In remembrance of a life cut short

 

Sometimes I find it very difficult to keep a smile on my face. Even if I stand upside-down my smile will disappear, or turn right-side up, depending on whether you are standing on your head or on your feet. In any event the smile is not there anymore. 

When I was younger, if I felt down in the dumps, I would go down to the candy store – every elementary school had a candy store next door – and fork over a nickel and get waxed lips. My candy store of choice was next to the East Ward School in Schuylkill Haven.  Those lips worked for awhile. I could put a smile on my face, at least  until I needed to open my mouth.  After awhile I would eat the waxed lips rather than throw them out.  I never figured the nutritional value of waxed lips.  I must have devoured a ton of them over the years.

 

Today was one of those days in Schuylkill County that I found hard to smile.  A bright, young man with so much promise… taken away by a member of the taliban in far-away Afghanistan.

             I think I am too old now to wear waxed lips to my hide unhappiness even if I could get my hands on some waxed lips.  I recently heard that Pottsville's Surgeon-General had issued warnings about those wax lips. He said they attract near-sighted Zamundian honey bees. The bees, as we all  know, came to America in 1988 by accident when the crown prince of Zamuda visited the American Way Fair. 

           Most of the candy stores next to elementary schools are now gone and I am too lazy to wait in line at Walmart; even though I get to ride in that store on a scooter, along with so many others who ate too much funnel cake and pepperoni pizza over the years. 

Anyway, today's young people are too sophisticated for waxed lips when they can now get tattoos and collagen lip enhancement treatments paid by their parents' medical insurance up to age 26 or through taxpayer funded medical assistance.

  It is the 21st century and Pottsville’s Surgeon General says it is healthy to express one’s feelings rather than hold them in.  So have sworn off waxed lips forever. I will now express myself. So here it goes....

 My problem right now is the struggle that I have with the disharmony between my search for meaning in life and the harsh realities, cruelties and the sometimes meaninglessness that confront us daily. 

Today was one of those days in Schuylkill County as I stood with so many others in line to pay respect to the fallen young hero.  It was a beautiful and sunny day.  A good day for the Belmont Stakes but certainly too nice of a day for a funeral. 

What keeps me going is the lesson I learned from reading Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut.  One must live as a time traveler passing back and forth in time, focusing on the good times, whether past, present or future, but realizing that bad times will be unavoidable along the way. Just don't dwell on them. 

 

 One must also remain wary of antithetical concepts, such as good and evil.  Most of us would want good, but we must remember that good is defined by the existence of evil.  There is evil out there. Always was and always will be. We just have to gravitate towards the good. Keep a moral compass handy at all times.

Today I did not have to time travel.  Today I saw good in Schuylkill County, right here in the present moment in this county where neighbors gathered together from all the county's small communities. Orwigsburg especially felt the pain.  It was unfortunate that the harsh reality of evil brought it to the forefront but good was there. It was up and down West Market Street. Goodness was visible and evil was nowhere to be found.

 On a day that was too nice to be day for a funeral, the sun was shining but so was the goodness in people.  The goodness was apparent on the faces of the countless people standing in line or the people who slowed down while driving by in their vehicles.

Why even the disheveled street people who roost on the other side of Market Street were curious and respectful.

Please keep the young man, who had so much promise, in your thoughts and prayers. He was a credit to the county and the nation.

Quit dwelling on your facebook pages, tweets and your selfie photographs for just a little while.  There will always be time to update your facebook status later when you can tell the world that you had scrapple and scrambled eggs for breakfast which will trigger dozens of insincere "likes" from your hundreds of so-called cyber friends.  

Yes, there will always be time for fun, maybe even time for a little beer pong now and then,  but do try and do something  positive in the world in the small amount of time you are allotted.
 

                           Don't waste it on all on self-absorption.

 

If the world seems too vast and you are as geographically challenged as me, then just do something positive in this small rectangular speck of the universe we call Schuylkill County.  

 

 

 

 

 

County Scandal, part I

It was one of those mornings in Schuylkill County when the sky was blue - a teaser before the clouds rolled in for the rest of the day. I was going into the Court House, on my way in to the Treasurer Office, to get my dog tag.  Actually not my dog tag in the possessive sense of that term, but my dog’s tag.  I certainly didn’t need a tag for myself.  I already had one. It is good until I expire.

 I was unable to get down the corridor, blocked by FBI agents carrying boxes out of the Clerk of Court Office to a large, white truck parked in the lot. You probably read about it in the newspaper or saw it on television. Things were moving faster out of the courthouse than bananas sold at Bill’s Produce on Senior Citizen Day or X-Boxes at Wall-Mart the night before Christmas. The Court House is normally quiet unless it is Taco Salad Day at the Canteen Restaurant, when the Mariachi Bands serenade the county employees during lunch hour. This day was no Taco Salad Day, but it was busier than ever.

  I made a bee-line out of that hall of justice as fast as I could, which is not very fast at all.  The dog tag could wait until next year. I already had a large FBI file (as well as my own dog tag and thank God I hadn't yet expired). I didn’t want garner any more attention.  According to Edward Snowden, everyone that has every clicked onto the Beansoup for the Soul Website is listed in the giant Government Surveillance Book. As webmaster I am certainly in it. Besides, many years ago I ripped off tags from mattresses at the Dusselfink Motel which I wanted as souvenirs to remember those nights that I got lucky.  I knew it was against the law, but I ripped off every  tag off that I could.  I courted danger in those days.  I also falsely impersonated a Vulcan once during the Winter Carnival. Now, I had to duck for cover.

 I headed down Second Street and stopped in front of the Eagles Bar, across from the world renowned Lipkin Incubator Building. Unbeknownst to most people, the Incubator is where city chicken was discovered by Mr.Lipkin many years ago.  I looked up at the jutting broken plastic sign, swaying in the breeze, which once proudly stated “Eagles Club” but now had the blank look which characterizes the expression on the faces of people that I passed along the way.  I headed inside. I wanted a drink today and not city chicken.

                                   City chicken could wait! 

 

 I took off my brown fedora, placed it on the bar and grabbed a stool. Before long I noticed I wasn’t alone. I let go of the stool and looked over my shoulder.  There at a table was a man, sitting by himself, smoking a cigarette and looking at daily lottery tickets. He smoked as if he was sending smoke signals to a distant planet. 

I was puzzled. “What planet?..... Pluto? Couldn’t be..... It’s no longer a planet.” My brain started to work over-time.

How much is that worth? I had no answer.

 He was a portly, thick-necked gentleman with greasy, disheveled hair; black with some grey showing at the roots that protruded from his vast scalp .  He apparently used more dye in his hair than all the dye used at the recent St. Clair Fish and Game Easter Egg Hunt.   

He was dressed rather conservatively for Pottsville. That is, he was wearing a clean long- sleeved white shirt and did not have a baseball cap on his head.   In downtown Pottsville, a man wearing anything other than a T shirt and a baseball cap on is about as inconspicuous as a nudist in the Winter Carnival Parade.

 

He signaled me over to his table. It was then I realized I was in a room with the famed City of Pottsville’s Surgeon General. I was asked to join him for a mid-afternoon drink, a pickled egg and several slices of beer bologna, that were lined up in a row on a small white dish. I quickly acquiesced and sat down at his table. It was then I remembered the planet I was trying to think of earlier.

Uranus!

He leaned over and asked me what I had thought of the Lager Jogger 5k Run that had recently been held in the city. I told him that I enjoyed it. He looked at me with sharp distain; staring with his eyes that reminded me of the eyes of the wooden horse that once looked out the window of Knapp’s Leather Good Store on South Centre Street. He raised his left arm and pointed at me as his voice went up two octaves:

“Those foolish people don’t realize that running will cause them shin splints, bunions and falling arches in years to come and not necessarily in that order.  The proper way to any finish line is to shuffle or cake-walk along, or better yet… get a ride. Haven’t these people ever heard of the STS bus system?”

I could see that he was getting upset and I quickly changed the subject. I asked him about an inquiry I had received several days ago.  It concerned the so-called Rest Haven Scandal of the early 1970s.

I was unaware of the details. I wasn’t sure if such a scandal ever occurred and if it did occur, was it sexual in nature. I had thought it may have involved hanky-panky between aged residents. You know, perhaps clandestine illicit relations on a Craftmatic adjustable bed after the lights were out.

The Surgeon-General, puffing on his cigarette, responded curtly, “No, it was not like that at all. Clandestine illicit relations occurred elsewhere in the 1970s causing scandals, not in Rest Haven. You are thinking about Martha's Vineyard or Washington DC.”

 Cigarette smoke then trailed upwards forming a cloud above his large bulbous head. What type of cloud? I quickly remembered. Thank God my brain was still working overtime.

                                     It was a cirrus cloud!

I continued my rapid-fire questioning. “Did the Rest Haven Scandal involve illegal break-ins by so-called plumbers or electricians attempting to fix the Rest Haven Bingo games?  Who would order such a break-in? Would the bingo prizes be that important?”  I remembered that the District Attorney in the 1970s organized bingo raids quite frequently, attempting to eradicate the scourge of bingo once and for all.  Maybe Rest Haven was the crown jewel of that crack-down.

  Again the answer was in the negative.

“What the hell was the Rest Haven Scandal then?”

“Sit back, boy and I will tell you a story that will knock your compression socks off. But first, pass me the salt and help yourself to a pickled egg and  some beer bologna.....  I like horse radish on my hard-boiled egg. How about you?”

                              

                                       TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

 

 

American Way Fair Memories

                               (sometimes good material just appears to fall out the sky)

 

 

                                           Say it ain’t so, Joe! 

Pottsville is losing its American Way Fair!   Another  loss to the downtown reeling from the loss of Pomeroy's, the Necho Allen Hotel, and the underground rest rooms. The tragic news came unexpectedly, as the $17 million Union Station was built, in part, to handle the influx of tourists, sightseers and street urchins that came to the annual Fair, boosting the city's economy.

All we have now are our memories to hold on to.  Man, it was one hell of a downhill ride, and I loved every minute of it.   How does one describe the AWF to the uninitiated?  For starters, try watching such films as “The Easter Parade,” “One Flew Over the Coo-Coo’s Nest,” “The Wizard of Oz,” “State Fair” and “The Grapes of Wrath” simultaneously.

Go ahead. I will wait until you are done…… You can get all of these films at the Red Box in the downtown Giant Supermarket….. Hurry up. I am waiting……

                                        (later, the next day)

                                               See, wasn’t I correct? 

 I did forget to mention that the new movie, “Mr. Peabody and Sherman” has a small scene in it, where the talking dog and his pet boy get into the Way-Back Machine and travel back to Pottsville in 1976; the year that the Fair opened.  It is a short five minute scene and only features the American Way Surplus Swine Flu Shot Tent with crowds of people lining up to get immunized with surplus swine flu vaccine, before Mr. Peabody yells to Sherman, “Hurry up, boy. Let’s get the hell out of here!”

I was there at the first fair.  I loved every minute. 

It opened on a solemn note, with the ecumenical blessing of the funnel cake batter, a prayer for those afflicted with disco fever, and a moment of silence for all of those who overslept. Then the Mayor and the Winter Carnival Mascot, Pottsie Ottsie, took to the podium to declare the official opening.

But, before I continue, think about 1960 when Senator John F. Kennedy visited Pottsville and removed his hat when speaking at the Garfield Diner as he tried to catch the attention of one of the Diner’s  waitresses.

From that moment, the men of Pottsville forever stopped wearing hats. Unfortunately they proceeded to burn down all of the city’s haberdasheries, leveling them into what we know today as parking lots.  In a similar manner, in 1976 the men of Pottsville stopped wearing shirts at any downtown fair after the mayor removed his polyester leisure jacket and polyester shirt to welcome the participants. 

His Honor was a hell of an emcee, bellowing out those immortal words, now taught to children in every middle school, home school, cyber school and charter school:

  “…You've proven to the world that several hundred people – and I call you people because I am one - can get together and have eight hours of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, funnel cake and Italian Sausage, and I God Bless You for it!”  

Fortunately. while the men tore off their shirts after that announcement, no men’s clothing stores were damaged.  We have our level-headed mayor and the Pottsville Police Commissioner to thank for that.

From that moment on the AWF became synonymous with bare-chested men showing off their pasty, beer barrel abs. Noted linguists contend that the term “man boobs” became acceptable part of our English vernacular due to that historic, opening fair in the heart of the anthracite coal region.

It was then time for the music to begin. The Pottsville Kilties then performed, playing the melodic “Afternoon Delight” on their bagpipes while perched high atop the rooftop of the Park Hotel. A truly magical ‘70’s moment.  There was music of all variety was heard that beautiful day. For instance, there was Little Andy singing “the Disco Duck Polka” while Country and Western sensation “Wee” Willie Whistle doing a Texas swing version of “Play That Funky Music White Boy”  and the Byzantine Choir doing a somber, slow version of “(Shake, Shake, Shake) Shake Your Booty, ” in the Ruthenian language.

 Wasn’t the music of the 1970’s the greatest?

Besides watching two transient street people, affectionately known to all as "The Captain and Tennille" play tennis on East Norwegian Street in a match unrivaled since Wimbledon, one of the athletic highlights of the fair was the 400-meter bed race with beds from all of the local furniture stores participating. There were teams from Nathans, Levitz, Brighters, Rombergers, Pomeroys and Sears going bed-to-bed with Tenenholz’s, Ufbergs, and Sisweins.  The local betting parlors were very busy that day with frantic wagering on which furniture store would win.   The winner, by the way, was a Chippendale bed from Tuzon’s, a 30-1 long shot. In last year's bed race, Goodwill was the only contestant.  Betting fell off precipitously.

The American Way Fair is now history.  Some say it will be like Philadelphia’s American Bandstand and relocate out west. Rumor has it that it may reappear in a year or two in Tower City, Sacramento or Rough and Ready. We can just hope.

All we have left are cherished  memories and perhaps, some Italian sausage or funnel cake shoved in the back of the freezer.  Thank you Billie, thank you Joe and thank you to all of the others who played any role in the AWF and that awesome, Sunday afternoon delight!

 

 

 

My take on church-sponsored "All You Can Eat" meals

 

Did you ever wonder why some Schuylkill County churches host all you can eat breakfasts and dinners during Lent? I know I have.  

Take a look at the calendar of events in the Republican Herald newspaper, you will find some church (or hose house) sponsoring an all you can eat scrapple breakfast, an all you can eat chicken pot pie luncheon or an all you can eat spaghetti dinner.

Some days I accept the challenge and go to all three.

Would you care to join me one of these days?

I call it the Schuylkill County hat trick.

 I may have been mistaken but, at one time, I thought that gluttony was a vice. It ranked last on the list of the seven deadly sins, way behind pride, envy, lust, fidgeting, peeing in a swimming pool and nail clipping in public.  Whatever happened to the stigma gluttony had over the centuries?

Maybe "gluttony" suffered the same fate as Pluto.

You remember Pluto don’t you?  I do. It used to be a planet but got voted out of our solar system. Sort of like the Survivor TV show.  Maybe gluttony got voted off the list of vices.  I know I didn’t vote. If I did I would have voted off "lust" and replaced it with "nagging." That is just my opinion.  Mammy repeatedly disagrees with me.

 Maybe it’s chewing food with one’s mouth open that is a vice and not the number of servings consumed. It sounds fairer to me. What do you think?

 With so many churches over-feeding the local population, I believe that there may be some biblical basis for church- sponsored gluttony that I missed when I read the bible over forty-five years ago.

 I can't imagine there was over-eating at the last supper.  I have seen the da Vinci painting and it certainly does not depict any liter bottles of RC Cola on the table or large bowls of chicken wings or pierogies. The platters all seemed fairly sparse; reminding me of  Le Bec Fin Restaurant in Philadelphia. Sparse and probably over-priced.

More likely it was when Jesus multiplied the loaves and fishes. Perhaps that was the first "all you can eat" mackerel breakfast that remains popular in our county to this day. Maybe archeologists will find some ancient Sweet Arrow Lake scroll which will confirm that it is righteous and just to get up in the morning and eat as much food as humanly possible before settling down to watch cable TV.  

I don’t know about you but I don’t care for fish sandwiches for breakfast even though I have the name trout.  I prefer Lucky Charms cereal, left over city chicken and pickled eggs (not necessarily in that order). 

Probably I would have just eaten one fish sandwich if I was at Galilee. However, I would hate to get back in line for a second, especially with that Palestinian heat and the large crowd, so I probably would have taken two. With no doggie bags back in those days. If I didn’t want to eat it, I’d put it in my pants pocket. I don’t know about you but I hate to waste food.

  I know that mackerel breakfasts remain popular in Schuylkill County. If you can eat several large fish in the morning, then I say, “Holy Mackerel! Go for it! It is in the Bible for Pete’s sake!”

 Did you ever wonder who this Pete is? I know I have.

I think "Pete" refers to Peter, the apostle, who helped distribute the all you can eat loaves and fishes at Galilee.  I am not sure who distributed the tartar sauce. I know it wasn’t Peter. Maybe there wasn’t any back then.

I often wonder who invented tartar sauce. Don’t you?

Probably two Tartars from Crimea.

In any event I say a prayer before I sit down to my “all you can eat” bleenie brunch, large pepperoni pizza lunch or midnight halushki buffet.  I bow my head and humbly ask the Lord that our churches and hose houses continue to do his work, helping to keep our Schuylkill County people remain forever in His image and likeness – pudgy, portly and plump.

Then I begin to gorge myself, always remembering to chew my food with my mouth closed.