Yummy!: Memorable Meals

Most of us experience meals that are especially memorable from time to time.  Sometimes the food tastes or is presented so wonderfully that we remember those factors, perhaps even forgetting the occasion. Then there are the times when “yummy” was not enough, but something special happened or a celebrity or famous person appeared or was nearby.  Perhaps a simple meal changed into a memorable one simply because of the circumstances.  Here are a few “Memorable Meals” that have brightened and highlighted my life and remain important in my memory.

When I was a small child in the 1930s living in Sunbury, Pennsylvania, I saw little of my father during the week. The Great Depression brought hard times to virtually everyone, and my father was fortunate to have a job that put bread on the table for his wife and bratty little kid (me), paid the rent, and kept the wolf from the door.  He arose at 5:00 AM and was out of the house by five-thirty six days a week.  He did not return home until sometime between 7:00 and 8:00 PM daily.  But HE HAD A JOB; many others did not.

He would load his delivery truck with packaged cakes and pies, drive into the anthracite regions of Central Pennsylvania, and service “Momma and Poppa” grocery stores in towns like Shamokin, Mount Carmel, Shenandoah, and Paxinus.  (I am not certain of the spelling of the latter, but to this day I remember the small bridge leading into and out of the town that frightened me every time we crossed it.  Bridges do not usually bother me, but just thinking about that one bridge still gets me queasy some seventy-five years later.)

When I matured to the ripe old age of eight or nine, on summer days with school out, my father would wake me at five. I got dressed and ready, and got to watch him shave.  Then we headed out to a small diner on Fourth Street where we always had the same breakfast: ham and eggs with toast, coffee for him, and milk for me. After breakfast we, really he, loaded the truck then drove out for the small towns and little stores.  (Super markets did not exist yet, at least not in that area.) I helped him carry the cakes and pies into the stores where the proprietors would make a big fuss about “Cohen’s kid.”  Then they plied me with candy, pretzels, and soft drinks in every store.  I was a “man” helping Dad and working.  I believe I slept most of the time while Dad drove, but I was as happy as any kid on the planet. (To this day, just thinking about those special breakfasts puts a smile on my now old, wrinkled face. Often when something bothers me or some family crisis hangs over us, I manage to get to an old fashioned diner and order, you guessed it, ham and eggs. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner? It does not matter, although I do not recall ordering it more than once in any day. Ham and eggs remains my number one comfort food, only with English muffins and iced tea instead of milk.)

In April of 1950 I was nineteen years old and a student in junior, now “community,” college. A buddy of mine from high school had joined the Marine Corps Reserves and played on their baseball team.  While we were playing catch and hitting fungoes to one another, he told me that the Reserves had a good team, but lacked a first baseman. I played first quite well defensively and hit all right, at best.  He told me that if I joined the Corps, I would have to march around once a month, get $10, and could play first base on their team. I agreed to sign up on a Saturday morning that April.

For the life of me I cannot remember what the occasion was or why I had to go, but that Saturday there was some sort of brunch at my college and I had to attend. I, therefore, did not enlist in the Marine Corps Reserves in order to play baseball. The fateful day was in April 1950, in June the Korean “Police Action” broke out, my buddy and his group were called up to active duty immediately. By August they had suffered 50% casualties. (I do not remember the occasion, the food, or anything else about that brunch, but I thank my lucky stars for that MEMORABLE MEAL.)

In August 2016 my wife Shirley and I celebrated our 50th Wedding Anniversary.  In addition to a brunch for family and close friends, we treated ourselves to an Alaskan cruise. We had taken the Alaska cruise before, so sightseeing was not our primary motivation.  We had had a relatively difficult year and wanted to be pampered. Someone else would prepare meals, clean up after them, make the beds, and generally take care of the little daily, household chores we wanted to leave behind for ten days. 

For those not familiar with cruising, meals are quite sumptuous, well prepared, usually delicious and plentiful, plentiful, plentiful. Those so inclined can easily enjoy three to six fine, large meals every day as part of the basic fee for the “room and board” on the ship. Most ships also have specialty restaurants where, for an additional charge, one can be served ethnic foods in large portions and delightfully presented. Shirley and I had never bothered with any of the specialty restaurants in our many cruises.

When we arrived at our stateroom as we boarded the ship, we found an envelope outside the room with an invitation to enjoy a special dining experience at the Steak and Seafood specialty restaurant. It was, indeed, special!  The courses and portions could have fed us for two or even three dinners, although we managed to pack away most of it.  The preparation and presentation of the various courses were just delightful.  The taste, or rather, “tastes”? Tres Bien!  Molto Bene!  Delicioso!  In other words: a heck of lot better than our usual fare. It capped our two week celebration of our fiftieth in fine style.  (Thank you, Princess Cruises, for a delicious, memorable meal that greatly added to our already memorable celebration.)

 About ten years ago Shirley and I visited Venice, Italy, for four days.  It was our first, but not last, time in Venice.  We were on a three week Grand Circle tour that included Rome, a week in Sorrento, a week in Montecatini near Florence, and an optional four days in Venice.  Our hotel was an ancient convent that had been renovated, modernized, and made comfortable and inviting. Venice consists of many islands and we stayed on Lido Island.

We decided to take a sightseeing walk around some of the island and search for a place for lunch. We found a place in Italy that served a wonderful American food: PIZZA.  Although Shirley eats chicken, fish, and some beef, she could easily become a vegetarian.  To me, pizza is Hawaiian—ham and pineapple, period.  The restaurant did not have individual sized pizzas (pizzi?), so I asked if we could have one half veggie and half ham and pineapple. One would think I had asked to desecrate the Italian flag or vandalize a church. All the server said was a resounding, “NO!”  Slowly, in English with my newly acquired ten words of Italian, I tried to explain that it can be done and how it is done, using, of course, many gestures.  The server relented enough to say he would ask the boss, his attitude indicating that there was no way for it to happen.  A few minutes later he came back with a puzzled expression and hesitantly said, “Okay.”  We got our half and half pizza.

The pizza was good, not great.  There some places here in the East Bay that, in our opinion, are as good or better, but it was tasty and palatable. (We remember that lunch fondly, however, because we felt that we had changed the course of Italian culinary history.)

When I was about fifteen or sixteen, my family lived in Atlantic City, New Jersey.  People were just settling into life that did not center on war and the wartime economy that predominated during World War II.  Radio was our primary, indeed only, means of immediate communication with television a few years off in the distance. When I could, I enjoyed listening to Arthur Godfrey over the AM, simple, scratchy quality radios available then.

One day on his show, Godfrey told the story of Ginsberg, a Jewish tailor from the Bronx who had no wife or family and was ready to retire. He decided to give himself a retirement present of cruising back to Europe and visiting the graves of his parents. The first day on ship he was seated with a Frenchman who also was alone. At dinner the Frenchman arrived first, sat at the table, and greeted Ginsberg with “Bon appetite!” as Mr. Ginsberg sat down. Speaking no French, he simply replied “Ginsberg.”  The situation repeated itself at every meal until a steward overheard the two men unable to communicate in a common language. The steward took Mr. Ginsberg aside and explained that Mr. LeBlanc was saying, in essence, that he should have a good satisfying meal, which embarrassed the retired tailor. At the next meal he made a point of arriving first and when the Frenchman sat down, he proudly said, “Bon Appetite!”  To which the Frenchman replied, “Ginsberg.”

When Shirley and I got married, I told her the story and it became a family joke.  (Recently in the dentist’s office, I spotted a copy of the magazine “Bon Appetite,” and said to Shirley, “Look, there’s Ginsberg magazine.”  The receptionist who overheard had a puzzled expression on her face which seemed to ask, “A magazine named Ginsberg?”)   

About twenty years ago when we still lived in Daly City on the Peninsula,  early one morning we got up, drove to the airport, flew to Vancouver, Canada, rented a car, and headed for Banff National Park. By about three-thirty in the afternoon we had not had lunch and both of us were exhausted and famished.  We found a rustic, upscale restaurant high in the Canadian Rockies where we each ordered a salad. It seemed to take forever to prepare the salad, and we both were losing patience when the server finally appeared.

He placed our meals before us and, with a touch of attitude, said, “Bon Appetite!”  Simultaneously we both blurted out, “Ginsberg,” and both of us started laughing hysterically with tears streaming down our faces. The poor server could not understand, asked if something were wrong, and lost his “tude.”  We tried to explain between the laughter and the tears, but we were not too successful.  The memory of that meal was worth every penny of the extra tip I left the bewildered young server.

So to you, dear Reader, when you sit down to dinner tonight, we wish you “Bon Appetite!”  You know the response!

The Trip of a Lifetime

In February I celebrate my eighty-sixth birthday, and at eighty-six we celebrate every one of them as though it could be the last one. Shirley, “the Boss,” and I will be going through the Panama Canal from San Diego to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  We did the trip from East to West several years ago.

Although the Boss and I have traveled extensively once the kids were on their own, we were confined mainly to the U. S. and Canada prior to that. I have visited 49 of the 50 states, some during my bachelor and Army days, while Shirley is just a few short of that number. We have been to at least 16 European countries, all of North America, most of Central America (we are not sure about El Salvador), and three nations in South America, as well as Israel, the Palestinian Territory, Turkey, and Morocco. Not as much travel as some, to be sure, but more than many others. All our trips were, in various degrees, exciting, adventurous, educational, and, most important, enjoyable.

One trip that I was fortunate enough to be part of occurred way back in my bachelor days, a few years before the Boss and I even met. In terms of personal growth and expanded learning in my chosen field, as the old saying goes, “It was a TRIP!”

I had taught drama, speech, and English for two years in high school in Southern California when, in 1959, I decided the time was ripe for me to become rich and famous as an actor. After teaching two years, I moved to a residential section of Hollywood and started making the rounds of agents, producers, and auditions. Although I had some success, I saw quite early on that I did not want to continue the lifestyle that I was then living. I also missed the classroom and interaction with students. I, therefore, enrolled in the graduate school of theater at UCLA in late 1960, and began classes toward my master’s degree in January of 1961.

Although I felt the program was a bit too regimented for my taste, the classes were excellent. I was cast, however, in the musical “Finian’s Rainbow” based on my reading four lines from the ancient Greek play “Antigone” by Sophocles, a casting I did not then and do not now understand. My sheer dumb luck, however,  came through with flying colors. A student had to be in residence in the Winter Semester to be eligible to audition that Spring for a show sponsored jointly by the University, the U. S. O., and the Department of Defense.  The show was scheduled to tour a variety of service bases in Asia, and, indeed, we did exactly that.

As a student, I had been strictly a commuter, living with my parents and later in my own tiny apartment. For the four to six weeks of rehearsals and early performances I rented a room in a fraternity house, learning to live with the odor of perspiration and beer constantly in the air. Our company fortunately received permission to perform George M. Cohan’s “Forty-five Minutes from Broadway,” using the script written for a performance honoring Cohan’s 100th birthday and shown on the great television show “Omnibus.” Some of us who became cast members also performed songs about U.S. cities and states between scenes and to open and close the show. I became the villain in the play, spoke directly to the audience at the beginning as MC, and then ended the show singing and scatting “Route Sixty-six,” with the entire cast joining in the finale.

During the rehearsal period an undergraduate student at UCLA who was of Japanese descent taught us a few expressions in that language including “Where is the bathroom?”  “Please,” “Thank you,” “Where is a restaurant?” and “Can you tell me where I can find a teaspoonful of toilet paper for my horse?”  (I never got to use the latter one, but the others helped.) Incidentally, the undergraduate student’s name was George Takai, better known today as Mr. Sulu of the original “Star Trek.”

The director, the cast of twelve (including the director’s wife), and the pianist were allotted a total of ten steamer trunks in which to pack our sets, costumes, and lights plus one suitcase each for personal belongings. It was tight.  We had rented our costumes from Western Costume in Hollywood, and I wore a suit worn by a minor star in a long forgotten movie. That was as close as I came to becoming “rich and famous.”

After a few trial performances at UCLA, we played a few more at service bases around Southern California, then boarded a gigantic, slow, propeller cargo plane for the interminable trip across the Pacific Ocean. In the next six weeks we traveled some 45,000 miles, did 46 shows, and visited Japan, Korea, Okinawa, Guam, Wake Island, and Hawaii, performing in the hot, humid summer both indoors and outdoors.

Every place we played had different sized stages. We did one show on a stage no more than fifteen feet wide with yet another on the stage of the Toshi Center Hotel in Tokyo, which at that time was considered the most modern theater in the world, with a stage some 50-60 feet across. The dancers, of course, had to practice on every stage because some stages demanded giant steps and movement while others required little baby steps.

On a personal note, even the act of eating a meal meant new horizons for me.  Although my father was the better cook, my mother did most of the cooking, as did most women in those days when Dad worked from early morning to mid-evening.  My tastes remained stagnant with my mother’s style of cooking: vegetables boiled until they were almost a paste; meat well done until it bordered on leather.  (All right, so I exaggerate a little bit.)  Knowing that I would not be returning soon to this part of the world, I asked the waiters to bring me something good, but not to tell me what the ingredients were until after I ate. It worked; I tricked myself and expanded my culinary horizons greatly. At the service bases where we often ate, indigenous laborers served the food in cafeteria lines.  I quickly learned to ask for rice, not potatoes, because the natives then included me as one of their own, and gave me extra portions of meat also.

Our audience sizes varied greatly from about twenty to a few thousand.  The base which had the fewest audience members was located 100 yards from the Communist lines near the 38th parallel. The men were not permitted to discuss what kind of electronic work they did, but any serviceman, regardless of how long or short his time there had been, could simply say he needed  to transfer and it would be arranged immediately. Anyone who ever served in the military knows how unusual that is. The men there also served our troupe a delicious chicken dinner with all the trimmings. The following day, when we were at our next venue, we were informed that those men had gone without dinner so they could feed us.

Our show was a completely clean, wholesome performance, which was not always the case with USO shows. Some had young, and not so young, women in skimpy costumes showing a lot of skin and telling off-color jokes with strong sexual content. We were amazed and delighted at the number of servicemen who thanked us, saying that our clean show was the way they preferred to remember their wives, mothers, girl friends, and sisters.

Occasionally though, we did have problems. In one scene the male lead danced around each of the four chorus girls and kissed each one on the cheek.  On Okinawa we were informed that there had been race riots between black and white service men. Because one of our chorus girls was black, we were obliged to cut the kiss in that particular scene. The racial tensions prompted the Army to station men with clubs backstage to protect us. Once, just before I went on stage to speak to the audience as MC, our “protector” said to me, “If there is trouble, you can have my club, because I’m getting my butt out of here.” Not too heartwarming when one is just getting ready to go out to face an unknown audience. Thankfully, we never experienced any of those problems.

Although we had racial problems on Okinawa, we had two incidents that qualified as unusual and frightening theatrical situations. One of our chorus girls, Jan, sang “The Boston Beguine” between two of the scenes. The comic song basically deals with a man and a woman who do not know what to do with their new found love because all of the books they should have read were banned in Boston.  The song, written in 1952, ends, “Land of the free, home of the Braves, home of the Red Sox, and home of the Boston Beguine.” The Boston Braves baseball team had moved to Milwaukee, and John Kennedy was President, so Jan changed the ending to “Land of the free, ex-home of the Braves, home of the Red Sox, home of Jack Kennedy, and home of the Boston Beguine.” 

The baseball references usually received a chuckle and the Kennedy reference mild applause. One night in August, however, “Home of Jack Kennedy,” got all the servicemen and women on their feet, booing, and shaking their fists.  Jan, naturally was shocked and shaken.  Between performing, traveling, and sightseeing none of us followed world news, and on that fateful day, the Russians raised the Berlin Wall and President Kennedy had extended duty for all service personnel an extra six months.  Needless to say, Jan cut out the Kennedy reference for the remainder of the tour.

Because of an administrative foul up (Yes, those things happen in the service), a large group of servicemen were told we would perform at noon, but we were not scheduled until two o’clock.  The men, all of whom had records as petty criminals, fighting and minor thefts, had been sitting in the hot, humid tropical sun for two hours when yours truly came on stage alone to start the festivities. I learned a great deal in a great hurry about handling a hostile audience, but I survived and the men enjoyed the show once we started.

After several shows in Okinawa, we flew to both Guam and tiny Wake Island, the scene of intense fighting during World War II. Our efforts on those outposts drew enthusiastic applause and appreciation from those stationed there.   Then it was back to the “good ole’ US of A.”

Although we had the chance to relax a bit in Hawaii, we also did three shows there before returning to the reality of our normal lives. (“Reality?” “Normal? Los Angeles? A contradictions of terms.) Exhausted and worn out from our travels and constant performing, we returned to our separate lives with new insights about theater and performing;  new understandings and appreciation for other cultures; and, at least in my personal case but I suspect for all of us; expanded horizons  as performers and, more important, as ourselves.




I Wish I had Said That

(Actually I have said that, but I was not the first.)

Greater and, sometimes even lesser, minds than mine have uttered sayings that have stayed with me over the years, and in some cases, changed my life or at least some of my attitudes toward life. Some are so simple as to be almost obvious, and yet they all bear a bit of profundity. I share them with you, including comments when appropriate.  (They will not be on the final exam.)

“Life is too important to be taken seriously.” Oscar Wilde.  (On a magnet attached to our refrigerator.)

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“I’m not the man I used to be; and I’m not sure I ever was.” Sammy Davis, Jr. (Dealing with reality can be so depressing.)

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“For years I searched for the perfect woman. Then one day I found her. Unfortunately, she was searching for the perfect man.” Groucho Marx.  (Now there is some real philosophy.)

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“Do the best you can with what you’ve got.” John Warren, my Principal at Downey Senior High School where I taught ages ago.  (He said it to me many times and I in turn said it to my students and to my own children many, many times.)

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“Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow. You’re always a day away.” From “Annie” by Charles Strouse and Martin Charnin.  (How did they know about my exercise routine?)

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“You are never guilty of a crime you did not commit; you cannot lose something you never had.”, Robert Penn Warren in “All The Kings Men.”  (This one dramatically changed my life–for the better.)

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“I did not come to America to eat grass.” By a dear friend who escaped the Nazis and is no longer with us.  (Although I was born in America, I share his disdain for vegetables and salads.)

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“Politics: from the Greek ‘Poly’ meaning many, and ‘Tics’ meaning blood sucking parasites.” Kinky Friedman, folk, singer, poet, and sometimes politician.  (A bit cynical, but I love it.)

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“Belladonna: In Italian, a beautiful woman; in English, a deadly poison; showing the similarities between the two languages.” From “The Devil’s Dictionary,” by Ambrose Bierce. (To my lovely wife: “Just kidding, dear!)

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“If you take away all the phony tinsel in Hollywood, underneath you will find the real tinsel.” Fred Allen, radio comedian long ago. (Probably still true.)

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“The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers.” Dick the Butcher in “Henry VI, Part 2” by William Shakespeare.  (A bit drastic!  How about just the ones who want to go into politics rather than working for a living?)

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“My whole family has been bothered by immigrants ever since we came to this country.” Senator Rawkins in “Finian’s Rainbow.” (I am the child of immigrant parents.  Unless you are a Native American, you are one of us also.)

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“Oh, dainty duck, oh dear!” Bottom the Weaver in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by some guy named Shakespeare. (I had to include at least two quotes from old Will.)

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“Mann tracht und gott lacht.” Old Yiddish proverb which translates to “Man thinks and God laughs,” somewhat like Robert Burns’ “The best laid plans of mice and men . . .”

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“Grandchildren are the reward for not having killed your children.” Unknown source.  (We are fortunate to have two wonderful children, but there were times when . . .  I wonder if they ever had thoughts about us and wanted to  . . .  never mind.) 

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“I don’t give ‘em hell, I just tell the truth and they think it’s hell.” President Harry Truman.  (Elected Official speaking Truth????  What an archaic thought!)

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“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.” The first twelve words of “A Tale of Two Cities,” by Charles Dickens. (How in the dickens did Dickens know what life would be like in the 21st Century?)

Random Thoughts

… while Watching Electrons Exciting Pixels

            PROFOUND CONJECTURE #1. If Apple announced that they were introducing an I-Buggy Whip next Thursday, by next Monday lines would already be around the corner so that one can “Be the first on my block to have an electronic buggy whip.”  (Next question:  What’s a buggy whip?)    

            VISION OR A MIRAGE? #1. One day last week I actually saw (Ah seen it with mah own eyes!) an SUV make a full stop at a red octagonal sign. The guy in the Prius behind him almost rear-ended the SUV, then floored the Prius, drove around the truck (that’s really what an SUV is), and saluted the SUV driver with 20% of a full hand salute. My heart simply skipped a beat at such a momentous occasion.

            OPINION #1. Kaep, you blew your credibility by not voting. It is not only a right, it is a duty. Try taking a knee on the national anthem of China, Russia, Saudi Arabia, or 67.38% of the other countries of the world–no matter how well you play football.

            OPINION #2. Does anyone know how many shootings, stabbings, poisonings, garrotings, blastings, and other forms of making people dead appear every week on television?  You will never see, however, a mother breast-feeding her small child. That beautiful act of love, of course, is rated immoral and not fit for consumption by our genteel, sensitive American public that worships television violence and football. Half the adult population of the world has those thingees, and the other half get induced to buy cars, beer, and other commodities just by glimpsing them.

            PROFOUND CONJECTURE #2. How do you protest an election unless you know of some violations of the law or other hanky-panky. The purpose of an election appears to be the gathering of votes on an issue or candidacy and a good percentage of the electorate will be disappointed every time. The only person I know of who has claimed that the Presidential election of 2016 was rigged, turns out to be the guy who won. Maybe the protest should have been directed toward the Electoral College, an antiquated system that resulted in two of the past three Presidents, both Republican, winning despite the other candidate having more votes. What are the chances of a Republican Congress and President overturning the E. C.? (Hey, those are my initials.)

            PROFOUND CONJECTURE #3. If Apple came out with the I-Buggy Whip, how long would it be before Samsung, LG, and others flooded the market with less expensive versions?  One month? Two? (I can see a young couple on their first date in a lovely restaurant. Both have phones in their right hands with thumbs flying at supersonic speeds. We will not ask what they are going to do with the I-Buggy Whips in their left hands, but we may ask how they will get the food into their mouths.  I find the vision unappetizing and frightening.)

            VISION OR MIRAGE? #2. Later the same day I saw the SUV come to a complete stop at an octagonal sign, I was waiting for a traffic light to change so I could turn left. Of the twelve cars waiting, one of three with turn signals on, was a certain German luxury car–yes, with its turn signals just blinking away like Christmas lights. I was unaware that German cars have turn signals. As Hamlet said, “They are more honored in the breach, than in the observance.”  (He was not referring to turn signals.)  I will not identify the maker of the car, but its initials are the same as Matzo Balls.

            SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #1. If you are opposed to same sex marriage and, like me, find the thought of being intimate with a person of the same sex to be totally undesirable, marry someone of the opposite sex and stay out of other people’s lives.

            SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #2. If you are opposed to abortion, do not have one. This particularly applies to men who are extremely vocal in their opposition, although when I think of it, I cannot recall knowing personally any man who has had an abortion. (I have known a few that I felt should have been aborted.)  For those who insist that the Bible stands opposed to abortion, I would like to quote from the Good Book:  Genesis 2, 7:  Then the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul.”  A fetus cannot enjoy the breath of life until it exits Mommy’s tummy and gets slapped on its bottom. (I am aware that I have not convinced or changed even one person’s opinion, but that ends my sermon, except for repeating “stay out of other people’s lives.”)

            SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #3. The election is over; live with it. I personally have voted only for Democratic Presidential candidates since 1952. Somebody always wins; someone else always loses. Donald Trump becomes the 45th President of the United States for better or for worse, and we should all hope it is for the better. He deserves a chance to make that happen. If, however, you identify as a Muslim, Hispanic, or Black, you might want to be especially watchful and vigilant. That is based on campaign rhetoric by politicians, and we all know how little truth is dispensed in those speeches by ALL parties.  As a Jew, I thank those groups and Ivanka’s marriage and conversion for taking some of the pressure off us. We are usually first in line for grief. (If by some chance there should be a second term or if he has been crowned “Emperor for Life” by the senior Senator from Kentucky who evidently thinks the Constitution is just another piece of paper from Charmin, then we too can join in the vigilance. Oh, dear, that makes two sermons.)

            SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #4. Is Donald Trump perfect?  Are all Muslims?  Hispanics?  Blacks?  Jews?  Democrats?  Republicans?  Brits?  Any human beings–other than my grandchildren?  We all know the answer to that question, except when it refers to ourselves. I think the words of the great philosopher Marx apply here. No, not Karl. Groucho, who once said the following. “For years I searched for the perfect woman. Then one day I found her. Unfortunately she was searching for the perfect man.”

            VISION OR MIRAGE? #3. On the same day, the very same day, that the SUV came to a full stop at a stop sign. Yes, the same day that the MB flashed its turn signals, I surfed the television that evening and saw another amazing sight, in addition to those two traffic experiences. On a Spanish speaking station I saw, honest, a flat-chested woman. What a day that was!  I could hardly sleep that night.

            SIMPLE SOLUTIONS #5. There are no simple solutions.

This old Democrat wishes good judgment, good decisions, and good luck to President Trump. If he does well, then you, I, and this magnificent country all do well. Can we ask for anything more than that?

Happy 2017!

Reality & Happy Holidays

Whether we like it or not, on Friday, January 20, 2017, Donald Trump will be inaugurated as the 45th President of the United States of America, the richest, most powerful, and, in my opinion, the greatest nation on the face of the earth now or in the history of the human race. 

Saint-petersburg, Russia, candidate to president USA 2016, concept editorial illustrationI freely admit that I did not support Mr. Trump’s candidacy, I voted for Hillary Clinton, and I blanched at the thought of his becoming POTUS. The citizens of the U. S. have spoken with ballots and, for better or for worse, I, and everyone else on this little blue ball in space, must accept the fact that Mr. Trump will become our Leader, regardless of our fears and trepidations.  For whatever it is worth I welcome him, wish him well, and hope and pray that his Presidency will be fruitful, well-intentioned, successful, and peaceful.  He will be my President, as well as yours, and I pledge my support to him.  (“Support” does not necessarily mean agreement.)

The analysis of Mr. Trump’s election victory we must leave in the hands of the pundits, historians, and those who feel that if we insert enough information in a bank of computers, the result will be WISDOM.  It is not.  (I seem to remember that in the early days of the electronic revolution there was an expression GIGO:  Garbage In; Garbage Out.)  The geniuses and political analysts on radio, television, and other media stumbled all over themselves trying to understand how Mr. Trump won. The real issue is not how, but the acceptance of the fact and the need for all Americans to give a sincere pledge of support.

All of us, regardless of ethnicity, party affiliation, or depth of interest can probably and should agree on one factor: the process of electing people to major office has become divisive, rancorous, mean-spirited, and just plain old ugly. It seems like the opponent of any elected official from the most modest to the President has been characterized as un-American, subversive, child molester, or terrorist.

Why anyone would even want the job puzzles me.  (Does the word egomaniac” come to mind?)  The path any candidate faces is indeed a daunting one.  Our first President, George Washington had to deal with just thirteen states.  He had a budget smaller than most major cities today.  His only major international challenger was George III of England.  Today, the Prez must deal with fifty states and whole mess of territories.  Does anyone really know how much the national budget is today?  How much is a trillion of anything?  Moreover, he has to deal with umpteen nations run by fellow egomaniacs that have ascended to power by birth, by election, or by killing a few hundred thousand of their fellow countrymen, women, and children. Some groups even exist outside of traditional national boundaries and controls. Any President must know business and finance inside out, be a psychologist, be a diplomat, be an expert on everything there is know about military life in the 21st Century, and must be willing to put his/her finger on the button that will in moments exterminate the human race as well as a few other species that do not deserve annihilation.  Those of us more modest in our ambitions must just hope for the best and wish our leaders well.

Regardless of political affiliation, almost everyone I have spoken with agrees that our election process must be shortened and that the disgusting, immoral amount of money spent must be reduced.  (The exception to those who wish these changes lies with, of course, the media.)  Perhaps the country can establish a procedure whereby the entire election process must occur within six months, June to November.  All candidates can say what they have to say at least three hundred times in that period of time—before it gets too repetitive and obscene.

Perhaps a list of twenty-five acceptable charities could be provided to all candidates. For every dollar the candidates spend, they must contribute a dollar to one of the charities.

To be sure, shortening the season and controlling spending would be contingent on Congress acting on these proposals.  Djdfikekdjdfuerksklj  (Excuse me, but the thought of Congress acting on anything got me so excited that I could not control my fingers on the keyboard.)

This timeless prose was written November 9, the day after the election.  You, of course, are reading it in December.  I would like to make a prediction relative to political happenings between November 9 and now. I predict the following will have announced their candidacy for 2020:

FIVE Members of Congress who have never accomplished anything;

FOUR White supremacists;

THREE Defrocked college professors who are Holocaust deniers;

TWO 72 year old men dressed in tattered jeans, tie-dyed tee shirts, with gray hair in long pony-tails, and carrying signs that read “VEGAN LIVERS MUTTER;”

ONE 61 year old woman from Genoa, Italy, to whom Cristofo Columbo appeared in a vision, touched her inappropriately, and told her she was born in Sunbury, Pennsylvania, and is, therefore, eligible to be POTUS;



Oops, I forgot Carly and Bernie


Giving Thanks for Old Memories

The number of people who affect our lives can be quite large, although it will vary from person to person. Parents, siblings, other family members, clergy, teachers all contribute to whom we become in our adult lives.  Many change our lives, for better or worse, in such small increments that we may not even be aware of them. Often they too are unaware that they have initiated change in people they barely know, may have totally forgotten, or, indeed, never even met. 

Derelict old photographs being sold at an antique shop in Istanbul, indifferent memories.

I should like to pay homage to some who affected my life in ways that they probably never knew.

JIMMY GRIGGS:  Because Jimmy also would be in his mid-eighties and we have not seen each other for seventy plus years, I seriously doubt that he would remember me. While his contribution to my life was not a major life changer, it was important and perhaps even profound. I was small for my age in the pre-teen years, but Jimmy was even smaller. While I could outrun just about anyone and could use my sense of humor against just about everyone, Jimmy just had to act tough, so quite often he would chase me home after school, never catching me, but letting me know what would happen if he did catch me.

Third Street in Sunbury, PA, is an unusual street. The Pennsylvania Railroad (we called it “The Pennsy”)  tracks run through the middle of the street, southbound on the west or river side, and northbound of the east side, with sidewalks on either side of the tracks. Jimmy and I were twelve or thirteen and he was chasing me north on the east sidewalk when I decided I had had enough running. With no real plan of attack, I was neither fighter nor lover at twelve, I turned, made a stern face, held my clenched fists shoulder high, and started to move toward Jimmy. Drum rolls, organ music, and flashing colored lights are appropriate here because, you got it, Jimmy, my nemesis, turned and ran away from me.

He had taught me a lesson about bullies that I never forgot. Nor was I ever afraid of such people again. Better yet, never did I ever have to fight anyone.  Although my mouth occasionally got me into trouble, it never failed to bail me out from bullies. Thank you, Jimmy!

MRS. MADVIG:  Mrs. Madvig was my final senior semester English teacher at Washington High School in Los Angeles. She was, in my opinion, a fine teacher and person, so I did good work in her class. Doing good work in class was not my usual modus operandi. Indeed, I did not do much good or even poor work in most classes unless I liked the teacher and subject.  I, like many teens, was lazy, angry, sullen, withdrawn, and, unlike others, with a sharp sense of humor that was often mean spirited. I had just three interests: baseball, basketball, and looking at girls (while scared out of my wits that they might look back).

One day in class Mrs. M. had us do a read around of some work long forgotten. When we finished, she said, “Edwin, may I see you after class?”  When the bell rang, I went up to her desk where she said, “They are having auditions for a play in room 201 after school today. I think you should tryout.”  The guys would play ball without me that day while I “tried out.”  The play was an old-fashioned melodrama with two acts one hundred and fifty years apart, so only the vampire appeared in both acts.  Guess who got the part of the vampire?  Come on, guess! 

I not only got the part, but I found I could make people laugh without hurting anyone. I discovered the recognition as a person that I longed for.  Through my teacher’s simple request to try out, I found my lifelong passion.  For the next fifty years plus I studied theater, acted in well over fifty plays, compiled two readers theater full length plays, directed and produced many plays, and, most important, taught theater in high schools for eleven years and in universities for over thirty. Through Mrs. Madvig’s simple request, this poor, unfocused kid experienced a profound, life changing path that led to a productive, positive, and enjoyable life and career. I am sure she had no idea, but thank you, Mrs. Madvig, from the bottom of my cothurni!  (Look it up.)

STEVE ALLEN:  Mr. Allen and I never met or even corresponded. To the great star of television, I was just another of the tens of millions of dedicated, unknown fans. Yet he too, or his old radio program in Los Angeles, had a real and positive influence on my life, an influence that began long before he was a nationally known star.

In the spring of 1948 my parents and I were living in Carlsbad, California then a small village along the Southern California seacoast—not the fine, well populated resort it has become. I was seventeen and in my junior year at Oceanside-Carlsbad High School. One evening a buddy and I walked the two miles to Oceanside to see a movie. By the time the movie was over, we had some doughnuts, and walked back to Carlsbad, it was well after eleven o’clock.

When I entered our apartment, my father was sound asleep, but my mother was doing something strange in those pre-television days: staying up and listening to the radio. I, of course, asked what she was listening to and was surprised by her answer:  “This young guy claims to be a disc jockey, but he doesn’t play records. He plays the piano, interviews Hollywood celebrities plus the audience, and he is really, really funny.”  She was referring, of course, to a quite young, unknown except locally, Steve Allen, and his late night radio show “Breaking All Records.”  Both Mom and I, late risers and sleepers, became fans instantly and followed him through his rise to fame and success.

At that time Al Jolson reigned as the leading entertainer in the U.S. and probably the world. He appeared one night on Allen’s show, and in the course of the interview remarked that he had been to the Hollywood Ranch Market the night before and bought a bunch of bananas.  While it may not sound so astounding to adults who have experienced television and the internet virtually all their lives, it was a moment of wonder for a seventeen year old naïve and unworldly kid. AL JOLSON, A DEMI-GOD OF SHOW BUSINESS, WENT TO THE MARKET TO BUY BANANAS! He was an ordinary human being just like all the rest of us. Wow!

That summer my family moved to Los Angeles, I entered my senior year of high school, and discovered that on Friday nights Allen would fill the Jack Benny radio studio and do his show from there with a real audience. In high school and community college it become almost a pilgrimage after the Friday night football games to drive to Hollywood and be part of his audience. One night Allen had two young performers on the same show. The first was a radio actor who talked about the new police show that he was developing. His new program would show police life as it really was, not through romantic Private Investigators. The actor’s name was Jack Webb, and the show “Dragnet,” which soon radically changed the picture of police work on radio and television.  “All I want are the facts, Ma‘am.”

Allen then interviewed a young, rather small but highly energetic Black man who sang, played drums, tapped danced, and did imitations that were spot on.  The young man just was beginning to get a reputation in “the business.”  He and his father appeared with his uncle’s jazz band, The Will Mastin Trio. The father’s name was Sammy Davis, Senior.   (I wonder what ever happened to “Junior“?)  

If we take the insight that performers were simply people with special talents and combine it with the newly acquired passion I received from Mrs. Madvig’s simple request, one can easily understand the effect on an impressionable teenager, an impression that has lasted a lifetime. Thank you, Mrs. M.!  Thank you, Steverino!

BASEBALL:  Through the ups and downs of my life (thankfully a lot more ups than downs) my family and baseball remained the rocks and constants in my life. How can I say it?  I can’t. Instead, please listen to James Earle Jones’ speech before he ventures into the cornfield in “Field of Dreams.” He says it all, and with that unique voice.  (Sadly, we cannot capture that magnificent sound on paper.)

I give bundles of thanks to those listed above, to my family, and to the countless others who contributed to whatever constitutes the person known today as  “Edwin Cohen“.





Vanity of Vanities

A Corrida with Comments from Ecclesiastes

To every thing there is a season,

And a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to love, and a time to hate;

A time for war, and a time for peace.

The time had come for his grand entrance. The small square of sunlight at the far end of the long, dark corridor invited him into the bright sun-drenched arena. The comfort and security of the cool, shady waiting year lay behind him as he was thrust into the world of life–and death.

As he burst into the ring with swift, powerful strides, a distant, lonely trumpet sounded twice, first short, then long.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

Defiantly and with confidence born of strength and courage, he bolted across the warm sand, stopped, and tossed his head in challenge. He glanced about and surveyed the circle of yellow that was to enclose his battlefield, remotely aware of the myriad eyes focused on him. All the eyes watched him, and would continue to watch him during the next few moments as he fulfilled his raison d’etre; as he accomplished his sole purpose in life; as he died.

That which has been is that which shall be,

And that which hath been done

Is that which shall be done;

And there is nothing new under the sun.

The hot Castillian sun made him keenly aware of his great strength. He could feel its warmth loosening the large, well-defined muscles of back and

legs. At the same time it sharpened the senses that controlled the awesome force of those muscles. The fresh, clean air made his entire body feel alive and vibrant. Strength and courage radiated from his being.

He wanted to move, to fight, to feel the exhilaration of contact and combat. He wanted to show his strength and courage, his might and power.

Then he had his opportunity. From behind the wooden railing which encircled the arena, stepped a brightly arrayed figure which cautiously approached and beckoned a challenge to him. The figure goaded and coaxed him to charge. His muscles tensed and he bolted toward the figure, confident that he would meet and destroy it.

As he charged, he expected the dynamic feeling of his body being jarred by contact. He anticipated feeling the resistance of the object as he smashed into it, demonstrating his power. Instead he felt nothing but a gentle flow of air on his body.

He was startled, angry. Then other figures, similar to the first, appeared and repeated the challenge. He attacked again and again, each time expecting the joy of contact, but each time there was nothing. He became aware that the many eyes had developed into a grand encircling voice, mocking his every charge.

All was vanity and striving after the wind,

And there was no profit under the sun.

            Bewildered, he found himself running in circles and panting heavily. Next time he would make his mark. Next time they would know his might. Next time, however, the frustration and anger mounted and began to replace courage and inner strength.

He stopped, then tried to catch his breath in order to strive again. As he stood confused and wondering what to do next, it was decided for him. He heard another trumpet call and watched a large, padded figure enter the arena to challenge him once more. Standing and watching for just a moment, he singled out the large figure and attacked.

At last he felt the wonder of his massive, powerful body meeting the resistance and driving into the side of the large figure. Now they would know

his might and would have to reckon with his strength. For an instant he felt exhilarated. Then, without realizing when it began, he felt pain, a deep, numbing pain in the back of his neck. His adversary had somehow wounded him. He knew not how he had been hurt, and knew of only one solution:  attack, attack, attack.

The fury of his attack increased. His legs forced against the ground harder and desperately. The harder he pushed, the more the wound pained, but still he drove on. Under his skin something was twisting and separating sinews. His head seemed to get heavier while the wound screamed for relief. Then he eased the attack, retreated, and stood back, along, bewildered, and hurt. He had been defeated by pain, and, for the first time, knew the pain of defeat.

The warm blood flowed down his back and along his sides. Now that there was no longer contact, the pain cried even louder. He could not straighten his neck. No more was he as strong, as powerful, as sure. Courage had begun to leave him. He was ready to quit, but that was not in the plan. It would not be that simple.

There is one that is alone,

And he hath not a second;

Yes, he hath neither son nor brother;

Yet is there no end of all his labor?

Now a new figure darted toward him, approaching quickly and at the last instant it dodged to avoid him. At once there was more pain. Something new was sticking in his flesh. Now he was furious; now he would fight with a strength and power too awesome for belief. As he searched for something to attack, another figure ran toward him and there was more pain. More objects were embedded in his back. Then a third repeated the insult.

With each attack his massive head and sharp horns counter-attacked, but each time he missed. He felt the weight and sting of the barbs hanging from his back and neck. Every move jarred them and tore at his flesh. For a moment he forgot the deep wound in his neck , but when he tried to raise his head, he was painfully reminded. He wanted to shake the objects from his back, but the movement only aggravated the pain. If only they would stand and fight, but instead they attack and run; attack and run.

He then noticed that he was alone in the arena. His enemies had disappeared. Wanting revenge, he looked for something to attack, but there was nothing. Turning slowly, he kicked the sand as a challenge. Were they afraid to answer his challenge?  Now he stood and snorted. Then the noise faded and an expectant quiet filled the arena. Proudly and gracefully the answer to his challenge emerged from behind the wooden barricade.

When thou vowest unto God, defer not to pay it.

The wounds were forgotten; the pain somehow pushed back and overcome; the anguish meant nothing. The only matter now was to meet, to fight, and to destroy the tormentor who faced him. The smaller figure approached the great hulk haughtily, and with slow, easy, deliberate movements, issued its own challenge. This he answered eagerly.

The mighty giant followed every movement. His heart pounded faster. His muscles tensed, as before. Again he felt the power and pride he had once known. Once–twice–three times he pawed the ground. Then he charged.

Remember then thy Creator in the days of thy youth,

Before the evil days come,

And years draw nigh, when thou shalt say:

“I have no pleasure in them.”

The huge body formed an irresistible force. All his strength, weight, and speed he directed toward pounding fiercely into the other. He lunged, expecting to feel the slight body give way under his neck and shoulders–expecting it to crumble under his sharp hooves. But there was only the feel of cloth flowing across his body as he sped past the elusive target.

Curse not the king, no, not in thy thought.

His hooves dug deep into the sand in order to stop the charge. Again the jeering noise surrounded him. He turned and charged again, moving more quickly and viciously than before. Again he failed.  Again!  Again! And yet again. Each time the longing for victory, more intense; each time victory eluded him; each time the mocking roar mixed in his ears with the steadily rising sound of his own pulse. Each time he was certain he would conquer and destroy; each time there was nothing but the gentle brushing and more frustration.

For to him that is joined to all the living there is hope;

For a living dog is better than a dead lion.

For the living know that they shall die;

But the dead know not anything,

Neither have they any more a reward:

For the memory of them is forgotten.

He was tiring rapidly, the open wounds aching. His muscles were softening and begging for rest. His breathing was deep, painful, and convulsed. His mind bore thoughts of resting on grass in the shade, of drinking cool water, of being away from this place of pain, anguish, and humiliation. He could not, however, stop. There was to be no rest. His role was to strive until he won–or died.

Panting, he paused for a moment, then charged again, although the charge was slower, weaker, and less certain. This time he was not surprised or angry when he failed. He hardly even noticed the explosion of noise. Mechanically he charged twice more. Each had less vigor than the one before. Then he simply stood, breathing heavily, staring at his tormentor bewildered, confused, and afraid.

And one shall start up at the voice of a bird,

And the daughters of music shall be brought low;

Also, when they shall be afraid of that which is high,

And terrors shall be in the way . . .

The opponent who controlled his destiny turned his back to him and walked proudly to the side of the arena. He was now alone, tired, hurting, and defeated. The other was gone but a moment. When he nodded to the crowd and returned, the giant sensed the inevitability of the situation and the futility of the struggle. Ages ago the outcome had been decided, but he would not make it simple. Courage, bravery, and honor had shaped his life; now they would shape his end.

A good name is better than precious oil;

And the day of death than the day of one’s birth,

. . . For that is end of all men.

His strength had been drained; his might had waned; but the courage remained. Although the pain surged through his body, he held his head as high as possible and attacked once more. His lungs and frame aching, he charged

again, but with his head ever so slightly lower. Each charge was less powerful. Each time his head drooped lower. He paused again, and then, by reflex, charged for the final time.

And the dust returneth to the earth as it was,

And the spirit returneth unto God who gave it.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,

And striving after the wind.

Madrid, Spain - May 11, 2012: Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas interior view with tourists gathered for the bull show in Madrid on a sunny day, SpainOn his final charge a sharp, searing pain entered deep into his body. He stood still, silent, trying to breath, trying to summon enough energy for one more charge. Time hung suspended. The pain lessened. His vision blurred.

Then there was nothing.


Things that do not exist: Zombies, Space Aliens, Privacy

An Open Letter to Debbie and Draymond

Dear Debbie and Draymond (and to the readers of ALIVE MAGAZINE):

You gotta be kidding!  Did you really expect something put out into electronic space to remain between yourself and the intended recipient?  Debbie, you are obviously a bright, accomplished person and a U. S. Representative in Congress.  In addition you are a most attractive woman, and I confess that I especially kvell about one aspect of your background (Wasserman Schultz + Cohen = MOTs or Members of the Tribe).  You organized, unfortunately without the credit you deserved, a four day national committee conference that came off   beautifully (I personally would like to have a little more spontaneity other than from Bernie’s people).  You obviously have a dynamic brain between your lovely ears, but are you really so naïve (dumb) as to believe that electronic information goes from just one person to just one other person without the Russians, the Chinese, and 726 teen age boys with severe acne reading it?

Everyone who has ever been on a nominating committee, whether it be with a small local organization or a gigantic national committee, has their favorite candidates for whatever position, but if they are smart, they do not publicize their choice or certainly do not send it out for international consumption.  That is why Roberts’ Rules of Order specifically states that a member of a nominating committee cannot be a nominee.  On the Internet!


Oy, Debbie! Debbie!

Draymond, you, as you well know, are a magnificent, championship caliber, all-Pro basketball player. As one who in his younger days enjoyed playing the game, I realize that in addition to your natural advantages of height, speed, and coordination, you had and have the discipline and desire to achieve at the highest level of the sport. (Discipline and I were total strangers.)

Do you really think the entire world, however, is interested in seeing pictures of your private parts? Oh, it was an accident! Sure. Perhaps (come on) you are really so naïve (dumb) as to believe that electronic information goes from just one person to just one other person.  As a professional athlete, you must realize that in ten years you will be a has-been; an over-the-hill jock.  Do you think that any reasonable school board would hire you to coach their children?  (Reasonable and School Board are probably contradictory terms. As Mark Twain said over a century ago, “For practice God made idiots, then He made school boards.”  That discussion, however, is for another time.)

Mr. Green, you are physically advanced way beyond most of us.  Maybe it is time you thought about growing up and becoming an adult.  Can you imagine a coach telling young players, “First you have to learn how to handle the ball; then you need to know how to knee a guy in the groin; and then you send images of your . . .”   Get the point?  I hope so.  I personally love to watch you play ball, but most of your life will happen after NBA basketball. So now a great, big “Oy!” for you too.

Now to both of you, Debbie and Draymond, as well as to 325 million Americans, and to 7.5 billion Earthlings I say unto you:


For all of us: if you have credit card, YOU HAVE NO PRIVACY; if you have some kind of bank account, have ever taken out a loan, or if you have ever passed within 100 feet of a bank, YOU HAVE NO PRIVACY; if you have and use a computer, YOU HAVE NO PRIVACY, if you have a cell phone, forget about it, YOUR PRIVACY IS LONG GONE. If you use a card or your phone number at a supermarket THEY KNOW MORE ABOUT YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES THAN YOU DO. Ever contribute to a legitimate charity? Guess what?  Yep, it’s gone.

Our privacy began to die when they cut down the fruit trees in Saratoga and Palo Alto and planted silly silicon baubles and toys that may have some usefulness for business, but are mostly grown-up playthings for the adolescent  in us.  I personally know people who if you say, “How are you?” they have to consult Siri or some other disembodied voice that rattles off blood pressure, pulse rate, body temperature, and cholesterol count before the person can answer, “Pretty good!”  And then it’s there for everybody.  (All right, I do not know anyone like that, but I will bet they exist.)

The number of people and organizations that know more about us than we ourselves know boggles the mind. And, unless you opt out, they sell the information about you and me to other people and organizations. (My cynical mind thinks they sell the info even if you do opt out.)

What is the moral or lesson to this open letter?  It seems pretty simple: Gentlemen, if you are going to say “I love you” to someone, either whisper it in her ear or in a private, extremely private, place.  If you decide to email it, realize that your wife and the recipient’s husband will both probably read it and you will never be the chair of national committee or a great athlete.  (You might want to go online first and discover the cost of a good divorce lawyer.

Sincerely yours,

No way will I tell you my name. That is PRIVATE. (Nuts! You probably already know it anyway.)



And Then I Wrote…

This month my lovely bride and I will celebrate our 50th Wedding Anniversary by taking a ten day cruise to Alaska.  When the travel agent asked what we looked forward to the most, we both replied, “Being pampered.”  Both of us have had some physical problems this year, so we simply want to rest and have our needs taken care of. This will be our twenty-eighth cruise.

Cruise ship in Glacier BayPeople travel, of course, for a variety of reasons: relaxation, sightseeing, aiding those in need, seeing other cultures, and simply for bragging rights at cocktail parties.  Remember the couple who return from a trip to Europe and tell about having dinner with the King and Queen of Sweden. When asked how it was, the wife replied, “He was nice, but she was a bit haughty.”  On their next trip they insisted that they had dinner with the Prime Minister of Great Britain and his wife. The answer again, “He was nice, but she was a bit haughty.” She lost all credibility after visiting the Pope in the Vatican.

My wife Shirley and I are people watchers, as well as sightseers. We’ve met some delightful folks over the years, and, yes, we have met a few whom we would not describe as delightful. We have been on tours that we adored, just as we adored some of our “on our own” explorations.  We both enjoy cruising and those gigantic ships are really quite inexpensive resorts: lodging, food, entertainment, transportation, shore tours, shopping (for Shirley), recreation, and classes all for $100-500/day per person depending on the accommodations, the cruise line, and destination.

Vacations, touring, and cruising, however, are even more fun when they are almost free, free, or even include getting paid. I personally have been fortunate enough to have had eleven such experiences, nine with “the Boss.”

After teaching for two years, I decided it was time to try my hand at professional theater, specifically, acting. I tried it for several months to no avail and decided that I did not want to continue that lifestyle in order to become an “overnight sensation” after twenty-five years. I, therefore, enrolled at U. C. L. A. in order to pursue an M. A. in theater. The classes I took were marvelous, but I did not like the regimentation of the performing area. I acted in two plays and, without realizing it, happened to be in residence at the university at the proper time to be eligible to tour the Orient with a show from the school sponsored by the U. S. O. and the Department of Defense.

We performed at bases in Southern California, then flew in military cargo planes to Japan, Korea, Okinawa, Wake Island, Guam, and Hawaii. We averaged one or two shows a day for about six weeks; flew around 45,000 miles; and we were paid the magnificent sum of $7.00 per day from which we had to pay for our rooms and meals. Most places did not charge us, so I came home with a camera, a tape recorder, and a few—very few—dollars in my pocket.  I also came home with incomparable memories, pictures, and stories with which I have bored family and friends for over half a century.

After I abandoned the career that never was, I returned to teaching high school in the Southland. Four rather successful years later, I read about a organization which had campuses all over western Europe. They taught classes in language and culture and toured in the countries where the language was spoken.  Teachers who recruited eight or more high school students could accompany the students as “chaperones” and receive the trip free. I tried, unsuccessfully, to recruit students for a Spanish program. (Why Spanish?  I have no idea.)  When that failed, I recruited four students for one of the French programs and four other kids from the area who had signed up on their own were assigned to me, giving me my eight and the free trip.

After a few days in Paris we went by coach to the mountains in southern France at Villard-des-Lans where we were housed in a school for French students with respiratory problems during the regular school year.  High in the Alps, the views and clean air (we were from the L. A. area) delighted us.  Because I had rather extensive residence camping experience, I was named assistant principal and received a small stipend. The money, however, paled beside the adventure.

The following year the organization offered me a position as principal, but I did something else. What was it? Oh, yes, we got married. The year after that, however, I went back as a principal, accompanied by my new bride. We spent three weeks in Melun, a suburb of Paris, then another three weeks on the French side of Lake Geneva at Evian-les-Bains, where the girls’ dormitory was a renovated 12th Century castle.  Talk about wonderful experiences—and I got paid nicely. Small children prevented a return for other summers.

About a decade later, while at Purdue University, I taught a full semester, four credit hour course in American Musical Theater. After my retirement in 2000, I adapted the course for Elderhostels (now called “RoadScholars”) and for the Diablo Valley College Emeritus program. In April of 2004, while reading the Travel Section of the San Francisco Chronicle, I found a story detailing lecturing on cruise ships, listing two agencies that contracted lecturers. I sent resumes to each of them. About three weeks later I received a phone call asking if I could do the musical theater program on an Alaskan cruise out of Vancouver, Canada. A quick check of our calendars (four seconds flat) prompted a loud, definite, joyful “yes” answer, beginning a four year love affair with virtually free cruising.

Of course, I had to adapt what had originally been a full semester course, later four to eight hours, in order to accommodate cruise schedules that varied from two to five hours. I never knew what my schedule or hours would be until we were on the ship itself. The number of people attending the lectures ranged from twelve to 200, and we  met some fascinating people, including the mayor of one of the largest cities in the U. S. and a retired sports editor of the New York Times.

In the four year period from 2004-08 Shirley and I enjoyed eight cruises: two to Alaska, two to the Mexican Riviera, two back-to-back in Hawaii, one from Florida to San Diego through the Panama Canal, and one from New York City to the Caribbean. We had to pay the agencies $25 or $30 per day per person, but, with one exception, we had ocean view cabins with everything available to us that any other passenger enjoyed.  Actually there was one and only one restriction: we had to agree, in writing and notarized, that we would not play Bingo, which is not much of sacrifice to people who do not play the game.  Why no Bingo?  I never did get a definitive answer to that question.

When the recession of 2008 hit, however, the cruise lines stopped contracting lecturers in the arts, and we had to pay full price (ugh!) for any subsequent cruises, including the one this month.  Additionally, the cruise lines insisted that lectures all be on Power Point, which I find boring and too regimented.  One other factor dictated that it was time to “pack it in”:  I turned 78 in early 2009.

When we cruise now, we have to balance the budget, the calendar, and our aging bodies. But, it was sure fun while it lasted.

Anchors Aweigh!







I Love a Parade—And Fireworks

Is there anyone out there in reader land who does not love a parade, especially one with fireworks?  Can you resist the music of marching bands, brightly costumed marchers, and skyrockets of every color and design?  If so, you have our deepest sympathy (and loosen up).

Some parades honor national groups in the U.S., such as Chinese New Year or St. Patrick’s Day. In countries where there is a national or totally predominate religion, parades are held to honor holy days, such as El Dia de los Muertos.  In San Francisco, however, three people getting together for lunch can form a “Three People Getting Together for Lunch” parade.Alive media magazine july 2016 and then i wrote ed cohen drummers parade red drum street

The month of July contains three big days for parades:  in the U.S. we have our Fourth of July, Independence Day, festivities in virtually every city, town, and hamlet; our neighbors to the north have Canada Day on July 1 (Eh?); and France’s Bastille Day, celebrating the start of the French Revolution, occurs on July 14.

While no marching bands or exploding fireballs will accompany this article, here are some experiences I personally have had with unusual, off-beat, and exciting July parades and fireworks:

In 1965 while teaching at Downey High School in Southern California, I had somehow discovered an organization that sponsored programs for high school students, taking them to a variety of countries in Europe where they would study the local language during the week and sightsee on weekends.  (The programs, including airfare, room and board, and classes for six weeks, cost about $600.00.) Never having been to Europe, I was anxious to give it a try, despite the necessity to recruit eight students to get my trip free. With Spain as my first target, I came up empty.  The people who sponsored the program knew of my camping, teaching, and youth experience and told me that if I could recruit four more students for France, they had four kids without chaperones from our area.  Success!

The eight wonderful youngsters and I flew from Long Beach, California to New York, then to Paris, France, where we spent about five days, including July 14—Bastille Day.  We were given “tickets” to the parade. Tickets?  The tickets gave us the right to find a place to stand on the sidewalk along the parade route.  We ended up being about eight or ten rows from street, standing there for about four hours.

Was it worth it?  You’re darn tootin’.  The parade lasted about two or two-and-a-half hours with marching bands, military groups, firemen, police, school bands, and just about any group you can think of plus fireworks that evening.  It was a delight, but the most wonderful part for this Los Angelino (via Sunbury, PA) was the location:  PARIS, FRANCE.

(Author’s Side Note):  The following year I had paid off my 1963 Buick convertible, had a few bucks in savings, and decided to take the summer off. My plan was to drive up to San Francisco to see some friends (one in particular), then go camping in Yellowstone, the US and Canadian Glacier Parks, followed by Jasper and Banff Parks. After the parks I planned to drive to Vancouver, BC, and take a freighter home to L. A.  I got as far as Yellowstone when I decided to return to San Francisco. Just before leaving the park on July 14, I noticed that in the Southeastern corner of Idaho lies a small town named “Paris.” The irony was too great to resist. I drove to Paris, explained to the lady at the motel that one year before, to the day, I had been in Paris, France.  She was totally unimpressed. Indeed, I am not sure she had even heard of that other Paris. I stayed overnight on July 14, then drove to San Francisco where I proposed to that particular friend. (This August we will celebrate 50 years of delightfully happy marriage—98% of the time.)

About five years ago my wife Shirley and I flew to Calgary, Canada, rented a car, drove to the almost unbelievably beautiful town of Banff, and checked into a hotel for few days in late June, not realizing that July 1 was Canada Day. Our room was on the third floor with a balcony overlooking the street where the parade would pass.  On a delightful day we sat on the balcony and saw all the bands, the horses and riders in full regalia, and cheered and applauded as if it were our first parade experience. That night we saw a modest but fun fireworks exhibition.

Back in Calgary for a few days prior to returning home, we discovered that the Calgary Stampede was being celebrated.  We walked down a street, saw a large group of people, asked what was happening, joined the folks on the sidewalk, and saw a parade several times larger than the one we enjoyed in Banff. Two surprises neither of us will forget.

Perhaps the best and least expected July thrill of all, however, happened right here in the good old U.S. of A. when we attended an Elder hostel in Santa Fe, New Mexico.  We also visited Taos, Madrid, Albuquerque, and then went south to Carlsbad to explore the caverns and to watch the jillions of bats fly out at dusk to get some supper—not a good time to be an insect.  While in the town of Carlsbad, someone told us of a July 4th celebration near the Pecos River just a few miles away.

Sitting in bleachers with about 150 to 200 other people, we city slickers wore casual clothes, (casual for Walnut Creek or Lafayette).  Most everyone else wore bib overalls with usual “accessories.”  Nothing much happened until dusk, which in July and that far south arrives fairly late.  We chatted with the large man sitting behind us.  He dressed in the “uniform” of overalls, boots, and beat up Western hat and seemed like a “good ole boy” probably named “Bubba.”  We discovered that he was in the oil discovery business and probably worth 114 times what retired professors and counselors had in the bank.  He was absolutely a gentleman and well educated, crushing our stereotypes, and his little daughter stole our hearts.

The parade consisted of no marching bands, but a series of small boats decorated tastefully in red, white, and blue flowers, bunting, and pictures, while patriotic music played over a loud speaker.  Afterward a fireworks display over the river dazzled us.  It certainly paled in size compared to Bastille Day or the Calgary Stampede, but it filled both of us with patriotism that bordered on fervor.

We have seen fireworks and parades in Venice, Los Angeles, San Francisco, London, and a several other places, but the Independence Day along the Pecos River near Carlsbad, New Mexico, is the one we remember most fondly because it represented our country and an America which still exists, at least to some extent, the way it has for decades.

So, happy 1st to our Canadian friends; happy 14th to the French; but most of all, happy July 4th to all of us proud nieces and nephews of our Uncle Sam.