Titanium Spork-Continued

This is a continuation of the story about Bert and Ernie first entered into the "blog" in October of 2014.

Titanium Spork

(Bert sitting quietly on the sofa. The sun is coming through the sliding glass door on the other side of the room. Ernie is typing at his computer which is on the old, metal, office-style desk next to the door. There is an orange shag carpet wall to wall. Also on the desk is a lava-rock lamp. It is carved in the shape of a Tiki head, out of gray, porous, soft stone. If you touch the lamp it feels like emery board or rough sandpaper. It is the only light in the room besides the sunlight, it casts a cone of yellowish light over the computer and Ernie’s face as he types. The whole room looks like it was decorated in 1965 and has had no updates since, because that is the truth. The only changes to the room were the removal of twenty, plastic Revel model airplanes that once hung down from the ceiling from nylon fishing line and thumbtacks. When Bert’s son went to college, they took the airplanes down but never touched up the pock mark holes in the ceiling.  Bert’s wife wanted to redecorate-take up the carpet and refinish the terrazzo floors hiding underneath, and exchange the bed for a nice sofa. Don’t even mention chucking the monstrous desk. Oh, and that hideous lamp…Bert wouldn’t hear of it.)

Bert: What are you doing?

Ernie: Just writing a story. (he doesn’t look up from the keyboard even when he stops typing)

Bert: What is the story about?

Ernie: It’s about the Spork. You remember. (it is a statement not a question) I’ve been working on it for a long time…

Bert: A very long time.

(His face is placid and vacant. He is staring into the sunlight but he rarely blinks. The rest of his body is unmoving as well)

Bert: What’s a “Spork”? (He turns slightly towards Ernie. )

 (stops typing. He turns around to look at Bert. Contemplates)

Ernie: A Spork is both a fork and a spoon. You owned one once. It’s for camping, so you only have to carry the Spork and you don’t need to carry both a spoon and a fork.

(Ernie delivers his explanation matter-of-factly, as though he’s repeated it a number of times before. He has. He’s told Bert about the Spork at least twice today and at least a couple of times a day for a year.)

Ernie: I’m going to take a break. Want something to eat? It’s almost 1:00 o’clock.

Bert: Oh! Yeah!

(he shows the first bit of enthusiasm in two hours.)

Bert: Could I have peanut butter? And jelly with banana slices? And milk. Definitely milk.

(Ernie went to the kitchen. Bert was close behind. The Formica cabinets and sheet-vinyl flooring dated the kitchen, placing it squarely in the same time period as the den. The table top was Formica with a glossy white background and a design pattern that was hundreds, if not thousands, of red, blue, and green boomerangs randomly splashed all over the white, a substantial aluminum molding /edging, and chrome bent pipe legs. Ernie sliced bananas over the counter top next to the sink. He wondered for a moment at how quickly he’d become accustomed to living in Bert house. It had been a year since they’d sold his and he’d moved in here. The transition had been not without its bumps but was basically easy. Sharing a home was not too difficult. The aide they’d hired to help out was surprisingly quiet and unobtrusive. Ernie depended on her for help with Bert when he got a little confused of angry, but that was not often. Moving next door, he’d not had to learn new street names or where to go shopping for groceries. All the acquaintances he’d cultivated over a lifetime were still there for him. The challenge-the only real challenge-was getting used to being with Bert almost all the time.

Ernie’s wife, bless her soul, had died 8 or 9 years ago and Ernie took a little while to figure out how to live on his own, but he was mostly fine with that. Bert, his best friend living next door, was always there. Close. Until he started forgetting.   when he faced moving in with Bert.

It was kind of quick. Just after Bert’s wife died, or, who knows? Maybe it had been coming on for a long time and Ernie had just not seen it. It got bad and living on his own became impossible. Ernie lay awake worried about Bert. For a long time he worried that he’d walk away from his house and get lost. Or, take the wrong medicine. Or…Then, like almost over one weekend a year ago their whole world twisted around like a pretzel and he and Bert and Bert’s son and Ernie’s children, came to the grand idea of the two of them moving in together. Bert was tickled. He was still somewhat “with it” a year ago. He just needed some help. Ernie, a less excited at the prospect, but relieved that there was going to be a solution to Bert’s forgetfulness. Ernie was not happy that the plan meant selling his house. Bert’s house had three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Ernie’s only had two bedrooms and if they were going to have a full-time attendant/cook/caretaker they’d need that extra bedroom. Ernie’s lament lasted a while as his things were packed away or sold or discarded if they didn’t fit easily into Berts house. They emptied tons of Bert’s stuff out as well, into the trash or off to Goodwill, but there were a few things that Ernie could not keep and he felt the loss deeply. His tools were mostly given away. Some of his art supplies were disposed of or packed in crates that made them difficult to get to. There was no real workbench over at Bert’s. Ernie had to do his crazy little art projects on a card table in the garage. It wasn’t steady enough to handle some of the sculptures or mosaics that Ernie still sometimes got around to doing. Still, he found energy enough, and will-power to do a project from time to time.)

Ernie: Oh my God! Looky here.

(Ernie is doing the dishes. He could let the aid do it. It was her job, but sometimes Ernie needed something to keep his hands busy. Watching TV and taking walks out in the humidity and heat didn’t make Ernie feel as good as a sink full of dinner dishes cleaned and draining in the rack.)

(Ernie is reaching into the drawer next to the sink. Out of the drawer he pulls the afore mentioned “Spork”.  He holds it up into the light of the ceiling mounted florescent lighting fixture. It is a dull, matt finish utensil but it glows a tiny bit as it is turned in the light)

Bert and Ernie together: “Lighter than Aluminum-Stronger than Steel”     

Their laughter fills the room, but it is short lived. Bert looks around the room like he’s just been dropped there from outer space and he’s trying to figure out where, exactly, he is.       

Ernie: Hey, Burt, you remember camping with the boy scout troop? You remember that rainy night when I thought I saw little people dancing around the fire pit in the middle of the night and how hard it rained.

(Bert focuses in on Ernie’s voice and tries to recall what he’s talking about.)

Ernie: I woke up in the tent and you were sound asleep. Jamie had gone out to take a pee and he just did it on top of the tent. Too lazy to go out to the tree line, or maybe scared that one of those wild hogs would come up and eat him up. Do you remember?

(Bert looks considerate but his mind wanders off quickly. Ernie looks off into space and keeps on telling the story. He’s told it a hundred times before but once he starts he can’t stop even though Bert has heard it before and he’s lost interest anyway.)

Ernie: Boy, that tent stunk from Jamie’s pee and I couldn’t sleep and at some point I lifted the ten flap to get some air in there. Out in the moonlight, I saw, around the fire ring, little people. Dancing.

(Bert comes back into focus listening to the story. Ernie continues)

Ernie: Little people dressed like, I don’t know, elves or little people from the circus.

Bert: Circus?

Ernie: Shoot! I don’t know. All I know is they were little and they were dancing around and around the campfire, which was dead out because it was pouring rain. And, all of a sudden one of them stops dancing and he’s looking straight back at me, peeking out of the tent flap. He’s looking at me and hooking his little finger at me like he’s calling me out to dance with them at the fire pit.

Bert: Wow! Did you go?

(Bert’s heard this story so many times he could recite it word for word but tonight he is listening like it is the first time he’s ever heard it.)

Ernie: Heck No! I was scared to death. I was rubbing my eyes and hoping it was not really happening and he would just disappear, but the little guy just stayed there, wiggling his finger like, “come on out here boy, and let’s dance.”  Finally I closed the flap determined to put up with the smell and get back to sleep, but I had a worse shock waiting for me inside the tent. I looked down in the dark and there, right next to me, was a rat.

Bert: Woah! A rat?

Ernie: yep! A big ol’ beady-eyed rat staring straight at me.

Bert: What did you do??

Ernie: Slowly, very slowly, I reached into the pile of clothes on the floor of the tent, next to me and pulled out a boot. I  Kept my eyes on that rat and I stared that rat down until it was perfectly still and went to wack it with the heel of the boot but at the last second as I swung to clobber it it made a run for the door. At least that’s what I thought.

Bert: You didn’t mash it?

Ernie: Nope, and a good thing too!

Bert: Why Ernie?

Ernie: because that “rat” turned out to be the luminous dial of Jamie’s boy scout wrist watch. I’d been looking at the watch and thinking it was a rat’s face but it was the glowing numbers and sweep second hand of his watch all the time. If I’da hit it I know I woulda busted Jamie’s hand for sure!

Ernie: I guess you don’t remember me tellin’ that story at the campfire after that?

Bert: Nope, Ernie. I don’t.

Ernie: No? Oh, man, I’ve told that story at just about every camping site we ever went to after that. Good story, Huh?

Bert: Yeah, good story.

Ernie: Yeah, everybody goes for that story.  Yeah. And what about the one about the “spork” Bert? Everybody loved that one too. Remember? And how they chanted “Lighter than Aluminum, and stronger than steel!” The boys loved it when you told them about the spork. How they called you “Sporkman” and chanted…right?

(across the room Bert had lain down. He was almost asleep. His breathing deepened and he snorted a couple of times, lightly, and then he was deeply asleep.)

Ernie: We should go camping again sometime soon. It’s been a long time, ya know?

(Ernie watched his friend for a few moments and then quietly left the room and closed the door. He wanted to cry. He wanted his old friend back again. He could get peeks of his old friend-just for a moment or two-infrequently, but he knew he was almost gone. Used up was the way he thought of it sometimes. Or kind of like how you can see little people dancing through the tent flap or a tiny animal’s face in the glow of a watch face but when you focus on it, you know it’ll disappear. He is glad his friend is safe. He is happy that he could make this last little bit of his life happy-or at least happier than if he’d been living in a home with no one he knew close by.

Ernie: Good night ol’ friend.

And then he went to the room he now called his own and crawled into his bed and thought about camping in the rain until he woke up the next day.

Where I Sleep When Liz Is Away

Where I Sleep When Liz Is Away

 

When Liz is not here,

I sleep on the sofa.

Just me and the dog and a movie on tv.

When our eyes begin to lower like flags of surrender,

and the night sounds surround us,

we zip up for the evening

just my dog and me.

The bed is just too wide for one lonely person.

The couch is just right for a dog and a person.

She squeezes behind me,

her hot-water-bottle body keeping me warm.

 

In the night,

when I need to pee,

I old-man shuffle and

quietly sneak out the patio door.

Not that there is anyone

I need to fear waking.

Just respect for the night time,

the crickets,

the quiet…

It is as close to camping

as I get any more.

Quietly back to the warmth

of my bag on the sofa

my bed-friend is waiting.

We arrange our jigsaw bodies

in the cushions and pillows.

Perhaps a few more “winks”

before the light of dawn.

 

Ten Thousand Jews

 

Ten Thousand Jews

I Moved the Scamp to a new storage place on Federal Hwy in Hobe Sound. Cost a bit more than “Roods” but Rood had no spot for us and I had to get it out of there by Friday.

I Went to a commercial storage facility with Stuart Fierman yesterday. It was located near his apartment and would have been convenient for me but it turned out to be mucho buckeroos...$$.

So Stu had a brainstorm and suggested we go to his “temple”.

Why, I asked?

How much were you prepared to pay for storage, he asked me?

I did the math for him. $75 a month x 4 or 5 months= about $300 for the season

Would you be willing to contribute $300 to the Temple to store it there, he asked me?

Uhhhh....I was stumped. I didn’t know what to say. Sounded weird to me, storing my travel trailer back behind the local synagogue??

Uhhhh, I guess, I said, but I dunno, Stu, sounds a little strange to me...just doesn’t feel right.

Just stick with me he assured me. Let me do all the talking, he said as he parked in front of the temple and we went into the air conditioned lobby.

If a good Jew (read: “person”) sees a man in need of help, he must help. That is the basis of Tsadacha or charity. Charity given freely is a mitzvah or law. Charity given freely and anonymously is a blessing. I am no expert on the subject but I believe there is a distinction to be made between Tsadacha and making a deal. Even if the deal benefits all parties it is still a deal! I am not fooling myself that this is charity we are talking about in this particular venture. It might benefit both myself and the temple but it doesn’t feel as good as charity should feel. I get the feeling that Stuart is thinking mitzvah and tax deduction. I am thinking “weird”.

Entering the temple office Stu smiled and joked around with a secretary sitting at her desk. He makes small talk with a couple of members of the temple milling about in the hallway. Stuart has a style all his own. He kibbitzed with Chet a guy I remembered from fifteen years ago when I hung out with Stu and members of the “Brotherhood”. I was building a project (Langone’s house) in North Palm Beach. I was fifteen hundred miles from home and a little bit lonely.  I attended the brotherhood monthly meetings and the pancake breakfasts. I helped them set up the succah and went out to early-bird dinners with them. I was made to feel like one of the guys. Being so far from my home and family it felt nice to belong. I’d thought of Chet as an old man back then and now he appeared ancient. He was a shrunken-in little guy whose head sat nested between his shoulders with no sign of a neck. His upper torso had sunken into his waist. He was six inches shorter than he’d been fifteen years ago. The effect of him waddling along in the halls of the temple made me think of a troll emerging from under a dark bridge. He wanted to talk. There was no time. The secretary of the temple wanted pictures of the Scamp trailer (which I was trying to retrieve from my i-phone). Stuart was pattering on about the benefits of my contribution to the temple. I was barely able to concentrate on the tasks at hand. Conversation with Chet was impossible right then. I felt guilty. I also felt conflicted with Stuart’s pretzel logic and fighting my own inclination to abandon the whole thing. But I am nothing if not in love with Stuart. He is like the older brother I never had. I would do anything for him, up to and including ignoring my own instincts and making an asshole of myself. 

We left the temple that morning with the understanding that the president of the temple would have to approve “the deal”. Later in the day the Rabbi’s blessing was also added to the list of required approvals. There is an old adage that if you have two Jews in a room and you ask them a question that you will get a minimum of three opinions. It is with that truism in mind that I knew this was a lost cause. I was secretly thankful. Thankful that the idiosyncrasies of Judaism would extricate me from my dilemma-to wit: how to back out of this deal without hurting my friend’s feelings.

So, I took the Scamp up to a boat and R.V. Storage facility in Hobe Sound. I decided not to wait for an answer from the president of the temple or a blessing from the rabbi. There will be other times when I can make a contribution to the temple. I will do so anonymously for the joy of giving, not for the purpose of parking my travel trailer. And I will appreciate my friend for his chutzpah and good will the likes of which you could not duplicate if you put ten thousand Jews in a room.

(To My Dear Friend, Stuart. I loved you. RIP)

 

Degrading the Neighborhood, One Train at a Time

Degrading the Neighborhood, One Train at a Time

Many years ago, the government was building highways, mammoth expressways, all over the country. It all began with the Pennsylvania Turnpike and morphed into the federal highway system. During the time of Dwight David Eisenhower this program exploded. Concrete ramps and long stretches of two and three lane highways connected the cities of the U.S. like so many pearls on a string. It became possible to travel at 55 or 65 miles per hour from Canada to Florida and California to Maine never touching down in local traffic, and bypassing most cities and towns entirely. America hailed the achievement and everybody hit the road. This was America dreaming big, building big and proud as hell about it.

What has this to do with trains you ask? A couple of things, but we’ll get back to that in a little bit.

Have you been having trouble hearing your TV lately as the Brightline trains come through? No biggie, just turn up the volume a little. How about sleeping? If you’re are near a Brightline crossing you might have noticed you are not sleeping as well as you used to. Maybe the blaring horns at 6:00am have shaken you out of a deep sleep, and you just couldn’t fall back to sleep. Maybe you went to work a little frazzled or realized you were getting “bent outta shape” with the wife or kids when you are usually so even tempered. Or, maybe you are the kind of person who accept what one cannot change but still…six trains at 7:00am all blasting the same four toot warning as they approach a crossing a quarter mile away? Is that something you want to live with? Do you have to?

This is where we go back to the highway system. Though it was almost universally accepted as a wonderful thing, there were some things that were not so great and some people who grew to dislike it. Here is why “progress” sometimes is not all it is cracked up to be. 

Traveling at 65 mph on one of the new ribbons of concrete and asphalt is great if you are in a hurry but not so great if you want to see things, learn about new places, meet local people in cities and towns. Small towns that once catered to travelers closed down. No one wanted to stop in the Mom and Pop motel or restaurant if they could cruise through the drive-through, grab a burger and get on their way again without touching the local traffic. New motel chains were built right next to the interstate. Pretty soon even the locals drove out to the highway and zipped over to the new Piggy Wiggly or K-Mart next to the off-ramp of I-95 and the old local, downtown grocery store closed up for good.

In many cases it was easier and cheaper to run the new interstate highways right through the heart of a city or town. Swaths of cities were condemned, homes and businesses demolished and the new highways were built, fenced in and unapproachable or up on pilings above the adjacent remaining buildings. The result was, you had a city or town divided. You had noise and smog and, usually, one side of the highway or the other became isolated and difficult to get to or live in. Blight set in. Crime and decay. Such was the case of the proposed construction of I-95 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. A scar path was created all the way from the top of Philly down the state line. A huge undertaking the construction included an off ramp at South Street and a long, straight highway from the Delaware River out to West Philly. This road would have been a “no man’s land” isolating the vibrant homes and businesses of South Philly from the historical Center City. The plan was approved. The banks stopped lending money on mortgages or for repairs on any buildings along the route. The value of the properties plunged.

This where I will try to explain why this road building project has something to do with the noise and congestion of the Brightline construction and operation. Just like the construction of the I-95 off ramp in Philadelphia the governmental officials and corporate interests of Brightline knew there would be a lot of noise and congestion once it was built. They held their meetings and the public put its “two cents” in, the approvals were granted and the tracks were laid. Now the people have to live with it. Or do they?

In Philadelphia a motivated group calling themselves the “South Street Renaissance” pursued a goal to “stop the I-95 off ramp”. They passed petitions. They called the government officials. They protested right down to the time when bulldozers were at the head of South Street ready to raze the first building, and, miracle of miracle, they stopped the construction. Government finally came around! But the real miracle is what is there today. South street and all of South Philly is a vibrant neighborhood, alive and fun and a great place to live and work. The mayor of Philadelphia, recognizing the efforts of the “South Street Renaissance” and the resultant positive effect of stopping the off ramp issued a proclamation on the 50^th anniversary of the group the “South Street Renaissance”, that worked so hard to make Philly a greater, happier place.

If you have a problem with the Brightline signal horns there is a possible solution. There is a mechanism that allows a local governmental body (the Martin County Board?) to apply to create a “quiet zone” and stop the horn signals on the Brightline trains. It is a Federal application and must be submitted by a local governmental body, not an individual. No amount of signatures on a petition will do the trick. No letters or protests against the trains or the Fed’s. The petitions and phone calls should go to the county politicos. They must understand the import of stopping these bothersome, and, perhaps unhealthy, noisy signals. If the folks in Philly could stop I-95, we can stop a few horns. What do you say?