Author: genenewman

It was our very first picnic date and I was quite nervous. Barbara was the lifetime girl for me and there were hopeful signs the feeling was mutual. So this was an important day, sandwich-wise.

I was willing, if she’d eventually say “yes”, to eat baloney or packaged olive loaf sandwiches on stale white bread for the next 30 years if necessary, but “otherwise” would be even better.

I was a young engineer and tended to think mathematically. I figured, with a mid-echelon career, I’d be eating almost 8,000 sandwiches for lunch at my desk before retirement.

I tensed up as Barbara opened the big wicker basket, reached in and began unwrapping a package. “Pumpernickel !” I shouted, stifling a giggle.

“Yes, and I hope you like braunschweiger,” Barbara said. “Some people don’t, but with Dijon mustard….”

“Isn’t that (sniff, sniff) a dill pickle?” I interrupted.

“Straight out of the barrel,” Barbara replied. “Is that the kind of sandwich you like? You did mention once you’re very particular about sandwiches.”

“Barbmmmlvlovmmyouwimy!” I replied through a mouthful of a magnificent delicatessancy. I swallowed, apologized and said, “I’ve loved you with all my heart and now I love you even more!”

We lived (and lunched) happily ever after.

Do your daffodils seem despondent? Have your roses become remote? Are your forget-me-nots acting fretful about something they’d rather not remember?

We’re learning more now about the living, breathing, emotional inhabitants of our gardens, farmlands and forests. They’re not always completely happy while providing us with food, medicine, lumber and fresh air. Believe it or not, even lacking brains, they can experience personal anxiety.

For instance, scientists report tests that prove some edible plants will collapse their leaves when they are touched by humans, perhaps to discourage hungry vegans. Polygraph (lie detector) tests have confirmed these emotional reactions of plants when handled roughly.

On a less professional level, two groups of school children tested the reactions of plants subjected to praise and disapproval. One group complimented a plant every day for a month, while an identical plant was insulted daily by a second group. At the end of the month, the praised plant had grown in size and improved in appearance while the insulted plant’s leaves had turned brown. Let’s hope the second group of kids felt bad enough to tell their wilted plant, “We’re sorry, Pansy, we didn’t mean a word of it.”

Without employing any scientific procedures I’ve become convinced over the years about the unstable emotional condition of the plant life in my backyard. There’s my neurotic lawn which, in spite of my tender care and encouraging words, becomes suicidal around July 15th every year. There is such a thing as “Panic Grass”. You could look it up.

I have a sneaking suspicion my lawn is somehow agriculturally related to and somehow, emotionally connected to the New York Mets infield. July is often a bad month for that beloved team. I’ll bet the groundskeepers’ troubles increase during every slump.

Some people claim they are more in tune with the feelings of plants than the rest of us. My brother-in-law merely glanced into my vegetable garden one day and exclaimed, “Those are the saddest tomatoes I’ve ever seen!” He left with a large bag of “morose” big Burpees, so I suspect his diagnosis.

I planted an oak tree sapling over ten years ago assuming it would become the typical giant of the forest, a legacy for my grandchildren. But it’s still much shorter than me. A local nurseryman could not give a reason for the lack of elevation, but I think I’ve figured it out. Acrophobia! My oak tree has a fear of heights. I might have to build a 25-foot trellis.

“Let’s have a cozy cookout this evening, ” Paul said to his wife Barbara one summer morning years ago. “I’ll pick up franks and rolls on my way home from work this afternoon.

“A good idea,” Barbara said. “And I’ll make a big delicious salad.”

After Paul left, Barbara realized she was out of mayo, so she called her neighbor, Carolyn. “Paul and I are having a cookout this evening and….”

“Thanks, Barbara. Bill and I would love to come, but his cousins from Arkansas are visiting. “

Barbara heaved a sigh of relief, “Well, in that case…”

“You’re a dear, Barbara. I hate to turn you down. We’ll be there. There are only three cousins.”

Barbara realized later she didn’t know what Arkansas cousins ate and were they adults or children? Did they eat something strange like chitlins. “Where can I get ready-to-eat chitlins?” She called Carolyn again.

“Don’t worry Barb, they’re three sweet old ladies, all atwitter with the news and out in the kitchen cooking like crazy. By the way, the Whitneys next door were going to invite us over but when they heard about your cookout, they volunteered to join in, since our three backyards connect. Is that okay?”

“Uh, yes,” Barbara muttered. “Let’s see, I think that makes twelve. I’ll have to pick up a few things”

“It’s more like seventeen, Dear. The Whitneys are minding the Brock kids while Janis visits her mother. But don’t worry about the food. Claudia Mango said if she comes, she’ll have her Cub Scouts do some cooking as a project.”

“Cub Scouts?”

“It’s Claudia’s den meeting night, Dear.”

“Oh, good,” Barbara mumbled, signed off and went out into the kitchen realizing she’d forgotten the mayo again. But a strange inner voice asked, “Who the hell will notice?”

About then, Al Blake from down the street called. “I know how spur of the moment these block parties can be, but I need more notice. I won’t be able to hook up the sound system for about an hour.”

Sound system ?

Mayor Bumkum rang in ten minutes later. “I wanted you to know I’ll be happy to attend your festival tonight.”

“Festival ?”

A rock band exploded as His Honor rambled on (“….people of this fair city….”) “What will Paul say?” she wondered. “How can I explain all this to him? (….”in this critical election year”….) “Paul only wanted to grill a few hot dogs for us. (….”Eager to contribute some wild boar steaks”….) “How can I explain the crowds, the awful music and now I hear fireworks!”

“Wild boar steaks?

The crowd began to thin out around midnight and Paul finally got home through the traffic. He found Barbara standing dazed on what used to be their lawn. “Sorry I’m so late, Sweetheart,” he said. “The neighborhood roads became parking lots. What happened?”

“It’s very complicated, Dear. Have a seat on that overturned amp box and I’ll try to explain after I heat up your wild boar stake.”

“Wild boar steak?” I was looking forward to a hot dog.”

White Castle was one of the popular eatery companies back in the last century that was closest to the present day fast food chains. It managed to survive the Depression, World War II, the Korean War and all the later uncertainties of the business world. And it seems to be thriving today.

As a little kid in the 1930’s my mouth watered at the mention of a White Castle five-cent hamburger and its fabulously delectable dill pickle. I figured then that five cents was its forever price or why else would they permanently include it embossed on every White Castle tower?

And there it was, a very large black “5 CENTS” on a white background. Even as a grade school boy I thought, “If you think you might have to raise the price someday, don’t make it a part of your building.”

When I was eight years old I had my “White Castle Escape Plan” in case life became too boring or too demanding. My “One-dollar getaway fund” would provide me with 20 White Castle hamburgers when I ran away to join a circus or become a cowboy.

I figured the burgers would get me through a week or so until I was working as a clown for Barnum and Bailey or herding cattle someplace out west. The plan seemed quite reasonable at the time.

Fortunately, my life turned out to be quite active and enjoyable so I spent the fund on ten comic books. If I’d saved those first edition Superman and Batman comics, I’d be a rich man today, but I most likely traded them for bubble gum or Hershey Bars.

Cell phoners today pay big bucks every month for their private use of the airwaves. Back in the 1960’s the monthly charge for a landline phone was under $20. Talk was cheap.

And you could make it $2.00 cheaper by having a party line. That was the approximate price of 10 loaves of bread or six gallons of gas in 1960. However, having party line service was like giving wire-tapping priviledges to as many as 20 other party liners. In some rural communities it provided the information we now get from Neighbor News.

When you picked up your phone then to call Aunt Martha or your bookie, you might discover the line was already in use. You could try again later or hang on, waiting quietly for the line to be free and maybe having a pencil and paper handy to take notes. I only interrupted once, to break up a prolonged chat between two teenagers who couldn’t decide which movie to go to that day. “They just gave “Andy Hardy Falls in Love” five stars last night,” I said and hung up.

Some people preferred party lines as a form of entertainment and a way to keep up with local events like getting some background info on the new family down the block. It was the precursor of today’s Neighbor News.

There were legal penaties for not yielding to an emergency call and for faking an emergency call. A Florida gambling conviction was overturned when it was found the police had gathered evidence by listening in on a party line instead of using a court-ordered wire tap. I never heard of a casual snooper being hauled in. That was probably because there were thousands of us. Maybe millions.

There was the story of a phone conversation between a woman and her mother being interrupted by some loud cursing . “My goodness” the mother gasped, ” Was that you swearing, Dear?”

“No mother. That’s Mrs. Busybody’s foul-mouthed parrot. I guess she’s listening in again and forgot to cover the cage.”

“I am not listening in!” Mrs. Busybody shouted, and slammed down the phone.

After reading Albert Einstein’s biography, I’ve suddenly realized there are significant parallels in our lives. For instance, he is said to have been born with an enlarged head. All of my parts were quite large at birth. I was such an attraction that a nurse carried me around the wards to show me off. Actually, it required two nurses.

Albert and I were both considered odd balls and nonachievers in our youth. He went on to win the Nobel Prize and great popularity. All I’ve got up to now is a second place spelling bee medal. My picture accompanied some of my newspaper columns so I am frequently recognized on the street, but so far I’ve been able to avoid serious injury. (Some people just can’t take a joke.)

I share Einstein’s love of classical music. He was a good enough violinist to play in benefit concerts with the great Fritz Kreisler. I once accompanied the Budapest Quartet at Carnegie Hall in a Mozart sonata until an usher ran down the aisle, reached in and yanked my harmonica right out of my mouth.

Einstein was a small boat enthusiast, but he was reportedly a “comically bad sailor”, often running aground or capsizing. My rowboat, the “Pourous”, ” sometimes submerges without warning and, as a rower lacking a rear view mirror, I’ve collided with other boats, docks, ducks and an occasional Canada Goose.

“Imagination is more important than knowledge,” Einstein claimed. I agree and my blog title backs me up. There seems to be a definite pattern here. Perhaps I’ll make my late start by completing Einstein’s search for a unified theory. I’ll start by brushing up on my multiplication tables.

Whenever I feel sad not seeing today’s kids playing outside on a sunny Saturday afternoon, I remind myself how I’d spent many sunny Saturday afternoons in a dark, “fan-cooled” movie house back in the 1930’s, watching two feature films, a cartoon, a newsreel and the latest chapter of an adventure serial.

That was during the Depression when money was scarce and a kid’s 10-cent admission price was significant. (It was also the price of a loaf of bread.) But we were resourceful, we knew where generous uncles and empty Coke bottles with their two-cent returnable rewards, were to be found. .

The latest adventure serial chapter was always a big draw for us boys. We’d impatiently sit through a BORING full length love story movie until the final kissing scene (Ugh!) It was enough to make a red-blooded American boy upchuck his Jujuebees.

The management was smart enough to include a Tom Mix or Buck Jones adventure with plenty of horseback chases and six-gun shoot-outs. We kids never noticed that the villains Tom and Buck shot last Saturday were back rustling cows and robbing banks a week later, minus their mustaches.

My little pal Henry always sat in the front row, somehow believing that made him part of the cast and he might get a chance to participate in the action. During one Jungle Jim Adventure episode a ferocious lion seemed to leap out at the audience. We all ducked and Henry hit the deck hard, scratching his knee and spilling his candy. He told his mother later he’d been clawed by a lion that ate his Milk Duds.

Eventually, one Saturday, we got to see again, the final scene of the previous Flash Gordon episode that had not only satisfied our blood lust, but left us almost convinced that Flash, our hero, had perished. But, down deep, we knew he’d survived. That was only Chapter Four when Flash’s rocket ship was bombarded by the Death Ray Cannon blasts of Ming, the evil Emperor of the Planet Mongo.

It helped that the closing promo invited us to return next Saturday to see chapter five, entitled “Flash Gordon’s Revenge”. Of course, we just had to find enough empty Coke bottles and uncles in order to return. You don’t get a measly flesh wound from a Death Ray Cannon.

Most adults knew enough to avoid Saturday matinees where the hyper young audience would be a high-decibel problem. My mother once talked my father into breaking the rule so she could see the romantic film. Dad complained constantly about the noise and distractions of the young hyper audience.

“Look at that wild boy down there now!” he said. “He’s actually jumping over the seats!”.

“That’s our son, Gene,” Mom replied. Wasn’t that a graceful leap?”

:

This is a strange but true story. Some names have been changed, but not to protect the innocent. Every character is innocent and two are actually saintly or sainted. I had to invent some names because my old brain is rather leaky now.

These events took place around 1950 when I was stationed on an Air Force radar site atop a Vermont mountain about 15 miles from the Canadian border. That’s an important point and so is the fact that Canadian bars stayed open later than Vermont bars then . We usually had large northbound troop movents on Saturday nights.

I had to work the late night shift one Saturday and when I got off I met Wade, my barracks buddy. He seemed quite distraught. I could tell, because he was cussing loudly and often, which was very unusual for him.

“I got out of my car feeling sick (Wade could never handle more that two beers.) on a dark road someplace over the border and I lost my #!*+ wallet!” he wailed. “I looked for it for an hour in the gutters, the bushes and even the woods. No %!**# luck ! My driver’s license, my pilot’s license and most of my last month’s pay, GONE ! ”

Wade was a southerner and maybe a Baptist and not familiar with the long list of favorite saints that Catholics depend on for special help.

“How much money did you lose, Wade?” I asked.

“Close to seventy bucks. Why?”

“If I can get it back along with the licenses, my fee will be ten dollars.”

“How the *!x#& are you going to get it back?”

“Well, not me, but Saint Anthony. He’s the patron saint of of lost and stolen items. It’s amazing the way he finds the unfindable. So please stop swearing. I’m sure he’s already on the case and is nearby. He shouldn’t have to listen to your foul language.”

As the days went by and Wade’s loss began to seem permanent, he at least got some pleasure out of repeating the Saint Anthony “fable” to the other guys in the barracks. Some shook their heads and laughed, but the Irish and Italian boys had their own interesting Saint Anthony stories. I hoped they were pressing the good saint to defend his reputation.

About a month after the event, Wade received a package with two inside letters from his father. His wallet, with all his money, and both licenses were included. His Dad apologized for the delay, but wrote he’d had trouble finding someone to interpret the sender’s letter which was in French and signed by a “Father Antoine”. (Even I knew the English translation of “Antoine”.)

The good Father explained a parishoner of his found the wallet and asked him to return it to the owner. Wade’s name and home address were on the licenses.

I’d promised Saint Anthony to split the fee with him. I’m sure the local church’s Poor Box was an appropriate drop site.

I once Googled my own name hoping my blogs were going viral and I was becoming famous. Most of those blogs actually did go viral. Based on Webster’s definition of “viral”, they died. That can happen with infectious humor.

Google surprised me by coughing up about a dozen Gene Newmans as well as websites that offered to find more. Wouldn’t it be interesting to meet 50 or more of your unrelated complete namesakes? I’d like to know how these other Gene or Eugene Newmans have been getting along with our common names.

I was named after Grandpa Eugene who preferred his middle name and called himself Owen. My middle name came from Grandma Frances but, not wanting to fight my way through grammar school, I stuck with Eugene (or the cooler Gene.) However, my earliest nickname was “Genie”. (Ugh!)

A Gene Newman convention would be quite unique. Unlike other conventions we wouldn’t need name tags and a group photo would be captioned: “Front row left, Gene Newman, etc, etc, etc,…….”

We’d probably drive the hotel desk clerks crazy trying to figure out the bills of 50 same-named guests. And if one of the Genes is crafty enough, he could run up huge tabs in the bar and restaurant and sign his name with various room numbers. We’d have to make background checks before sending the invitations.

I once had a scary experience because of a renegade namesake. In 1962 I had to convince two FBI agents I wasn’t the Eugene Francis Newman on their Most Wanted list. Unrelated Eugene was still on the loose following his armed robbery.

Fortunately I didn’t have his telltale tattoos and, although we were about the same age, we weren’t look-alikes. Also, I was with the Air Force in South Korea when he pulled the job

If that Eugene has become available and law-abiding when we have our convention, he would have some interesting stories to tell and maybe he could bring his parole officer.