Category: Uncategorized

The Adult in the Room

by earlthepearl137

We were taught to respect him. He wore a tie to breakfast. He had opinions on everything from foreign policy to potato salad. He shook his head at protests, praised moderation, and told stories where he was always the hero.

He was The Adult in the Room.

He built systems that favored the seasoned and the serious. He spoke in spreadsheets and nostalgia, mistaking legacy for wisdom. He said youth should “wait their turn,” even as the clock ticked toward irreversible climate change, social fracture, and another news cycle full of grief.

When the world caught fire, The Adult offered a lecture. When the oceans rose, he proposed a committee. When children cried out in fear or fury, he complimented their passion… and resumed business as usual.

But then something shifted.

It started small—barely audible under the weight of legacy. A 14-year-old refused to buy another plastic bottle. A class of 10-year-olds planted trees where asphalt had smothered their playground. Teens organized online, flooding streets not with rage, but with resolve. No party lines. No lobbyists. Just clarity.

They didn’t shout down The Adult. They simply stopped listening. They acted instead.

And it wasn’t the first time.

Youth had moved mountains before:

  • In the 1960s, college students rode buses into segregated towns and risked their lives to register voters.
  • In Soweto, 1976, students stood up to apartheid and faced down bullets so future generations might breathe freer air.
  • During the Arab Spring, youth ignited democratic sparks with nothing but hope and handheld devices.
  • After Parkland, high schoolers led marches that rattled Capitol steps and dinner table conversations across America.
  • Greta Thunberg sat alone—then inspired millions.
  • And in Uganda, young community reporters taught us that poverty isn’t hopeless if you let voices rise from the ground up.

They weren’t waiting for the world to be better. They were making it so.

The Adult in the room realized that if the world were a house on fire, youth weren’t fleeing through the exits—they were grabbing the hoses. They weren’t reckless; they were relentless. They weren’t naïve; they were awake. Where others saw smoke and chaos, they saw a chance to rebuild. They didn’t wait for permission to act—they became the response.

In boardrooms and parliaments, The Adult kept raising his hand. But votes no longer waited for him. In classrooms and studios, youth painted visions that didn’t center on him. On social media and city squares, they chanted not for power, but for possibility. They didn’t ask permission. They asked what’s next.

And gradually, The Adult in the Room grew quieter.

Not out of defeat, but recognition.

One day, at a summit meant to “restore order,” the Adult arrived early. He sat, tie knotted, notes prepped. But when the session began, something was different.

The chairs were filled with young voices. The agenda had changed. And for once… He chose to listen.

The Adult in the Room saw business opportunities, but not the damage those businesses brought to society. A fresh, altruistic approach is the only way forward—and that must come from the youth. It was young protesters who helped end the war in Vietnam. It is youth who helped end apartheid, who demanded civil rights, who called out for justice from Tunisia to Tallahassee. Now, youth movements can get us back on track to saving the planet, and saving ourselves.

“Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land And don’t criticize What you can’t understand Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command Your old road is rapidly agin’ Please get out of the new one If you can’t lend your hand For the times they are a-changin'” – Bob Dylan

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Sarah Matthews Saw the Storm Coming

by earlthepearl137

There’s a certain kind of courage that doesn’t come with a cape or a podium. It comes quietly, in the form of a resignation letter and a warning. Sarah Matthews didn’t shout. On January 6th, 2021, she simply stepped away—and pointed toward the storm.

Back in the waning days of the Trump administration, Matthews, then deputy press secretary, made a prediction that many dismissed as dramatic. She warned that if Trump returned to power, the second term wouldn’t be staffed by seasoned professionals or principled dissenters. It would be a loyalty test. And the only passing grade would be blind devotion.

Fast forward, and her forecast reads like a script. Cabinet picks with résumés built on cable news appearances. Health officials who treat science like a suggestion. Intelligence leaders who think nuance is for the weak. Matthews didn’t name names—but the names filled themselves in.

And now, the Epstein files have cracked open a new chapter. Trump’s name, redacted and then revealed, has stirred unease even among his most ardent supporters. The man who once promised transparency now finds himself dodging questions about flights, friendships, and fallout. The MAGA faithful—some of them—are beginning to ask: What did we miss?

Here’s where the story takes a turn. Not into mockery. Not into smugness. But into grace.

To those who are seeing the light—not because they were forced, but because they chose to look—we say: Welcome. It’s not easy to admit you were wrong. It’s even harder to change course when the crowd is still marching. But history doesn’t reward stubbornness. It rewards reflection.

Matthews didn’t just leave the room. She lit a lantern on the way out. And now, as more people follow that glow, we have a chance to do something rare in politics: forgive.

Not forget. Not excuse. But forgive.

Because if democracy is to survive the storms, it needs more than warnings. It needs bridges. And if those bridges are built by former MAGA supporters who now stand for truth, then let’s walk across them together.

Matthews saw the storm coming. She told us. And now, as the clouds begin to part, maybe we can all agree: it’s time to build something better.

The time has come to stop mocking the victims—whether young lives scarred by abuse or loyal souls deceived by false hope—and start healing the wounds left by a leader who never deserved their trust. Take a pass on the Kool-Aid, and enjoy a refreshing drink from the fountain of truth. Cheers!

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

The Seaford Way

by earlthepearl137

The Seaford Way

When Brother X—known in legal circles as Donald—turned 75, he didn’t ask for much: just a day at the ballpark with 50 people who mattered. For a man whose influence spreads through family trees, Lions Club meetings, and neighborhood barbecue debates, this was no ordinary birthday. This was a coronation.

But before the crown and sash came the journey.  Since his family frowns on him taking long road trips alone, Donald and his daughter Beth arrived in Lancaster Thursday night so they could pick me up Friday morning and avoid a round-trip marathon in one day. Beth, a cop, rode up front. I climbed into the back—on the right side.  I stand facing the road and back into the seat.  Then I push myself as far into the vehicle as possible with my good right leg.  I hit an obstruction, an arm rest, so I raised it and pushed again.  Success, so, I swiveled to adjust myself into the seat and I was ready to go.

“Where’s that coffee you promised?” I asked.

“In the armrest,” he said.

Oops.  I pulled the arm rest down, only to discover that half the cup had already christened the upholstery. Auspicious beginnings as Jack Nicholson said in the movie Five Easy Pieces.  Brother X cleaned up the mess, and I laughed and ate the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which he also provided.  We took the slow but scenic route out of town and had clear sailing until we got to New York—specifically, the Belt Parkway, which transformed into a parking lot with signage.

Beth, ever the navigator, detoured us through Flatlands, where she had worked when she first joined the N.Y.P.D.  Traffic still crawled, but at least it was scenic. We finally reached Seaford just shy of 3 p.m.

With our concert plans for the evening canceled, Donald asked me what I wanted to do. I’d never seen Ted Lasso but had heard enough to know it might be the perfect show to binge-watch in whiskey-soaked solidarity. Donald had already seen all three seasons—but gladly rewatched them with me.

We binged season one.  We cracked open the Jack Daniels he bought for my birthday in August. It was classic Paulson bonding.

Saturday was Game Day. Brother X removed the baby seat from the car, added his late wife’s rollator for me, and Kathleen (his girlfriend, who he met in Iceland in January) and Beth joined us for the ride to Commack. That ballpark is special to him because one year when he was named one of the six Seaford Patriots, for his work in the community, one of the perks was throwing out the first ball at the Commack stadium.  At the ballpark, we joined 47 of Donald’s friends and family. (One missed due to illness.) They handed him a sash: “Happy 75th Birthday” and crowned him with a metal tiara marked with a bold 75.  When it looked like a thunderstorm might pass by, I encouraged him to take off the metal crown he was wearing and hold it up high in the air.  Sarcasm is also part of the classic Paulson bonding.

Many of his friends were also turning 75, so Donald paid for their names to appear on the jumbotron after the second inning. It was festive, chaotic, and beautiful—even if the Ducks lost 7–2 to the Dirty Birds.

For Sunday, Donald had arranged a memorial mass for our late brother Kevin, a gay police captain and columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, who would have been celebrating his 67th birthday that day.  Kevin wrote eloquently about his life with partner Brian and their adopted sons—Zane, who danced too close to the law, and Aidan, a shy, quiet soul now making his way through college. Kevin once said he took inspiration from former Chronicle columnist Mark Twain, who warned, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” I think Kevin held a higher rank than Captain, but I, too, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

As an atheist, I was lovingly excused from church. Instead, I slept in and later, X and I taught Kathleen how to play pinochle.  After she took all our money, we went back to our Ted Lasso marathon.

Kathleen bought me two big bottles of Moscato Sangria. On Monday, we drank wine, ate Chinese takeout, played more cards, and finished season two of Lasso. It was comforting, light, and full of laughter.

On Tuesday, Don and I visited my best friend John, now undergoing chemotherapy. His body had shrunk, but his wit hadn’t. We joked, talked Yankees, and filled his “recovery room” with laughter. It was the kind of visit that sticks to your ribs, even more than the sauerbraten we ate later at Das Bierstube, which I call “Das Digs” combining the old and new names of the bar/restaurant.

My mother’s sauerbraten was the stuff of legend, even outshining what I once tasted in Germany. So we go out for sauerbraten not for flavor, but for ritual: to remember her, to compare notes, and to declare—again and again—that no chef measures up.

That evening, we had hibachi at D.J.’s house. I was too full to eat but not too full to drink. We sipped beers while Cooper and Chloe ran wild in the backyard, turning it into a small summer paradise.

Back in Seaford, Donald and Kathleen went to bed, but I stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing Ted Lasso. I needed that final episode. I needed to feel what Coach Lasso felt when the journalist handed him the book: The Lasso Way.

But Ted had it right. He renamed it The Richmond Way. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about all of them.

We left Seaford at 10 a.m. and arrived in Lancaster by 2. Kathleen treated us to cheesesteaks and a hamburger from the shop across from my house. Then she and Donald went to their hotel for a swim and some sleep before heading back to New York.

The Seaford Way is not about Donald alone. It’s about Beth, with her grit and grace. It’s about Kathleen, who learns card games and brings sangria and cheesesteaks. It’s about Kevin, who kept stories alive, even beyond truth. It’s about John and DJ, Stacy and Cooper, Chloe and sauerbraten—and yes, it’s about me, too.

But mostly, it’s about the people who show up. It’s about how Coach Lasso said goodbye—not with ego, but with love.

And it’s how Brother X lives every day.

This is The Seaford Way.

I love my Brother X, even if he is a wanker.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Up the Creek Without a Paddle

by earlthepearl137

When the Guadalupe River swallowed Camp Mystic whole, it wasn’t just water that filled the cabins. It was silence. A Christian summer camp for girls, nestled in Texas Hill Country, where faith was supposed to be a shield—and where 27 young lives were lost while sleeping. The sirens never came. Because Kerr County didn’t have them.

This wasn’t an act of God. It was an act of neglect.

This camp, this tragedy, didn’t happen in a marginalized zip code. The girls were mostly white. Likely the daughters of conservative parents who voted for the very administration that defunded meteorologists, weakened FEMA, and redirected public safety funds toward border detention projects with crocodilian nicknames.

It’s cruel irony. But it’s also consequence.

When a government dismisses science, cuts funding to NOAA, lays off weather experts, and calls climate change a hoax, nature doesn’t discriminate. It strikes, and when our infrastructure is hollowed out, even the privileged suffer. The floodwaters in Kerr County didn’t pause to ask political affiliation. But the policies that failed to prevent this disaster were built by one.

Meanwhile, in Chicago, flash floods inundated Black and Latino neighborhoods with decades-old drainage systems. In New Mexico, monsoons cascaded over wildfire burn scars, catching children in rivers that weren’t supposed to rise. The message? Climate doesn’t care who you vote for. But our response does.

Republican lawmakers continue to fight climate legislation while oil lobbyists write their fundraising checks. Denial isn’t just ideological—it’s lethal. Especially for the young, the poor, and yes, even for those who believe they’re protected by faith or legacy.

We’re all up the creek. But only some of us were handed a paddle.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Travels down the Hershey Highway

by earlthepearl137

I debated with myself whether I should write this article or not.  It’s not a pleasant subject, but it does contain a valuable lesson, so I’m going to write it.  I’ll try not to be too crude and I’ll keep it as brief as possible.

Several months ago I watched a show about Fascism under Mussolini.  He would round up his enemies and opponents and have them marched across town.  Then he would make them drink a cup of castor bean oil and march them back across town.  Invariable the laxative effect of the castor oil would make them soil their pants as they walked, and they had to walk all the way across town like that.  I got two things out of this video. One, dictators are sadistic and cruel.  Two, Castor Bean Oil is a powerful laxative.

Since I occasionally suffer from constipation. I decided to order a bottle of it.  To qualify for free shipping, I ordered 2 bottles and a rechargeable portable hand-held mini bidet.  I figured the two products could both come in handy if I ever needed them.

I realized today that I hadn’t had a bowel movement in days.  I was worried and I decided it was finally time to try the Castor Bean Oil treatment.  I took a big gulp of it and 15 minutes later the blockage was easily eliminated without the moaning and groaning, grunting, and rapid breathing that usually accompany multi-day bowel movements.  Mission Accomplished.

But, similar to George W. Bush’s mission, it was not yet complete.  I had to hover in or near the bathroom for the next five hours in what I can only describe as a Colonoscopy prep without the green Gatorade.

So, what did I learn?  First, I learned that the next time I am in this situation, start with just a half-teaspoon of Castor Bean oil, and secondly, I learned to make sure to charge the batteries of the hand-held portable bidet, before taking the Castor Bean Oil.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

From Fort Sumter to Los Angeles: Echoes of Tyranny in Two Presidencies

by earlthepearl137

History has a way of repeating itself—not in the details, but in the echoes. As I watch the current administration deploy Marines and National Guard troops into American cities to confront protests over ICE raids and immigration policy, I can’t help but feel a chill. It’s not just the uniforms or the optics. It’s the precedent. And for me, that precedent begins not with Donald Trump—but with Abraham Lincoln.

Yes, Lincoln. The man most Americans revere as our greatest president. But I’ve long questioned that legacy. Lincoln, in my view, was a stubborn, hardheaded leader who plunged the nation into a war that cost over 650,000 lives. A war he believed would be over in months. A war he arguably provoked.

Let’s rewind to Fort Sumter. No one died in the initial bombardment. The only casualties came when a cannon exploded during the surrender ceremony—one Union soldier died. Yet Lincoln used that moment to summon 75,000 troops, escalating a regional standoff into a full-blown civil war. He suspended habeas corpus, jailed political opponents, and silenced dissent in border states like Maryland. All in the name of preserving the Union.

Fast forward to today. Trump, facing protests over immigration enforcement, has summoned federal troops into cities like Los Angeles—against the wishes of governors and mayors. He’s accepted a $400 million jet from Qatar, raising serious constitutional questions about foreign influence and the Emoluments Clause. He’s used executive power to reshape the judiciary, roll back civil rights protections, and stoke division at every turn.

And yet, like Lincoln, he claims to be saving the nation.

The parallels are uncomfortable. Both men faced divided nations. Both used federal power to suppress opposition. Both were hailed as heroes by some and tyrants by others. When John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln, he shouted “Sic semper tyrannis”—thus always to tyrants. That wasn’t just a madman’s cry. It was a sentiment shared by many in the South who saw Lincoln not as a liberator, but as a despot.

Today, many Americans—especially those on the political left—see Trump in the same light. A man willing to tear the country apart to preserve his own power. A man who, like Lincoln, may be remembered not just for what he did, but for what he destroyed in the process.

This isn’t a defense of Booth, or of violence. It’s a plea for perspective. We must stop mythologizing our leaders and start scrutinizing them. Lincoln’s war may have ended slavery, but it also ended hundreds of thousands of lives. Trump’s war—if it comes—may not be fought with muskets and bayonets, but with executive orders, surveillance, and militarized streets.

History doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes. And right now, the tune sounds all too familiar.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

We wanted Woodstock. We got Woodstock.

by earlthepearl137

On July 20th, 1969, the world watched as the United States did something that seemed impossible—we landed a man on the moon. It was the birthday of my little brother, Kevin, who’s no longer with us. I was serving in the U.S. Navy, stationed at a small communications base in Todendorf, Germany, not far from the Danish border. That moon landing was more than just a scientific milestone. For me—and for millions of people—it marked the end of one war and the beginning of something radically hopeful.

After World War I, Germany was occupied by the French. After World War II, they were occupied by the Americans. Germans resented being second-class citizens in their own land. I know; I lived it. German parents warned their children not to associate with us. German girls who dated American servicemen faced sharp social backlash. There were three bars near our base and the neighboring German army camp—each one was a nightly battleground of bruises and booze, Americans and Germans clashing like ghosts of wars we never fought.

Then the moon changed everything.

The man behind the Saturn V rocket that carried the Apollo 11 crew to the moon was a German scientist named Wernher von Braun—formerly of the Nazi regime, yes, but now repurposed for peace. America and Germany, once locked in mortal combat, had collaborated to do the impossible. On July 20, 1969, two old enemies became pioneers—the hostilities of World War II ended, and something shifted. Almost overnight, we went from occupiers to honored guests. German fathers who once wouldn’t let their daughters near us were now shaking our hands and offering schnapps as we drank toasts to the American/German achievement. Things just got really good, really fast.

It helped that the Summer of Love was going strong —and not just in San Francisco. Europe was catching the fever. The British Invasion had brought music across the Atlantic to America earlier in the decade, but now American artists were reclaiming center stage. Multi-day concerts like Woodstock were turning music into a communal ritual. Europe wanted its own Woodstock.

England hosted the now-legendary Isle of Wight Festival in late August 1970. Hendrix. The Doors. The Who. Sly & the Family Stone. Joni Mitchell. Over half a million people filled the cliffs of Afton Down and tore down the fences in protest. It was glorious madness.

Germany followed suit.

That September, the Love and Peace Festival was held on the island of Fehmarn, near the town of Putgarten. It was a short drive from our base—maybe 20 or 30 kilometers. A few of us rock n rollers who were known for public drinking and private hash smoking got our tickets early. It was going to be our Woodstock. We had no tent, no gear—just youthful optimism and a plan to get as high as possible and see Jimi Hendrix.

Friday, September 4th, 1970: we arrived cold and wet. The rain came in sheets. We pushed in close to the stage and parked ourselves in the open, surrounded by tents and strangers. The picture of Jimi performing shows the crowd and the tents. We had no cover, no shelter, just mud and music. The crowd thickened. The lights faded. We sat shivering and soaked, waiting for Jimi Hendrix, who we were told would perform that night.

A stage announcement told us otherwise—he wouldn’t go on due to the weather. He was “rescheduled” for Saturday afternoon. (Years later I found out that this was all a lie.  He wasn’t actually scheduled to perform until Sunday.  He was performing two shows in Munich that Friday and Saturday.)

Disappointed but too cold and stoned to argue, we sat dejected in the mud.  Finally at three A.M. we were roused out of our sluggishness by Mungo Jerry singing his happy little ditty, In the Summertime.  Listening to bubble gum music while we sat shivering in the mud was the last straw.  We trudged through the mud, “found” a hole in the fence, located our car, and went back to base where we took long hot showers and then slept.  

By late morning, we were back in the muddy field, but with raincoats and a few supplies this time. The lineup that day included The Faces with Rod Stewart and Canned Heat, among other acts, but the crowd was tired. The mud was deeper, and the promises fewer.

Another announcement: Hendrix had been moved to Saturday night. We stayed. More bands played. More rain came.

Later: Another rain delay was announced. Jimi Hendrix would play Sunday morning instead.

We were miserable. Wet. Angry. Doubting.

And then came Sly and the Family Stone came onto the stage.

Sly emerged in the cold and the drizzle, standing there like a priest before a congregation in despair.

“Is anybody out there gettin’ wet?” We all groaned back at him. “Could you be any wetter?” he inquired. “No!” we yelled back at him.

“Well, if you’re already soaking wet and you can’t get any wetter” he shouted, “you’ve got nothing to lose. Get up, and dance to the funky music.”

The band exploded into “Dance to the Music,” and the crowd surged into life. We stomped, shimmied, and slipped in the muck, grinning like lunatics. For a moment, we weren’t miserable. We were in it—just as much as anyone in Max Yasgur’s field a year earlier. That was our Woodstock.

SLY & THE FAMILY STONE – DANCE TO THE MUSIC.LIVE TV PERFORMANCE 1969

Unfortunately, their set eventually ended, and we catapulted back to grim reality.  We didn’t go back to base, though. We slept in the mud. We weren’t taking any chances on missing Hendrix.

Sunday morning: more announcements. Hendrix wasn’t coming out until the sun did. In for a penny, in for a pound. We waited.

And then, the sun appeared. And the moment we’d waited for arrived:

“Ladies and gentlemen, The Jimi Hendrix Experience.”

The crowd booed. They had waited in the mud for two days, and they took out their frustration on the band.

Six hundred thousand cold, wet, burned-out souls let out the anger that had grown larger with each stage announcement that Jimi wasn’t going to play in the rain. But, now, Jimi just stood there in the sunshine, took it all in, and casually said:

“We don’t give a fuck if you boo. Just boo in key. Give us a second to tune up.”

He struck a single, sharp chord. It echoed like a thunderclap across the island.

And then the spell began.

What followed was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Jimi’s hands weren’t playing guitar—they were conjuring it. Notes bent like light in a prism. Sounds came from corners of the sky I didn’t even know existed. The audience fell into a trance. When Jimi Hendrix ended his set and walked offstage with a simple “Thank you,” there was silence.

Actual silence. No one clapped. We were all dazed, slack-jawed, staring at the stage. Did we just see what we just saw, or are we tripping?  When we realize that what we saw was real, the dam broke, and we roared and cheered for 10 minutes. Then 600,000 people got up to leave.

A voice from the stage: “Wait, wait! We still have six more bands! Procol Harum is next!”

No one cared. No one could follow what we had just seen. We walked away in silence, with mud on our boots and stars in our eyes.

Four days later, we got the news that Jimi Hendrix was gone, found dead in London. And now, this week, Sly Stone has joined him.

They’re headlining tonight in Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven. And you better believe that when I hear them play, I’ll be getting up and dancing to the funky music.

Peace and Love, and all of the above,

Earl

The Tooth Fairy

by earlthepearl137

Back in January, I decided that the hip pain I was feeling made the pain of a hip replacement worth my while.  So, I told the VA doctor and started on the road to the surgery.  What a long, strange trip it’s been.

First I had to meet with the Orthopedics department to get their assessment of my hip.  They set up an appointment for x rays.  The x-rays confirmed that a hip replacement was in order.  But now I had to get confirmation from my cardiologist and dentist that I was cleared for surgery.  I expected my cardiologist to tell me that I needed more stents or some other work done, since I’ve be sluggish for months.  Nope.  He sent me for two different tests and the results came back, okay.  Not perfect, but okay for surgery.

Then I hit my first roadblock.  I called my dentist who I haven’t seen in years and left a message.  He didn’t call back.  So, the following week, I left another message and again he didn’t call back.  The following week I left another message and the next day I got a call from the office.  They would only see me if I got a referral from another dentist. WTF.  I decided to find another dentist.  When I go to the VA Clinic I pass by a dental office.  The bus there doesn’t run often, but the office is near the bus stop.  I called, and I asked if they were accepting new patients.

There was a pause, where the person on the other end of the line wanted to say, “Duh!” but she controlled herself and just said, “Of course.”  We set up an appointment.

I thought this would be easy as I didn’t have any pain, though I did have one broken tooth.  The X-rays revealed that I needed more work than I thought.  So, I made another appointment to get started.  Now, it was time to catch the bus home.  That bus stop wasn’t far, but it was on the other side of what is basically a busy highway.  It was at least 10 minutes before I saw a big gap and made my move.  Here, you should remember that I have a bad hip.  I made it half-way across, and realized that I would have to wait for another break in traffic to complete the crossing.  So, I stood in the middle of the highway with cars whizzing by on both sides waiting for a break in traffic.  After about 5 minutes, a lady came out from the car repair business on the same side of the street as the dentist.  “What the hell are you doing?  You can’t stand in the middle of the highway.”

I yelled back that I was just trying to get to the bus stop.  She shook her head, and mumbled something I didn’t understand.  Finally, I saw my break and I made it to the bus stop unscathed.

After my dental appointment the following week, I decided to just catch the bus at the same stop where I got off, ride to the end of the line, stay on the bus, and ride home, instead of trying to cross the highway again.  That worked.  It took much longer, but it worked.

After my appointment yesterday, I realized that I had about an hour and 20 minutes before the bus would arrive.  This time I brought my walker, not just a cane, so, figuring that I was now a tiny bit faster, I decided to cross the highway again.  I had plenty of time before the bus would arrive, so I waited until I was sure that I had enough time to make it all the way across.  It was about 15 minutes before I saw my opportunity, and I took it.  I made it.

Here’s where I should mention that the bus stop doesn’t look like a bus stop.  The weeds on the side of the road have overgrown the bus stop sign, and there is no shelter, marking, or anything else that would let you know that it is a bus stop, except that it is across the street from the bus stop heading in the other direction.  I had my walker, so I sat down on the shoulder of the road to wait.

About 20 minutes later a cop car went by going the other direction.  He waited until it was safe, made a u-turn, and pulled up a few feet behind me, lights flashing.  He got out and asked me if I was okay and what the heck was I doing.  I told him I was waiting for the bus.  He didn’t see any bus stop sign, so I told him that the weeds were blocking it.  He checked. I mentioned that I wouldn’t object if he put me in the back of his patrol car and drove me into town.  He said that was against the rules, wished me luck, and drove off.

So, I went back to patiently waiting for the bus that I knew was still more than 45 minutes away.  It hadn’t even passed by in the other direction, yet.  Then, a woman came out of the dental office and yelled something at me.  I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the traffic noise.  She waited for a break in traffic and ran over to me.  Was I okay?  What was I doing?  Once again, I explained that I was just waiting for the bus.  She told me that she was waiting in the dental office with her teenage son, when she saw me through the window, she was worried that I was a dementia patient or something.  I was slurring my words.  I assured her that I was fine.  I was just going home after a trip to the same dentist, and the reason I was talking funny was because the Novocain hadn’t worn off yet.

She asked where I lived and offered to give me a ride home.  That was better than a visit from the Tooth Fairy.  We crossed the highway together, with her holding out her hand to slow down the traffic.  We got to her car.  She called her son to tell him that she would be right back.  Melisa and I headed for my house.

Along the way, we chatted and realized that we both had moved from other places to Lancaster.  She was from Baltimore.  It was an interesting conversation, and she told me to take her phone number in case I ever needed a ride.  We realized that we both like to play Scrabble, so we made plans to get together for a Scrabble game.  So, I wound up making a new friendship, and now have another Scrabble player to hang out with occasionally.

I have another Dental appointment on Thursday.  I wonder if I should bring my Scrabble board.

Peace & Love, and all of the above.

Earl

Enjoy the Journey

by earlthepearl137

Today, it was raining as I went to the V.A. hospital in Lebanon, PA, and it reminded me of something that happened years ago in a city far, far away.  I was reminded that while the destination is important, the journey can be just as important. 

I was working for Publishers’ Phototype, Inc. in East Rutherford, New Jersey.  My friend, Robert P. McAuley got me the job.  (So, check out his books on Amazon.  Though he is probably more well known for his contributions to Aviation Magazine, he’s written tons of terrific books about time travel in his 1800 Club series.)

Anyhow, the job was like a dream come true.  P.P.I. was the middleman between almost every magazine and the printer.  Middleman is grave misnomer, though, as most of the staff were female.  So, after years in the military and working as a Frameman for the N.Y. Telephone Company, it was a pleasant change of routine to be surrounded by intelligent, interesting, sexy females.  I did, however, manage to keep in on a professional level (no matter how much I tried not to).

I worked in a division known as CBS magazines.  Working directly with the editors, we prepared every page of Boating, Popular Photography, Car & Driver, and a few other magazines to go to the printer.  I loved it, but then something happened.  I got transferred to the 4-12 shift.  I don’t mind working odd shifts, but the bus home to Jersey City stopped running at 11 p.m. 

So, my first night on the new shift, I had to walk home 7 miles.  Two of those miles were on a stretch of Route 3 that goes over the Hackensack River.  There was no pedestrian lane.  I walked on a narrow shoulder of the road just about a foot wide.  I was scared, and all the honking didn’t help.  Then I got to four miles of Paterson Plank Road that was mainly occupied by junk yards and the junkyard dogs who guarded them.  The barking was constant and scary.

The last mile was residential as I walked home fearlessly through my neighborhood, and I was pretty calm by the time I got home.  I knew that I had to do something to improve the first six miles, though.  I invested in a reflective vest, a flashlight that was the size of a war club, and a Sony Walkman cassette player.

So, the next afternoon, I went to work with a knapsack full of snacks, cold-packed beverages, vest, flashlight, Walkman, and my favorite cassette tapes.  Since I was now more visible from a distance, the honking was greatly reduced as I walked over the bridge.  The first two miles of the journey was a great improvement over the previous night.

On the four deserted miles of Paterson Plank Road, I cranked up the volume to 10, and roadside Karaoke was born.  I couldn’t even hear the barking dogs, and they truly were, “Out of sight, out of mind” as I sang along to the tape.

I sang quietly on the last mile through residential streets, but I did have one more song to belt out. As I got within a block of my home, I sang You’ll Never Walk Alone, the song that Jerry Lewis always sang at the end of one of his telethons for “Jerry’s Kids.”

It was a 90-minute journey and I made special cassette tapes that made that journey the best part of my night.  After I left that company, the thing I missed the most was that 90-minute walk home.

Today, I went to an appointment at the V.A. Hospital in Lebanon, PA.  I don’t drive, but the V.A. provided me with a free Uber ride to and from the appointment.  On the way back I saw that there was a paperback book in the seat pocket in front of me, “From Darkness Into Light.”  I pulled it out and noticed that the author’s picture looked very similar to the one I saw in the rear-view mirror.  I questioned him about it, and he told me all about his journey from troubled youth to respectable author.  Then he performed an epic poem that he wrote one time while driving 300-plus miles from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia.  It was incredible.  I’m slightly deaf and the road noise was making it hard to hear, so I just kept saying “Louder” and he really got into the performance, keeping one eye on the road and the other on his spellbound audience in the rear-view mirror.  Before I knew it, the sun was out, and I was home.  Sometimes the journey is just as much fun as the destination.

Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon (1987) “You’ll Never Walk Alone”

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl