genenewman

SO WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

Belief in life after death has been widespread throughout the world over the centuries, although the details vary greatly among the believers and many others refute the concept of an afterlife completely.

Some maintain the Highway of Life eventually comes to a dead end and oblivion. Others expect to stop at an important toll booth before a fork in the Highway that leads to two very different destinations for eternity-bound travelers. A third group hopes for an eventual U-turn opportunity and another chance to live more worthy lives on earth.

Mark Twain’s last book, “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven,” was an imaginative celestial travelogue with humorous jabs at the prevailing ideas of after-life in the early 20th century. For instance, the Captain reported Earthlings were a minority group in heaven compared to the billions of afterlife travelers from other planets in the enormous universe.

According to the Twain book, new Earthling arrivals soon became bored sitting on clouds plunking harps and began to search for more interesting experiences. They were not disappointed. There was a great hoopla at the entrance gate one day, attended by many famous saints. It turned out they were awaiting the arrival of a recently redeemed man, a bartender from New Jersey who’d regretted and confessed his sins at the very last minute to earn his halo.

Mark Twain died three years after his encouraging book came out. I wish he’d be allowed to write another one now with actual exciting details and descriptions.

There have been many so-called afterlife experience accounts. One is about the widow who’d just been granted admittance past the Pearly Gate. Saint Peter asked for her first wish. “I want to join my late husband, William,” she said. “His last words were he’d turn over in his grave if he knew I was kissing another man.”

“Oh!” said Saint Peter, “You must be talking about ‘Whirlwind Willie’!”

EVEN THE PEAT MOSS DIED

As I sit here at the picnic table which I built with my own ten thumbs, overlooking the pale remains of what was once a promising lawn, I remember when I recently became desperate enough to seek help from the government.

That was our worst spring when even the peat moss died and I reached out to the Rutgers Department of Agriculture for advice and I somehow ended up being accused of purposely disrupting the morale of its staff .

Since my backyard is sloped, I sent separate soil samples of the upper and lower areas in case they required different treatments . In a fit of frustration I destroyed the testy reply letter, but it went something like this: “Dear Sir: While we are happy to assist New Jersey residents in their agricultural endeavors, we must remind you that this department is working with a limited budget and does not have the funds to provide this service for residents of other states or countries.

“We have therefore made only a cursory analysis of the two samples which you submitted but it is quite clear to our staff that neither sample is from this state. Regarding the sample labeled ‘Upper’, the analysts are divided in their opinions. The majority feel certain that it was recently removed from the northeastern area of the Death Valley basin in California as there are suspected minute traces of borax. Others suggest you may have submitted an earth sample from the Gobi Desert.

“While we by no means wish to indulge you in your hoax, we would appreciate your immediate reply identifying the actual source of this ‘Upper’ sample to put an end to the debates and bickering which are interfering with this department’s work schedule.

“The staff is unanimous in its opinion of the origin of your sample labeled ‘Lower’. If your friend in the Okefenokee Swamp does not already know it, you can advise him he has extremely fertile soil, but is limited in crop selection to those plants which can survive frequent inundation and intermittent alligator visitation.”

I eventually replied to this accusatory letter but could not convince the department that I had submitted valid samples from Morris County, New Jersey. The last I heard, one of the Gobi Desert faction was claiming evidence of camel droppings in my ‘Upper’ sample.

The Rutgers team may have misjudged my motives, but their analyses were very good if one ignores their geographic guesses.

On my lower patch I’ll be experimenting with rice this year and planting cactus uphill. It will still be a backyard where, on a windy day, one can be standing in mud while getting hit in the face with dust.

UNKEMPT

Many years ago while at a cocktail party I noticed a strikingly beautiful girl across the room couldn’t keep her eyes off me. Finally, she walked over and said, “I know you’ll think I’m presumptuous and impulsive, but I just have to have a word with you.”

“I understand perfectly, my dear,” I replied with all the modesty I could dredge up at the moment. ” What can I do for you?”

“You’re a darling,” she cooed. “It’s your jacket collar. It’s all twisted and it’s driving me crazy. Would you mind fixing it?”

She left a few minutes later with the bongo player and I never saw her again. I use the incident as an example of one of my many humiliating experiences as an incurable unkempt, undapper, scruffy individual. The entire world population seems to have taken on the responsibility of keeping me neat. I admit I can’t handle the job alone, but there’s such a thing as too much help.

Perfect strangers stop me on the street to tell me my coat is buttoned up wrong or socks don’t match. I had to talk one old lady out of tying one of my shoes. “You could trip on that loose lace!” she warned me.

It has begun to affect my psyche and brought on a recurring dream which involves a scene at my wake with my loved ones bemoaning my passing. “Look at him!” one of them says. “He was in the prime of his life!”….”We’ll never get over this,” another says , “Yes, he does look wonderful, but let me straighten that crooked tie.”

As a married man and father I could never slip past the reviewing line before leaving the house for work. “Your cowlick is standing up. Dad!”…..”If you’re not going by bicycle, you’d better pull your pants legs out of your socks, Dad.”

Having made the adjustments and almost out the door, I face the Chief Inspector with increased confidence. “How do I look, Sweetheart?”

“Just about perfect, but…..”

“But what?”

“Did you know your left ear is a little higher than your right, Darling?”

Even Mother Nature is against me. My beard begins to grow vigorously right after lunch and my lower abdomen has begun to protrude just enough to catch falling gravy and block my view of my scuffed up shoes.

I have another disturbing dream where I’ve won the Nobel Prize for literature. (Blog division) and as the King of Sweden presents my medal and reaches out to shake my hand, he notices the price tag dangling from my sleeve.

“Forty-nine, ninety-nine! His Majesty exclaims. ” Where did you get such a nice jacket like that for such a bargain?”

I wake up sobbing.

GROWING PAINS

The epidemic breaks out every spring. The experts speak of a probable connection with the vernal equinox which infects the victims with an uncontrollable urge to dig up their back yards. The condition is sometimes referred to as “Delusions of Verdure”.

It is mostly confined to the northern states where Nature wipes out the remains of our old horticultural failures in late autumn and gives us six months to forget them and to plan and plant new ones.

In our weakened condition we tend to take the glowing descriptions of the seed catalogs literally during the preplanting weeks. When they say “Easily grown”, “Early blooming” and “High-Yielding” we like to believe them. We forget that last year we buried (not planted) many dollars’ worth of seeds and never caught sight of them again. We are also drawn to the colorful ads in the Sunday supplements with bargain prices for Lombardy poplar seedlings that can grow to a maximum height of 20 feet. The minimum height is never mentioned. I’ve found it can be very close to zero feet.

If all the evergreens, mimosas, magnolias and “living fences of roses” that I’ve planted and prayed over in the last decade had reached maturity I would now be living in an impenetrable quarter acre of jungle. I would have to post a sign on the front gate for visitors. “Please return the machete to this hook when leaving.”

With very few of my plants emerging far enough to identify, my horticultural knowledge is severely limited. This is sometimes a handicap during my assignments as a reporter which requires some basic botanical know-how. I once had to interview an important horticulturist working in a very large city park about his plans for the thousand-acre oasis.

“I’m very busy right now,” he said. “Please take that path next to the mulberry bush and meet me down by the eucalyptus tree.” The park ranger who rescued me later said the horticulturist had left in a huff.

Nevertheless when spring arrives, the sap must rise. in spite of past crop failures and present lack of horticultural talent. As the days grow longer, so do one’s delusions. By mid-June I’ll be thinking about renting a plow and on weekends I’ll be calling out over my shoulder, “I’m going out to the south forty, Ma!” and she’ll be thinkin’ “Land sakes! In a few weeks we’ll be enjoying crabgrass salad again!”

RETIRED TEEN TRANSPORTER

Many years ago I was on a Teenybopper Taxi Team, expected to provide transportation, at a moment’s notice, for as many high school kids that would fit in my car. There were no seat belts then, so the passenger lists could be quite long, and so could the mileage and the waiting time.

There was no set of rules then. If it was your turn, that was “it”. A turn could be as simple as driving a couple of Teenyboppers across town to the library. There’d be a 20-minute round trip plus a half hour wait.

Or it could involve an hour-long round trip to a girls’ basketball game in another county and another boring hour waiting for one of the teams to break the 29-point tie.

There was no rule then about passengers whispering in the back seat and keeping the driver out of the loop while a joke was recited and giggled at. I would get a warning like “Dad, please don’t lean back like that. It isn’t safe and besides, we’re talking about something very private, (giggling increases).

Under the new rules, passengers will have to provide navigational assistance to insure the shortest ETA’s. Way back then: “Nancy, is this your neighborhood?”

“Yes, Mr. Newman.”……..”Is your house far from here? Do I have to make any turns?”……..”Just one, Mr. Newman. You passed my house about five minutes ago. I didn’t want to interrupt your daughter’s joke then.”

Minor maintenance assistance will be obligatory. Way back then on a rainy night: “Can any of you kids fix a flat?”…….”What’s a flat, Mr. Newman?” was the first reply and then: “We don’t know much about flats, but if your flat is broken, we’ll help you fix it.”

Every trip will be well organized with passenger names and address lists. One dark night back then I made several pickups before reaching the movie theater. I checked for the next pickup time, but something was bothering me. I asked the last girl who was getting out, “Wanda, did my daughter Carolyn just go into the theater with the others?”

“Oh no, she couldn’t make it, Mr. Newman. She’s babysitting tonight.”

The whole business needs a Teamster-like set of rules to avoid misunderstandings and confusion. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Newman,” disembarking teeners will say. “You’re very welcome, ladies. That’ll be $5.25 each.”

THE RAIN MAKER

As I remember, it was a brilliant, cloudless spring day years ago when I came in from my wilting backyard to take a call from the White House.

“The situation is becoming quite severe,” the caller began. I could tell from his quaver he was on the very edge of desperation.

“Yes sir,” I replied. “I’ve read the morning papers and I wish I could help the country without creating consequential damages to the East Coast and, of course, to your next election possibilities.”

“Please reconsider,” he said. This is one of the worst droughts in our nation’s history. It’s beginning to outrank the terrible Oklahoma “Dustbowl” period. Eastern farmers are becoming desperate and, for some reason, they’ve started blaming me ! My advisors tell me you might be our very last hope.”

“Mr. President, I am at the service of you and the entire East Coast, but I must warn you again, I will have no control over the final results. As I’ve already explained to the Secretary of Agriculture and the TEMA staff, this can only be considered a drastic measure.”

“I understand that, Mr. Newman. Please tell me, what is your plan of action and when do you expect results?”

“I will begin simply by starting the sprinkler on my yellowing lawn. Then I will wash both our family cars. This afternoon I will call a rental agent in Seaside Heights, a shore resort community, and place a large deposit on a two-week bungalow stay starting next Saturday.”

There was quiet on the other end and I suspected the President was having second thoughts. “Do you need financial assistance?” he asked.

“Thank you, no, Mr. President. It wouldn’t work that way, and if you’re thinking about a grateful nation, please let me remain anonymous. In another week or so there will be an angry mob of vacationers and worried farmers. I’d feel better if they didn’t know about my part in this. “

The following two weeks are a wet, muddy blur in my memory, but the crops were saved and major forest fires prevented. Some day, a scholar or a journalist, studying the Presidential Papers, will dig deeper and reveal my part in creating what’s been called, ” The Northeast’s Deluge”.

I’ve been aware of my unintentional . power to cause prolonged cloudbursts for years. My boyhood vacations were soggy events. It took me years to realize beach umbrellas were meant to provide shade rather than to fend off downpours.

Others have begun to recognize my curse. If I wash my car or mention my plans for an upcoming camping trip to the Poconos, all my neighbors will take in their lawn furniture. Some will drag out sandbags to place around their foundations.

DO-IT-YOURSELF CAR REPAIR

(A Crash Course)

I gave up most auto repair jobs years ago, limiting myself to changing the oil to save a few bucks, but even that didn’t work. Sure, I’d save 50 cents a quart on the oil, but getting the old out and the new in usually cost me plenty in cleaning bills and replacement clothes. And there was the incident of the size 12 black footprints on the new living room carpet. I almost had to sleep in the dog house with Oscar that night.

After one of my failed attempts at “minor” repairs, I’d bring the old Dodge to the local gas station and get the usual lecture from Benny about my botched efforts and how he’d never try to write a newspaper article and I should never imagine I could tune an engine or even change the wiper blades.

“Benny, there’s got to be some simple car problems I can take care of.” I’d plead, and he’d reply, “I don’t want to get you into deeper, more expensive trouble by saying the wrong thing now. You might do a lot of big bucks damage and I’d feel responsible.”

“Well, Benny, what’s the simplest, safest recommendation you’d give to a guy with my limited mechanical talent?”

“You could rotate the tires.”

“Please be realistic, Benny. My tires rotate every time I step on the gas!”

He looked at me a little strangely, sighed and said, “With a little training, you just might learn how to change the plugs.”

“Okay, Benny, but I’ll need a few pointers. Where are the plugs and do I have to be quick about it? When I remove an old plug, what will leak out? I hope it isn’t oil.”

That seemed to really upset Benny and he started shouting. Something about leaving everything to the professionals and restricting myself to the one job the car designers had in mind for me, “Watching the idiot lights.”

MY BACKYARD BOMBER (Almost)

My editor should have known better than to send me to cover the auction of a B-25 World War II bomber. The B-25 was the type of airplane in Lt. Colonel Jimmy Doolittle’s 16-plane armada that bombed Japan in retaliation for its sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, four months earlier on December 7, 1941.

“Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo” was the popular book and movie about the “impossible mission”. Anyone who read the book or saw the movie should not have been at that auction just a few miles from my New Jersey home. And every Air Force vet like me who’d ever flown in a B-25 and was often too impulsive at auctions should have been locked in his attic that day.

“Get their stories!” my editor demanded. He’d been a World War II bomber pilot so I knew I had to be 100 percent technically correct and prepared to cross examine everyone at the auction. I was in the USAF in Korea during that war, but my flying experience was limited to “hitch hiking” from one base to another, twice in a B-25.

There were only a few prospective bidders at Caldwell Airport that day. Air Force vet John Gulow told me he had fond memories of his B-25 flights, one of which was a low altitude pass over downtown Boston with one of the plane’s two engines in flames. I’m sure his memory of that flight didn’t reach the “fond” level for a couple of hours and a couple of strong drinks, later.

John and Dick, two guys from Liberty Corners, said, if they got the bomber, they’d have it hauled to one of their backyards, fix it up and situate it so they could just look at it from time to time. “I guess that sounds silly, one of them said. “But that’s what we have in mind.” My increasing problem was, I didn’t think that sounded silly.

Don Hare of Morristown said he planned to open a hobby shop and would place the bomber in front as an attraction. “Where will your hobby shop be?” I asked.
He replied he would have to find a town that would allow a huge B-25 display.

The auction lasted about 60 seconds, but I guess a book containing all the thoughts of all the participants and attendees during that single minute would be too heavy to lift.

Business partners Charles Proctor and Jack Clarey, were selling the aircraft to the highest eligible bidder. They turned to the auctioneer and one of them calmly said, “Okay, it’s your show now.”

Everyone in the room, even those who, like me, were not planning to bid, seemed to tense up. I thought, “What the hell am I doing here? This could be dangerous!”

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

(That’s where you get the real bargains, I thought.)

“There are no guarantees,” the auctioneer continued.

(Who needs a guarantee? You’d actually own a B-25 bomber! No one can take that from you. Well, maybe a fussy zoning board, but there must be some place you can park it and take it out from time to time to show it off. It only weighs about ten tons with a wingspan of 67 feet. Just a few feet wider than my yard.)

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

(I could cut lunches for a couple of years and not replace the old Chevy. It’s still moving at 120,000 miles. I could drive mostly downhill.)

“I’ll take it at $1,100,” someone shouted. (Oh no! Was that me? How do I explain to my wife that I bought a World War II bomber? She’s been very understanding, but there’s a limit.) People were shaking hands with Don Hare. I was just shaking. (So he was the single bidder? The lucky devil!)

FELIX or FIDO ?

I had always thought that dogs were, in some ways, much smarter than us. But now I’m not sure about that or about the ranking of cats. I assumed they were putting on an act about being very wise. They’re not as willing as dogs to demonstrate their problem-solving ability and, for goodness sakes, they eat mice and rats!

We and our dogs eat hamburgers and steaks which are very tasty, but cows are not plague carriers like mice and rats. Cats can prevent epidemics! They could have been a great help during the Black Plague in Europe that killed millions, but cats had been exterminated because of a false assumption they are the partners of witches. Even today, a witch is pictured with her cat on Halloween cartoons.

I recently spent a week with a friendly cat named Dave and it was a learning experience. One morning Dave peered out the patio window at the combatants struggling to get at my tossed bird seeds. I noticed Dave’s preference for the squirrel’s dominance. He hissed at a chipmunk and scattered the little sparrows with a quick move. He seemed to sense the necessary chain of command. If a fox had turned up, I think Dave would have saluted.

According to the experts, dogs and cats are both about as smart as a two-year- old human being with IQ’s of about 100. While Fido will demonstrate his brain power in problem-solving exercises, independent Felix is not that cooperative.

Dogs have some unique physical advantages. No two of the millions of dog snouts in the world have exactly the same imprint. Their nose prints can be used for identification like fingerprints. These same super snouts allow dogs to smell 40,000 times better than humans. Some can detect medical problems by sniffing a human’s breath and can reveal contraband inside innocent-looking packages and luggage.

But I don’t envy Fido’s super smellability. Without thumbs he can’t hold his nose when the atmosphere gets to be super unpleasant. Rousing a skunk must be a catastrophic event for Fido.

Although puppies are said to be born deaf, they can eventually hear four times better than us. I once lived in a thin-walled apartment house and super hearing would have been a real problem. Oh sure, ear plugs would have helped block the neighbors’ loud arguments, but then I’d have had to learn to read lips to enjoy television.

Many dogs can predict the near future and don’t need clocks to tell them it’s supper time or the kids will be home from school any minute.

Cats have also been said to possess the ability to predict the future. There’s the tale of Jenny, the mascot on board the Titanic, who is said to have jumped ship with her new litter just before the ship lifted anchor to begin her doomed voyage.

One thing’s for sure. If you’re going to adopt a dog or a cat, either way you’ll be getting more exercise than you’re getting now. Fido will expect daily walks and will want to roam the neighborhood to locate the fire hydrants for his DNA checks.

A roving or escaped Felix can turn you into a cross-country runner. If you’re the sedentary type, maybe you should adopt a turtle. You can be proud of your 5-yard dash victories.

FLAKES AT THE FLICKS

Charlie Chan glanced around the drawing room while the suspects fidgeted, each one staring accusingly at the others. “It is now very clear to this humble detective,” he said. “The murderer of Lord Throckbottom was clever, but not clever enough. The perpertrator of this almost perfect homicide was (CRUNCH, RATTLE, COUGH, COUGH, SNEEZE!) who was cleverly disguised as (BURP!)”

At this critical point in the movie, Detective Chan raised his hand to point at the culprit and the entire row of people in front of me stood up, blocking the screen. “This is where we all came in, Ethel” One of them remarked.

I often break into tears watching a movie, but it’s not because of the story. It’s the audience. What with the talkers, the coughers, the sneezers, the loud popcorn and (believe it or not) celery snackers, I rarely get to capture all the dialogue or understand what’s happening on the screen.

It wasn’t until I saw “The Grapes of Wrath” again on television that I realized it wasn’t about a violent labor strike at a winery. I also missed much of a rerun of my favorite movie, “Drums Along the Mohawk” when the man sitting next to me, chewing on his Big Burger, lost his upper plate and spent a lot of time scrambling under our seats while the Mohawks were climbing into the fort.

There was the guy who plopped down in front of me during a “Rocky” movie. He either had a severe spinal condition or very tight shorts, because he bobbed and weaved with Rocky for 15 rounds and I had to twist and stretch to see the match. When the lights came on I was so exhausted an usher had to help me up the aisle like a defeatedl heavyweight.

Snacking at the movies is a time-honored tradition and need not cause distraction. But the couple in front of me last week must have not eaten for a month. The popcorn, the candy bars, the donuts were all washed down with a half gallon of root beer and they accomplished all this in under ten minutes. I felt like I was watching PacMan. And, between the candy and the root beer, I missed Superman’s dramatic rescue of Lois Lane.

Noisy eaters are the worst. Without realizing it they can add confusing sound effects to the movie. A potato chip snacker spoiled “Gone With the Wind” for me. During a love scene I thought I heard Clark Gable break Vivien Leigh’s back and when he carried her up the stairs I thought she was dead.

Audience laughter can be contagious and help us enjoy comedy even more. But the jolliest laughter I ever heard was from the gaunt, hatchet-faced old guy sitting next to me who really enjoyed the shower scene in “Psycho.” I bought a heavy sliding bolt bathroom door lock that day.

When you overhear a phrase like, “Oh, I saw this movie. You’re going to love it!” Move to a distant seat immediately or you’ll be hearing phrases like, “Now watch this. Watch, watch! He’s got a gun and he’s going to use it!” and “She’s not as innocent as she pretends to be.” Why do these spoilers think they’re helpful?

As a kid I was happily squirming through a monster movie comedy when the two-headed beast broke out of his cell. A nearby woman screamed and I scrambled under my seat, missing an important scene. To this day I don’t know if the beast grabbed Abbot or Costello.

However, the worst audience-ruining experience I ever had was during a 3-D movie where scary objects seemed to be flying out over the audience. Suddenly, I felt an icy cold hand on my head and I thought,”They’ve gone much too far!” But then I heard a woman saying, “This is our row, Steven. I remember we were six bald heads from the back.”