Author: genenewman

While kindergarten boys spend their recesses in healthful, active pursuits like running, shouting and punching each other, their coed classmates stand in little groups in the schoolyard, whispering and giggling. What are they talking about?

The whispering and giggling of females have always had a profound effect on both little and big boys. Could they be whispering and giggling about us? Could we be the gigglees?

Thrown in with a male stranger, a man will manage to mumble something about the weather, feeling his way, hoping not to offend and meanwhile planning his escape. But a woman meeting another woman for the first time will break the ice immediately by saying something like, “I love your blouse!” In just a few minutes they will be whispering and giggling.

Most males do not need to communicate endlessly. Get the facts and sign off. But after spending several hours gossiping together, two high school girls will part and rush home to resume their conversation electronically.

I have seen two women chat their way through a Super Bowl game while seated in front row seats at the 50-yard line. If a blocked forward pass had ended up in one of their laps they would have been annoyed at the interruption.

At a recent social function a man left our table for the rest room after his whispered apology. Moments later, a woman announced she was leaving to powder her nose. She looked around as if checking the other female noses. A half dozen volunteers grabbed their purses and joined the parade. Glancing around the restaurant later I noticed there were mostly only men at the tables. Apparently there was a high level conference taking place in the ladies room. I’ll bet there was a lot of giggling too.

I’ve always admired the conversational talents of the ladies. They have superior communication abilities. Any man who has ever been trapped in his home during a Tupperware Party can attest to the fact that women can not only suspend breathing during conversations, but they are also able to send and receive simultaneously.

According to a recent study by a female physician at the University of California-San Francisco, men average 7,000 words a day while women manage to use 20,000. And that’s not counting the giggles.

I don’t agree with Professor Higgins’ question, “Why can’t a woman be like a man?” God forbid! Vive la difference!

Apparently the common cold is here to stay. It’s firmly established and not to be sneezed at. The fiscal integrity of too many industries depends on it. They will survive and thrive because many common cold sufferers feel certain that somewhere out there is a new miraculous cure .

It is inconceivable that the Black Plague, smallpox, polio, diptheria and even dandruff are all under control while rhinovirus, the common cold in the nose, runs on.

When we get a cold, we take something. That’s the American way. When someone senses any affliction, one takes something. It will at least stimulate the economy. According to one estimate, Americans cough up between 25 and 40 billion dollars a year to beat the unbeatable cold.

If an actual cure is found, some pharmaceutical firms will suffer. The television industry’s commercials schedule will have huge gaps to fill and the bottom might fall out of the chicken soup market.

The cold often strikes like a thief in the night, creeping through the sleeping victim’s innards. He’d turned in eight hours ago, the picture of health. Now, as the sun rises, so does his temperature and apparently someone has poured Draino down his throat.

“I thig I hab a code,” he groans to his wife. She’d already diagnosed that listening to his hacking cough and feeling his overheated brow. “Am I pale?” he asks. “I feel kinda pale.”

“You have some color,” she soothes and doesn’t mention that it’s green.

But there is no panic. Every family has a set plan to defeat the cold, to cure the incurable. Some rush the victim to the doctor’s office where he might spend an unmasked hour coughing and clouding the waiting room with one or more of the 200 varieties of cold viruses.

Others will use time-honored home remedies like hot soup, inhaled vapors and strong-smelling gooey stuff applied to the victim’s chest and that little space between the nose and upper lip. Alcohol concoctions are preferred by others. They do nothing to defeat the cold but they can induce a feeling of euphoria where the patient manages to forget the cold. Eventually the cold returns riding on a hangover.

Some patent medicine ads imply our cold symptoms can be completely masked by their pills and we can get back to business as usual, feeling fully recovered, and actually, fully contagious.

I was going through my “morgue” the other day. That’s a news guy’s term for clippings of old news stories and columns. I found my yellowing 1971 column about taking a flying lesson and it rekindled an old spark.

I thought, back then, it would be an interesting and informative story for any youngsters planning to take to the sky some day. Anyway, that’s what I told my editor without confessing I’d always wanted to be a licensed pilot. Maybe now it’s not too late to put it on my bucket list.

So hop in my time machine and see what I went through on that 1971 summer’s day. My flight instructor was a seasoned chief pilot named Bob Plympton at the Morristown Municipal Airport. (Now Donald Trump’s New Jersey touchdown site.) After his pre-flight check of the single engine Cessna-150’s landing gear, struts, control surfaces and oil level, Bob reminded me, “There are no gas stations in the sky.”

We were soon up into the wild blue yonder. (Actually it was a partly cloudy day.) Morris County looked like an Esso road map in living color. Route 46 was below us, but it was not the neat red line of the map maker. It was gray and jammed with cars. Route 80 “under construction” didn’t have the line of red dashes. It was an ugly brown scar cutting across green fields and pushing aside hills.

Lake Parsippany was soon below us, a blue jewel glistening in the sun. And nearby was my house looking white and trim surrounded by an emerald lawn. At about 2,000 feet crabgrass and the few paint peelings were invisible.

Instructor Plympton nudged me and pointed to the controls. “Take over,” he commanded. “Let’s see you make a nice left turn.” I replied “Roger” like a veteran copilot, but it wasn’t convincing. Bob stopped checking for engine trouble when he realized the loud thumping was my heart.

The sleek little Cessna was responsive to the controls. I pressed the left rudder pedal sharply and gave a brisk twist to the yoke. The horizon tilted 90 degrees. I glanced out the window and was looking straight down into downtown Denville.

“Overcontrolling,” Bob said, was a common beginner’s mistake. He said the Cessna’s 100 horses needed only the gentlest touches to get the message. My right turn was smoother and almost horizontal.

At the straight and level the Cessna flew itself. A touch of the yoke, a tap of the pedal, was all that was needed. This was great! I was Eddie Rickenbacker, I was Charles Lindberg, I was Neil Armstrong, a born “flyer!

“I’m going to have you go into a stall now,” Bob said and, right then, Eddie, Charles and Neil bailed out. “Some pilots are sensitive enough to feel a stall coming on,” he said as a high-pitched noise shook the cabin

. “That’s a stall warning horn going off in case you’re not that sensitive,” he said. It sounded like the mating call of very determined moose.

“If I yell ‘Take over!” please do so at once,” I shouted. “You’re doing fine,” Bob replied and, as I lowered the nose, the moose stopped howling and the Cessna got a firm grip on the atmosphere.

I did it! I got us through a crisis! I looked down at Route 10 traffic and wondered why the drivers weren’t standing outside their cars, looking skyward and cheering. Another Cessna approached at one o’clock. I shook my fist at it and, under my breath, I muttered, “Curse you, Red Baron!”

As I walked to my car later, I thought I might manage the time and the money to earn a license, but, sadly, it never happened. I slipped behind the wheel of my single engine Chevy, adjusted my sunglasses, tossed my scarf over my shoulder and shouted, “Contact!”

I was a middle-aged cub reporter in ’85, still getting unexciting assignments, amateur talent contests and interviews with jelly jar collectors. Then one day……”I want you to cover an auction today,” my editor said.

“Oh, Chief,” I pleaded, when will I get to write about something exciting? What kind of stuff is being auctioned?”

“There’s just one item, a B-25 bomber. I think it’s a World War II plane.”

(Oh, my God! I thought, he doesn’t realize the tremendous significance!) Anyone who’d seen the 1944 movie, “Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo” five times would not want to miss this historic auction. I tried to hide my excitement. “Okay, Chief, I’ll get down to Caldwell Airport and do a piece on this auction thing.”

The movie is about the Army Air Force’s Tokyo bombing raid, four months after the Pearl Harbor attack by the Japanese. Lt. Colonel Jimmy Doolittle led 16 B-25 bombers on a mission that convinced the enemy they had awakened a sleeping giant.

After joining the Air Force in 1949 I got to fly as a B-25 passenger a few times and was once warned by an old crew chief, “Never take your parachute off in a B-25!” They did have accidents. One flew through a thick fog into the 78th floor of the Empire State Building in 1945. Fourteen died, crew members and office workers, but the building had only repairable impact site damage. Just a week later I rode the elevator to the skyscraper’s observation deck with two of my high school classmates.

Only a handful of people were waiting for the auction to begin when I arrived at the airport. The gleaming silver bomber was parked outside on the tarmac. I began my interviews. An Air Force vet said he had vivid memories of the plane including his low level flight over downtown Boston with one engine on fire. He admitted he was just a nostalgic (?) bystander and not a bidder.

Two potential bidders, buddies from New Vernon, hoped to haul the plane onto their property where it would be an historic lawn ornament. A Morristown man wanted to open a hobby shop with the bomber sitting outside to attract customers. The shop, he said, would be located in a town who’s planning board would okay the roadside B-25.

The auction lasted about two minutes, but a book including all the thoughts of bidders and bystanders would be more than one volume. As the auctioneer grabbed the gavel, I could feel the tension in the room begin to rise.

I had to get a grip on myself. (I’m here as a reporter, not a bidder…..Yeah, but) (Forget the “yeah buts, start taking notes!)

“This is an as-is sale,” the auctioneer began.

(That’s where you get the real bargains!)

“There are no guarantees,” he continued.

(Who needs a guarantee? You’d own a genuine historic B-25 bomber unless a fussy planning board didn’t cooperate. It wouldn’t be such an imposing obect in a neighborhood. The wing span is only 67 feet.)

“We start the bids at $1,100,” the man announced.

(I could go without lunches for a couple of years and put off buying a new car by driving downhill a lot.)

“I’ll take it for $1,100,” someone shouted. I looked up, startled. ( Who said that? Oh dear, was that me? How will I explain this to my wife?)

What a relief! Everyone was staring at the hobby shop guy and someone was shaking his hand. I was just shaking.

I never heard tell of the B-25 again. I guess it was missing in planning board action.

One reason the days seem to fly by when we grow older is because senior days are much shorter than junior days. We spend a lot more hours wandering off somewhere in Dreamland. The television industry should realize this. The average age of its audience is increasing and now is the time for major programming changes to accommodate the shrinking attention span of this large segment of the viewing population.

No matter how loud, terrifying, naughty or even nauseating they make their final scenes, they’re wasted on millions of us older viewers. By 10 p.m. our eyelids have begun to quiver and will soon shut.

So far this year I’ve seen only the first halves of most TV specials. Instead of cramming more commercials into Part II, wrongly assuming they have a captured audience, TV producers should shorten the ads and speed up the story action or we old fogies will sleep through the ads and the finale.

Television execs must now adapt to accommodate our abbreviated attention spans. If our undivided attention for extended periods is necessary to sell their products or opinions, they will have to make the necessary adjustments.

Otherwise, a large portion of their “captured audiences” will be snoring through their “thrilling dramatic moments” and “”persuasive ads”. This is a fact of life, TV moguls. If you don’t recognize and believe this, as you tell us so very often, just “Ask your doctor.”

Checking the calendar this morning I suddenly realized this is an important birth date, not one where you’d send a card or a present, but certainly a date to be celebrated. On this very day in 1978 my beard was born!

I distinctly remember peering into the mirror that day and finally noticing definite signs of emerging fuzz. What I didn’t realize then was that birth pains would be unavoidable.

Beards weren’t very common then, so I expected a few polite pro and con comments the first few days, but the way some people carried on about my new chin whiskers, I began to think they owned Gillette Razors stock.

I admit at first I did resemble an escapee from a chain gang, so when a coworker asked, “Did you forget to shave today?” I managed to change the subject, but later in the week as I became fuzzier others began to insist on an explanation until one popped the question: “Are you growing a beard?”

I was tempted to invent an alibi, but how long could I pretend to be a heat rash or acne victim? I’m not good at bare or fuzzy-faced lies. I always feel like my nose is growing longer or my pants are about to ignite.

Once the beaver was out of the bag I lost my claim to complete beard ownership. There were frequent shareholder meetings with complaints that I was not growing the beard properly, as if it were a lawn I could seed, weed and fertilize. “It’s not glossy on both sides and the color isn’t even,” was one protest.

Members of different factions could not avoid the subject whenever we met, even if it was at a meeting called to solve a major business problem . “We found a big mistake in the Smedley contract,” I announced at one session. “If we don’t correct the wording, we could lose thousands!”

“Your beard is getting very scraggly. Why don’t you shave it off?”

“Forget my beard for the moment! There’s $50,000 at stake!”

“It’s going to look even worse as it gets longer.”

“Miss Drumgule,” I said, pleading with the critic’s assistant, will you please help your boss solve this problem at once?”

“Maybe you should try talking to it,” she replied. “It really helps my philodendron.”

Beside the boistrous pro and con groups there was a very polite neutral faction, kind and considerate with genteel manners, who never once acknowledged I was actually growing a beard. They had the sensitivity to look me right in my bristling chin and never say a word about it. This was driving me bananas!

Around the third week I launched my counter-offensive. While riding the elevator with a new accountant, he suddenly asked, “Do you want my honest opinion of your beard?”

“Certainly,” I replied, “If you want my opinion of that suit you’re wearing and your rather odd haircut.” He decided to get off at the next stop and climb the remaining 12 flights.

A middle-aged lady manager of Mediterranean heritage interrupted a crowded meeting to tell me at high volume that my new beard made me look disreputable. “I apologize for my unruly beard, Madam and may I add, yours is coming in splendidly.”

At that stage many of my friends and relatives had yet to see my newly landscaped face. At first I would cringe when I saw one approaching, but eventually I scripted my response to their initial remarks: “Yes , I’m growing a beard . Everyone who’s young at heart has encouraged me with compliments. The old fuddy-duddies have put it down. What do you think?”

I started the beard as an experiment, prepared to hit the destruct button if it went haywire. The second week it actually looked like across between hay and wire, but a few encouraging words kept me growing.

Later, even discouraging words stiffened my resolve. Although my whiskers were long and black in some places and short, gray and wiry in others and some were calling me “Spot”, I persisted.

I could have ended the hassle in five minutes. I’d look in the mirror and ask, “What right have you to cause this dissension? Shave it off!”

But the hirsute guy would look out at me and say, “Not by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!”

When I called my buddy Al today to invite him to my annual Independence Day picinic, he said, “Thanks, but no thanks. Last year’s was my last! This year, on the Fourth, I’ll just stay home and observe it with a fifth.”

I didn’t blame him. I’d tried to avoid my previous year’s mistakes by arranging a simple, enjoyable outdoor luncheon instead of another overeating, overdrinking and overheated endurance contest. Somehow, I didn’t succeed.

Our backyards are too primitive now to serve as feasting places because our usual meals are served in air conditioned homes with comfortable dining rooms and computerized kitchens. By comparison, a present day barbecue resembles a gathering of earthquake or shipwreck survivors.

After this year’s failed attempt I will no longer submit to the rigors of these fiery feasts. I intend to hang up my greasy, charred apron and burn my brazier!

There were 22 in attendance at today’s debacle, not counting the ambulance squad, but they were late arrivals. I exchanged the usual jovial greetings with arriving friends and they offered polite compliments on my lawn and gardens. But a couple of hectic hours later after the guests had finished a keg of beer and a box or two of wine, it became one of my typically out-of-control picnics.

Some guests were nodding or safely dozing, but their kids were running amok and had wiped out my tomato and marigolds with the hedge trimmer. Marshmallows had been inserted in my poor dog Molly’s ears and she couldn’t understand why she didn’t hear her own barking.

I was too busy to notice much of this with my two grills flaming. There was no hair left on either forearm and my eyebrows were gone, giving me a look of astonishment.

A fairly sober guest offered to help. “Do you need anything from this charcoal pile?” he asked……”That’s not charcoal,” I replied. Those are the hamburgers. Hide them inside the rolls and then serve the hot dogs, which are badly burned on only one side. So rotate them in the rolls and call them ‘lightly done’ and ‘very done.’ ”

The yellowjacket squadron attacked at four o’clock. I grabbed a handy aerosol can from the shed and blasted away at them until I heard screaming and discovered I’d painted Mr. Myers and his wife with Rustoleum Green Enamel.

Old Mr. Blake seemed to have suffered a sunstroke. I couldn’t get anyone to help me carry him into the house so I just hosed him down and he woke up. It might have been the loud shouting at the fist fight that revived him.

About then, the fun seemed to go out of the picnic. I don’t know who called the ambulance squad, but they were very helpful, attending to groggy Mr. Blake, the yellowjacket victims and the freshly painted Myers couple. I offered hamburgers and hot dogs to the crew, but they politely declined. (And who’d blame them?)

Late last night I called Al to tell him about the day’s events . He sympathized and invited me over to help him finish his fifth. What a pal!

It’s a good thing for some that Saint Peter, the Pearly Gate Keeper, was once a fisherman. He probably makes allowances for harmless exaggerations, embellishments and even total fabrications by the rod and reelers. What’s the harm?

When they’re out in a bass boat with their buddies they might tell a few tall stories , adding an inch or a pound to last season’s “lunker”, but back on dry land, the fishing adventures they recite to landlubbers can make “Moby-Dick” and “Jaws” seem like tame tales.

I once read an accout of a lake that stocked 500 trout in May. In late July local anglers were surveyed to find out how many of the fish had been caught by then. Nearly 2,000 were reported “landed” and another 3,200 were listed as “almost caught” or “tossed back in”.

The survey revealed that the trout, which averaged a foot in length when stocked, had grown rapidly in a very few weeks. None were reported as less than 26 inches when caught. One of the “almost caughts” might have been a full-grown mermaid.

It’s an altogether different situation when a man is fishing off a public pier and is trying to concentrate on a bobber that refuses to bob. Passerby strangers, who would have ignored him if he was begging on a city street, feel compelled to interrupt his desperate prayers for any kind of a bite, to ask “Are you catching any big ones?”

“Just got here,” he will reply, although he’s been standing in the broiling sun for three hours and he doesn’t feel like inventing a “big one that got away” story. That typical passerby question can be even more disturbing if it’s asked by a 10-year old girl with a 5-pound bass dangling on her stringer.

I’m a nervous wreck dealing with fussy institutions. City Halls, motor vehicle departments, IRS offices, banks and libraries always turn me off, often turn me down and sometimes turn me out. As I enter one of these scary places I begin to feel like a kazoo player who is about to audition for the New York Philharmonic.

Kindergarten was the first restrictive institution I encountered. Having led a rather free-wheeling, carefree life up to then, I was appalled to have such arbitrary rules thrust upon me. Most activities that delight little boys were prohibited. Shouting, running, and punching one’s friends, three of my favorite pastimes, were suppressed. I couldn’t read yet but I was sure these were all guaranteed by the Constitution.

It’s not only the strict rules of institutions that bother me, it’s their ability to make me feel inadequate and out of the loop. I sometimes try to brazen my way through an embarrassing confrontation. “Of course I didn’t sign the check!” I growl at the teller. “Aren’t you familiar with the current law? I’m supposed to sign it in your presence!”

It always backfires. By then a small crowd has gathered just in time to hear the teller’s polite reply. “I never heard of that law, Sir, but whether you sign it or not, we cannot cash grocery coupons.”

Most officials and clerks who work in institutions will call me “Sir” like that and treat me with courtesy, but I often detect an air of puzzlement and sometimes just a teensy weensy tinge of outrage.

“You are perfectly correct, Sir. Your license, registration and insurance card are all up to date and valid, but you still cannot drive through for the vehicle’s safety inspection. You’ve brought the wrong car.”

That’s a typical example of their inflexibility. They create a maze of regulations and cast them in bronze allowing not the slightest deviation. Did you know you cannot check out a library book using your Medicare card?

No amount of preparation is enough to protect me from the yards of trippable red tape strung across my path. “Yes Sir!” We’ll be happy to open this checking account. It’s a pleasure to serve you! Your deposit slip is in perfect order and let me compliment you on your beautiful penmanship.”

At this point my ego is fully inflated. I’m going to love this bank. They appreciate and trust me without a mountain of documentation. They are fully aware that it’s my money we’re dealing with.

“There are just a few minor bits of information we’ll need,” the V.P. adds. “Your Social Security number, an official government correspondence with your name and address, and a certified copy of a mortgage or lease document. In very special circumstances (Please don’t take offense, Sir because we’re sure it doesn’t apply to you.) we’ll require certain details from an involved parole officer.”

In spite of all that , I’ve been through this bank’s many pages of terms and conditions and there is no mention at all of a strict ban on running, shoutng and punching one’s friends.

It’s becoming difficult to define “Mama” precisely with so many mothers now occupying well-earned positions of expertise and authority.

It’s also difficult to define the modern “Papa” who has been tagged for centuries as the “breadwinner” whether he liked it or not. Things have changed.

Since year one, when a man decides to marry, his family becomes his top priority. How could he possibly rank his wife and children lower than the high profit margin of his employer, Watchamacallits Inc.”

So what is a modern Papa and what’s expected of him? With so many millions of fathers since Neanderthal days, the variety defies description. There are, however, certain universal father traits that transcend time and geography.

Most fathers are worrriers, down deep at least. Fatherhood, expected and hoped for, still comes as a profound shock to the typical male. He may react to the announcement of his impending paternity with outward calm and even bravado, but there’s a definite tinge of apprehension. As much as we smile at the stork stories, it’s easier to swallow than the realization that humans can create other humans.

Once past his heart-thumping meeting with his new child behind the maternity ward window, a father suddenly realizes what he has wrought and what are the possibilities. This tightly-bundled beauty from heaven could live more than eight decades and profoundly affect the future of mankind. This six-pound brand new person might become President of the United States, the first human to land on Pluto, a Nobel Prize winner, a famous author or athlete, or all of the above if guided in its formitive years with the right blend of indulgence, encouragement and discipline. But what is the right blend?

In the first 21 years this new offspring will consume almost 23,000 meals, will continuously outgrow perfectly wearable clothing and need much expensive schooling and medical treatment. Fatherhood usually wins out over swingerhood.

Fathers of active little boys learn to believe in guardian angels. Since most fathers are just taller little boys, they can deal with this. It’s their little girls that do them in. These miniature women possess all the mystifying wiles and charms , all the bewildering logic and the same powerful leaky tear ducts that full-grown females use to get things done.

There are two important events a father must face: When his son gets a car and when his daughter meets her boy. After many instuctions, warnings and threats, the son and his car are left in the hands of his guardian angel and, hopefully, a well-designed system of radar traps.

The daughter’s boy friend is first regarded with suspicion and hostility. Attempting fairmindedness, the father remembers he was once just like this gangly, squeaky-voiced kid and he tries to recall his own attitude back then. When he remembers, the suspicion and hostility increase.

Worry is the common denominator of most fathers, but actually, mothers are the champion worriers and know how to handle the anxiety. Many fathers don’t have the capacity. Their safety valves are always popping to relieve the pressure. These noisy outbursts are often misinterpreted. But of all the definitions of love, none say it must be quiet.