For Ada

Ada's beautiful, inspirational struggle ended exactly one year ago. I'm spending this day in my rented condo on Navarre Beach, Florida, enjoying the first hints of fall in the air, thinking about our wonderful life together, our family and friends, our joys and our sorrows.

This will be the final entry in this blog. There is a certain symmetry in deciding to end this blog now and I've always been a big fan of symmetry. I like movies and stories that have an ending; I enjoy it when a news program is "wrapped up" by the correspondent; I dislike Picasso's lack of symmetry; I enjoy Hopper's use of it. I like symmetry and ending this blog exactly a year after my dear Ada's passing just feels right to me.

Those of you who have met Kate know that I have been joined by a wonderful companion, who, in her kind, gentle way, has helped me look back and look ahead. The rest of my immediate family, Josh, Matt, Cindy and the twins, are all pursuing their lives beautifully and bravely, despite their huge loss. Ada's brother Bob, his wife Judy, and their wonderful family, are all doing well, moving forward as we are all meant to do. Ditto for my brother Marvin, his wife, Sharon, and their awesome family.

So there isn't much more to be said about us; therefore, the remainder of this entry will be about Ada.

Ada was the best teacher I ever knew. She decided to become a teacher when she was in the fourth grade having been inspired by her own teacher. She never wavered from this goal. She mastered both the craft of teaching (the design of lessons, the jargon, the planning) and the art of teaching (interaction with students and colleagues, creating a learning environment, bringing joy to the process). To Ada teaching was more of a calling than a job or profession. Some people have said that I was pretty good at it. Believe me, I wasn't half the teacher Ada was. Not half.

As Ada became more ill and less able to eat, she became somewhat obsessed with The Food Network. There wasn't a cooking or food show on television that she wouldn't watch. It was as if the shows and their celebrity chefs were providing the only nourishment she could manage. She particularly loved Paula Dean and Giada de Laurentiis. I didn't care about Paula much but I sure didn't mind watching big-headed Giadda with Ada. Watching those rich, exotic foods being prepared and then trying to help Ada ingest a little tea and toast was certainly difficult. I will hate the phrase "pancreatic cancer" until the day I die. When I'm surfing the tv channels and come across Bobby Flay or Rachel Ray, I immediately think of Ada, weak, sleepy, bundled in an afghan, on our trundle bed in New Hampshire, smiling at me sadly, almost apologetically. Sorry, but that's what I see.

Ada loved golf with almost as much passion as I do. She came to it later in life, but had about 10 good years playing this maddening, addictive, beautiful game. When I turned 50 she surprised me with a trip to Myrtle Beach for the two of us. That was our first foray into the idea of a golfing vacation and after that, we were truly hooked. It wasn't long before we were planning golf trips to Florida, North and South Carolina, Georgia, California, Arizona, even Hawaii, Seattle and Utah. Ada loved the excitement and anticipation of playing a new course in pretty surroundings. We suffered through many a boring timeshare presentation because there was some free golf offered at the end of it. One of the best things we ever did was help originate the Mill-man Cup competition with our lifelong friends Rick and Janet Miller. I kept trying to come up with a format that would allow me to win the Mill-man, but Ada was the true Mill-man champion, winning the cup in over half of the competitions. What laughs we had over that damn Mill-man trophy. It's sitting on my tv stand right now and will go with me wherever I may live. Ada had a hole-in-one at The Country Club of New Hampshire in her second year of playing golf. Her scorecard that day was nothing to brag about except for that big ol' 1 on the sixth hole. Whenever I boasted about one of my golfing achievements, she would calmly say, "That's lovely, Joel, but did you have a hole-in-one today?"

Did I forget to mention she was pretty funny too?

Ada loved everything I loved: jazz, tennis, golf, Boston, the Aardvarks, the Red Sox, our kids and grandkids, our friends, Hanover, MA, Grantham, NH, youth soccer, lobster bisque at Kelly's in Weymouth, Thanksgiving, Port Clyde, Maine, average students who tried like hell, W. Yorkshire, England and Majorca, Spain, pizza, pan fried dumplings, Michael Connelly and strong coffee. She loved a couple of things I don't: figure skating and asparagus. That was pretty much it.

I'm moving forward and backward at the same time. Somehow, it doesn't feel like I'm staying in the same place.

Thank you for caring about me and my family. I do love you all.

Ain't life grand?
J

Ten Great Days

My past ten days have been wonderful. I hope yours have been as well, but since I don't know about yours, I'm going to have to blog about mine. That's the only way to guarantee accuracy. I know you'll understand.

This great stretch began with a much anticipated visit by Josh, Cindy, and the twins, Sam 'n Sara. I hadn't seen this wacky crew since late June at Ada's unveiling. I couldn't wait for these two 10-year-olds to take their first swims in the Gulf.

The sea was angry that day, my friends, and watching Sam and Sara laugh uncontrollably as the surf pounded them was one of those moments I'll file away for a less happy time. This much I have always known to be true: the innocent laughter of children is the strongest medicine there is. It was particularly gratifying to watch Sam play in the surf. He hasn't always been a fan of the water, but, as in so many other areas of his life, he has grown and learned and moved forward. This wonderful boy's "ceiling" gets higher every day. Sara, who doubles as Sam's twin sister and his other Mom, spent her time boogey boarding, shell picking, and herding Sam away from potential danger. The dynamics between these two munchkins are fascinating and I never tire of the interaction.

While Cindy amused herself picking out several amazing shells, Josh achieved a new personal milestone: most time spent in the water since his Aruba honeymoon way back in the last century. He waded out beyond the breakers and began floating. Not to brag, but the Getman males have always been known for their floating prowess. If there were a worldwide floating contest, a Getman male would undoubtedly float to the top of the competition. We are a very buoyant group.

Another highlight of the visit was a lovely breakfast with Kate. I was looking forward to introducing Kate to my family and they were eager to meet her. After some predictable initial shyness, the twins warmed up to Kate. Believe me, she's easy to warm up to. Josh and Cindy enjoyed meeting Kate as well, and all the initial awkwardness one would associate with this type of event dissolved into laughter and smiles, aided by a huge helping of Bananas Foster. This process will continue next month on our trip to New England. I know that Kate will enjoy meeting my wonderful family and friends and they will enjoy meeting her. There are precedents for this sort of thing: Yaz taking over for Himself in left field; Cowens for Bill Russell; Leno for Carson, etc...Your love and reverence for the original doesn't prevent you from loving and appreciating the uniqueness of the newcomer. Friends, it doesn't have to be complicated.

After some hair-raising adventures on a Waverunner, during which Cindy proved to be the only real daredevil in the group, it was time to say goodbye to this wonderful crew and start the next portion of this great stretch: a road trip with Kate to Asheville, NC to see Matt, his wonderful friend Audrey, and to hear Matt play his usual Wednesday night gig at Mo'Daddy's Bar. Kate was a little trepidatious about this jaunt because it involved a side trip through Atlanta to spend the night at her brother Bob's place. Having lived for a time in suburban Atlanta, Kate was somewhat nervous about driving through or even around this city, noted for its crazy drivers and its crazier traffic disasters. I think she was leery of showing me her "traffic side." I told her not to worry. After all, I grew up in Boston, the proud home of the worst, rudest, and craziest drivers this side of the Baja 500. I told her that nothing she could do would shock me or put me off. She said, "Don't be so sure."

All of Kate's fears were unfounded as she behaved admirably through a few ticklish traffic situations and we arrived at Bob's lovely home unscathed and undented. Even Kate's cursing was gentle, and, usually more playful than malicious. A quality driver for sure.

A lovely visit with Bob and his wife, Pam, was followed by a relatively stress-free drive to beautiful Asheville, Matt's home since his departure from Vermont in February. To say that Matt has landed on his feet in Asheville would be a tremendous understatement. In every possible way this relocation has been a positive one for him. Musically, socially, emotionally, whichever way you want to dissect it, Matt's moving to Asheville was a great decision. Think about it: Ada's beautiful battle and her passing last October led both Matt and me to leave all that we "knew" behind to venture out into unknown territories. We have both landed on our feet, have found wonderful companionship, and have carved out new, exciting, fulfilling lives. Ada's example continues to inspire those who love her the most.

We hooked up with Matt and his lovely friend, Audrey, for dinner. This was a double-whammy: Matt wanting us to meet Audrey and me wanting them to meet Kate. It turned out to be a tremendous evening: lots of laughs and good feelings all around. Audrey is a wonderful person and Matt's feelings for her are strong and justified. As usual, everyone loved Kate. Great stuff indeed.

After dinner, we headed down the street to Mo'Daddy's to hear Matt play with his usual Wednesday night jazz group. You can learn all about Matt's musical ventures by going to his cool website: www.ashevillesax.com. Matt was particularly excited to have us there because his group was being augmented this night by Grammy Award winner Kofi Burbridge, an excellent flute and keyboard player. It was quite late, so we only stayed for a set, but I can state unequivocally that Matt is a killer tenor player. After a tremendous amount of practice and dedication, he has advanced to the point where "mastery" is a real possibility. What a joy to watch and listen to. I know his Mom hears and cherishes every note, as do I.

The next day, Kate and I toured the famous Biltmore Estate, a beautiful testimony to what you can build if you are lucky enough to have been born into a ridiculously wealthy family, the Vanderbilts. A wonderful lunch featuring one of the top five hamburgers of my life was followed by a beautiful ride to one of Kate's "holy" places, The Great Smoky Mountains National Park in nearby Tennessee. Kate has visited these beautiful mountains, meadows, and streams many times, often with one or more of her sons in tow. She never tires of the simple beauty of the park. The pictures above barely scratch the surface. I felt honored to be allowed "in" to a place that holds so much power for Kate. The Smoky Mountains are both majestic and gentle at the same time; the stories of the hardy settlers are both inspirational and sad; the woods are both inviting and dangerous. As we drove through a portion of Cade's Cove, we stopped to see a mother black bear watch over her two playful cubs as they tried to climb a tree. Beautiful from afar, dangerous up close, a place filled with contradictions. Experiencing it through Kate's eyes was a wonderful, humbling experience. I feel quite sure that we will get back here for more inspiration.

So those were my last ten days.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

That Whole Jewish Thing...

I was frankly wondering if and/or when I would have to confront antisemitism down here. Last Saturday, on the 16th hole of the Hidden Creek Golf Club I was given the opportunity. Warning: this blog entry is not one of the funny ones.

First some “deep” background.

I'm not a religious person. Religion was more or less forced on me when I was a child. Like many of the other Jewish kids in Dorchester/Mattapan, I attended Hebrew School for six years every Monday through Thursday after school and again on Sunday mornings. It was a weird Hebrew language cum Old Testament curriculum. On Saturday mornings I attended children's services. That was a whole lot of time and effort devoted to making me religious. Sadly, it didn't take. Even the enticement of Charleston Chews was not enough to make me want to attend services.

But don't get me wrong. Despite my disdain for the divisiveness of most organized religions, I'm extremely proud to be Jewish. I love the Jewish tradition of philanthropy and the bravery and heart of Israel. I enjoy the food and the comedians. When Ada passed, I had to find a Rabbi to officiate since I had no affiliation with any synagogue. Rabbi Edward Boraz of the Roth Center at Dartmouth proved to be the kind of decent, compassionate clergyman who would be a credit to any denomination. His gentle, consoling words will never be forgotten by our family.

So I'm not one of those sad, self-loathing, antisemitic Jews. I've never hidden my religious background; nor have I flaunted it. Ada and I never felt the need, as some Jewish people do, to live and/or work among other Jewish people. We just didn't care about having that kind of security or protection. We made our home in Hanover, MA, which had very few Jewish families, as did our respective school systems. We raised Josh and Matt in a "Jewish-lite" kind of way, allowing each of them to decide for himself how much to get involved in religion. We retired to Grantham, NH, not exactly the Borscht Belt. Frankly, our religion or lack of it just didn't come up very often. We did our jobs, raised our kids, made our friends, and lived our lives. Our religion just wasn't a big part of the picture.

This next part is a little tough for me to write. Over the years I experienced a handful of antisemitic incidents. Perhaps incidents is the wrong word; they were more like moments. They were in the category of offhand remarks, not overtly confrontational. They never involved friends, just acquaintances of the time. Frankly, I'm fuzzy on the details, but they were situations when I should have spoken up but didn't. I've been chronically non-confrontational most of my life and simply decided that I wouldn't “make a big thing” out of it. Like countless Jewish people before me, I simply swallowed my anger and embarrassment, and decided to move on, grateful to have discovered something about the ignorami in question before I had really befriended them. I'm not at all proud of this approach or this desire to just get along, but there it is.

All of which brings us to the 16th tee at the Hidden Creek Golf Club last Saturday. I was in a foursome that had been thrown together. None of us had met any of the others before. We were having a good round, each of us experiencing both triumph and tragedy on the course. The conversation was pleasant and typical of the surroundings. At some point one of the foursome revealed that he had spent many years working homicides in Miami, certainly not your average occupation. He told us the story of a mob lawyer he knew who was blown up in his car when his clients felt he hadn't done a very good job defending one of them. The lawyer had a Jewish name.

This revelation prompted one of the other members of the foursome, we'll call him Pete, to say the following: “There's nothing Jews won't do for money.”

So there it was, the classic antisemitic stereotype. Obviously, I had a choice to make: confront it or ignore it. I decided quickly to confront it. Why confront it now when I might have ignored it in the past? I've been asking myself that these last few days. I'm quite sure that witnessing Ada's brave and beautiful struggle had something to do with my decision. After seeing what Ada courageously took on, how could I ever back away from a legitimate confrontation? I'm also quite sure that recent conversations I've had with Kate, conversations about her willingness to confront someone when she felt wronged in some way, helped me make my decision.I thought about the example I would want to set for my children and grandchildren. In the end, there really was no choice but to confront Pete. Believe me, I'm not trying to make myself sound like a hero; I don't see anything heroic in simply letting people know where you stand. It's just that this represents a new and long overdue "approach" for me.

I said, “Pete, I'm Jewish and that's about the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

“You're Jewish? You've got to be kidding.”

“No. I'm Jewish and very proud to be.”

He seemed a bit nonplussed and mumbled something about Christ and the fact that the Holocaust showed that Jews weren't willing to fight for their own survival. Frankly, what he said was so illogical and ridiculous I was momentarily speechless.

There was kind of an awkward silence, at which point he said, “Hey, man, you're not taking me seriously, are you?”

As a lifelong jester, I know when someone is serious and when he isn't. Pete had been serious when he said those things, but was now backtracking to try and end this unpleasant interlude. I told him that yes, I was taking the very ridiculous and absurd things he was saying seriously, but if he says he was joking, then I would just have to assume that he had a very strange and bizarre sense of humor.

And that was that. He apologized and offered his hand. I shook it. After the round was over, he approached me and hugged me.

Obviously I could have drawn the confrontation out. Maybe I should have. But to what end? Was I going to be able to convince Pete that the Jewish stereotypes he grew up with and still chose to believe were false? I doubt that anything I could have said or argued would have had any lasting effect. No, I decided that it was enough for me to have declared myself a proud member of a proud people and just leave Pete to his ignorant beliefs.

One of the other two players quietly told me how ridiculous he felt Pete was. I thanked him, but was disappointed he hadn't spoken up publicly. The other player said nothing, which may indicate something and may not. After all, in the past that might have been my choice also.

So what does all this mean? Probably not much in the grand scheme of things. Are there any more people like Pete down here? Certainly. Are any of them golfers at my club? Probably. Are there lots of fair-minded people here as well? Of course. In other words Navarre, FL is just like anyplace else you could name; it is inhabited mostly by kind, decent people and, to a lesser degree, by jerks. I'll draw my own conclusions as I interact with them one by one.

And when the jerks say something ignorant, I promise to offer up a challenge. I will never again allow someone to say something offensive or hurtful in my presence without making sure he or she knows where I stand.

Life is too short for needless bickering. It is also too short for laying down when the situation calls for standing up. You just never know where your odyssey will take you.

I can feel Ada nodding.

Much love,
J

Updates

I thought I'd send out some updates on recent developments.

1. Kate

Our friendship has grown by leaps and bounds since that first awkward dinner in March. We enjoy our time together and look forward to each visit and new adventure. We've been making some interesting plans for trips, etc. Coming up in a couple of weeks will be a trip to Asheville, NC to see Matthew playing at his regular Wednesday night jazz gig at Mo' Daddy's Bar. It will be wonderful to see Matt in his "element" and he's looking forward to meeting Kate. We're eager to meet Matt's new friend, Audrey. Love is in the air; what can I say?

The next day, after we visit the magnificent Biltmore Estate in Asheville, we'll drive the 60 or so miles to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. This will be a very special trip because, as far as I know, there has never been a Getman who has set foot in Tennessee! Actually, this magnificent area resonates with Kate and she wants to share it with me. I'm putty in her hands.

In late September Kate and I will be traveling to Boston, Grantham, NH, and Montreal. It will be my first opportunity to show Kate my "roots" and have her meet many of my South Shore and New Hampshire friends and family, including dinner at my brother Marvin's and sister-in-law Sharon's place in Lexington. It will be great to see them again. One of the many highlights of the trip will be the brisket luncheon my sister-in-law, Judy Ernest, has planned for us on September 24. Brisket at Bob and Judy's is one of the great culinary experiences in the galaxy. It's right up there with a hard salami sandwich at the G&G or a hot fudge sundae at Brigham's.

Of particular interest will be a trip we have planned for early December. We've enrolled in a "Road Scholar" (formerly Elderhostel) program entitled "The Cajun Experience." The five-day program will take place at the university in Lafayette, Louisiana which is the epicenter of Cajun culture. In addition to the history of the Acadians and their famous trek from Canada, the program will focus on Cajun music, lifestyle, and cuisine. We're both looking forward to learning something about this interesting group of people, including how to do the two-step.

2. Coco

That's her picture above. She's Kate's impossibly neurotic Shitzu. Kate, a lifelong dog lover, rescued Coco from a very bad puppy mill situation. Damage had been done and it took Kate both a long time and a lot of tenderness to get Coco to trust her. While she is still skittish (Coco, not Kate), she is much more comfortable under Kate's loving care. The roll of thunder or the sound of passersby can still terrify her (Coco, not Kate), but a quick tummy rub and a slice of salami will usually calm her down (Coco, not Kate).

The other day for the first time Coco allowed me to pet her. Time and love are both great healers.

3. My Acting Career

The first performance of "Cookin' It" will take place next week at The Boys and Girls Club of Pensacola.

We're not ready. Not even close.

One member of the cast is having a very hard time remembering his lines. He probably should be spending more time reading his script and less time reading the greens at his golf club. The same cast member is simply an awful dancer, make that a hideous dancer, surgically repaired knee notwithstanding. He had no idea there would be dancing when he signed up for the project. Some of the other cast members were at first shocked at his ineptitude. They thought that even just by accident and the law of averages, he would be bound to get some of the steps right. They know now that he defies the law of averages and are now simply amused at his awkward moves, lunges, and hand movements. Amused and aghast. The director has given up trying to improve this unfortunate situation and has decided to change her name and salvage some of her damaged reputation.

Watch the national news programs next Friday, August 13, to see if there is some kind of walkout or riot at The Boys and Girls Club of Pensacola.

I'm psyched for the cast party!

4. Josh, Cindy and the Twins

This awesome crew is coming down for a long weekend on August 20. It will be their first trip to see "Grampy" in his new environment. Needless to say, Grampy is bursting with excitement and pride at the thought of seeing his family. I can't wait for the twins to experience swimming in the Gulf of Mexico. They both love the water, and the beauty of the Gulf here is staggering. So far, no tar balls here, thank goodness. Josh and Cindy will get a chance to sweat more than they ever thought humanly possible, so we have that going for us. Naturally, I'm looking forward to having Kate meet all of them.

As is Ada.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

The Heat

Late breaking news: this part of Florida is hot.

It's hot at 11 pm and it's hot at 6 am.

I don't have any direct knowledge about 2 am, but I bet it's hot then too.

I'm told by some veteran Panhandlers that I ain't seen nothing yet. August and even September are usually hotter than hot.

Back in April, when some well-meaning Panhandlers were warning me about the inevitable heat assault I was about to experience, I scoffed and said "Bring it on!"

I thought, "Here is one Yankee who can take it. I've experienced 95 degrees and I've experienced minus 20 degrees and I'll take 95 every time."

Talk about hubris! What was I thinking? Sure I've experienced 95 degrees. A day here or a day there, but never for months at a time with no let up.

It sucks the life out of you.

And I'm chafed. I'm powdering much more than I ever used to. Not to be any more disgusting than I have to be, but there are portions of my nether-world that could use a couple of crisp New England fall days! I hope that doesn't make me a bad person!

I prefer to walk when I play golf, but in this heat it's a real challenge. If I don't start my round by 8 am, there is no way I can walk the course and stay upright after 18 holes. On a couple of occasions, I have been putting and trying to decide which one of the three balls I was staring at was the genuine article. Then I had to decide which of the two holes looming before me was the actual one. There is plenty of drinking water available on my course, Hidden Creek, and I bet I drink ten or twelve containers of water during a typical round.

Luckily, there are several bathrooms placed on the course, but that may be more than many of you wanted to know.

Not to mention the chafing issue!

The intense heat combined with the heavy humidity tends to rob me of my desire to get anything done. A trip to the grocery store seems like an Everest expedition. Even climbing up the three flights of stairs to my condo takes all the energy I can muster. Who lived here before air conditioning and why?

I saw some roofers the other day putting the finishing touches on a new house. How they can function on top of a hot roof in weather like this is beyond my ability to understand, like the speed of light or the theory of relativity.

I bet they're chafed.

Tonight after dinner, about an hour before sunset, I decided to head down to the Gulf (a couple of blocks from my condo) and grab a swim. The Gulf waters were as warm as a baby's bath, but when I stood up in the roiling surf, the late afternoon breezes caught me and, for just a brief moment, I was....cold.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

My Acting Career

I'm an actor.

Many of you have known that for years but it was never official.

It is now.

I was chosen from a tremendous throng of auditioners to play the coveted role of Farmer Mark in the blockbuster hit, "Cooking It", scheduled to open in an Escambia County (Pensacola) elementary school this fall.

OK, it wasn't a throng of auditioners, it was more of a mob.

OK, it wasn't a mob, it was very similar to a group.

Fine. There were two of us and we both got the gig. We'll alternate. (But take my word for it, I'm better.)

Nevertheless, it's very exciting for me to resume my acting career at age 63. I say resume because my very promising acting career was cut short sometime around 1962 when the long-awaited production of "West Side Story" scheduled to open at the Hecht House Jewish Community Center was canceled due to the inability of any of the primary actors or actresses to become Puerto Rican. I was going to play Officer Krupke, so don't blame me.

Undaunted by the cancellation, I diligently honed my acting craft at Temple University where for four years I played the role of "someone who was glad to be in Philadelphia." Very challenging!

As a teacher, I worked on my "method" when I took on the role of "someone who cared whether you did your homework." In actuality, I didn't. That's called acting, friends.

There were other roles over the years. Perhaps the most challenging was that of an overweight, bald, middle-age Jewish man. With all the fanatical dedication of a De Niro, I gained 40 pounds and willed myself bald. I was already Jewish, so that part was a breeze. Unfortunately, the part was given to Wilford Brimley and Dom DeLouise, who eventually passed it on to Abe Vigoda. I kept the weight on just in case I was needed to fill in. Acting is in my blood; what can I say?

All of which brings us to the role of Farmer Mark in "Cooking It!" There is no question that this will be my most challenging role to date. The point of the play, which is being underwritten by a grant, is to teach children the benefits of good nutrition and healthy eating habits. My character has a produce wagon and is trying to convince the students to eat fruits and vegetables. Another character, a sexy female named Sugar, tempts the students with donuts, candy, etc. In the end, with the help of a couple of vegetable puppets named Sprout and Broc, good nutrition triumphs over Sugar, and my Rainbow Produce Farm is open for business.

Obviously, it will take an Olivier-esque effort to convince a group of fifth graders that I've ever even been in the same room as a vegetable. If any of the little bas--rds have read this blog, the entire suspension of disbelief will have been suspended.

To prepare for this role, I am going to spend an hour each day in the produce section of my local Winn-Dixie. If that raises any eyebrows, I may be forced to buy something. When I visit Kate, I am only going to bring one donut from Destin's famous Donut Hole Restaurant. Hopefully, she won't notice the powdered sugar residue from the one I ate in the car. I'm going to study the fine art of makeup and costuming to see if I can look like I've lost 40 pounds.

Of course the bane of any actor's existence is the need to memorize lines. While there is no one who respects the written word more than I, (Hey, I'm a blogger for goodness sake) there is very little chance that what I say during a performance will have any connection to the lines as written by the playwrights.

The most I can promise is I'll be in the ballpark.

We call that improvising.

I've been doing it full time since October 1, 2009.

Break a leg and much love,
J

A Fish Called Wanda

The excellent relationship Kate and I have developed has progressed to the point where she recently asked me to care for her fish, Wanda.

I reluctantly agreed.

I don't have the greatest track record with pets.

This request was necessitated by the fact that Kate was leaving the area for about a week to visit family in Jacksonville and Atlanta. She had made arrangements to board her wonderfully neurotic Shitzu, Coco; however, there were no takers for Wanda so I became the best of a bad set of options.

"Kate," I said, "I'll do my best, but you have to understand that there is every chance that when you return in a week or so, Wanda will be 'sleeping with the fishes'."

"Are you going to deliberately slay Wanda?" she asked.

"No. I love Wanda with all my heart, or at least that portion of my heart dedicated to slimy, nasty creatures who live in bowls. It's just that..."

I then proceeded to tell Kate about my family's pet history. I told her about our first pet, Mouse, an incredibly muscular and intensely stupid Alaskan Malamute who allowed us to live with him in our homes in Weymouth and Hanover. I think if our pet history had begun and ended with Mouse it would have been a much better history then it turned out to be. Mouse loved Josh, Matt, and Ada, but wasn't all that fond of me. Walking Mouse was like trying to harness a tornado. And like a tornado, there was much destruction and devastation. Rather than show remorse for the chaos and heartache he caused on a daily basis, Mouse just smiled. That's right, the crazy Malamute would smile! To this day I've never seen anything like it. You know how most dogs get that heart-wrenching sad look on their faces when you scold them? Not good ol' Mouse. He would just smile at you as if he were saying, "Yes, I just wrecked your formerly screened in porch...and I'll do it again!" Still, Mouse hung in there with us for about 14 years. His quiet end was met with tears from Josh, Matt, and Ada. I was busy repairing the screens.

It's our family's post-Mouse pet period that is...questionable...to say the least. We went through a series of dogs, each of whom met a mysterious end. First there was Sally the Pally, a nondescript mutt whom we rescued from the local humane society. I don't have many memories of Sally either good or bad because she just upped and disappeared one day. The strange thing is, I don't think anyone in the family really noticed. I don't remember any frantic searches in the neighborhood or calls to the police or handmade posters on telephone poles. Sally just didn't make any impression on us. She probably sensed that which would explain her disappearance. Sally, we hardly knew ye!

Undaunted after the Sally episode, we returned to the humane society to take stewardship of Homer, another mutt of questionable character and ancestry. We dubbed him "Homer the Hose Hound" because of his charming propensity to urinate anywhere and at any time he pleased. We kept a carpet cleaning company on retainer during the brief but exciting Homer period. Homer had another interesting quirk. He loved to bite anyone crazy enough to deliver the newspaper to our home. There are at least three members of one newspaper-delivering family who sport ankle scars to this day thanks to Homer-the-Newspaper-Delivery-Person-Bitin'-Hose-Hound. After the third incident we had to make a decision: cancel the newspaper or cancel Homer. We chose the latter. I packed him in the car for his final walk down the green mile. Dead dog walkin'. Euthanasia seemed like the kindest option for Homer. Certainly it was the kindest option for the newspaper delivery family! However, the vet mentioned that he might be able to farm Homer out to a rural family that works with troubled pets. That sounded good to me. I didn't ask Homer's opinion. He was busy urinating.

After the Homer fiasco, there was a gap in our pet stewardship. We would make occasional attempts at the humane society, but, somehow, the dogs there had heard about us and were reluctant to be adopted. Instead of that sad, "Please take me home" look, they would affect a blank stare. It was as if they were trying to become invisible, like students in my English classes who didn't want to be called upon.

Eventually we did find a pup who evidently hadn't gotten the word on us. This was Panda, an incredibly cute and loving black and white something or other. Panda was a return to pet normalcy for us. She loved Matt and Josh. She was playful and perky, cute and cuddly. She was also dead within six months. She ran under the wheels of a car that was circling our cul de sac. The car was going about two miles an hour so there is only one sad conclusion: a clear case of puppy-cide. We'll never know why Panda felt that this was a better alternative to living with the Getmans. She didn't leave a note.

What a tragedy it would have been if our pet life had ended with Panda's sad demise. Happily, I can report that E.B., a border collie mix from East Bank, West Virginia (hence the name) was just about the best pooch anyone ever had the privilege of sharing a house with. E.B. came to us though the Willett family. Bob was the long time principal of my school and one of his daughters had rescued the infant E.B. from a tough family situation in Appalachia. When Bob asked if we'd be willing to adopt E.B., we reluctantly agreed. What a fortunate decision that was! For the next 12 years, E.B. delighted us with her love, her keen sense of herding, and her distaste for sheep. Her classic border collie looks prompted us to learn about this remarkable breed and to attend several border collie trials. What remarkable creatures they are! Anyone who has seen the movie "Babe" knows what these fine dogs are capable of. And while not pure bred, E.B. demonstrated many of the stellar qualities of the border collie line. Probably the only area she came up a little short on was intelligence. But, hey, we weren't a family of geniuses either!

Cancer took E.B. as it did her beloved mistress. Two very sad days for all concerned.

So maybe now you can understand why I was a little reluctant to take on the responsibility of caring for Wanda. God forbid Kate ever asks me to care for neurotic Coco!

Of course, it would make for a pretty good blog!

Love your pets,
J

The Nostalgia Tour

In the great film "Field of Dreams," the James Earl Jones character delivers a beautiful speech about the nostalgic power of baseball. He says, "Baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and could be again...People will come, Ray. People will most definitely come." As I get older and the balance between "good old days" from the past and great days that await me in the future is tipping noticeably toward the former, I find that there are places from all of my former lives that are particularly rife with the sweet sadness of nostalgia.

The photo above is one of them.

It is the beach at "X" Street in Hull, MA. I visited a fine old friend there recently during my travels in New England. Admittedly, this tiny piece of the North Atlantic is not much as far as beaches go. The water is cold, usually right up to Labor Day, the rocks make walking difficult, the water color and clarity are frankly not the measure of my beautiful Navarre Beach in Florida (at least they weren't until the BP disaster); nevertheless, the memories that enveloped me when I walked up to that beach and visited the old house just before it were thick and warm, like a perfect handmade quilt.

Ada and I spent many wonderful days and nights at that house and on that beach. We were 15 or 16, in love or what passes for love at that age, surrounded by friends and The Friedmans, the very welcoming and wonderful family who "took us in" for several summers when we were finishing up high school and getting ready to go off to college.

Ada was good friends with the Friedmans' daughter, Harrie. Harrie's wonderful younger sister, Marcy, was also living there as were Pearl and Dave, Harrie's remarkable parents. Imagine having the patience, to say nothing of the generosity, to host a group of know-it-all, wiseguy teenagers day after day for several summers. The food bill alone would be enough to make you want to board the place up and never come back. But Pearl and Dave welcomed us and, even more remarkably, valued us, engaged us in conversation, sought our opinions, challenged us to think, laughed with and at us, provided me with huge quantities of aged salami, and, most of all, taught us by their wonderful example. Idyllic doesn't even come close to describing how I feel when I think back to those summer days at X Street. Marcy, a magnificent singer and musician who is based in New York City, has kept the house up all these years and manages to spend some time there with Harrie and family each summer, renting it out the rest of the year. When I approached the house recently to catch up with Marcy, I could literally feel 45 years slip away. I was sitting in a place that FORMED me. I am who and what I am partly because of that house, that beach, and that family. It was a powerful moment, especially because the person I shared those days with is no longer by my side. Bittersweet for sure.

Here is a partial list of some of the stuff that happened at that wonderful old house:

1. Ada, under the tutelage of Pearl, became one of the world's most vicious Scrabble players. She almost never lost and took great pride in her ability to make me crazy with her defensive tactics.

2. Also under Pearl's gentle coaxing, I discovered the remarkable beauty in a Louis Armstrong solo or an Ella Fitzgerald ballad. There was always music in that house and it was beautiful, powerful music. I have loved it ever since. I am happy to say that I have passed this love on to my children and grandchildren.

3. I found out I could make adults laugh. Pearl and Dave helped me develop and tweak my sense of humor to the point where I was not afraid to throw my two cents into adult conversations. My ideas and thoughts, no matter how lame, were always treated with respect. I'm quite sure that this remarkable example served me in very good stead during my 31 years in a junior high classroom.

As is the custom, when I visit Ada's grave for the unveiling, I will be placing several stones on her marker. One of them will come from the beach at X Street, a place where we grew up, loved each other, and became who we were.

Some day in the near future I hope Kate and I can visit this and other New England places that provide me with such warm feelings of nostalgia. I hope she likes who I was.

Ain't life grand?

Love to you all,
J

An Unveiling

As I prepare to undertake a 3500 mile road trip back to Massachusetts, children, grandchildren, my family, Ada's family, great friends, and a small, beautiful Jewish cemetery in Lebanon, NH, I realize how far I've come emotionally these past three months or so.

Previously I would have labeled this trip "Going Home" but now, frankly, it feels like I'm leaving home. I live on the Florida Panhandle, not on the South Shore, not in the beautiful community of Eastman in Grantham, NH. I'm a Floridian now. That much is clear to me.

In just a few short months I've settled into this magnificent part of the country. I find myself caring about SEC football. How's 'Bama gonna be this year? Roll Tide! Think we can repeat? What about them Gators? Auburn and Ole' Miss can just go to hell! Go Dawgs!

I'm devastated by what's taking place on the Gulf. It will affect the livelihoods of thousands of people for years to come. I feel their pain not as an onlooker or a vacationer but as a neighbor.

I'm starting to expand my diet to include more seafood. A grouper po' boy sounds good to me, not too exotic or too country, just good. I'm looking forward to trying etouffee.

At my golf club I'm beginning to be known. I've got some "regulars" with whom I look forward to playing. I'm comfortable enough around them that I can bust their chops in the age-old golfer's fashion. I enjoy it when they give it back to me, which they certainly do...often!

I'm a three-hour's drive from New Orleans and will undoubtedly tour that fine old city one day as many residents of The Panhandle do. I'm established with a local doctor and a local dentist, both of whom are terrific, easy going professionals. Neither went to Harvard or Tufts but, evidently, there are other institutions that offer medical and dental degrees. Who knew?

When Kate and I head over to the bar of the Acme Oyster House near Kate's Sandestin home, the bartender already knows our order. A dozen grilled Apalachicola oysters, some crusty bread to sop up the juices, and a chardonnay and we're good to go.

Of course I haven't entirely abandoned everything I was before I landed here. Nor should I. I still live and die with all the Boston sports teams, and I always will. I read the Globe online each morning to see which Massachusetts legislator is about to be indicted, (although usually not on murder charges as was one of the county commissioners down here recently) I watch MSNBC regularly in the evenings and find Rachel Maddow to be particularly excellent. I seriously doubt there are many other "Panhandlers" tuned to that channel in the evening: Kate and I, an army of two! My friends will always be my friends. You know who you are.

There can be no doubt that having Kate in my life has made this transition much easier than it would have been otherwise. While Kate has spent a good part of her adult life in other parts of Florida, she is a relative newcomer to this part of the state. Family ties brought her to the area and it didn't take long for her to learn what The Panhandle has to offer. She's eager to share some of her "hidden gems" with me and I am a very willing student.

The title of this blog refers to the primary reason for my journey back to New England. As is customary in Jewish tradition, Ada's grave marker will be unveiled. Ada's brother, Bob, has prepared a beautiful service, and he will officiate. This will happen at noon on Sunday, June 20, at the Upper Valley Jewish Cemetery in Lebanon, NH. Some people view these unveilings as difficult ceremonies that force the loved ones to relive the funeral and all the grief that went with it.

I don't feel that way. Ada's unveiling is an opportunity for me and our family to take stock of where we are nine months after our dear Ada passed and to remind ourselves about what a wonderful person we lost.

Any opportunity to do both of those activities is fine with me.

Ada, Kate, and The Opera

I recently purchased 2 season tickets to the Pensacola Opera Company. Lest you think that extravagant, you must understand that this company only performs two operas a season. This year they are performing "Little Women" in January and Puccini's remarkable "Turandot" in March.

There was a method to my madness.

Kate had said that she was a fan of opera and if the opportunity presented itself, she would love to attend a performance. While I am not a total opera buff per se, I am completely mesmerized by "Turandot". I've listened to the entire opera countless times and have even tried to sing the classic aria "Nessun Dorma" (in Pavarotti's key no less) in the shower. Without being overly graphic, let's just say that this was not a good idea and one shouldn't try this at home. I received a not so gentle reminder that Pavarotti is Pavarotti for a reason and, even though I was a star tenor in the Boston Latin School Glee Club, there are certain limitations to my vocal range.

I walked with a limp for a month!

But I digress. When I called Kate to tell her that I had ordered the tickets for these two operas, she was thrilled. So was I because it meant that we had to remain a "couple" at least until March 11, the "Turandot" performance. I told her that on March 12 she can leave me by the side of the road, but not until then. Kate was kind enough to tell me that she didn't envision that happening, and that these tickets could serve as her March birthday present. Sweet!

Come to think of it, I wish they had had the 2012 season for sale.

I'm excited about this for another more personal reason. During much of our wonderful marriage, Ada and I took in all the live music we could. When we lived in Massachusetts, we took full advantage of the Boston concert scene, especially at the great jazz club The Regattabar in Cambridge. We saw all the jazz greats there over the years and had many wonderful evenings out with friends. We also attended numerous symphonic concerts and live plays. In New Hampshire we subscribed each year to the Hopkins Center concert series at Dartmouth. Again, we would take in seven or eight great concerts a year by world class jazz and classical performers. However, the last couple of years were difficult in many ways. We would have purchased tickets ahead of time for a particular concert and then would not be able to go for one reason or another. We certainly didn't mind giving the tickets away when that happened, but it was a source of frustration to be under the "control" of the disease to that extent. Eventually, we stopped buying tickets figuring it was better to not plan to go in the first place than to plan to go and have to cancel. It breaks my heart when I remember how hard Ada tried to rally in those circumstances and how disappointed she was when she had to cancel.

I know it pleases Ada to see me buying tickets for live performances again. It's just one more obstacle overcome. When Kate and I take our seats at Pensacola's Saenger Theater in January and again in March, Ada will be standing off to the side smiling and we'll all be on our feet cheering after Nessun Dorma.

No more cancellations.

Much love,
J

...and now, the rest of the story

For the benefit of those of you who live north of the Suwanee River, the photograph above is a photo of grits. The photograph was taken on Wednesday, May 12 at Caroline's Restaurant in Apalachicola, Florida.

I didn't order them. I wouldn't order them.

Kate would and did.

The photo above was followed quickly by another photo: a photo of me sampling the grits. It is a disturbing image and, owing to the requirements of good taste, was not included in this blog.

You see, there is a reason that grits are called grits. They are gritty. If they were not gritty, they would be called "little pieces of velvet" or "puffy clouds that have descended to Earth" or some such. But they are not called either of these. They are called grits and they are just nasty.

Why am I using this valuable space to proclaim my distaste for grits? Because I wanted all of you to know how far Kate and I have come in our relationship.

She got me to try grits.

I would have even swallowed them if she had insisted. That's huge, people!

I mentioned that we were in Apalachicola, Florida during grit-gate. The trip was mostly Kate's idea. She said that this sleepy town was a charming piece of a beautiful section of Florida known as The Forgotten Coast. She was right. The town is located where the Apalachicola River empties into the Gulf of Mexico. It's not a pretty town by most standards. It's a working town. Shrimpers and oyster gatherers work hard up and down the river and in the bay. Farther upriver beekeepers gather their famous Tupelo Honey. Mingling with this hard-bitten crowd are tourists like us who want to go someplace in Florida that's REAL and not at all Disney-fied.

The Apalachicola River Inn sits directly on the bank of the river and, if you're lucky enough to get an upstairs room, you can sit on your private balcony with a bottle of wine and watch the shrimpers lower or raise their massive nets as they pass by.

If you walk along the main street, you might wander into a gift shop where you will meet Mr. John Lee who will regale you with wonderful stories about the area and tell you how the excellent movie "Ulee's Gold" was filmed in and around the town. He'll happily educate you on the differences between the three grades of honey he sells, and give you a very honest assessment of the local restaurants.

If you follow Mr. Lee's recommendation and decide to go to Papa Joe's for dinner, you will be dining in an unpretentious marina restaurant where sitting at the bar will guarantee that you are engaged in friendly conversation with both the bartender and other patrons. The fisherman's platter will prove to be more than enough for two, and the homemade cole slaw will be as good as it gets.

When you leave Apalachicola, you can drive north toward Tallahassee and stop at Wakulla Springs State Park to see the famous spring, the largest in the country, and travel downriver on a guide boat to an area where a major part of the 1954 classic "The Creature from the Black Lagoon" was filmed. I was anxious to make this little side trip because that movie played a significant part in my childhood. I saw it at the Franklin Park Theater in Dorchester when I was seven years old. After seeing this film, I wasn't able to get a really good night's sleep until 1986. The scaly, webbed creature with the bizarre head haunted most of my thoughts for 32 years. Not bad for a 25 cent admission.

Traveling down that river with Kate, listening to the park ranger point out the areas of stunning natural beauty, I could feel my fear of the creature melt away.

Now the only thing that causes me to lose sleep is fear of grits.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

His Odyssey Ends

Odysseus lent his name to the word we use for a long, arduous journey. According to legend, for ten years after the Trojan War, Odysseus tried to make his way home buffeted by stormy seas and whimsical gods. It's been a while since I read Homer's work, but I do remember something about a dim-witted Cyclops with a serious need for a creative optometrist and Scylla and Charybdis, the original "between a rock and a hard place." Endowed with a quick wit (it was Odysseus who came up with the idea of the Trojan Horse thus ending the interminable Trojan War) and an abundance of courage, Odysseus eventually returned home to his beloved wife Penelope and his son Telemachos.

I would like to propose a new name for a long, interesting journey. Nobody knows how to spell o-d-y-s-s-e-y anyway and most people don't know its derivation. Therefore, with appropriate apologies for being just a bit self-indulgent (As I recall, Odysseus was somewhat stuck on himself as well), I propose that a modern journey with a full measure of tragedies and triumphs henceforth be known as a "Joel".

I'm depending on all of you to make this happen. Lobby Mr. Webster and Ms. Random House and get them to agree. Tell them the J's need help; there hasn't been a new J added since jell-o!

I'm thinking and blogging about all this because I believe I may have reached a safe harbor here, and my odyssey and this blog are nearing their logical conclusions. My odyssey began in January when I accepted an offer on my NH condo. At that time, I didn't know where I would be living in April, whether I'd be able to ever walk a golf course due to a ruptured quad tendon suffered in September, how to make macaroni and cheese (I still don't), whether I'd ever want a woman's friendship again. These and many other questions have been answered during these past four months. Certainly new questions will arise, but I believe I will be able to tackle them "on my own" from here on in.

Here are some of the more cogent questions (and their answers) that I, Joel Oy-Dysseus Getman have encountered on this four-month...ahh..."Joel":

1. Is there a good barbeque joint in Navarre, Florida?
Yes, the East River Smokehouse is as good as it gets. It's got a roadhouse feel to it; there are always at least a couple of Harleys sitting outside; you can smell the tangy smoke the minute you walk in the place. The waitresses will call you "Hon" or "Darlin'" and pretend they know you even when they don't. Top of the line barbeque joint!

2. Is Navarre Beach all it's cracked up to be as far as beaches go?
Definitely. It is quite simply one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen. The color and purity of the Gulf here are amazing. The water is a gorgeous shade of turquoise and 100% clear. The magnificent dunes are protected and, down where I live, there are no restaurants, high rises, bathhouses, or crowds to detract from the purity of the beach. You could walk all the way to Pensacola Beach (over 20 miles) from where I live and never step on a pebble or see anything that shouldn't already be there.

3. Are male golf club members in Florida similar to male golf club members in New Hampshire?
Exactly the same. Within five minutes of arriving at either course, you will be greeted warmly; you will hear someone complaining about his own or someone else's handicap; you will be told an outrageously politically incorrect joke; and you will receive little or no sympathy when you play horribly. What more could you want?

4. What about female golf club members in Florida and New Hampshire?
While I have not as yet met any of the female golfers at my Florida golf club, I do not see how it would be remotely possible for them to be as wonderful as the women golfers at Eastman Golf Links in Grantham, NH. Sorry, ladies, but this I know to be true! The women golfers at Eastman are among the most kind, compassionate, generous, helpful, and just plain nice people on this green Earth. During Ada's three-year battle, they were always asking to help us in any way they could, even if that meant leaving us alone from time to time. They brought meals, they took walks, they called and they emailed. They drove Ada to the hospital or picked her up when necessary. They visited or stayed away as the situation required. They never gave up on Ada and, I am quite sure, they were a big part of her having the courage to go on as she did. Their random acts of kindness served to light up many a dark passage during my four-month journey. As far as I'm concerned, this light will never go out.

5. Am I worried about my family now that there is half a country separating us?
Yes and no. I would worry about my family if they lived next door. You must remember, I was raised in the Jewish culture. Worrying obsessively about those we love is part of our DNA. But here is something else this journey has taught me: it would be impossible for me to feel any prouder of my sons, my daughter-in-law, and my twin grandkids than I already do. They all encouraged this adventure and they have shared in its joys and sorrows. Will I worry about them? Of course. Do I have to? Absolutely not!

6. Can Navarre Beach ever feel like home?
It already does. I look forward to each day. I revel in the glorious weather and natural beauty of the place. I am eager to explore a new relationship with Kate (you probably knew it really wasn't Sally). If home is a place you look forward to returning to after a long journey, then this indeed is home.

7. Is there any way for Ada to know how my journey has ended?
Of course. It was Ada who kept the snow away when I left New Hampshire. It was Ada who helped me navigate the Washington Beltway in record time. It was Ada who made sure my room was clean in the Emporia, Virginia Quality Inn. It was Ada who kept me safe as I traveled to Venice, Florida and then on to the Panhandle. And it is Ada who is smiling as I pick up the phone to find out whether Kate's newest grandchild has arrived.

Thank you all for sharing this journey with me. I am such a lucky traveler.

Much love,
J

Developments

I've met someone.

We met as a result of my enrolling in an online dating service. It's not one of the well known ones like Match.com or EHarmony.com. Those were a bit pricey in my opinion. So I decided to save a few bucks and enroll in Date-a-Felon.com. When I read Sally's (not her real name; appeals are still pending) profile, I instantly knew there was a connection.

She had been arrested and found guilty of stealing large quantities of candy. (You may recall my own confectionery caper a few blogs back.) She says she felt sorry for her actions and even sorrier for having tried to eat all the evidence. I knew that this was a woman with whom I could converse, or, at the very least, we could chew together.

Of course none of the above is true except for the first sentence. I have met someone and, as you can well imagine, it's got me all tangled up with feelings, some good, some not so good. Having met Ada when we were both 15, and having been, by and large, exclusively "with" her since that time, I have no idea about dating. When it comes to dating, I am the opposite of an idiot-savant. Essentially, I am a dating idiot. What does one say? Should I open doors? Is that sexist? Should I bring a gift? Is that a form of bribery? Remember to take small bites and eat with your mouth closed.

I haven't had to think about my "dating behavior" for almost 50 years. Ada somehow accepted me back then for what I was. I doubt anyone else on this Earth is that charitable. On the other hand, I don't want to present a completely false persona to "Sally". Sooner or later the truth about who I really am will have to come out, and it's probably better that it be sooner. Maybe it's just a matter of tweaking, of smoothing out some of the rough edges that have developed after 50 years of dormancy. Where is "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" when you really need them?

Of course none of this speaks to the bigger issue: How do I handle the guilt I feel in starting up a friendship or relationship with someone who isn't Ada? Intellectually I know that there is nothing wrong with any of this. It's actually a good thing, I know, I know. But that doesn't quell this sense of guilt I feel in having my "normal" life resume when Ada wasn't given that opportunity.

I will try my best to keep the guilt way back in there where it belongs; if that doesn't work, I'll try and get some help with it. I guess that's the best I can do.

On the other hand, I'd be lying if I didn't acknowledge the excitement and joy I feel in this new adventure. When I think of all the funny stories I have to tell and the fact that "Sally" hasn't heard any of them before, I get positively giddy. So much "new" material and such an unsuspecting audience! Also, Sally knows her way around...the panhandle area, that is! What kind of disgusting blogophiles are you? As I've mentioned before, this is a family blog and there will be decorum.

Thus far Sally and I have gone out to dinner twice and attended a lovely open air concert together. At both dinners, I was impressed by how much she could eat. I was so busy talking, I barely touched my food. (Hmmm...This strategy may have to make its way into a chapter in my Rt. 95 Diet Book.) Yesterday we went to a huge air show at Eglin AFB to see the Thunderbirds precision flying team. I really enjoyed the air show because it was so loud, there is a good chance Sally didn't hear any of the stupid things I was saying.

On all of our dates, we have had a lot to talk about and we can make each other laugh easily. We seem to share the same value system, especially love of family, political outlook, and big picture view of life. More importantly, Sally has read the blog. She knows I don't care for broccoli. That's huge!

One last thing about Sally. She lets me go on and on about Ada. She even encourages me to do so. Sally isn't Jewish, but she's a mensch in my book!

I'm quite sure neither of us knows where we hope this friendship will go. Let's just call it Odyssey #2 for now and let it go at that.

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J

My Keys

I was thinking about my keys last night while I was sitting on my new balcony on Navarre Beach enjoying a glorious evening and sunset. I only have four keys on my key ring. One for the car, one for the mailbox, and two for the condo. I only need one for the condo, so the number may go down to three shortly. Three keys.

I'm sure there was a time in my life when I had 10 or 15 keys on my key ring. I'm sure many of you could trump that number even now. Keys for two cars, keys for my room and desk at school, a whole bunch of keys for a large home, keys for my kids' various apartments, keys for my mother and Ada's mother. Keys, responsibilities, worries: they seem to go hand in hand, don't they?

Now I'm down to three keys. I'm also down to three primary responsibilities:
1.love my kids, grandkids, family and friends both old and new
2.keep all of my beautiful memories of Ada alive in my heart
3.keep my drive from slicing

I think I'm doing a better job on the first two than on the third, but, as they say, it's a good problem.

Here is another good problem I have. When I woke up this morning, there was so much light streaming into the condo, I was almost blinded. It was a perfect morning down here...(my apologies to those of you who have been experiencing the recent rains in the northeast)...there was light coming in from everywhere. It seemed as though the light had a life of its own; it had weight; you could touch it. With the light came the freshest air I think I have ever experienced. The air came from the Gulf and it was clean and sharp with just a hint of New England clam chowda. Perfect air. What a joy it was to join the light and the air and get going this morning. I know there will be days this summer when the light will be harmful and the air oppressive. When that happens, I promise to remember this day and not complain.

Apropos of nothing, but I noticed that once again I am 15 minutes away from a pizza place. I say once again because from as far back as I can remember, I have been 15 minutes away from the local pizza place. This was true in our first apartment in Quincy, MA, in Waltham, in East Weymouth (15 minutes to The Venetian: heaven!), in Hanover, in Grantham, NH, and now in Navarre Beach. I'm wondering if I arranged that in all those places either consciously or subconsciously. Of course the benefit of living 15 minutes away from your favorite pizza place should be obvious. When you call in your order, no matter how large or how small, you are inevitably told that it will be ready in 15 minutes. So you call, get your puny key ring and wallet, and head for the promised land. No unnecessary or convoluted calculations. Life doesn't always have to be complicated.

Speaking of not being complicated, in addition to my emaciated key ring, the contents of my car would attest to the new simplicity of my life. In my car on more or less a permanent basis are the following four items: a golf push cart, a golf bag, a beach chair, and a boogie board. If I add a good book and an adult beverage to that cargo, I think I'll be on to something.

I don't know if this new simplicity will be enough to sustain me. All I know is the last three years were very complicated and a little simplicity feels very good right about now.

Much love,
J

My Background Check

My new landlords, Linda and Travis, asked, quite justifiably, if I would submit to a thorough background check prior to being offered a year's lease on their Navarre Beach (FL) condo. I agreed to the background check and, when the results were in, I called in a few markers, greased the skids, pulled a few strings, (please insert your own favorite cliche here), and was able to find out what my background check revealed.

Here are the unfiltered results of my background check:

1. I am a person of good character much of the time. The only major exceptions to this occur when the Yankees are beating the Red Sox or when I leave a birdie putt short, at which time I revert to something ogreish or troll-like.

2. I am almost completely debt free unless you count emotional indebtedness to family and friends in which case I am and will always be beholding to many of you. You know who you are. Come down here and "collect" any time you wish.

3. I used a prohibited translation or "trot" during most of my Latin classes at Boston Latin School. I almost never used one during my English classes.

4. Ada used to do my algebra homework for me. To repay her, I would eagerly help her with her Spanish work. I never took Spanish and Ada's grades reflected that.

5. On more than one occasion I have paid to see one movie but managed to sneak around the cineplex and see two. In my own defense, I would usually pick a second movie I knew I wasn't going to enjoy.

6. On a hitchhiking trip from Boston to the San Francisco area back in 1966, I stole several candy bars from the student store at The University of California, Berkeley. I shared these candy bars with my starving co-conspirator, Andy Razin. It was only after pilfering about 5 or 6 of the delectable treats that I learned that the aforementioned candy bars were free for the taking. This revelation should not serve to dampen your opinion of the bravery and cunning needed to commit this larceny on my part; however, it should serve to strengthen your opinion of the stupidity demonstrated by the two of us.

7. At age 63 I still think farting is wildly amusing. Of course there was a time when I thought the same thing about drunken vomiting, but I've matured.

8. Owing to a recommendation made eight years ago by former colleague and good friend Russ Garland, I watch the tv show "24" without fail. It is the only show I refuse to miss. I particularly enjoy two things about the program: Kiefer Sutherland's ability to whisper and Kiefer Sutherland's ability to yell. I can take or leave the rest of it.

9. I said several bad words during and for about a week after my vasectomy.

10. Toward the end of my teaching career, my lesson plans were written retroactively; thus, they were not plans at all but rather an incomplete record of what may or may not have already happened in my English classes.

11. I didn't feel the least bit guilty about #10.

12. I was a bit overzealous as a youth soccer coach for both sons, Josh and Matt. This was never more obvious than when I had our mighty Purple team chant, "The Green Team Sucks" before competing against them for the championship. The fact that they did (suck) should not serve to mitigate this heinous offense. While I have the opportunity, I'd particularly like to apologize to player #12 on the Red Team. I didn't mean what I said.

13. I once bought a used lime-green Fiat. That alone would be enough to call my character into question; however, I bought it notwithstanding the fact that when I went to take a look at it, the sellers had already started it. This probably should have raised a warning flag or two, but I loved the color. I was very relieved to discover that starting it and getting it to advance were not at all problematic. Sadly, I was disappointed to discover after a while that it was very difficult, almost impossible, to stop. That did not prevent me from driving it, although it did force me to drive it v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y. My background check revealed that I never had an accident in that car and that I mostly used it on uphill journeys.

14. Thanks to an enduring friendship with Steve and Carol Davidson, and their son Jamie, Ada and I were able to travel to England many times. During much of that time I had no idea what English people were saying to me. Rather than reveal my stupidity, I opted to simply nod in agreement. As a result of this slovenly behavior, I evidently owe a tremendous amount of money for back taxes on a Northumberlandessexshire castle, and I have a third son, Nigel.

Despite all of the above, Linda and Travis took a leap of faith and the lease was signed. I move in next week. There's an extra bedroom for Nigel.

Much love,
J

The 7 Best Songs on my Ipod

We'll get to that later but first a question for those of you who own an Ipod:

Does your Ipod hate you as much as my Ipod hates me?

I have been nothing but a gentleman to my Ipod since I purchased it last week, using the proceeds from the sale of all 475 of my CD's to pay for it. I have not stuffed it, keeping it at a svelte 10% of capacity. I have promised to accessorize it with hot holders, cool carriers, and special sexy input and output jacks. I have demonstrated a compulsive attention to recharging.

Still it hates me. I know this because when I play it in "shuffle" mode, it will routinely play the music I either dislike completely or dislike a little. It will only rarely play the music I like and it has totally avoided the 7 best songs in its warped and cruel memory.

It has joined a long list of home products that have made it their mission in life to make me crazy. It's an axis of evil, a grotesque gang of gadgets. Included in this malicious mechanical mob are my vicious can opener, which can open my thumb in two seconds but is incapable of opening anything made of metal; my despicable toaster oven which refuses to toast any piece of bread evenly, but rather will burn one side the color and consistency of charcoal while defying the laws of physics and flash freezing the other; my simple-minded water heater which will cause the water to vary in temperature from "hot enough to cause instant blistering" to "Norwegian Fjord Cold" with just a millimeter's adjustment to the dial; and finally my absurd cell phone, which will blithely ignore the numbers I carefully input with my delicate, trained fingers and instead will randomly call people on our planet with whom I have no business and who are usually not in a mood to be disturbed. I won't even mention my openly antagonistic alarm(ing) clock which will not only tick at a decibel level close to that of a Springsteen concert on nights when I am having trouble sleeping, but will also go into "quiet mode" like Sean Connery's Red October submarine on mornings when I require assistance in waking.

I don't trust any of them and I haven't for a long time. But I really thought the Ipod would be different. After all, we both share a love of music. It's a member of the Apple family of products and they are supposed to be nicer and kinder than PC's. It was very easy to assemble. With 160 gigs, I thought it had a mind of its own, but it has obviously joined forces with its ill-tempered brethren.

There are 2,521 songs on my Ipod. If I play it continuously, from first song to last, I will hear the final song sometime in May of 2231. Of the 2,521 songs, (By the way, they're not all songs; some of them are symphonic movements and a few of them are spoken pieces. Just between us, this kind of shabby characterization shows you what I'm dealing with here.) I would estimate that I enjoy and look forward to hearing 2,000 of them. My Ipod insists on playing the woeful 521 losers over and over again, defying all the laws of probability. I tried to remedy this melodic mess by creating a few play lists which contained nothing but my faves. I even gave the play lists clever names like "Panhandle Potpourri" or "Navarre Knockouts". A perfect solution, I thought. Wrong. Inevitably there would be a hierarchy of songs on the play list. Certainly I liked all the tunes but, just as certainly, I liked some more than others. Using all of its 160 gigs to devise this clever scheme, my Ipod would only play the songs I liked the least and almost never shuffle in my absolute favorites. This made my listening experience worse than ever because I knew those great songs were right there, just waiting for the inevitable electronic impulse, but they rarely if ever made it to the top of the heap. The Ipod would callously reshuffle them to the bottom any time they were approaching the top.

Maddening. I think the only way to show it who's boss (and who owns the warranty) is to refuse to recharge it until it literally begs for its life. It's called tough cyber-love.

OK, the 7 best songs on my Ipod are:

7. Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suite #1 by Yo Yo Ma
6. Music from The Mission by Ennio Morricone and Yo Yo Ma
5. Birdland by Weather Report
4. Come Correct by Matt Getman and the Trespassers
3. Waters of March by Antonio Carlos Jobim and Elis Regina
2. The Koln Concert Part One by Keith Jarrett
1. Giant Steps by John Coltrane

Even the great Sarah Vaughn, Tom Waits, Miles Davis, and Leonard Cohen couldn't climb this mountaintop. It's a shame I'll never get to hear any of them!

Be well and much love,
J

seriously...just for a change

First, a long overdue thanks to those brave people who have been following and, sometimes, enjoying these lame thoughts. I'm quite sure that you all have your own trials and tribulations; after all, who doesn't? It's called life. Yet you have generously taken an interest in me and my musings; you have offered me encouragement and clever commentary; you have made me feel welcome in your hearts. This is a very nice thing for you to have done and I appreciate it so much.

OK, that's enough about you. Let's get back to me.

I'm not crying as much as I used to. During the darkest depths of winter I could count on probably 4 or 5 crying "episodes" a day. They would happen randomly and would last a minute or so. They were almost never tied to a specific stimulus but rather seemed to happen of their own accord. For some reason, the car was a particularly fertile area for tears. Again, these tearful moments in the car were not memory-specific; they weren't tied to a favorite song on the radio or a favorite place or destination. They just happened, quickly and beautifully, and I was grateful for every one of them. Like many members of my peculiar species (male), I've never been very good at showing my emotions publicly; maybe that's where the car comes in. It's a private, safe enclosure where my emotions can have free reign and nobody has to know about it.

Except the couple in that Mazda staring at me.

At any rate, now it seems the tearful episodes are fewer but more specific in nature. They happen maybe once or twice a day, and they are usually tied to the idea that there is some nice or important event that Ada will not witness: like some of the twins' achievements, (Sara performing in her school's version of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or Sam demonstrating his reading prowess) or one of Matt's gigs, or some big piece of news from Josh or Cindy. There is a lot of pain that comes with this line of thinking; i don't know if I should "allow" myself to think this way, but I doubt there is much I can do about it.

Time is probably the only "cure," and a very imperfect one at that...

A particularly disturbing scenario played itself out in the post office line the other day. It was one of those times when I wish I had said something, but didn't. I was waiting in line when a gentleman even older than me struck up a conversation. I welcomed the chance to chat. He was from Michigan (quite a few folks from the Upper Midwest turn up in these parts) and without knowing a thing about me, he started railing against Obama and the Democrats. I politely told him I didn't feel the same way but, of course, he was entitled to his opinion. He smiled and then told me about his son, an Iraq combat veteran who was still stationed over there. I told him I hoped his son got home safely, but I had the feeling that he was of the opinion that Democrats or Liberals didn't have sons or daughters fighting over there.

But that really wasn't the disturbing part. After all, this is a very conservative area and there are many aspects of politics on which reasonable people can differ. Here is the part that bothered me. With no prodding or urging from me, he began filling me in on the high crime rate in the area. And he did it gleefully, it seemed to me. He took great pleasure in telling me about the looting episodes during one of the hurricanes that plagued this area a few years ago. My only lame response was to shake my head and say, "That's a shame."

This is what I should have said: Why are you taking so much pleasure in telling me this? What are you really trying to say here? Why aren't you telling me about the thousands of citizens who didn't loot and would never steal? Have you personally ever had anything stolen? If it's that bad here, why are you still vacationing in the area?

Maybe I'm being overly sensitive and a little naive, but I don't need or want that kind of negativity around me. If you're going to tell me sad stuff, at least do it sadly, please, or don't do it at all.

I went to the Navarre Water and Sewer Department today to sign up for water service in my upcoming rental at Navarre Beach. Connie, the woman behind the desk, was very good at her job and filled out all the requisite forms in a pleasant and efficient manner. Toward the end of the process, Connie asked me for my driver's license. I handed it over to her, wondering why she'd need that. She made a copy of it and then took it over to a laminating machine and created a makeshift ID card for me. I asked her why I would need that. She told me that in the event of an evacuation, the only people who are allowed back onto the island after the "all clear" are people who have that particular type of ID card.

Like I said a few episodes ago, we're not in Kansas anymore.

Much love to people of both parties,
J

My Car Radio and Other Useless Thoughts

As standard equipment on my 2010 Chevy Malibu, I have XM Radio, which is a commercial-free, satellite-based, double-sonar, star-guided, infrared, stereophonically programmable system.

I made all that up. I don't know how it works. I only know I like it.

There are hundreds of XM stations available. It is niche broadcasting at its finest. Here are some of the niches:

all jazz (and real jazz too; none of that smooth jazz nonsense) I've put this in the #1 position on the dial. (Actually, it's not a dial anymore.)

all classical (I've programmed that station into the #2 slot in case i ever have to impress someone.)

about a zillion sports stations (evidently, in this part of Florida there is some interest in SEC football; when you register to vote you have to declare your party affiliation and whether you're a 'Bama or Gator booster)

CNN Radio (I've programmed this one so that I can annoy any conservatives who might be riding with me.)

Fox News Radio (I've programmed this one so that I can bring on a migraine at a moment's notice.)

Here are a few of the other XM station options available: All Things Pork, The Catfish Station, The All-Sinatra Station (I'm not kidding!), The All-Sha Na Na Station (I am kidding), The Renault Station (That would be a nichette), Whatever happened to...?(This one doesn't exist, but what a great station that would be!), Bad Stuff You Didn't Realize about Your New Malibu (I knew I should have bought the Fusion).

With all these stations on XM, it will be a while before I work my way down to lowly FM or especially AM. While I was driving here in my dependable old Honda, I did find a weak local AM station which was broadcasting a kind of "Swap Meet"...people would call in with stuff they wanted to trade or sell and others would call in with offers to buy or trade. It was fascinating. There was nothing offered of real value in my opinion; it was all pretty much used up junk; yet, there seemed to be someone out there interested in everything that was being offered. Would this show survive in more prosperous times or in a more prosperous area? I wonder what a "Central Park West Swap Meet Radio Show" would be like...

Caller #1: Howdy, y'all. I have a 2008 Lexus coupe I'd like to swap.

Host: Well, she is 2 years old. What'er ya lookin' to git for her?

Caller #1: I'd like 2 tickets for a Yankees game.

Host: For a 2008 Lexus? You must be dreamin' sweetheart.

Caller #2: I'll swap 2 tickets to a Yankees-Oakland game for that there Lexus if'n y'all will throw in paid parkin' for a year.

Host: Looks like we've got ourselves a swap, y'all.

...or somethin' like that...(Hey, they can't all be gems!)

Apropos of nothing, yesterday I signed a one year lease for the 3-bedroom condo on Navarre Beach. Linda, the landlady, mentioned that she and her husband, Travis, have a lot of "extra stuff" for the condo in storage, and that she will email me an inventory and I can have anything on the list brought to the condo. That inventory hasn't arrived yet, but here is what I hope is on it:
1. salami
2. an XM radio user's manual
3. a Gulf Coast pronunciation guide
4. a Red Sox waste basket (I had one, but it didn't make the trip)

Finally, a little story about the sunset picture. Every now and then something happens on this odyssey that lets me know that I'm not traveling alone. I went down to the beach to try and capture the beauty of this particular sunset, and I saw a couple trying to take a picture of themselves with the sun in the background. Being the expert photographer that I am, I approached them and told them that I'd be happy to take their picture. They obviously hadn't read this blog so they quickly agreed. After I took their photo, we got to talking and they asked about me. I told them Ada's sad story and the woman grasped my hand.

"I'm a hospice chaplain," she said. "I know what you're going through. I think you're doing a very brave and wonderful thing by coming down here." We spoke for a half hour. There were some tears.

How does that happen? How is it possible that on a quiet stretch of beach at sunset one evening, I happen to meet a person so closely connected and so in touch with Ada's beautiful battle?

Ain't life grand?

Much love,
J