Author: genenewman

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.

(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 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!)

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.

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.”

How good are you at identifying yourself? Can you immediately pick out yourself in a large group photo? If a stranger is going to meet you in a crowded train station, how would you describe your looks? What are your most significant features? If none are significant, like being seven feet tall, you’ll probably blend in with the crowd. A large white carnation or a yellow derby might be necessary.

Mother seals can spot their offspring on enormous beaches, packed flipper to flipper with pups. And even the pups can pick out their Moms. At great distances, their personal calls will help. Unfortunately for us, “Yoohoo!” is not unique enough.

We’re not that good at describing others either. Surround a newborn baby with kinfolk and they will argue about whom he or she resembles. “Anyone can see he’s the spitting image of Uncle Oscar. Look at those big ears. Oscar has radar ears!”…..”She looks a lot light Aunt Agnes. See how her nose slants down, but turns left at the bottom?…. Finally, they’ll settle on the baby’s’s looks but agree he or she will eventually need plastic surgery on various body parts.

A more curious thing is that most of us don’t know exactly what we look like and we’re perfectly willing to throw out all the evidence and pretend we resemble someone else. Very often a famous someone else.

We fail to realize the movie we’ve just watched, starring our “almost twin” was shot after her or his four-hour session in the make-up department. But what do movie stars look like each morning when crawling out of bed and before checking in at the studio’s parts department to pick up their hair, teeth, moustaches, eyebrows and lifts?

P.S. Stop looking for your absolutely perfect duplicate, your doppelganger. Experts say the odds for that are a trillion to one. You might have some close look-alikes though who probably share a common ancestor. I’ve walked into a couple of pubs for the first time and have the bartender ask, “So you want the usual?” My unknown “cousins” had apparently run up pretty big bar bills and I had to prove this was my very first day in town.

Grandpa William had a good explanation for almost missing his Saint Patrick’s Day marching assignment. Nobody believed him, but they all agreed it was an entertaining bit of blarney.

Grandpa’s version varied widely with those of Seamus O’Shea, Mrs. Sweeny and Officer McCann, but I will repeat here only Grandpa’s tale and hope the others have grandchildren who will publish their rebuttals.

I was actually an eyewitness way back then but my view was obstructed by a heavy quilt, a bonnet and the sides of my perambulator.

On that St. Patrick’s Day, Grandpa William and Seamus O’Shea were honored to carry the Sons of Kerry banner, a 20-foot long emerald green masterpiece with gold letters and tassels that whipped about grandly in the breeze.

Grandpa and Seamus stood at the front of the Kerry marchers ready to step off. However there was a dispute down the road where the Tipperary Pipers were demanding to lead the parade. This caused a delay and two or three broken noses.

The Kerry marches were two blocks back and not involved in the discussion or contusions. Grandpa eventually decided his stalled marchers needed hot cups of tea on this chilly day. So the banner was folded and the Kerry men walked into nearby O’Shea’s establishment for their tea. Grandpa admitted O’Shea’s was not a tea room, but tea was what the chilled marchers needed. However, Mr. O’Shea argued successfully that a quicker beverage was needed since the “Forward March” command might be minutes away.

In the meantime, Grandma Honora and a crowd of relations waited in proud anticipation in front of the reviewing stand. I was in a wicker carriage holding a green balloon.

Back at O’Shea’s the Kerry men were well warmed up when Grandpa suddenly noticed the street outside was empty. He and the marchers dashed out the door with Seamus and Grandpa unfurling the banner. The parade was out of sight!

Grandpa quickly figured out a shortcut to the reviewing stand and took off down a side street with the Kerry men trotting behind. The volume of the pipers’ music increased. They were gaining on them! A sharp turn up ahead would do it.

“Hoy, Seamus!” Grandpa shouted and leapt over Mrs. Sweeny’s hedge, raced across her yard, under the filled clothes line and through the chicken coop to exit onto Main Street in time for the Kerry contingent to blend in with the other marchers.

“It’s a strange banner that County Kerry carries this year,” the Mayor remarked. Grandma Honora was more to the point. “Willie, why are you and Seamus dressed like Indians with all those feathers and whose unmentionables are draped across your banner?”

Grandpa and Seamus, who’d been marching with heads held high, suddenly discovered they were covered with feathers and there was grisly evidence that Seamus had stepped on a chicken. Worst of all, the banner was carrying Mrs. Sweeny’s bloomers.

She soon arrived with Officer McCann who dragged the pair out of the line of march while the crowd cheered. Damage payments and apologies soon soothed things. So did the fact that Mrs. Sweeny’s husband was a Kerry man.

Grandpa’s parade trophy (for Most Dramatic Banner) on the mantle was always an inspiration for another imaginative recital of that day’s adventure.

I become a different person when I enter a casino. During the bus ride to Atlantic City I’m James Bond or Brett Maverick, but as I strut past the slots and the tables the sweating begins and I become Barney Fife.

I try to be the devil-may-care type that Clark Gable and Paul Newman have portrayed so convincingly on the screen, but the croupiers, the dealers, the dice table crew and even the slot machines see right through me. They can sense my fear and see my perspiration. And I often forget to pocket my rabbit’s foot. I’m sure the Cincinnati Kid always remembered to hide his good luck piece.

“Ha, ha! Easy come, easy go!” I’ll say as the dealer rakes in my chips. But too often he replies, “Please sir, let go! You’re hurting my arm!”

There was the rare time I’d made three straight passes at the dice table. “Let it ride! I (James Bond) snarled nonchalantly, trying not to think about the thirty dollars (three lunches) at stake. I blew on the dice, tossed ’em, and as they tumbled down to the far cushion, my stomach complained loudly about the risked meals.

“Snake eyes. You lose!” the stick man called, but then, seeing my surprised expression, he added, “Sorry sir, but those are the rules of the game. Here, please take this tissue.” So much for my James Bond act.

The fact is, the world loves a winner, a favorite of the gods, and we losers are just anonymous casualties lying along the casino’s dangerous highway. So when I’m waiting for the next card or for the wheel or the dice to stop moving, I’m not only thinking about the rent or lunch money, but also about my delicate ego.

Even when I’m winning, I can get discombobulated. While trying to fake the calm confidence of the Mississippi riverboat gambler, I too often come off as Bozo the Clown. The croupiers and pit bosses are constantly revealing me as an absent minded old fogey. (“Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. Which one of you is betting two Rolaids on number seven?”)

I’ve seen gamblers behind huge stacks of chips referring to a notebook between bets. Google sources once helped me develop a fairly successful system, but it was quite awkward. “I must ask you to simplify your strategy, sir,” the croupier said. “It distracts the other players. It would be appreciated if you could do without the computer and the large blackboard.”

I once felt I had a big seven-card stud pot practically won, but later as the fellow next to me swept in five pounds of chips, he noticed my sad demeanor and said, “Sorry, pal , but you’ll have to sharpen your game. I almost folded after your sixth raise, but what in the world made you think deuces were wild?”

My dear wife never enjoyed watching me bluff my way towards poverty. Standing behind me during a blackjack game one night, she smiled knowingly at my 19-point hand, while the dealer was showing 16, a near fatal situation for him and the house, I thought with the odds greatly in my favor for once, I was on the verge of a very big win. Unfortunately, a voice within me whispered, “It could be even bigger!” I looked up at my wife and suavely called, “Hit me!” And she did.