" YOU are the wonder, YOU are the light ! "

“  YOU are the wonder, YOU are the light !  “

06/29/12

To my ever, very dearest, dearest friends, and kind, and loyal, gentle readers, a grateful thought from me to you. I think of you so very often, and wish for you no pain, no anguish, nor despair…only, all the true happiness that you deserve every day !

“  YOU are the wonder, YOU are the light !  “

You are the wonder, you are the light

that chases the gloom of each lonely night.

You are the matches that light as they burn.

You are the porch light that waits my return.

You are the beacon that shines through a storm.

You are a fireplace, welcoming, warm.

You are the flashlight that lights up the dark,

Or, like the glow from a fireflies’ spark.

You are the nightlight, whose glow reassures

that no, dreaded nightmare will ever endure.

You are the neon that lights up a sign;

or lights up a clock, to tell me the time.

You are the streetlights that brighten the alleys.

You are the traffic light, when traffic rallies.

You are the window lamp, seen through a curtain; YOU light the pathway, lest I fall, for certain.

You are the sunrise that heralds the day.

You are the candle we light when we pray.

Yours is the beam that shines through the night.

Yes…YOU are the wonder, YOU are the light.

End

Please, please always know I love you dearly !

‘Zahc’/Charles

" Oh Boy !!! Another Family Camping Trip "

“ Oh Boy !!!  Another Family Camping Trip  “

06/28/12

To my very, dearest, dearest friends, and as ever, loyal readers, at fifty-eight, I think that I have managed to learn many things, from the trivial, to the dramatic; these ‘lessons’ in Life were usually the result of folly, misinformation, pure bull-headedness, good intentions gone horribly wrong, or, just—by default—from having being plain stupid.

It is, perhaps, part of the survival mechanism that these lessons remain indelibly impressed into memory, in the fond hopes that they will never be repeated…though, often they are.

Some of these, little nostrums should be ‘one trial learning’, such as, if one persists in standing out in the rain, that sooner or later, one will get wet.  Drenched.  Soaked.  Until one’s clothes are sodden to the skin, and walking in one’s shoes ( what’s left of them, anyway ), become like stepping in two, small swimming pools.

Other lessons must be—perforce—repeated, and repeated, until the basic narrative of the lesson is at last understood.

Regrettably, there are still many individuals who seem to require trial after trial…as if somehow, on tenth, something—maybe—will be different.  And to be honest, my dearest friends, I must add my name to the latter, occasionally.  For instance, if I am able to purchase but one Lottery ticket, surely those numbers look the best, and will win.  Sigh.

Still, there are those few Life lessons that need no repetition, whose answers are as crystal clear as tinkling bells.

And I must add to these the concept of the ‘Family Vacation’, which I liken to a really, bad, bad marriage, as one person will be happy; one person will go along, but suffer terminal boredom; and the last will find nearly every part of it distasteful.  I—of course—fell into the last category, as one might know.

I know that I’m not happy, and, for me, boredom was a state, reached, when no other amusements could be found.  After that, I hated every moment of it, until we arrived home again.

From about September 25, 1965, until about March, 1967, my dad, mom, and I packed up hearth, hat, and dog, and were deployed to his new duty assignment in Verdun, France.

This could not be more representative of the way Chaos works, for, eleven years before, I had been born there, and, to this day, still have—somewhere—a faded copy of my French Birth Certificate.  I fully became Americanized when I was thirteen, and back in the States.

We lived in a kind of ‘French-ancient’ town of Etain, and daily, my dad would make the drive to and from Verdun. We had what I thought was a fairly nice duplex, among a hundred others, and I recall that if I lay on my bed a certain way, I could just see a micron of sky where it shown-through the roof, near where the walls met the ceiling, though, it never leaked.

For an eleven year old with probably an advanced attention-span disorder, there were more than enough ‘new’ things to keep me occupied; everywhere except school, of course.

At that age, I found most of the French people to be friendly enough, since being eleven granted me a number of automatic gaffes…especially, when I tried to start speaking French.  My father was imminently affable, as was my mom, and we did make friends with the locals. 

The old town had a town square, and a weekly marketplace. And a church built in medieval times.  I once ‘bartered’ my way from one, artificial rose, to three to give my mom, and—frankly, dear friends—felt damn good about it, as if I had accomplished something.

Besides school, which I hated, two more dread chimeras swam into my so-so waters as one; dad had never lost one ounce of his love of fishing, and two; a tip that the American Rod And Gun Club had leased the rights to three, huge lakes, that were averred to be chuck-full of trout, and  an enormous lodge in the hollow of a stretch of low mountains, surrounded by almost primeval forest, all of which had seen action in WWI and II.

All of this affected my dad like a jolt of amphetamine, and as soon as we could, we HAD to go check it out.

For our first couple of trips there, we drove through endless plots of cultivated stretches, tiny, little towns, and trees, trees, and more trees.  Did I mention trees? Having previously lived in Texas for three years, wide expanses of trees were an anomaly, and forests were plainly unheard of.

Onward went we until we found ourselves on a narrow, and unkempt road that gradually snaked up through mighty hills and dales, and…trees, until, at the top, the road dipped down to where the lakes were.

And I will allow that as nature goes, this was a pleasant enough spot, surrounded by ancient forest, which was eerily and hugely quiet.  A small, dirt track lined the sides of the lakes, and dad fished all three of the lakes.  And—in consequence—brought back about twenty trout(s)(?), which he gave to our French friends who ran the bakery in Etain; they were, of course delighted, dad was ecstatic, mom was ‘duty done’, and I had had a marginally good time exploring the woods.  Even our dog ‘King’ seemed to benefit from the romp. And, BTW, the French pronunciation of Trout is ‘Treat’.

My dear dad--still very much bitten by the bug—sometime later insisted that we spend a week vacation there.  Huh???  We had no access to the large, and imposing lodge; there were only concrete-walled ‘bathrooms’, with no running water, and no way to flush; and no place to set up camp, except as a make-shift cooking hut, put together by pieces of tarpaulin at the rear of our 1962 Chevrolet Impala station wagon.

My dad, who served in WWII and Korea, could have slept on a Gramophone pin, so comfort at any level was easy to be found…for him.  For my dear mom, for whom an afternoon’s fishing marked her connubial ticket, as paid in full, began to look Heavenward, praying for intervention, and probably escape.

What we got—instead—was rain.  It began to rain the afternoon we got there, and continued without let up, until the day we finally packed up, and came home.

If, indeed, my mom had prayed for rain, her prayers were answered in spades.  For, after an hour or so of gentle drizzle, suddenly the skies ripped opened, and we were in a deluge like something out of the Old Testament.

The flimsy tarpaulin flapped and waved, and gradually fell apart.  The smoke from our make-shift cook fire bellowed in our faces, and, before you could say ‘Treat”, we were soaked to the marrow.  And…did I mention that it was cold?  Really cold?  And that being thoroughly wet AND cold, would be a torture to anyone, especially, and eleven year old boy.

I doubt that the wonderful engineers at Chevrolet had ever envisioned three people and a dog, scrunched together in the back of a station wagon, trying to sleep.

At dawn, the rain had slacked a little, and dad-- like a kid let loose in the toy department of F.A.O Schwartz—bundled-up in all kinds of G.I. anti-inclement weather gear, slithered out with fishing equipment at hand, eager to spend a day of chasing Trout.

After a somewhat tired sigh, my mom followed, (I suppose it as either that, or, immediate divorce), and, with absolutely nothing to do, out I popped, sure as shootin that we’d all somehow drown, or have our bodies lost in the woods, to be found after the Spring thaw.

After me came King, who vanished into the greenery, to try to catch up with my dad ( so much for ‘man’s best friend! ). Sometimes, it’s a very good thing that dogs can’t talk, though I did feel that he resented us for some time after.

The word ‘enough’ is usually not to be found in the lexicon of any deranged angler, but, as I recall it now, after three or four days, even my late father had had enough; and there arrived home three, people, two of which were extremely disgruntled, and one pet, all of whom smelled like wood smoke; wet-and-slept-in clothes; and of wet doggy fur.

We each spent hours, trying to bathe with a hot water heater that contained just two gallons. I remember even large pots of water were heated on the stove, so that we each could soak in some semblance of luxury; I recall that several thoughts—like drifting clouds—wafted-through my mind; one, that I would never, ever be the kind of ‘outdoorsman’ that my father was; two, how quickly did any, possible novelty of a situation become as tedious, and/or without end, and; three, that this would not be my last ‘family camping trips’ that I would—at my tender age have to endure.

And, if I may add a fourth and fifth, it would be that the most important thing was that we were together, and therefore, ‘suffered’ as a family, and lastly, that of the memories that have lasted to this day—besides the deathless-and-breathless-ones, were the beauty of the tranquil lakes, surrounded by the elegiac nobility, if I may use that term, of the towering forest that surrounded us, trees that were hundreds of years old.

Regardless of my trying to somehow make of it all, a rambling ’wanderjahr ’of our excursion, it nevertheless took weeks to rid the Impala of the smell, the least of which was the lingering smell of dead fish; we would have to drive with all the windows down, and still, there was always one or two people who made ‘sniffing’ noises at us at church.

That must—in part—be why to this day, I consider ‘roughing it’ as a week spent in a Holiday Inn without cable. And of fishing—God rest my dear father’s soul—I was never ‘bitten’ by the bug, and would as soon—if I could but afford it—limit my ‘fishing’ to that which could be found inside a grocery store.

And now, both dear Daisy and I detest getting wet, and I, especially, cannot tolerate rain or water on my glasses, particularly    That’s probably why I do not wear them in the shower.

But, some of those lessons learned so long ago have not lost their luster; neither have they lost my fixed determination to never, ever do them again.

And so, my wonderfully kind, and caring friends, I would like to wish for you days of ‘no pain’, happy times, enjoyable times, without dread, or need.  And as much true happiness as your kind hearts can hold.

And if you can afford it, as a family, to seek out those rare gems that our great Country still has to offer, I wish for you no calamity, accident, or injury, while you—too—seek to investigate as a loving, family unit.

And in your travels, and varied journeys, should you ever, ever, ever manage to land that ‘record’ trout, I’ll give it a quick smooch for luck for you, but, dears, remember that is all!

Please, please know I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish...Who, Fish ?! "

“One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish…Who, Fish?!”

Part II of II

06/24/12

To my very, dearest, and most precious friends, and every patient, and loyal readers,

I must—once again—ask for your most kind tolerance, and patience, as, yesterday, in trying to compose what I hoped would be a humorous, diary entry, it is abundantly typical of me that I would somehow veer completely ‘off topic’, and thus, lose the thread of both intended thought and meaning.

It is now my fondest hope that you will excuse my turning an innocent entry into something of a ‘rant’, and by making of this entry two parts, add rant, and original thought together.  Sigh.

I admit, my dearest, faithful friends, that I have no one but myself to blame, as present illness, unending pain, worry, migraine, and ‘mind fog’ in some dreadful combination caused me to fully  ‘jump the trolley’ of my thoughts off the tracks of my intention.  And for that—and, for so very much more, I sincerely apologize, and again ask for your most kind indulgence, and forgiveness.

So…in a concerted effort to regain what I had hoped would be an entry that was funny, interesting to read, and free of my usual bombast, I will—with your permission—simply start over from the beginning.

As always, I remain ever grateful for your having befriended me, and for keeping me close to you; and please know that I love you dearly, ‘Zahc’.

My late father was an avid, outdoor sportsman for much of his life, until age, and illness forced him to stop; during the ‘Great Depression’, both he and a brother would go out into the woods, shooting wild turkeys, birds, and squirrels, and rabbits, all of which were dutifully brought home to his mother to find a necessary place in the family cooking pot.

While on assignment to Alaska (before he married my mom), he would fish for salmon in rushing, ice-cold streams, or—with friends—go out into the frigid, uncharted, and dangerous wilds to hunt for bear.  There were no restrictions as to either in those, long-ago days.

But fishing, I think, remained his favorite pastime.  And would continue until his age, and health prohibited it.

In one of my previous posts, I mentioned our ‘death-by-driving’ summer pilgrimage from Texas, where we lived, to Tarpon Springs, Florida where my mother’s people lived.

These awful trips were not my first encounter with the town of Tarpon Springs, as when dad was in Korea, mom and I lived with one of my ‘bat-shit-crazy’ Aunts, while I attended—there first and second grade.

Its funny how many stories pour-forth from other stories, and I will only say—regarding school--that there were teachers, there, who had been in saddle sufficiently long as to have taught both my mother and sisters.  And, in passing, it always makes me laugh, now, that my first grade teacher, Helen Winslow (how come we never forget their names?) from a certain angle looked EXACTLY like George Washington, but with a dress on.

And, sometimes, when my father WAS home, we tried in vain to do ‘dad-and-lad’ stuff, hopefully to make of me less a nerd and to spend time doing stuff my dad liked, in hopes of trying to find something, anything that might make of it a ‘bonding moment’.

Regrettably, this proved to be a daunting task, for my father and I could practically not be more unalike; he loved fishing, I hated fishing, and would get bored easily; neither had I any interest in hunting, camping, sports.  I guess I was either more like my mother, or else I was the prodigy of aliens, as even my mom loved football !

So, on one eventful occasion, while I was in first grade, dad decided that nothing would do but that we journey to the ‘Sponge Docks’ in Tarpon Springs ( the diving for, and the collection of sponges, being the major export of that small town), which was then divided into three social groups:1) Afro-Americans; 2) Caucasians, many of whom could trace their lineage’s back to and before the Civil War, and, 3) Greeks who had for some hundred years immigrated to America, and settled in Tarpon Springs.

And so, Tarpon Springs had its own considerable part of town, unsurprisingly called, “Greek Town”, which consisted of restaurants, gift shops, fishing boats, numerous curiosities, ‘sponge boats’, and the infamous ‘Sponge Exchange, in which, the hauls of sponges brought back were assayed, weighted, dickered-over, and sold to be distributed nationwide.

Centered around the harbor were scores of wooden, fishing boats, of particular Greek design, in which the prow was always much higher than in regular boats.  One could see them clustered and tied-off to the dock on a main street of Greek Town, called, “Dodecanese Boulevard”, Greek, for ‘Twelve Islands’, whose translation means absolutely nothing to me to this day.

However, in 1953, Hollywood thought the life of a ‘Sponger’ to be of such epic interest, that they made a movie of it, called, I believe, “Beneath The Twelve Mile Reef”, a tepid, little potboiler starring Robert Wagner, Terry Moore, and Gilbert Roland.

I am listing the link to it below for at least three reasons: 1) To show you the town I roamed as a child, and, actually liked; 2) It was the site of one of my father’s and my more goofy ‘bonding attempts’, and 3) so that if ever you cannot sleep, this, B- cinematographic excursion into dull’s-ville, ought to help put even the most stubborn insomniac into a coma.

                     http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0045551/

And to all who dare, I wish you Godspeed, good luck, and a thorough night’s sleep!

In either 1960, or 1961, on one of my dad’s leave time, he decided that nothing would do, but that we go ‘deep sea’ fishing, on one of two, large, commercial, tourist boats; ours was called—for some unfathomable reason, the “Miss Milwaukee”.

The general deal was: for a hefty fee, each boat would carry some 40-80 tourists out about ten miles from shore to spend a half-day fishing for dreams.  Upon drop of anchor, these would-be sportsmen would line the decks on both sides of the ship to prevent it from keeling over, I guess.

Every man (and woman) forced to stand shoulder to shoulder could not cast their lines into the water, but simply released them to drop in front of them, and…………..wait.

If NOBODY got a bite, the boat would up-anchor, and move a couple of miles away to try again. Minutes would pass like hours for me; and while my dad loved it, I hated almost every second of it, but for dad’s sake, I did give it my best shot.

So far, despite a growing sense of utter boredom, everything went well; dad expertly baited my hook, and with good reason: I could never handle a fish hook without necessitating a visit to the emergency room to have it removed from whatever part of my body it had gotten driven into.  And, besides, at that time, I was just six years old.

So kindly imagine if you will, forty or so tourists, with lines dropped straight down in front of them, with me, at my dad’s side, all the way at the end, a place that could neither hide me from chaos, nor avoid some kind of disaster.

For some reason, I could not get the release mechanism on my ‘rent-a-rod’ to work, and in flopping the rod up and down, and around, finally gave a titanic snap to the rod, which not only released my fishing line, but, with the wind, and the Fates against me, carried it all the way across all the other men’s lines, putting them all into a huge, gigantic, tangle when I started to reel the line up.

Pandemonium reigned supreme, while everything ground to an abrupt halt, as everybody—including the boat’s helpers—tried, in vain—to untangle line after line after line.  The delicate salt air quickly became empurpled with curse words I had—at six—never had heard before, and I certainly had no clue what the ‘F’ word meant, though, in time, I would.

It did not take an Einstein, however, to become aware that all these anglers were pissed, and the gravity of the situation grew as my dear dad gave me one of those, ‘just wait until we get home, buddy’ looks, and in quick succession, my rod was wrenched from me, and I was banished inside to the cabin, which had tables and benches, and a very, small lunch counter.

There I met an older woman, wearing a red-plaid, flannel shirt over her shirt, who was sitting there, playing dominoes, you know, the old kind that were made of genuine ivory.

As she and I sat there, playing dominoes (which was lots more fun for me than fishing, anyway), I paused to look around me to see the hand-written menu over the lunch counter. Their prices, while a little steep at the time, and their offerings amazed and delighted me.  Plus, as you might know, only once have I ever been seasick, and, I was hungry, and, I thought that eating aboard the boat was a neat experience.

I ran out to my dad, who—with all the others, were still struggling to untangle their lines, and shouted, “Hey dad…they have ham sandwiches for fifty-five cents!!!”

And as if I had not done enough, the very mention of ham sandwiches induced probably about twenty of the fisherman to lean over, and lose their cookies.

My dad, now with absolute murder in his eyes, searched through his pockets, and gave me a dollar, while pushing me back into the cabin before any of the pissed, and now vomiting anglers could get to me. And of course, all that motion caused the boat to sway back and forth, inducing ‘mal de mare’ to the fisherman on the other side of the boat as well.

None of that even reasonably occurred to me; I was happy, enjoying my coke and ham sandwich, while playing dominoes with this elderly lady, whose name I will never remember.  I had a great time, in spite of the promised ‘talking to’ I would get upon returning home.

But friends…it shows—among other things—how little it takes to make a six year old boy happy.

Never mind that—on reaching ‘port’, I was shuttled quickly into the car to wait, as my dad, and others got the fish they did catch cleaned and gutted.  Around that portion of the ‘docks’ were three or four fat, happy cats, in anticipation of a grand ‘fish dinner’ consisting of discarded fish pieces and entrails, thrown into the garbage.

I think I would have gladly gone again, but strangely, was never asked to.  Yet, for me, it had been great fun, and a chance to be with my dad whom I loved with all my heart.  I never did get that ‘talking to’, and I think that somehow my dad knew that this was probably the only way we could bond, and do something together.

Later, my dad would leave to be mustered up somewhere in South Florida, to nervously await the outcome of the Cuban Missile Crisis. And while the utter gravity of the moment escaped me, except for those useless ‘duck-and-cover’ exercises at school, where, upon a signal, we would—in effect—hide under our desks, while our teacher ( George Washington-in-drag ) stood under a reinforced door frame, in case we were attacked by the ‘Commies’.

How very stupid and innocent we were in those days.  For a direct exchange of nuclear missiles with Cuba or Russia would have just vaporized us, and probably have ended civilization as we knew it.

And even though at six, I could easily read at twelfth grade level, of geo-politick I knew nothing.  In general, I was just a happy—though naïve—little kid.  And while times have changed, and certainly events, people, and places have been altered, age, and illnesses have encroached, and happiness? It swings to and fro like the pendulum on a giant grandfather clock, with days of ennui, depression, despair, and all that shit, have rendered happening—now—into gratitude, at best, or thanks, somehow, the naiveté of that six year old boy remains.

And you know…maybe that’s not such a bad thing, after all.

Meanwhile, while I am still ill, though I hope the pneumonia is slowly going away ( Whew!), I want to thank you for being my dear friends, and for your kindness, your caring, your encouragement, and for your patience in reading my diary entries.

I wish for you days of ‘no pain’, free of depression, mental anguish, or despair; I wish for you  a most wonderful weekend, full of joy, hopes-fulfilled, and delight. 

I wish you be free of need, with more than enough to last the month without worry, or having to ‘count pennies’.  I pray that you be full-surrounded by family and friends who love you without question or compromise.

I wish for you balmy and contemplative days, and nights of quiet peace.  May your gentle sleep be unbroken, nor visited by dire nightmare, but with—instead—rest that is restorative. But, as always, watched-over, and kept ever safe by sweet angels.

Please always know I love you,

‘Zahc’/Charles

" One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish...Who, Fish ?! "

“One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish…Who, Fish?!”

Part I of II

(  Part II to follow, tomorrow )

06/23/12

To my very, dearest, and most precious friends, and ever patient, and loyal readers,

My late father was an avid, outdoor sportsman for much of his life, until age, and illness forced him to stop; during the ‘Great Depression’, both he and a brother would go out into the woods, shooting wild turkeys, birds, and squirrels, and rabbits, all of which were dutifully brought home to his mother to find a necessary place in the family cooking pot.

And, for all of you who view such activities as somehow, ‘anti-animal rights’, please for a moment, if you can to recall, that these were very hard times, indeed; and ANY extra food that could be procured helped save the family from starving.

And in today’s lousy economy, where bills and income, and foreclosures and mounting debt, many of the things my grandparents did, would—if applied today—would go a long way towards our present survival, and return to monetary responsibility.

And while—for a moment—this is completely off the rails of what I intended—as subject—to speak to you about, I will gladly share some of their survival mechanisms that helped them not only through the ‘Great Depression’, but beyond, into the war years.  And we would be, I believe—as representatives of a diminishing ‘Middle Class’--better off and, in consequence, better able to survive these black days that seem to stretch endlessly in front of us.

1)           My grandparents converted their entire back yard into a vegetable garden; as each child in the family became old-enough to do so, they were assigned tasks of watering, weeding, and harvesting the vegetables as they ripened.

2)           Since my father was the eldest son, quite often, he labored alongside my grandfather, and, whatever money they earned that day was given to my grandmother to run the house.

3)           The ‘family car’ stayed parked in the garage, as everybody walked to work, or hitched rides on trucks; the only time the family car was used, was to take the family to church on Sunday.  And, on rare occasions when there might have been a little extra money in the house, sometimes after church, my grandfather would take the family out of town to a particular, Amish-run restaurant for lunch.

4)           Baths were taken once a week on Saturday night in an old, aluminum tub, large-enough to sit in; their supply of hot water came from the side-mounted reservoir on their wood-burning cook stove.  Each child, by age was thus bathed, so if you were ‘first’, you got a tub of hot, soapy water, which—of course—became increasingly cold and dirty, even with the sometimes addition of hot water from the cook stove.  So…child #6, to be bathed, got a regular, rotten deal, as you can well-imagine.

5)           My grandparent’s house was like a revolving door for many of my grandmother’s relatives.   So, the household was composed of six children, two adults, and  my grandmother’s mother (a woman of indeterminate age called Susie), for whom was kept a giant bottle of whiskey, that she referred to as her ‘medicine’ in a cabinet, in the living room, and who got from my grandfather one, giant spoonful a night, which always made Susie ‘feel’ so much better!

There also was my grandmother’s brother, Uncle Harry, who, despite having NO teeth, nevertheless would get into the family apple barrel in the basement, and eat apples, practically core and stem, and all, and who would—at times—make my grandfather most unhappy. My dear grandfather, who would not mince a single word, would yell, “Harold…stay the goddamned hell out of the apples!” Just how effective this dictum was is unknown, but my grandfather was a huge, bear of a man who took shit from absolutely no one, a trait, I think, my own father fully inherited.

At one time, my mother’s Aunt stayed with them; her talent was (for any of you old enough to remember it!) to play the piano at a local theater, in hopes of adding emotive qualities to the silent films that were playing.

6)           Everybody did whatever they could to live and ‘make due’.  An elderly woman who lived down the street made candy, to sell to the kids.  My grandmother at one time, took in washing, and fine embroidery work, for the still-rich people in town.  And (since among other things, my grandfather was a butcher), anytime that someone had a pig, or a cow that needed to be slaughtered, my grandfather would do it, in exchange for a portion of the meat.

7)           My grandmother canned enough vegetables to last the Winter, whose jars were lined up in the basement.  Can you possibly imagine just how hot that wood burning stove made the kitchen through the summer?

8)           Meanwhile, my grandfather brewed his own beer, and made dandelion wine from the press that the kids periodically added to.

9)           Their refrigerator was a giant, zinc-lined box, in which perishable foods were kept cold by the ice the town’s iceman, delivered from a horse-drawn wagon; as the kids gathered around him, he would shave off little pieces of ice for them…a special treat in summertime.

10)   My dear grandmother, and her mother made ‘hand-me-down’ clothes for the girls, and ‘darned socks’ until each sock looked like a little mass of train-track marks.

11)   Nothing...and I mean nothing was ever thrown away.  When, in due time, clothes were unrepairable, they became cleaning rags.  And when THESE wore out, they were given to an old man with a pushcart, who collected rags in exchange for sharpening knives and scissors.

12)    Shoes were always an expensive commodity; if a hole was discovered in the sole of the shoes, they were packed down, and covered with cardboard, until, also ‘hand-me-down’ shoes could be purchased.

13)    Everyone struggled during a Depression that lasted from before 1929, until—really—after WWII was declared. So, having ‘done without’ for so many years, ‘rationing’ was easy enough to do.

14)    In addition, my grandfather worked as a chauffeur for a rich banker that lived in ‘mansion Ville’; it was my grandfather’s task to take the banker’s family out to the country to go to a pricey, weekend lunch.  As part payment, the banker let my grandfather take my dad along with them, and also treated them to lunch (of course, sitting far away from the banker and his family)!

In those, far-ago days, their lunches paid for them, I shall never forget my dad telling me that his father would learn over, and whisper to him, “No matter whether you may like the lunch or not…to always eat the meat, Bud, “always eat the meat.”  I now suspect that it was an admonition, to ‘eat the meat’ for its protein value.

And, while no one had anything, so that the added protein value of a paid-for lunch was of mentionable importance, it is also an object lesson, sometimes, of who lives in such times, and who doesn’t, for ironically, during the heigth of the Depression, when banks were being closed, that it was this very same banker who later leapt from an upper office window to his death.

By now, my most dear, and precious friends, I have—by now—gone so far astray of my original topic, so that I shall have to divide it up into parts I and II, is is—nevertheless—a character study into the minds of both my dad AND mom, that I thought that it needing explaining.

It was—of course—a lengthy period of time in which, perhaps 98% of the general populace was desperately poor…but, that they somehow survived.  My grandfather turned his backyard into a vegetable garden; the neighbors, next door, kept pigs in a sty at the end of their backyard (and, what a sweet, mid-summer smell drifted over to my grandfather’s house!).

I guess the important points elucidated here, particularly in present times that monetarily are not much different from theirs, is that they took certain, common sense measures, and so, as bad as the ‘Great Depression’ got, kept their families together.  They always had shelter, and enough to eat.

Now granted, times change.  People and places change. Situations change.

But if only we could adopt their persevering mindset, we would go further to remedy our own, current bleak situations.

While I am not in any way suggesting that everyone take baths from a single tub on Saturday nights, we could—if forced to—probably use our cars less.  And while too much of America is presently in such dire straits, keeping the family safe, under shelter, and well-fed, may prove less hard to do.

For, although everyone that still makes up what is left of the so-called ‘Middle-Class’ today is broke, with many health issues, and unsecured debt up to the eyebrows, still…everyone has a talent.  Some can sew.  Some can paint (as in houses); some can even rotate baby-sitting, or mowing lawns.  I’d very much like to see the ‘barter system’ come back with a will, with say, electric, or plumbing work, done in exchange for like labor, or services, or even food.  Start an ‘open pantry’ on a table in your living room.  And should I, for example, need a pound of coffee, I could trade it for the pound of sugar, and pound of butter I DO have.

If done among neighbors, it would save on having to drive to the grocery store, waste gas and time, when maybe you just happen to have an extra pound of coffee.

For those who like to hunt and/or fish, I’m sure there would be a regular, sustainable market in trading them for other food or services.  We already have a model for success, if we only but look to our history.

And while it is so easy to bitch, moan, and complain, and to especially apportion blame to others: bankers, lawyers, government, and failed, corporate America, and certainly they have done more than their share of economic and social damage to the Country, please keep in mind that they were not alone in this present, deplorable state we find ourselves in.

It took millions of our fellow Americans, each armed with a teaspoon, to help dig the enormous grave we now find ourselves in.

How many times, were mortgages granted to those who could never pay them?  How much student loan was applied for, with NO intention of ever paying it back?  I even ask you to kindly look within your own wallets.  How much unsecured debt do you have, that even trying to pay the minimum each month is a ‘roll-of-the-dice’ nightmare?

A television is fine.  But, seriously, did you really NEED that 72-inch, plasma set?

Owning a cell telephone is—today—a necessity, in case of emergency.  But did you need that $400.00 smart phone, with so many apps you’ll never use? And a cell-phone plan that costs a couple of hundreds a month? Please try to convince me that ‘texting’ is even necessary, particularly when each text may cost you something?

Since I am disabled, I applied for, and got a re-conditioned cell telephone that is free, and gives me 250 roll-over minutes a month.  It is a ‘no-frills’ model.  And yet, one can select the background, and from TEN ring tones; I just want my telephone to sound like a telephone…that’s all.

And, to be honest, I—too—am part of the dilemma, as I live (?) on SSDI, a predetermined amount each month, yet, when I got a pre-approved credit card with 0% a.p.r. the first year, after I had wisely transferred to if all of my outstanding store card’s balances, went on to almost max-out the card, until now, I have to throw to it every spare dime I can get my hands on.  To even envision my ever completely balancing out this credit card, will require an austerity program almost beyond what I and Daisy can ’austerely’ live on.

And, STILL, there are ‘things’ that I want.

Oh my dear, and sweetest friends, and ever patient, loyal readers, I have so jumped ship on my original topic, which—initially—was hoped by me to be humorous, that I fear I shall have to ‘divvy’ up this diary entry into two parts.

I will keep the original title, as that was what the entry was supposed to be about…not another semi-rant.  It must—in part—be due to how completely horrible I still feel, if I may presume to use that as an excuse. And, while ‘pay day’ is still some twelve days away, I find that I have just $47.86 in my checking account, whose balance I check by telephone at least twice a day.

And all the while, I both pray, and cross my fingers that all the checks I have written have been processed through the account; still, $47.86 leaves me with no money to purchase any food that I might need, or ‘surprise bills’ that may still come through to be paid.  It becomes the dread of becoming, ‘Overdrawn’, and the fees that accompany it.

And so, dear friends, please let me close for now, especially since its ‘medication time’ again.

Please, please, please always know how very much I love you.

‘Zahc’/Charles