’t just CBS that had a transmission failure. My three daughters would fetch our TV Repair manual and start reciting the resuscitation procedure. They would also find the spare TV tubes box and the first aid kit.

Finally, if Jack Benny was still unreachable, I would begin to manipulate the controls. This rarely worked and you could get into serious trouble with the look-alike knobs. There was the time I’d managed to get the TV back on, but I must have twisted the wrong knob and rotated the picture from vertical to horizontal. We all had to lie on the couch or floor to watch our favorite programs until I figured out the solution. Poor Lassie had to run uphill until I fixed that one . Our last hope was “the tubes-testing stage” when all the small tubes had to be removed and tested on the local drugstore’s contraption. A lower compartment contained replacement tubes.

It was always a moment of glory when I’d managed to get Jack Benny or Lassie back into into our living room and I was congratulated for my electronic know-how.

On the other hand it was quite depressing to admit defeat and call Joe’s TV Repair. Joe was a competent technician and diplomatic enough to imply my procedures were correct, but this was a very special case. “Dave” he said.

“What’s a Dave?” I asked.

“Isn’t that your cat’s name?””

“He wasn’t on the antenna. We always check there first,” I protested.

“No, he was behind the set and pulled the plug out of the wall socket and it’s going to cost you twenty-five bucks.”

“Twenty five bucks to plug in the set? That’s kind of high!”

“No, I’m only charging two bits for that but there were three tubes in the wrong sockets and I had to work an hour to figure that out. That’ll cost you $24.75”

Dave could be spiteful and he never liked Jack Benny, but whenever he sprawled on the antenna in just the right spot with his tail pointing south, the reception from Philadelphia stations was greatly improved.

Fleeing to Florida

This is the time of year when the winds get wintry and your fingers are numbed playing golf or tennis too late in the year. It’s when you start making plans for a vacation in the Sunshine State.

That’s the nickname the Florida Tourist Bureau prefers. There are other names used by tourists who’ve been attacked by alligators or broiled on beaches. Oldtimers who’ve pulled up stakes in northern climes and traded Hoboken homes for Cape Coral condos, call it, “God’s waiting room.”

It might sound like a good idea to imitate the birds and go south in late autumn, but unfortunately, it’s also instinctual for the human race and thousands of us will race southward to avoid the falling temperatures and try to live with the rising prices.

You’re probably just a short flying time away from Florida (plus the current takeoff delay hours). You might try a more leisurely car trip and get to see the sites up close along the way instead of at an oxygen mask altitude.

One creative lad’s idea was to leisurely drive a rich man’s limo down to Florida and visit interesting places along the way. Unfortunately, one day the rich man noticed his limo was missing and the young vagabond was apprehended while sightseeing in Savannah and sentenced to several winters and summers in the Garden State.

You can easily spot the recently arrived typical “snowbird” at the Florida shore. She will be enjoying the warm sea breeze while her husband frantically searches for a parking space for the rental car. And she will be the only one on the beach wearing a fur coat and galoshes.

HOME ALONE? MAYBE NOT

It always gets worse around Halloween. The nights are growing longer and spooks and goblins are getting a lot of play on TV. I wish the family wouldn’t go out and leave me here with my vivid imagination. The thing is, it might not be my imagination.

I’m not actually convinced I am alone. There are too many weird sounds in this big house. Right now I can hear at least three or four people moving around up in the attic. Well maybe not people, but something….

There! If you were here you’d have heard that! You’d know it’s not the house creaking in the wind. Those would be random noises and these have a definite tempo, almost rhythmical. Is somebody or some thing dancing up there ?

Even as a young boy I was able to see and hear things that others couldn’t. I think it has something to do with being Irish. Grandma Kate taught us kids about Banshees, female Irish ghosts who scream in the night. I’m sure I spotted them hovering over the barn as we blew horns to scare them away one New Year’s Eve.

As I reached manhood and husbandhood and fatherhood I had to explain these phenomena to a jittery wife and frightened children, inventing excuses to convince them the so called weird sounds were actually normal and easily explained.

“That’s only the groans of an old house cooling off at night,” I’d say. Or I’d blame the pitter patter on a couple of squirrels who’d got between the roof beams to store acorns. But I didn’t really believe that. I could hear what sounded like voices. Talking squirrels ?

Sometimes they’d beg me to investigate, “just to be sure” and I would laugh and reply, “Well, if it makes you feel better…” During one of these investigations I almost fainted when our cat leaped out at me in a pitch black cellar. They only half believed my blood curdling scream was a joke. There’s no question about the groaning in the back room now, but I can’t be as precise about what I saw in the living room

The “things” I see are not as clearly defined as the things I hear. My sightings are almost aways brief and peripheral, quick glances out of the corner of my eye. I can only say that “something” long and purple raced across the room and hid behind the couch. It either had a large head or was carrying an umbrella. If you’re that curious you can come here, unaccompanied, and take a look.

I had a dog once. I thought his company would do me good. But he heard twice as much as I did and he was always sniffing at the air to identify a “presence.” He ran away one night during a lightning storm and I never saw him again, although sometimes I hear him gnawing a bone in a backroom closet. That can’t be him behind the couch. He was short and white and never carried an umbrella.

As I write this the noises are increasing. Beneath me in the cellar there are a lot of whispering sounds and the pacing in the attic has increased. Now I can distinguish some actual words like, “Freddy Krueger.” Who’s Freddy Krueger?

LIONS AND TIGERS AND CARS! OH MY!

A half century ago when I was a reporter, I was sent to write a piece on the popular Jungle Habitat wild animal park, a reverse zoo in West Milford, New Jersey. I thought it would be an easy, fun assignment and I took my wife Barbara. We narrowly managed to survive and enjoy the experience.

Warner Brothers of Hollywood owned the Habitat. Perhaps they were following Noah’s boarding plan when they moved in a beastly population of 1,500 that roamed free in the 1,000-acre fenced in forest.

I intended to write an upbeat article about cruising through the forest in a caravan of visitors’ vehicles, listening to a travelogue on the car radio presented by Roger Caras a famous naturalist back then. With the running commentary and the surprising encounters with different animals, big and small, timid and not timid, it was quite exciting. But then the caravan stalled….and a pride of lions began to gather around us.

My article would begin : “The temperature in the car is about 120 degrees. Outside, a cool breeze is blowing through the lush forest but we were told to not open the windows “since eleven lions are now blocking the road.”

Barbara suggested opening a car window on the lionless side, but a commanding voice repeatedly cautioned us over the car radio: “Never open any window!” So we sat and perspired and now and then smiled at a lion who studied the car and its passengers as if we were on a steam table in a smorgasbord restaurant.

The lion never smiled back, but eventually he yawned, a mere six inches away. It was like looking into the Lincoln Tunnel lined with sharp teeth. We should have expected our situation. The guide book had warned “If several lions from the pride amble over to examine your car or even jump on it, don’t be surprised.” Nevertheless, they jumped and we were surprised.

Finally, the lion blockade departed and we felt relieved until Roger Caras announced, “Keep moving. The elephant herd is waiting around the next bend.”

“Oh good! We love elephants,” I said to Barbara.

“But do elephants jump on cars?” she asked.

They didn’t, but it would have been a really strange insurance claim.

Kid Care

We have to stop shielding our children from the realities of healthcare, sugar-coating all the difficulties they will eventually have to endure when they are out on their own. The next time your child is temporarily down with a short term affliction like a head cold, you can give him or her an idea of what lies ahead . Something like this:

“Good morning Joey. How are we feeling today?”

“A little better, Mom. I’m not coughing as much but I’m a little upset about the bill you put on my supper tray last night.”

“Why, Dear? I thought it was reasonable. We had to move your brother into the guest room so he wouldn’t catch your cold and that, of course, upgraded you to the private room rate.”

“I know that, Mom. It was in the booklet you gave me, right after my first sneeze, but how come I had to pay for Dad’s visits when all he did was poke his head in the door and ask, ‘How are you doin’ Son?’ and then leave to play golf.”

“Those still qualify as visits, Dear. I told you months ago you should enroll in our KiddyCare Plan but you didn’t want to sign up.”

“Mom, the monthly charge would have been almost half as much as I’m making mowing lawns.”

“Yes dear, but now you can’t expect the family to cover you if you chose to be uninsured. The plan would have covered almost half of your treatment expenses and with a small co-pay we could have moved a TV in here.”

“And, Mom, there’s a $10 charge that’s labeled ‘Mrs. Romano’. What’s that all about?”

“That’s Rose Romano, Dear. She’s in my aerobics class. She has nine children and four grandchildren. She’s an expert on head cold therapy, as good as board certified. Rose gave me valuable advice and rented me her vaporizer and electronic thermometer.”

“Couldn’t we just have the doctor come over and check me out, Mom? I’ll pay the bill.”

“No, Joey. Most doctors don’t visit anymore . We might have had to take you out in bad weather and you’d have to sit in a crowded waiting room, exchanging bacteria with the other patients for an hour. Why don’t you sign up with KiddyCare now. We have no rules against pre-existing conditions and you’d get an unlimited supply of Kleenex and cough drops of your choice.

When you get better, Joey, maybe you should make snow-shoveling another branch of your business to help you with the KiddyCare payments.”

A BACKYARD OF DREAMS

Soon after I’d watched the “A Field of Dreams” movie six times, I began to receive strange messages, something like the ones Kevin Costner had in the movie. But I didn’t know how to respond. I don’t speak Italian.

However, I have many Italian friends. So after a week or so of these weird dreams I called my buddy Frank Savino and asked for his help…… “Sounds like whoever is contacting you wants you to do something important,” Frank said, “But I think you’re supposed to wait. “

The same message was delivered every night. Frank finally gave me his take on the translation after I repeated some of the phrases: “They want you to build something to do with a game.”

“Build something? “I can’t build a baseball field like in the movie, my lot is only a quarter of an acre.”

” I think they want you to build a bocce court. I looked it up. The smallest court is about 10 feet by 60 feet. You can fit that in, can’t you?”

“I guess so, if I move the picnic table, the old swing and the St. Anthony and Buddha statues. I’ll ask Google about bocce court construction and order the material. “

I did some bocce checking and was surprised to learn it’s the third most popular sport in the world. Imagine that! It follows soccer and golf. How come I’ve never seen a game played on TV?

I gave my order to Joe at Parsippany Lumber the next day. “What are you building?” he asked……..”A small bocce court. Do you know anything about bocce?……”Oh sure, I play it all the time. You’re going to need more than lumber, like a pallino target ball and eight other balls. I’ll give you my cousin Anthony’s number. He can get you everything you need. I’ll insist on a discount.”………Three weeks later, I had a legitimate bocce court and the dreams became less frantic. But they didn’t go away.

I’d installed a hanging light bulb over the court and looked out there every night, but no one showed up, only moths. Then one night, around 1 a.m., I heard clicking noises. There was one player out there, an old guy who seemed to be playing a serious solo game. I raised the window and shouted “Buona notte!” He looked up, smiled, waved and resumed his bowling. It was like interrupting Rip Van Winkle in his game with the little Dutchmen.

One night later, with Frank Savino at my side, I looked again. There were two players! They were shouting and arguing at 2 a.m. and none of the neighbors lights were coming on. Apparently, only Frank and I could see the players and hear the shouting.

“I’ve done more research, “Frank said. I think I know who those two players are. I’ve got photos. The taller guy is Umberto Granaglia , once called ‘The greatest player of the 2oth century’. He died in 2008. The other is Jose Botto, the USA’s most highly decorated bocce player. He died the same year, but these two never got to play each other. It must be a match they wangled out of St. Peter, a last wish of one or both of them.”

“Now this is probably a wild guess,” Frank said, “But maybe the deal had to be a secret match with no audience. Botto had a Jersey connection and might have suggested a backyard midnight tournament here.”

That may or may not be the background for this weird series, but after a dozen or so games in the seesaw battle, the two champs calmed down and accepted a few bottles of excellent chianti and three extra large everything pizzas. Umberto and Jose drank and ate heartily and so did Frank and I. Frank told me, according to his translation, the match ended in a tie. I hope the rematch is in Italy. By the way, not one of Frank’s many photos turned out to include the two champs.