Alfred Hithcock’s 1963 movie “The Birds” changed my life. I more than half believed his premise that our feathered friends may someday turn on us. In the movie, birds of all breeds joined forces to fiercly attack us groundlings and there were casualties. I had reason to believe this is possible.

As a small boy I had an unpleasant encounter with what I thought was a fine feathered friend. A parrot bit me as I offered him a cracker. I scolded him and he replied profanely. Adults had to break us up and I think the parrot circulated the false accusation that I am anti-avian.

Since then I have been regularly pecked by parakeets, jeered by jays, taunted by titmice and awakened most mornings by a mocking bird who can expertly mimic an alarm clock.

The USA bird population is estimated at about 20 billion which would be 60 birds per human target, but if you’ve ever been on a December bird count, you would know 20 billion is a very rough estimate.

Our long ago shivering bird-counting group was attempting accuracy but the birds never cooperated. How many smirking mourning doves were watching from inside the fir trees? How many southbound craven ravens were too swift or too high for an accurate count? How many “feathered friends” didn’t really want to be counted? (That trouble maker parrot!) It was around that time I saw the Hitchcock movie.

Last week I had a terrible nightmare after watching “The Birds” for the umpteenth time. In the scary schoolyard scene, a small flight of crows quickly grows into a squawking black cloud that blocks the sun and attacks panic-stricken school kids who are fleeing for their lives.

In my dream, I’m walking my dog Molly down the hill to fogbound Lake Parsippany. The fog is lifting and I see one Canada Goose swimming just offshore. I turn to watch Molly making a DNA check on a telephone pole and when I turn back there are hundreds of geese climbing the embankment followed by squadrons of swans and mallards.

“Get me outta here!” Molly shouts. (Molly can always talk in my dreams, but that’s another story.) We’re both past our prime but Molly and I skedaddle up the hill followed by this hissing, quacking attack force. The swans begin swooping and swiping. (Swooping, swiping swans can be very dangerous.)

We are overrun just as we reach home and I struggle with the hard-beaked attackers, but I am soon pecked down. Just then, thank Heaven, the annoying mocking bird outside begins his predawn alarm clock imitation and awakens me.

I’m relieved to hear Molly snoring beside my bed, but she is almost covered by feathers and I realize I’ve been fighting with my pillow.

Visitors to my home have often called me an “inferior decorator”. Not to my face, of course, but as they exmine my creations, they tend to roll their eyes or gasp. Some lift their cell phones to take pictures or call friends to describe the scene, giggling all the while. I don’t mind a little constructive criticism, but giggling is really offensive.

They don’t understand my eclectic style which depends heavily on the current garage sale and flea market inventories. By relying on availble components I sometimes have to blend Pennsylvani Dutch with Art Deco and Victorian, plus a touch of the popular Oscar Madison and Cosmo Kramer creations.

According to our strict household rules, my upstairs setting displays are limited to my tiny office, but I have complete artistic freedom for my creations in the cellar between the furnace and the washing machine. ( Viewings are by appointment only and not on wash days. )

Inspired by Gustav Stickley’s Arts and Crafts movement, I have become a dedicated amateur furniture creator and also consider myself a Jackson Pollock advocate of furniture design. We free-wheeling abstract impressionists observe no boundaries or arbitrary disciplines.

My very first creation was an informal sitting room chair made from Rockaway River and Lake Parsippny drift wood and assorted flotsam.

“What do you think?” I asked my wife. “I was attempting a casual Old Colonial look.”

“Well, you’ve certainly achieved ‘old’ , ” she said. “But you’ve gone way beyond Colonial. I think you’ve acheived Paleolithic. Please explain why your chair has six legs, Dear.”

“You’re very observant, ” I said. “That’s how I solved the stability problem and anyway, why have only four legs when six add more character, especially when all six are unmatched?”

“I have another surprise,” I said. “I’ve also chainsawed the components of a companion side table. If you come back down to the cellar in a couple of hours, I’ll have it all screwed up.”

‘I’m sure you will, Dear.”

As a kid I didn’t pay much attention to my grandma’s confusing warning and later when I was a smart alecky teenager and my parents gave me the same command, I’d just smile and ask politely, “How can I do that?”

By then I was convinced most adults are worry warts. They kept repeating the same impractical advice as they rubbed their aching joints and said goodbye to their youthful vim, vigor and figures: “DON’T GROW OLD!”

There wasn’t much room between youth and old age back then. “Life Begins at Forty”, a radio program, was based on the accepted idea that people needed encouragement to keep going when reaching 39. Comedian Jack Benny held on to that border age for more than two decades and we all enjoyed and encouraged his stubborn refusal to move on.

The Lawrence Welk TV show had a sponsor who claimed its completely organic product, Serutan (” Natures”spelled backwards) would relieve at least one of the problems of viewers over 35.)

Apparently, back then, the common belief was when we neared the top of the “hill” at 39, we’d soon be sliding down the other side of life’s mountain. I agree, the two-sided hill is a much better idea than a hill that leads to a dangerously high cliff.

Sometimes humor can get us through seniority easier than vitamins and Advil. Comedian George Burns, who lived to be 100, once boasted when he was born, the Dead Sea was only slightly ill and Milton Berle (“Uncle Milty”on early TV) who joked for us into his 90’s, claimed the miracle drug of his youth was mercurochrome.

When my little grandkids asked about my Air Force career I said I’d enlisted before the airplane was invented, so we didn’t have much else to do but wait around. It was a joke of course, but they bought it and, to this day, they must think I’m 70 years older than I actually am . Some days I feel that old.

Maybe we’ll never get to be officially old. Some experts now claim that life begins at 80. Perhaps that works for turtles, but I was very busy during my first 79 years. Was that just my breaking-in period?

A thousand back spaced years ago, Old King Cyber summoned the Royal Server, Count Gigabytes, and said he wanted to circulate a spreadsheet around his domain, The Valley of Silicon. “It’s a very important document dealing with the debugging of infested sites and I don’t want it to get lost or become garbled as it goes from portal to portal,” he said.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the Count. I’ll see that it’s sent in a safe mode. I’ll have it engraved on your shield, a veritable hard copy.”

“I want Sir Google, our best messenger, to take on the job,” the King said.

“Not possible, Sire. Sir Google is down with something.”

“Google is down? Is it a virus?

It’s nothing serious, Your Majesty. He fell ill after your recent banquet. Doctor Geek said it’s a simple case of an overdose of spam and cookies. He’ll have Sir Google’s system restored in a week or so.”

“Then how about Sir Google’s squire, Yahoo?”

“Alas, Your Majesty, Squire Yahoo is no longer with us. He was hacked by that rogue knight Sir Malware and his mail was fatally penetrated. We can only pray that Squire Yahoo is happily dwelling in the clouds.”

“I guess we’re down to Sir Twitter then,” sighed the king.

“I regret to report, Your Majesty, that Sir Twitter is likewise unavailable, having crashed into the castle’s firewall during yesterday’s tournament.”

“So then Google is down, Yahoo’s been hacked and Twitter has crashed. I’ll have to do my own messaging. Count, hitch up my horse “Browser”. And I’ll need comfortable travel clothing. So bring my soft wear.”

I’ll have you garbed and booted in a few megaseconds, my King. But please be careful. It’s a jungle out there and it will be a very hard drive.”

One significant thing remains lodged in my brain about my attitude back in my toddler days. I remember having a keen resentment of knees.

During family gatherings I was often surrounded by a knobby panorama of knees right at my eye level and moving menacingly in all directions. Every so often a pair of silk-stockinged knees would stop in front of me and an aunt would reach down, tousle my hair and plant a lipstick-laden kiss on my cheek. That wasn’t so bad and aunts always smelled nice.

But then a pair of baggy-trousered knees would approach, usually with a cloud of smoke, reminding me I might have to dodge falling ashes. Suddenly two big paws would descend through the cloud, grab me under the armpits and toss me into the air. The one good thing about being launched like that was I got a brief birds-eye view of the party, but too often, I was bounced off the ceiling.

Once at my Dad’s company’s picnic, he took me around to show me off to his friends. I got to see a lot of new knees and my head was nearly tousled off, but there was ice cream and Dad made sure I didn’t get launched. “Genie sometimes vomits when he’s tossed up,” Dad fibbed.

Eventually we reached a field where I heard loud shouting and even some bad words. A man in a bathing suit called to Dad, “Hey Jim, lend a hand. We’re losing the tug-of-war!” The next thing I remember I was standing very close to a thundering herd of stampeding knees. I managed to yell louder than everybody else, so Dad let go of the rope and 20 knees were dragged into a muddy pond. Served them right!

I liked shopping with Mom, but her hands were always busy at bargain tables and clothing racks, so I’d just latch on to the bottom of her coat at her knee level and tag along. One day in a department store, as we walked up to a counter, the sales lady said, “Hello Mrs. McClosky. I didn’t know you had a little boy.”

“I don,t,” Mrs. McClosky replied and glared down at me, a stowaway.

“Oh, no!” I thought. “I grabbed Mrs. McClosky’s passing coat by mistake!

I should have checked the knees! Do I have to go home with Mrs. McClosky now? ” I hit the high decibels and was surrounded by soothing sales ladies when my frantic mother arrived.

In the “Good old days” family members lived closer together, with the younger generations settling down not far from the old homestead. Back then a mother or father might say to the kids, “I’ll get home a little late today so go over to Grandma’s after school. It’s Friday so she’ll be baking cookies.”

It’s very different now with the modern family’s tendency to spread out geographically. A parent’s morning instructions to the kids might be : “Give these “late pick up” notes to your home room teachers. I have to work overtime today. If you get lonesome, text Grandma in Las Vegas, but keep it brief. She’ll be dealing blackjack at the Mirage.”

My forgetful Uncle Fred’s situation is complicated. In the old days he’d borrow my tools and completely forget where he got them. That was okay back then. I’d just walk down the block, go into his garage and point to any of my tools I needed. But Uncle Fred moved far away, with every tool he’d borrowed from me. I’ll Email him soon: ” You’re welcome to my tools, Uncle Fred, but what the heck are you going to do with my snowblower in Sarasota?”

And then there’s Dad and Grandpa. They have so many imaginative yarns to tell with their latest exaggerations and no young gullible grandkids to bedazzle.

We’re coping with this family diaspora, but cell phoning just doesn’t replace the old-fashioned get togethers. Back then, we’d have debates about politics, religion and the Brooklyn Dodgers with arm-waving and table pounding. Now our cell phone shouts can be muted and vigorous button-pushing has no dramatic effect.

There should be relief available, especially during the holidays to give the host family a chance to have something more than a dull cyber reunion even if it’s not completely real. A commercial enterprise, something like Hollywood’s Central Casting would be useful.

Lonesome Mom and Dad could arrange a “family” get together : “Hello, Holiday Family Rentals? We’d like to place an order for delivery on Independence Day. Send us one garrulous Grandpa, a sweet old Grandma and a younger couple with a precocious 10-year old boy or girl, whatever you have in your troupe. Also, please throw in a mixed bag of cousins and a forgetful uncle.

“I’d like the script to have the cast members divided between steadfast conservatives and flaming liberals. The 10-year old should lean toward anarchism .

What a great Fourth of July family picnic and debate that would be, probably with verbal fireworks. But we’d all sing a family favorite, “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s all Here” and end with “God Bless America!”

I was trapped at an extremely boring sales department cocktail party. Our vice president, Mr. John Bumble Jr. gave an “inspirational” speech that could have been used as emergency anesthesia in an O. R.

I was recovering later with the aid of a double martini, when a little fellow with a badly fitting toupee walked up, lifted a trouser leg and said, “See these socks? Would you believe I bought them in a dollar store?”

I really hate small talk. I usually counterattack with tall talk. “Socks are very important, Mr. ToUpeEe continued. They should be the right size, the right weave and…….”

“Fireproof! I shouted over my martini olives, not really knowing why. Heads turned as AkA Mr. Dollarsocks gaped and I began: “I’ll never forget it. My Uncle Willy was sitting out an Elk’s Hall dance one night years ago, ” I began, creating on the run as I was wont to do. “Uncle Willy had been puffing on his cigar when the ashes fell off and ignited his Woolworth socks. He jumped up and began to stomp wildly as his ankles blistered.

The dance hall crowd didn’t notice the smoke, but was attracted to Uncle Willy’s intriguing choreography. Five minutes later on that crowded dance floor, Uncle Willy was awarded a trophy. He’d accidentally won the Charleston contest, and without a partner! (If you don’t count the flaming socks.)

“You mentioned, ‘Elks,’ Mr. Dollarsocks said, completely unfazed by my invented tale and prepared to start one more of his boring monologues. “They have an interesting mythological history. The native Americans….. ”

I definitely had to stop this. “I was almost killed by a crazed elk once,” I interrupted, and the crowd began to edge in again.

“We were panning for gold on the Malarky River in Colorado when one night a curious elk wandered into our camp and poked his head into my pop-up tent. I punched his big nose and he tried to exit, but his antlers got in the way and he lifted the tent with me inside and ran off in panic.

“The shouts of my pursuing friends began to fade as the blindfolded crazed elk galloped away. I was afraid this was not going to end well and began to pray. “Please, Lord, get me out of this!”

Suddenly I heard hymn-singing and figured it was the Lord’s rescuing angels, but the singing changed to shouts and screams. The elk and I had run smack into a revival meeting!

A quick-thinking parson sliced open the tent and I dropped out like Jonah out of the whale. The elk ran off wearing the tattered tent and a full clothesline which I could have used. You see, I usually sleep in my underwear and, while my escape was miraculous, it was also embarrassing.

“You know,” Mr. Dollarsocks interrupted again, “Jonah’s so-called ‘big fish’ was not really a whale,” he announced, completely unmoved by my created-on-the- spot adventure. “Whales are mammals, not big fish. Some Bible scholars.”, he began…..

“Big fish, was it” says I. “Must have been something like the twelve-foot carp that chewed off the prow of my rowboat on Lake Parsippany in ’79 while I was trying to reel in something that looked very much like a mermaid.” I was off and running again. Mr. Dollarsocks had met his match.

A

Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once wrote, “Without music, life would be a mistake.” That still makes a lot of sense.

We earthlings have always used music to celebrate life and love and to solace our grief during hard times. The human voice was the first musical instrument used by our ancient ancestors to express their emotions.

Adam and Eve probably sang a lamentation as they trudged out of Eden and Captain Noah might have crooned the first sea shanty to quiet his nervous animal passengers.

Archeologists have discovered the oldest known song score inscribed on a clay tablet in cuneiform figures 3,400 years ago and the Cro-Magnon artists who painted hunting scenes on the cave walls in Lascaux, France 20,000 years ago most likely hummed as they created their dramatic illustrations by lamp light.

It’s an instinctive human custom. I often find myself singing a sad tune while scraping peeling paint off a ceiling or changing a tire during a rainstorm. I usually select Gershwin’s “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” which is appropriate, but my added lyrics are not suitable for a family audience.

Over the years troubadours added to the Gregorian chant and then came opera in the 17th century. Ragtime, jazz, swing and the blues were born in the early 20th century, but new music has, so far, not completely replaced the old. Thank goodness!

Way back when I was a kid on a car trip with my family, we would sing the latest Bing Crosby or Kate Smith hit and follow with a golden oldie like “Danny Boy” or “Down by the Old Mill Stream”.

And there was that heroic combo in 1912, on the deck of the sinking Titanic, playing familiar tunes to calm the frantic passengers climbing into the lifeboats. All eight musicians perished that night. “Nearer my God to Thee” was their final number.

A great rift was created in the 1950’s when rock ‘n roll was born. Many of us fogies have just never got it. And it can’t be avoided at a modern wedding reception where the D.J. insists on an ultra-high decibel level that results in shouting matches for the old folks trying to converse. There’s the joke about a rock club waiter dropping a large tray of drinks which caused all the youngsters to get up to dance.

Recently I was bombarded with raucous “music” while shopping in a supermarket. For a while I paused to listen closely. The screeching went on for five minutes. The lyrics consisted of one short ungrammatical sentence: “I ain’t got no lovin’ baby!” which was repeated a dozen times. Was the cost of broadcasting this cacophony being tacked onto my grocery bill?

The “song” ended with a five-second scream. I went to the courtesy desk to register a sarcastic complaint. “That was either the most annoying music I have ever heard, or someone is being attacked in aisle five.”

a

Belief in life after death has been widespread over the centuries and throughout the world. The details about rewards and punishments, however, vary significantly among the believers.

There are some who argue our one and only life is limited to the here and now with no provisions for an appeal or another go around. Others expect we will stop at a Pearly Gates toll booth where we can argue our case. Beyond that booth there is a fork in the road leading to two very different destinations for eternity-bound travelers.

There is another group who anticipates a possible U-Turn area on that road providing a round-trip and a chance for better and cooler accommodations.

Mark Twain’s last published story in 1907, “Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven” was an imaginative celestial travelogue with humorous jabs at the prevailing ideas about heaven. For instance, the captain reported earthlings are a minority group approaching the Gates compared to the trillions of afterlife travelers from billions of other solar systems in our universe.

Twain’s yarn was delightful, but I wish he could have sent back a revised edition with factual details after he passed away three years later. There have been many so-called afterlife accounts. Some are intriguingly convincing; others are questionable and a good many were probably invented by comedy and blog writers.

There’s the one about the fellow who’d led a reasonably decent life and expected to be provided with at least 4th class accommodations, but Saint Peter, the gatekeeper, wasn’t convinced.

“The Book shows you obeyed the Commandments most of the time with only a few close calls, but you were a habitual liar and told hundreds of tall stories. I have serious doubts about admitting you.”

“But, Saint Peter,” the man pleaded, “I thought you’d understand. I was a fisherman just like you.”

“A fisherman? Why didn’t you say so? Go on in. The tackle shop is on the third cloud to the left. Tell Jonah I sent you.”

A U-turn believer was being returned for a second chance to live an unselfish useful life, but he needed help. “Please, Your Saintliness, I was too self-centered, foggy-minded and unmotivated to be effective down there. Please provide me with common sense, a willingness to work and a kinder heart and I promise I’ll do better.”

So he was sent back as a mother.

A Dead-Ender who’d led a very selfish, depraved life was greatly surprised to wake up after his elaborate funeral to find there actually was a life after death. “I had no idea it wasn’t a dead end,” he told Saint Peter. “So there really is going to be an accounting? Well, I’ll be damned!”

“I’m afraid, my son, you’ve got that right!”