Christmas Eve afternoon my wife and I started to receive the first of many Christmas presents. My Hospice health care aid and nurse gave me a 12-pack of Red Stripe Jamaican beer so I could reminisce about our last cruise. They gave Kathy lottery tickets and a Wades Gift Certificate. Kathy is constantly telling Kim and I what she is going to do when she wins the lottery, but she never plays. The Gift Certificate is for a trip to a casino (so she can win big bucks!). Our Godson stopped over as did my Goddaughter and her boyfriend. I gave the traditional wine and Cuban Cigars. My brother-in-law John and his wife, Mary stopped and brought over 2 trays of homemade Christmas cookies. Later that evening, Kim stopped back with her husband Frank to give me smelt and homemade stuffed calamari. My son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter arrived about 2:00 p.m. with our daugher. They had spent Saturday and Sunday night at a cabin on northern Lake George. All in all, it was a busy but nice day and evening.

All of the aforementioned are family and closest friends. On Christmas Eve my immediate family dined on a gifted meal. We had cheese and crackers and drank some wine, ate a lasagna that had to be six inches thick, and apple pie a la mode for dessert. Our grandduagher, Belle, was in rare form and chattered and danced while we all laughed.

This holiday meal was given to us by Kathy's friends at Home Funding Finders.

Christmas morning we got up with an excited 17 month old and our daughter Kate who gets very excited on Christmas morning. We opened presents most of the day since Belle would open a few, become distracted and then we would go back to open a few more later. My brother-in-law, Fred and my wife's sister, Carol stopped over mid-day. One of the highlights for me was when one of my oldest friends, Nick, stopped over for a quick drink. As kids, we used to watch the Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour, every Saturday at noon. He actually found a Warner Brothers DVD with two of our favorite cartoons on it. We sat here, a 60 year old and 58 year old man, drinking single malt scotch, mine thru a straw, watching a dancing frog on my big screen TV and laughing like hell. When he left to visit his Dad, I was a little worried about his driving abilities. I got phone calls throughout the day, one from Ricki Lewis who was on her way with her family to Martha's Vineyard for a quick vacation.

Anyone that knows me well would assume that the best gifts that I received this year were the bottles of each different color of Johnnie Walker that I received from Kate's boyfirend, Sean or the 16 year old single malt scotch that I got from Kathy. surprisingly the best gift was watching my granddaughter ride the little electric 4 wheel motorcycle that Sean had given her. It didn't take her very long at all to figure out how to use it, she showed no fear at all riding it around the house. She still has to master turning because she will go straight until she hits something and then just sits there and spins her wheels. When I first taught Kathy to drive she had the same problem.

That evening we had a delicious spiral ham dinner, again with apple pie for dessert. This meal was also a gift from Kathy's friends at HFF. Kathy and I had a wonderful day and only got testy with each other once. She lit into me when I asked for thirds on the ham! I even left room for some of the cookies that were sent; I'm still eating them today.

Holidays, especially holiday meals, are meant to be special times to be remembered. As you can tell from above, this Christmas was a good one for the Nichols family. My family and I want to thank each and every one of the people that volunteered their time, effort and thoughts for us in this Holiday Season and I want to thank each of you for being so supportive and such a good friend to my wife. It is important to me that you know how deeply appreciative I am and how many different ways you have helped her and us as a family.

Thank you for the wonderful Christmas and I hope you have a great New Year.

Two Idiots Volume VI.....Do You Remember....Rotterdam In The 60's

Shoporama...The heart of Rotterdam, now WalMart Plaza. Originally there was Grand Union, Endicott Johnson, Pat the Tailor, Woolworths (with it's basement toy room), Alfreds Bakery, Hallmark Cards, Sch'dy Savings Bank and a beauty parlor.

Next to Shoporama was a nursery that had the original gates to "Cold Brook". Cold Brook had been an estate that was purchased to build the post WWII housing development. Across the street was Towne Tavern, owned by the Vinceguerra family. Next to that and across the street was Daly's Mill Pond. Between there and the now occupied Gators Cigar Shop was private homes. On the corner of O'Brian & Altamont Ave. was Terry's Grocery Store. They sold individual cigaretts for 2 cents each. The opposite corner of O'Brian was Palmier Oil Co., right next to Towne Liquors, where you could buy Tango, which was cheap vodka and cheaper orange juice for 49 cents and a penny tax.

Heading west on Altamont Ave. was all private homes, until you arrived at the site of which is now Alfreds Bakery. This was then a grocery store. Across the street was Towne Bowling Alley.

On to 4 Corners of Curry Road and Hamburg Street.

The Country Inn, with it's Summer Softball League, featured The King & His Court, Eddie Fiener as the pitcher. At that time, he could throw a softball 100 miles per hour. From there we went across the street to Stannette's, a bar that ultimately became the Entre Nous, a famous local teenage night spot, which gave birth to the famous band, The Fabulous Four Speeds.

The other famous local band was Captain Nemo and the Sundowners, who played regularly at The Excelsior House in Troy and Spagna's in Lake George.

Across from the Entre Nous was Steve's and Nedco Pharmacy. On that side of the street there was only private homes all the way to Rolling Greens bowing Alley. Next to the Entre Nous was St. Gabriel's Catholic Church, where most of Rotterdam's "virgins" attended Sunday Mass. Next to the church was one of our favorite stops for a drunken breakfast, Rose's Diner. This place had a counter, with the old fashioned "spin around" seats, and about 20 four person booths, each equipped with it's own juke box, 10 cents a play, 3 for a quarter. 24 hours, wekends only.

Continuing on that side of the street, there was nothing but private homes and St.Aldberts Cemetary. Roller Rama was another favorite hangout. Built in the 1930's as a dance hall, it became a skating rink in the 50's. In the middle 1960's, they had "2 in 1 nights", which for one price, you could roller skate and then a DJ would spin records for a dance. It was at one of these that I heard one of the early 1960's greatest hits...." Pappa ooh mau mau"

TO BE CONTINUED...................................................................

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Below is an article written by Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated. He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a F-14 Tomcat. If you aren't laughing out loud by the time you get to "Milk Duds," your sense of humor is seriously broken.

"Now this message is for America 's most famous athletes: Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have . John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity... Move to Guam Change your name. Fake your own death! Whatever you do . Do Not Go!!! I know. The U.S.< face="Georgia" color="#010101" size="5"> Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast. Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. ("T-minus 15 seconds and counting ." Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, "We have a liftoff" Biff was to fly me in an F-14D Tomcat , a ridiculously powerful $60 million weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning . "Bananas," he said."For the potassium?" I asked."No," Biff said, "because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down."The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot But, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was it. A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would "egress" me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious. Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Un fortunately, the ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.And I egressed the bananas. And I egressed the pizza from the night before. And the lunch before that. I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade. I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that never thought would be egressed. I went through not one airsick bag, but two.Biff said I passed out. Twice. I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's were flattening me like a tortilla and I was in and out of consciousnes s, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down. I used to know 'cool'. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know 'cool'.. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. I wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand. A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me Said he'd send it on a patch for my flight suit.What is it? I asked."Two Bags."
God Bless America !

OLD DAYS

Growing up in Rotterdam, New York in the late 1950’s was not the same experience as yours. We were the beginning of the suburban sprawl, the first of the “white flight” after WWII. We lived in a “housing development”. This was a newly coined phrase, which basically meant that you lived in a pre–war country setting now called the suburbs. Levittown, Long Island was the benchmark, where thousands of “tract” houses were built. Tract meaning large land areas were purchased where streets were laid out block after block, each house identical to the next. The Rotterdam example of this would be Coldbrook.

I can’t stress enough that this building frenzy was at its very beginning. Rotterdam itself was different. As commercial as it is today, it was rural then.

Our dads all worked at the General Electric plant as machinists, crane operators or some other blue-collar job. None of them had any college and most were vets. My father was a vertical boring mill operator trained through the General Electric Company Apprentice program. He started the program after graduating from high school at the end of the Depression in 1937. While training he made $11 a week. My father worked on the same machine, in H bay of building 273, Large Steam Turbine, on the third shift; 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., for 47 years. Think about that. Same job over and over again.

Our mothers stayed home until all the kids went to school and then went to work. There’s kind of a myth that most mothers were housewives and didn’t work outside the home, but if you take time and look you’ll see it isn’t true. When I left high school the development had tripled in size and only two moms were staying at home in the entire neighborhood.

An access road lead into the development from one of the main town roads to a circle of houses, approximately thirty, on four short streets. One road in, the same road out. Each lot was clean cut or had virgin plants, tiny bushes and trees about six feet tall. The streets were crushed stone. I think I was in junior high before the streets were paved. The whole thing was surrounded by woods and farmland. The western boundary of our neighborhood was a barbed wire fence bordering a dairy farm. I remember fondly, as a little guy, climbing the barbed wire along the post to sit on the top of the post and wait for a cow to come close enough so that I could jump on her back. Riding a cow was a big deal to a six-year-old growing up on Roy Rogers and Hopilong Cassidy. I’m sure that at some point “ yippy eye aye” and “ya hoo!” spilled from my mouth! Many an afternoon my mother swatted my ass for coming home smelling like cow shit. Yes, ass swatting was the norm. If you messed up, expect to pay in pain.

The houses were basically all the same layout, but the exteriors were slightly different. Some were more “finished” than others. Each started as a house with a basement and two floors. The starter model had an unfinished basement and attic. The first floor had a kitchen, living room, dining room, two bedrooms and a bathroom. Buyers could add a fireplace, bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs or a rec room in the basement. Our house was the basic
starter model with a fireplace. We fit since it was just my mother, father, my brother and me. This was the “baby boom”.

One of the reasons my parents had a “little” more was that they had been married for awhile and both had worked until my brother was born. Most of the kids were my age or younger. Including my brother, there were only four kids older. Many of the couples had been married for two to three years before buying their house. My parents moved in when I was one. Many of the couples were eligible for special mortgage programs because the husband had been in the war. Also two of the husbands were on 100% disability from the military. Unlike Social Security this type of disability allowed you to work. This enabled one of the mothers to remain a housewife when the kids went to school.

One man had been bayoneted in the chest. I had marveled at the scar many times, trying to imagine the nine-inch blade going in. His daughter told me that he had shot the other soldier and when he fell the bayonet stayed in his chest. The medic had removed the bayonet from the rifle but left it in his chest while transporting him. He still had nightmares about seeing the bayonet in his chest. The other man had been blown up during the Battle of the Bulge, the “Band of Brothers” story. Artillery hit right next to him, killing everyone in his foxhole but him. He had been riddled with shrapnel. The largest of his injuries were to his major organs but he fought hard and lived. The most noticeable scar was that he had lost an eye and wore a glass one.

The families handled their wealth at the extremes of differently. One family lived very simply. Their only thing was that they “finished “the upstairs into two bedrooms and a bathroom. Each of the three kids went to college and became a teacher. The word that comes to mind with the other family was extravagant. Their house was totally different from all the others. It was not a cape. They had chosen a ranch style house, which basically means all on one level. They also had the unheard of 2-½ bathrooms. Across the entire back of the house was a screened-in porch surrounded by a fieldstone patio. Just below the patio was a small in-ground swimming pool. This was a true luxury in the 1950’s. Later they were the first to get a color television. But what set them apart to make them truly extravagant in our father’s eyes was their choice of vehicle. My dad was a General Motors man. He usually purchased Chevys. The different lines came in different models. For instance, the Impala line came in the Biscayne, Bel Aire and Super Sport model. Each one added better accessories and options. The Bel Aire was the blue-collar model. The extravagant family was a Ford family and always purchased every available option. That’s something doctors or lawyers did.

Each morning kids would get up, watch the Three Stooges and Our Gang on TV, eat breakfast and then get thrown out of the house and told to go play outside. Every kid in Rotterdam had to be home at 4:30 in the afternoon, or at least that’s how it felt. The volunteer firehouse blew a siren every day at 4:30. There wasn’t a spot in town where that siren couldn’t be heard. That siren would blow and within a minute of its finishing every sandlot ball game, pick up basketball game, game of tag or double dutch would end. Like ants boys and girls headed across fields, down streets and through each other’s backyards heading home. It also acted as a reminder to get us home for the important afternoon television shows, which actually began at four. The Mickey Mouse Club was popular with the youngsters and American Bandstand was popular with everyone.

Lunch was different. When you got pushed out the door in the morning you knew that you’d catch lunch somewhere. All mothers understood that storming the beaches of France, gun fights and fighting Indians were much too important to give up to eat. It was a neighborhood understanding that if two or three extra kids were in your yard at noon, you threw each a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and life went on.

Now that I think about it that’s not true. The town was predominantly Italian, but where I lived was eastern European - Polish, German and Czech. My neighbors were named Karbowski, Dondalski, Drezdowski, Renkawicz and Lasak. I think that when the land for the houses first went on sale word got out at St. Adelbert’s Catholic Church, which was the local Polish parish. They did the mass in both Latin and Polish. Now my mother would fight to the death that she was German. Our name is Nichols but my mother’s maiden name was Vogel. She had four brothers and a sister. Two were born in Europe, one on the boat on the way over and two here. Her mother and father spoke German but had immigrated from what had been Prussia. After WWI it became Poland. So I would say that we were German speaking Poles. So pb and j wasn’t the norm.

I remember a lot of variety, with habits and what people had. Growing up in the 50s all of our parents were products of the depression. Some families had huge gardens and some canned their produce. So it was not unusual for a Mom to give you a fresh sliced tomato on bread with mayo or a piece of pumpernickel spread with about a ¼ of an inch of liverwurst spread on it with spicy mustard. Sometimes you got lucky and got guompkes or potato pancakes. When at an Italian’s house you would get pasta or just dip Italian bread in the pot of sauce on the stove. Today we would be accused of profiling but this is the way it was.

REHOUND

10/10/07 - 3:45 Tulsa-Chicago-Albany flight - a Bassatriever puppy arrives for us. He is a new "hybrid"breed, 1/2 Basset Hound 1/2 Golden Retriever. This equates to an expensive designer mutt. He has attached himself to Kathy and follows her every move.

MORE TO COME

"NATTY BUMPO"

It's cold enough that I can see my breath and when I look behind me I can see my footprints in the frozen dew. I'm heading across the lower cornfield moving towards the big picnic table tree stand. It's not light yet and I can hear the others moving slowly to either side of me.

I come to a dead stop as I enter the hedgerow between the cornfield and the piny woods. I move as slowly as I can and even try to slow my breathing. I use bushes and trees to break up the sight lines from the tree that I am moving towards, although I've seen them at every time of day, deer are predominately nocturnal and go to bed just before sunrise. Not often, but often enough, I've walked up on deer beds on my way in to the woods.

At the bottom of the tree I make sure my gun is on safety, turn my sling so the barrel is facing down and climb to the tree stand. I unsling the gun and lean it against the tree stand rail, I unclip my hotseat and put it on the sitting board. Out of the back of my hunting pouch, I pull my snacks and thermos and place it on the deck of the stand. I begin my wait.

It is November and even through the layers of clothing that I wear; the long underwear, the athletic socks, the wool socks, the blue jeans, the wool shirt, the black and red wool jacket, the oversized wool pants, the insulated water proof hunting boots, the lined Carhart hunting coat, the knit hat and the woolen gloves, I still feel the crisp morning chill begin to set in as I sit motionless. I hear another hunter making alot of noise off to my right and I hope that this pushes the deer towards me.

I sit and wait. The sun is just beginning to wink above the mountains. This is prime time to see a deer. I sit as still as I can looking from right to left and then back again very slowly. I look for two things: something in the silhouette that doesn't belong there, and any kind of motion, however so slow. Within minutes I see some moving shadows coming through the woods from my right, they are just entering my peripheral vision. As they continue towards me, three doe come into focus. Two are very small and the other is medium sized. I assume it is a mother with some yearlings. My heart starts to pump a little as I notice every few steps the larger doe looks back over her shoulder, looking and listening. I haven't heart the fumbling hunter in some time, so I assume that is a buck trailing the three does. I remain as still as possible. The deer move silently and fluidly, almost as if they are underwater. They pass in front of me, through a number of openings and continue off towards the creek. I think of them as going down to get a drink before they bed down for the day and maybe eat some of the sweet grass along the banks.

As I watch them disappear, I catch a slight movement out of the corner of my eye, without moving anything buy my eyes, I stare at some bushes and the pine blowdown where I thought I saw the motion. Deer are wily, they do so many unexpected things. I couldn't believe my eyes as I saw the head and horns of a buck come out from underneath one of the bushes. Instead of coming through or around as any hunter would expect him to, he went under. When he stepped into the first opening where I could see him clearly, I realized that he was a good sized animal. His rack was very thick and very high. I never saw anything move so slowly; when he went behind the bush for sight protection, I lifted the binoculars from around my neck and focused on the bush. I leaned myself against the railing of the tree stand for support. I knew this would be a slow-moving event.

First, I saw his snout, then one eye. Gradually, his neck and chest moved into the opening. The opening was just the "Y" of a branch. It appeared as if the deer was standing on a wheeled platform, that something pulled to make him move. I watched his feet, he took the slowest steps imaginable. Without moving his head quickly, he perused the area. He lifted his nose into the air and sniffed. It seemed like forever before he got within about 20 feet of me, still moving slowly and sniffing the air. They say that deer never look up, there was something in the air that caught his attention. Still looking through the binoculars, I watched as he turned and looked directly at me. Everything after that happened so quickly, that once he was gone I replayed it over and over in my mind. Once he saw me, he quickly jumped backwards, turned to his left and was gone in a millisecond.

I picked up my thermos, poured coffee into the cap, reached into my bag, pulled out my egg sandwich which I ate quickly, more in celebration than in hunger. I took out a Montecristo Robusto, fired it up with my lighter, laid back against the tree, enjoyed my cigar, drank my coffee, kept rerunning seeing the deer and chalked up another successful hunt.

October 25th

October 25, 1415 was the battle of Agincourt. The Battle of Agincourt was fought between the English and the French. The French had the English significantly outnumbered. Henry the V, commonly called Harry, gave a speech that rallied his troops to win the day.

In 1599 William Shakespeare immortalized Harry's words.

"This day is called The Feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes home safe, will stand a tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say, 'Tomorrow is St. Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispian's Day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
familiar in his mouth as household words -
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glouster --
be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
and Crispin Crispian shall ner go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered --
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaks
that fought with us upon St. Crispin's Day."

October 25, 2007 will be the second anniversary of my terminal diagnosis. Like Harry, Glouchester, Salisbury and Exeter; I, too, would like to be remembered on St. Crispin's Day. It seems appropriate since King HenryV and Shakespeare took the lowly saint of cobblers and leather workers to such a great height. One would think that the most often quoted speech from Shakespeare would be from Hamlet, MacBeth, or Othello, but because of the fortitude and meaning of Harry's words, the above by far is the most quoted of Shakespeare's words.

To those who are in the same situation as me -- we, too, can start our own band of brothers.

Two Idiots Volume V....Hot Dogs, Ketchup & Mint Jelly"

Mohonasen Jr. High, 1961.
Most of us "browned bagged it" for lunch. Many of us were first or second generation Americans
and our mothers were very creative with our lunches. Lou Amoroso brought the greatest Italian "sangwiches"; things like "peppers & eggs", fried moolie, sausage, peppers & onions, mortadella, prositto, of course, all on freshly made Italian bread. On the opposite side of the spectrum, we had Bruce Wheeler....mint jelly on Wonderbread...everyday! Georgie Davis....hot dogs with ketchup...on white....everyday! Jimmy Lucca mother, Mona, made great lunches- most of the time. Mona was a nurse and sometimes would not get home in time to make her three sons lunch. On those days, the boys would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Naturally, we would all ask each other what we had for lunch. You had to be careful because Jim called them " steak & sauce". Occasionally, he would find someone to trade. One day, Glenn's father made his lunch. Unfortunately, his fathers favorite sandwich was Grandma Browns baked beans, which are a lot like refried beans, with thin slices of Bermuda Onion. Glenn
got no trades that day.
We would also see a lot of "last nights" leftovers. Bobby Godlewski's pork chops, Kathy Kresnewski's glumpkies, Nicks grandmothers pizza, Jeff Kings fish fry and Gary Scholtes meatloaf. First place went to Walter Cuff, a transient from Hawaii, who's daily menu consisted of sardines, onions and cheese, with mustard, on marble rye. The smell was worse than a compost pile.
Lunch was always concluded by blowing up your brown bag and popping it on your knee.It sounded like a firefight in Vietnam.
On to Bishop Gibbons... 1963. The cafeteria here featured "ala carte" items, such as , cheese wedges,pickles, olives, sliced carrots, chickpeas, hard boiled eggs, sliced cucumbers and brownies with frosting. Whatever flew....did, usually launched by Jerry Pompilio and Al Kuhns,then, joined by the masses. It was every man for himself and it was always fun to watch Glenn run around the cafeteria with cheese stuck in his hair. Silverwear was next. Kurt Minersagen achieved the most velocity after he flattened knives, forks and spoons with his size
13 cordovans.He was the biggest man sized boy we ever saw. About 6'5'', 250 lbs., in ninth grade. His voice was bigger than that. The end result after getting caught was cleanup, which usually ended well after the buses departed. We'll tell you about the fish tank episode as Two Idiots continues next week.

"THE BARD"

My mother used to make me read as a young boy. She would place me in a well-lit, living room chair and make me read hours at a time. I had been enrolled in a number of book clubs. As time passed, although I would not admit it to her, I began enjoying the things I read. The book clubs that I belonged to consisted of things like biographies, non-fiction work, all-about books and historical figures combined with classical literature like Robinson Crusoe and the Deerslayer.

Out of pure coincidence two of my monthly book club selections were All About Shakespeare and a biography about Shakespeare. I found them both very interesting and from that time forward whenever Shakespeare was mentioned, I listened intently, but growing up in the 50's and 60's with the people I hung out with, it was a secret kept close to the vest.

During my high school years I had the good fortune of attending more than 2-1/2 years of private school, more that 1-1/2 at a local Catholic school and one year of prep school (once again, this is not a euphemism for juvenile detention facility). It was while I attended prep school that I had an instructor, Mr. Hubbard, who taught us how to read and understand the poetry of Shakespeare. "What light through yon window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun." This line is one that caught my attention. I never considered myself a romantic but I could picture some adolescent boy looking up at this beautiful young girl and thinking how her beauty could radiate like the sun. I really thought it was pretty cool.

When I returned to Mohonasen, in their great and wonderful wisdom, they were experimenting with a new English program. Monday's, Wednesdays and Fridays, the entire senior class went to the auditorium for a large lecture. At other periods two or three times a week we were broken up into much smaller groups that were called "seminar". My seminar teacher was the lovely, Miss Quinn.

The rumor on Miss Quinn was that she was a former nun. I didn't know if that was true or not but it sure as hell appeared to be. I don't really remember what it was we were studying but she had asked if anyone wanted to read one of the poems that we had just been assigned out loud. One of the girls volunteered and really did a poor job. I made some stupid comment and Miss Quinn asked me if I felt I could do better. I said "Most definitely."

She asked me to come up in front of the class and read it aloud. I did what she must have felt was an outstanding job with my reading because she stood there looking at me wide-eyed with her mouth wide opened. She came over to me, touched my arm, and said "that was fabulous". I went back to my seat. I remember I sat next to Fred Mastrianni and on the other side of him was JanineTherriault. Janine leaned across Fred and whispered, "I think she may have had an orgasm when she touched you." Fred and I cracked up.

Fred who was a really nice kid was probably the best jock in our class but was not a rocket scientist by any means. He and I decided that we would have a contest to see how many times we could get her to touch us. Each class after that I would always go up to her, touch her shoulder or elbow, get as close as I could and tell her how much I was looking forward to her class. After a few weeks, Fred gave up because I was way too far ahead of him. Miss Quinn almost died the day we did the poem "To His Coy Mistress."

Lets just say the sexual overtones hung in the air....but since it was a Mohonasen classroom, not for everyone. I had no doubt that that year I was Miss Quinn's favorite student. Everything being equal, looking back over the years, she was a very strange ranger but she knew her literature.

Shakespeare is in my life, even today...
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in its petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time; and all my yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle, life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing."

When daydreaming I think of this Macbeth soliloquy and it somehow feels appropriate for the stage of life that I am in now. The only part that I would disagree with is I feel that my life has indeed been significant. If you cut that line out, it would almost be a good epitaph for me.

Two Idiots Thursday-Volune IV-Entering the Twlight Zone

Summer 1971...Cruising the backroads of Altamont in the '66 T-Bird. Just the four of us, two idiots and the wives. Up Sickle Hill Road, we found a sign that said, " seasonal use only, road closed from November 1st. to April 1st." Up we went,dirt road and all. No sign would deter the two idiots. Potholes, gravel, downed trees, dead animals and rip rap, all littered the road. You can tell no one had been down the road for quite some time. Higher and higher, twisting and turning, the road went on. Dilapidated shacks, long abandoned, were slowly being overtaken by brush and small trees. Cresting the hill on the left, we saw what looked like the remains of an Alfred Hitchcock movie set. It seemed to call our name. Circling the exterior proved to be nothing out of the ordinary. The windows were too high and dirty to see inside. Forcing open the front door proved to be quite a challenge. The words "breaking, entering and trespassing" never entered our minds.Once inside, it became hauntingly quiet. All that remained on the first floor was a rotted kitchen cupboard, filled with empty antique ketchup bottles and old magazines. The stairs to the second floor were rotted, but navigable. Three bedrooms, cast iron bed frames and rotting springs. Throughout the house, wherever we walked, were cobwebs and dust. The basement was cold, dark and damp,not to mention eerie.We remained inside for about 15 minutes. It was exactly what an abandoned house should be.

We walked back to the car,where upon both our wives said, almost in unison," who was playing the piano?". We both laughed and asked what they were talking about. They said that the entire time we were in the house, they heard piano music. We both freaked out, knowing there wasn't a piano inside. Our wives insisted. Knowing them as well as we did, we knew they wouldn't lie.

Back down the hill we went, stopping in the village for something to drink. We inquired about the house. The proprietor, who was at least 100 years old, told us that years ago, a local music teacher had a heart attack and was found dead at his piano. His family was so distraught, everything was removed from the house and the piano was destroyed so that no one would ever play it again.

We haven't been back since.

FOR SUSAN/SUSANNA/ZSA ZSA

I was fortunate that my parents gave me a name that was hard to change into a nickname. Only three times was I forced to bear the burden of my name being changed: once, when I attended sleep away camp (no that's not a euphanism for juvenile detention) there was another boy who spelled his name with one "n", he became Glen1 and I became Glenn2 -- 2 quickly became deuce, so for 4 weeks I became known as the "deuce". In grade school, for a brief amount of time, the 4:00 PM cartoon show was hosted by a woman named Glendora. That name was extinguished with a punch or two on the playground. While in Boot Camp, we were given canvas jackets to wear to ward off the cold. This wasn't part of the regular uniform so they had us stencil our names on the left chest side. After about a week, all that was left of my stencil was the NIC. So they called me Nick.

Glenn is a Scottish name which means small, rural valley or dale. I've always been proud of my Scotch-Irish heritage, there was never a time when I wished I had a different name.

Many young people today follow the role models that they see on television who take names other than their own. People like Sean Combs, who can't seem to make up his mind what his name is. He went from Sean Puffy Combs, to Puff Daddy and now is PDiddy, except with his clothing line is concerned, he is Sean Jean, a little confusing.

Inner-city kids, who I taught for years, all have a street name, which I refused to call them by in class. I told them that their parents chose their name and they should be proud of it. It wasn't uncommon to hear me say something like, "No Rayquon, I will not call you pork chop", or "No, Laquasha, you are not Jelly Bean as long as you are in my classroom."

Pride in names seems to be something of the past. Imagine being an 86-year-old grandmother and your name is Apple or Moon Unit, it just doesn't seem appropriate. It is as if people don't think about the future and what this can do to a person.

So......why is this entry titled For Susan?

My wife shared an email with me about how a friend entering school one year was placed in a class with multiple Susans. Arbitrarily, the teacher gave her the name "Sue". This name stuck throughout her time in public school. She decided on leaving home to attend college that she wanted to be Susan, and from that day on would correct people when they called her Sue. I find this commendable. It is her name and I don't think it is inappropriate to demand that you be called by your rightful name. Of course, that doesn't hold true when you work with me, I used to work with a man named Michael who whenever someone called him "Mike", he would immediately correct them by saying, "please, I prefer Michael." I just couldn't do that. I used to call him Mike, Mikey, Mickey and after a while, he would just shake his head and laugh.

Susan is a Hebrew name drawn from Susanna, or, Zsa-Zsa which translates to Lilly. I can understand why someone would want to be called by such a nice name.

Now....knowing me, from this day forward in my mind Susan you will forever be Zsa-Zsa.

Two idiots - Volume III - Why hunting should not be allowed in Rotterdam

Mariaville, Fall, 1975. Full duck hunting regalia including chest high waders.

We ran the checklist: hunting license, duck stamp, 12-gauge shotguns, 50 rounds of #4 Remington magnums, thermos, lunch, cigarettes, flashlight, insulated socks, long underwear, Elmer Fudd hat and duck call.
After pulling up swampside, we slid open the side door of Glenn's Volkswagon van and, in the dark, made our way to the swamp. We positioned ourselves perfectly for the morning flight. We waited...and waited...and waited for the morning flight.
Sunrise never came. Befuddled, we made our way back to the van, flicked on the radio only to hear, "don't forget to turn your clocks back one hour."
So, here we were, each taking a seat in back of the van with an hour and a half to kill. To not get overheated, we removed our waiters and some insulated clothing. We killed time telling jokes and resorting, once again, to our infantile fart fighting. Once again, it was a tie!
It wasn't long before we saw the sun rise, albeit through a mist of flatulance. Groggily making our way back to the swamp, we repositioned ourselves. Shortly after first light, we spotted ducks in the distance and Nick began to call them in. One came in range and flew directly in the direction of Nick's call, and was quickly disposed of with one shot. In excitement, Nick handed his Browning Automatic to Glenn and proceeded to wade into the water to retrive the fallen prey which was just beyond his reach.
When the water reached his family jewels, he turned to Glenn and screamed, "I forgot to put on my waders!" We laughed from the time of retrival until we arrived home. Our wives laughed as hard as we did, but not as hard as you will after this next story.

It seems as though one of our hunting friends wanted a new shotgun, which was given to him as a Christmas present from his wife. He immediately called us and we made plans to hunt that Sunday morning.
Upon arriving at his home, we rang the bell and out he came, obviously not prepared to hunt. George rolled down the drivers side window to hear what John had to say. He informed us he was not ALLOWED to hunt that day. As if we were a highly trained chorus, in unison, we replied, ALLOWED!!!???
He told us there was a disagreement over last night's dinner. We busted his chops until he broke down and confessed, " I didn't finish my peas and she won't let me go."
We stared at each other for several seconds, then broke out into spontaneous laughter. Not believing him, we requested he summon his wife, and the fool did just that.
Out she came, IRATE! Spit flying from her mouth, she informed us, in no uncertain terms.....George sat at the opened window facing her; Nick was rolled up in a ball trying not to laugh and Glenn was clutching his stomach making dolphinesque clicking sounds.

She continued on, "This is my house and he and I had an agreement that he did not live up to. I clearly told him, no peas, no hunting."
It was at this point that the three of us lost total self-control. Glenn was alternately laughing and fighting for air, and Nick was laughing, kicking his feet and slapping his legs, while George howled with laughter, pumping his arms like a long distance runner.
She turned on her heels and returned to the house. John stood there watching us laugh, until his wife stuck her head out the door and made him return to the house. We remained in the driveway until George was well enough to drive. The entire time, she watched us through the picture window.
It took us a long time to get ourselves under control. It was all good until Nick ordered eggs over easy, home fries and peas...for breakfast.

We never had the pleasure of John's company for another hunt.

Two Idiots Volume II - Mohawk Drive In aka The Passion Pit

The Mohawk Drive In was one of six located in our area, but was, by far, our favorite. Glenn can remember when he used to go there with his parents, in his "feety pajamas". Our fondest memories were as teenagers, when there were two kinds of drive-in trips. The first was the "all male" trip, where you brought food, beer, booze and a few bodies hidden in the trunk. Of course, frequent drinking led to frequent "monster bleeding". The long trip back from the "head" was really a "recon" mission, listening for moaning,heavy breathing or the always present foggy windows. Once contact was initiated,our first responsibility was to gawk, next, as a recon squad, violently rock the car and make a beeline back to ours. The mission was considered extremely successful if you recognized the car and it's occupants.
The other kind of trip was every adolescents dream.......date night at the passion pit. As Junior High students, we would listen to the stories older teenage boys would tell. However, asking for a date was one thing, getting one was another. The dynamic duo,(aka Two Idiots), were well known for "hit & run"), so parents were skeptical to send their innocent daughters ANYWHERE with us, let alone a drive-in. We were left with no alternative but to leave the confines of Rotterdam and attempt to pick the fruit from distant trees. Once successful, testosterone knew no bounds and Mount Pleasant and Notre Dame became targets of interest. Once secured, we were off.
What was playing and what time it started did not matter. we were there, on our own turf and it was "D-Day". After successful window fogging, it was time for smoke and a snack. Paying more attention to our appetites than our dates, it was off to the concession stand, while they visited the ladies room, always together. We usually just bought popcorn and a soda, since the food looked NOTHING like what was shown on the screen. One thing we learned early, never go to the concession stand during intermission. Between bugs, beer farts and Glenns less than hygenic date, the night stayed with us long after we returned home.
Scoring was usually first and second base, with the occasional triple and lets just say we wern't "long ball" hitters. However, batting for average, the hits added up and it wasn't long before we "stole home".
Summer soon led to Fall, and the cooler weather forced us indoors after school, but that's another chapter in the life of the Two Idiots.

"Door In, Door Out"

Great joke to pull!

"Searching"

Alot of people have become concerned about my spirituality lately. I've been searching the web for further insight.

Above is Hotei or "the Laughing Buddha". I thought "hotei' was how Buckwheat said O.K.

When you first read Buddist teachings it sounds like you would imagine Yogi Berra or Homer Simpson might sound trying to explain the theory of relativity.

"There is no tommorow or yesterday, only today." So why do we need newspapers or weather forecasts? "The road of life winds uphill." Turn around - aaaaah - like downhill dude! "Listen for the sound of one hand clapping." Still listening?

Hotei is the God of good fortune and the guardian of children. The belly is the "center" of strength, so it is large to signify his abundance of inner wealth and a joy filled soul. His ears are big because he's all hearing. Rubbing his belly is supposed to bring good luck. The bag over his shoulder is for alms. Is he an eastern Santa?

I've been reading alot of religious material, tomorrow - Zorastrianism!

"Aannd They're Off!

Saratoga rocks! Kathy put $100 in an OTB account and we're still playing. I've found that I'm excellent at picking first & third and second & third. Kathy actually hit a race and won $20 on a $2 bet that came in second & third! An part of an entry; 2 & 2a, scratched so the remaining horse could only run for the purse. It won but didn't count in the pay out, so Kathy won.
When I'm not sure and want action on the race I bet the five horse and win often.
It's fun from home but I miss the crazy people screaming their horse home, the smells, the sausage, peppers and onion sangueech's, and watching for a horse to take a dump while walking to the post. Uncle Fred says they win, so we watch. A big gray that dumps out is a sure thing.

"Impossible"

Unbelieveable stage act! Check it out.

"Environmental Irritants"

Watching so much TV, I see the same commercials repeatedly. The Astilin commercial has coined the phrase "environmental irritant" while showing a cigar burning in an ashtry. those of you who know me, know that I took immediate affront to this. Being a cigar smoker, I know that any cigar smoker worth his weight knows when and when not to light up. I have never met a group of people more willing to ask the people around them if they mind that they smoke a cigar. One of the most common responses that I have received when I have asked, especially from women, is that it is fine, that it reminds them either of their father or their grandfather. this is really not the comment that a middle-aged man wants to get, but since it allows me to smoke I don't mind. Other than the one time I got a comment from a dealer at a crap table marked as a smoking table, have I ever been asked not to smoke.
To me, again in the context of TV viewing, the "environmental irritant" is more the repetitiousness of being forced to watch the same commercials repeatedly. Last night my wife and I watched 3 prime-time television shows on two different major networks, without exaggeration we saw the new Old Navy women's blue jean commercial at least 12-15 times, at least 3 times we saw it back to back. That is truly irritating!
For the last two years, I have become very concerned about the mental health of the men and women who write the Burger King commercials. The King has become quite strange. I am now beginning to worry about Wendy's. The idiot with the red wig chasing the chicken in the old Road Runner -- come on, no chicken can reach the pedals!
Having been an Engish major, I understand the concept of "the willing suspension of disbelief". This is where as an audience member when watching a play or movie, you agree to believe what is put in front of you. This is why we accept characters such as Peter Pan, Puck and Batman. The scenario, though, has to be one where the story line explains the character's abilities. For instance, the Nasonex commercial where the bumblebee talks about the product with an Antonio Banderas accent. Is it that bees pollinate and they are talking about allergies so we are supposed to label the bee as a romatic latino lethario?
I have begun to DVR alot of the shows that I could very easily watch but I would rather fast forward thru the commercials. Half hour shows become 20 minutes, hour shows become 40 minutes. It is amazing how a DVR takes care of "environmental irritants". Another plus for Time Warner

"I Hate Meeses to Pieces!"

Saturday night after dinner with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, we were relaxing in the living room when my wife began to scream like a little girl on her first roller coaster ride. Her eyes as big as saucers, she looked at me and said "I just saw a mouse!". Here I am, bed-ridden, can't get up without my Hoyer Lift, and she wants me to do something about a mouse. Fred saw the mouse go behind the television and I saw it dart behind a chair in the corner. Fred was up like a shot, pulled back the chair -- no mouse. This routine repeated itself a few times, each time Fred would grab the chair and no mouse. Each time Kathy and Carol would "eek" and bounce up and down pointing at it, while keeping their feet off the floor. I never could figure out why women did this, I never knew that mice had a penchant for eating feet. We finally figured out, the mouse must be inside the chair. We had stored the chair for a long time in our basement and felt this might be a reasonable explanation. So Kathy told Fred to take the chair out of the house. It sits now in our garage, no mice have been sighted since Saturday, but not taking chances Kathy's cleaned the old Fox B, double barrelled shotgun.

TWO IDIOT THURSDAYS - Volume 1

RATED R FOR ADULT CONTENT

In honor and memory of all the Idiots that were nurtured in Rotterdam, we've decided to have "TWO IDIOT THURDAYS." This weekly blog is brought to you by the original two idiots so named by their fathers and others in the early 1960's. Nick and I will walk through the episodes of our lives weekly. We will trace origins and mythical like humble beginnings of the legend that continues even today. Ugly can be changed but once an idiot you remain an idiot forever. Idiotism is a prideful thing but a cross we carry willingly.

Due to our admission of being guilty to some mayhem, destruction, vandalism and thievery names and exact locations have been altered.

Volume 1 - Gary Bailie's Basement - located on Hollywood Avenue.

You always went in through the garage to the back door and then straight down the stairs. Mr. Bailie, Lew, looked like Koukla from the Koukla,Fran and Ollie puppet show. He called everyone by their last name - "Hey, Nichols, get your bike outa here." Nick's famous line was, "He could eat an apple through a tennis racket." Mrs. Bailie wore a "house coat" constantly. Lew would wander down stairs but I never remember Mrs. Bailie there. I guess they figured if they don't see it.............. They were good people and great with their kids. It was just a mellower time then.
As 12 year olds, this was the site of sexual fantasies, reading Playboy and Oui magazines, cigarettes and where 4 could catch a buzz on one 6-pack of Piel's Real Draft or Reingold Wide Mouths. Later it became a make out pit where many of us succumbed to the sins of the flesh. Where we first tasted pink lip stick, learned how to unfasten a bra with one hand, touched female flesh for the first time, one girl taught someone to only take one leg out of his jeans so that he could get his pants on quickly and ultimately our virginity was stolen from us by the rapidily maturing beautiful flowers that seemed to bloom early in Rotterdam. I'll never forget the smell of hairspray and how it stuck to your face when making out.

All the above while waiting for the ever present feet shuffling of Gary's Grandmother across the kitchen floor where she would open the door and shine a flash light downstairs yelling," Gary you down there? You won't go away and leave me will you? I'm afraid of snakes and lightening!"She'd shuffle back to her livingroom chair.

Sunday night was Ed Sullivan night in the basement. We watched an old Holocrafter console black and white t.v. with rotating rabbit ears with aluminium foil for better reception. There was a full length mirror that Gary would dance in front of to practice his moves - spins, splits, head bobs and face distortions. If his father saw him he'd explode and yell,"That's enough! You look like a f...ing moron!" Gary believed that he was the spitting image of George Harrison; not so much. Most week nights we stayed home. Friday and Saturday were hang out nights. Sometimes there would be 5 people and others 20. By the time we drove, you couldn't find a parking spot.

Many summer days and nights we spent hours playing cards, smoking cigarettes, telling jokes and calling up girls. Also you had the "would you?" conversation, along with things like Samantha or Genie?There was always the 1-10 scale (Ladies you did it too!). Boys extended it to include less than attractive girls if they had a nice figure. This game was also broken down by body part - for instance, "..... but she's got great legs," I'm sure you catch the drift.
When we acquired the new found freedom of driving we didn't go as often. We found the parking spots. Our girl friends made us do things like double date, take them to the movies, dances and parties. Sometimes even worse things, like going to her house.

We argued about bands, movie stars, Viet Nam, hippies, drugs and most everything else. We read our first Rolling Stone magazine and I turned him on to Dylan here. But event planning was his thing.

Gary continued with younger disciples. He, like Peter Pan, never grew up. His place is where we misspent our youth. It has a fond place in the memories of alot of people. It's almost as if he knew he'd never get old - he died in his mid- 20's in a car accident.

We still think of him and remember it all! Thanks Beetle!

What's in a Name?

Ever notice how when someone or something is a little different there's always someone right there to point it out? I was guilty of it as a youngster and am now embarassed about it -- you know "fat","too tall", "chicken legs" etc. All the things that would hurt. We never stopped to think about that.

Nicknames tend to stay around overtime - hunch, polecat, fly, boner, thumper, bones, the stain, hoss, ...... I know you can think of more. My first real girlfriend had "buck" teeth, so alot of people called her 'Bucky". She was a really nice kid, quiet, smart and funny. I stopped going out with her because "my friends" told me that I could do better. Isn't that a sad thing to admit?

Some nicknames are funny and some people accept them. My brother in law has a friend with a peanut sized mole on his forehead, so they call him "Goob", short for "Goober." I was sometimes miserable, so I got tagged with "Grumpy." One little skinny woman that I used to work with was called "Double D" because it seemed like she was always holding a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee. My all time favorite moniker is "Pukey". A kid gets sick in class once and he's marked for life.

The cigar shop had some characters - Larry the Fenceman, Dr. Fred also known as the Wizard, Black Jamaican Larry, Johnny O, John the Heat, Big Waz and Little Waz, Murph, Spooky, Mini,
Iggy, Tony Pizza, Sweaty and the Hurricane.

Since we're all older now let's try to be a little kinder - "Honey could you stop calling me ............."

"I Think I Peed My Pants"

Remember those times you laughed so hard you'd actually cry? Think about it and I'm sure you'll think of a few and smile. Here's a couple of mine:

Mr. George Walbilig was one of my teachers in high school. We were all talking about what we had gotten for Christmas when he told us that his mother was so excited about her present. He said she couldn't keep her hands off it, played with it continually and hoped to use the new one more often then the old one. George had bought his mother a new organ.

Ronnie Morris worked with me at Carol's Drive-In. One weekend night when he wasn't working, he stopped in drunk as a skunk. Right after he arrived we heard girls screaming outside of the back of the store. Our manager was very big on keeping the restrooms clean. We had a men's and women's room at the back of the store that you entered from outside. Two doors down the street was a very popular bar that had very small bathrooms. A lot of the girls would come and use ours instead of waiting in line. Ron had already started laughing so we knew he was involved. Arriving outside, we found a crowd of girls still screaming and hollering. One girl was saying that an animal had attacked her when she entered the bathroom stall. " I think I peed my pants," she sniffled.She had run out without getting a good look at it. Jeff Pryor went in to see what it was but first he had gotten the handle off of the push broom for protection. He returned with a smile on his face and asked me to hold the door open. The girls all huddled together in fear. Shortly, out waddled two white domestic ducks. Ron had kidnapped them from the pond at central Park. We laughed as they walked around the parking lot.

I think everyone has a similar memory as this next one.

Mark and Bruce Crary, Jerry Dawson, Gary Palma, John and Everett Gorden, Doc Bucci and I had been playing 4 on 4 basketball behind Bigsbee School one day in about 4th or 5th grade. We stopped to take a break and each of us bought a soda at Gabrial's Market. During the summer months the Town of Rotterdam would hire high school kids to be at each park to watch over the little kids. Hell it was the 1950's , at the time, I was only 9 or 10 and my mother let me come to the park alone. It was a different time. We sat at the picnic tables with the park staff drinking. John was sitting on the end of the table top with is feet hanging over the side drinking an Orange Crush. He took a long swig and laid down on his back. John immediately started to choke. Twin geysers of orange soda shot straight up in the air from his nostrils, two or three times. Each time it decreased in height and quantity; 3 feet, 1 1/2 feet, 1 foot. Doc sat him up and smacked his back to help him catch his breath. We just laughed ourselves to tears.

" George Buhrmaster the King of Stink"

George, Nick and I, occasionally others, used to hunt weekly. At some point George always had to go to the bathroom; always! It didn't matter, indoors or out, woods, fields, over downed trees, from tree stands, in the bushes, behind bushes, once in an old vehicle, diners, truck stops. It could be winter, summer, spring or fall - 100 degrees or well below zero. We started thinking that maybe his wife didn't let him go at home. If you were ever around when he went you'd understand.
One fall morning I walked out of the woods to see George sitting on a toilet in the middle of the field. His pants were down around his ankles, his shot gun across his lap, all he needed was a magazine. Only he would find an abandoned toilet with a seat! Naturally, being George, he produced a roll of tp from his hunting vest. We just laughed.
George owned a Brittany Spaniel named Bernie. He was a great hunting dog and we took him every where we hunted. Once we went upland hunting for woodcocks near Saranac Lake. Nick rode both ways in the back seat with Bernie sleeping on his lap. George worked at the local Buick dealership, so we always had a big car. Bernie slept all the way up and back.
Unfortunately for Nick the dog was wet and smelled like only a wet dog can smell. Some where around Chestertown, Bernie started to fart. Not to be out done George followed soon after. Farting, after a while, eventually becomes like yawning, every one starts. Nick opened windows and tried mouth breathing before begging George to stop the car. We took fresh air breaks in Lake George and Clifton Park.
Nick did a comedy routine about a guy test driving the car on Monday and another about George teaching Bernie to fart. "What happened to the blind skunk? She fell in love with Bernie." Then he started naming farts = ass-sparagus, bench warmer, air biscuit, barked beans, Mexican barking spider, cheeser, colon quack, gassius assius, mud cricket, tree frog and thunder down under are the ones I remember.
It was one fun trip, a total sensory experience.

"Finally - Pictures"

, Belle Margaret Nichols will be 13 months on Tuesday. She can walk, talks, loves books, stuffed animals and Lulu our parrot. Belle likes hard boiled eggs, unfortunately she puts the entire thing in her mouth at once. Bananas disappear at light speed and Cheerios are a hit too.
I don't get to play much when her crazy Aunt Kate is here you can't her to give her up and of course there's her Grandmother!
Being a Pop Pop is fun.

"Samson Diesel Bulldozer- 8/93 -8/07"

Dozer with his "kids" Christmas 2006" He passed about two weeks before his 14th b-day.

Blog below from July - reposted for Dozer.

It's crazy but true. We see a field of cows people moo. So why then do we talk to our pets as if they can understand us? My father-in-law used to speak baby talk to dogs. Picture this 6'2", 275 pound cop on the floor going,"Who wuves you? You a good doggie aren't cha. Yes you is. Yes you is." Scratching the dog the whole time. It didn't matter what dog - his or anyone elses. He loved our Lab Dozer. Dozer in his prime went about 115-120 pounds. Dad used to pull him up on his lap and scratch his belly, talking baby talk the whole time.

Now my wife, his daughter, has a different take on Dozer, who is now 14 years old(the dog not my wife). He 's literally on his "last legs." We have him on pain meds for his hips. He's got cataracts and can't hear well but head towards the kitchen or come in the door with food and he's right there. Since I'm chair bound Dozer follows her around constantly.

The ultimate turning point came a couple of weeks ago when Dozer ate my wife's lunch right off her plate on the coffee table.

The other night I had to talk her down. She was sitting on the stairs, with her arms crossed, pouting, saying"I hate him." I'd say,"No you don't" and like a little kid she just kept saying,"Do too, do too."

We also have an emerald parrot named LuLu. My wife is thrilled because the first word the parrot said clearly is "Kathy", my wifes name. She now plays with the bird and buys it special toys and food.

Maybe I should try to teach Dozer to talk!

"Slowpoke Rodrigez"

I am alive and well and waiting for my wife to download pics of Belle's B-day! Tay-Tooned!

"Hoist that Load"

On the left- a car motor lift On the right-a people lift

Friday night I had a fall and they got me up using a Hoyer lift. I told the nurse and my wife that I felt like a car engine being pulled from the engine compartment! Looking at the pictures you'll see a piston on each lift. The car lift is electric the people one is like a car jack. A pad goes under you and they hook straps to the hoist and "jack you up." Then you're rolled to the drop point. (I didn't care for that phrase) You're centered on the chair or bed and lowered in place.

It also reminded me of my Aircrew training - moving effortlessly room to room, like flying in a Huey bag or basket.

I can stand with aid but my last steps have been taken. It will be all lift and wheelchair now. It's o.k. , at least I can get around. My kids moved my Kraftmatic bed, yes I have the vibrating magic fingers feature, to the living room. This way I have fewer transfers.

It is truly amazing what apparatus and things are out there to assist the handicapped. My mobility has changed but this stuff helps maintain my quality of life. I may look different but I'm still me.

"KID'S STUFF"

We were talking '50's and early '60's and came up with this list of toys and stuff you had to have.

• hula hoop
• slinky
• frisbee
• silly putty
• coon skin cap
• cap gun
• tang
• Dr.Seus book
• comic books
• baseball cards + gum (also for bike spokes)
• 3-D movies + glasses
• transitor radio
• rockets
• sling shot
• Red Ryder BB gun
• 3-speed bike
• bike handle bar streamers
• Revel car models
• 45 rpm records/331/3 rpm Hi Fi albums
• pocket knife
• roller skates
• baseball bat, glove, ball, hat
• basketball, football
• sled or saucer
• ice skates
• Stolen Playboy magazines
• black Chuck Taylor's
• Tonka heavy equipment
• plastic WWII soldiers and tanks etc.
• plastic cowboys and Indians
• chemistry set
• Black buckle rain and snow boots
• bright yellow buckle rain gear
• green rubber "hunting boots"
• earflap winter hat
• Mr. Potato Head
• Cooties game
• Sorry game
• hobby horse (the one on springs)
• fishing gear
• a cool lunch box
• a girl to have a crush on ( my first Janine, in kindergarten)

I'm sure there are many more but that's what I got!

LIST CONTINUES IN COMMENTS

HOLY WAR

A friend shared with me that years ago another person we know wrote her a letter not only questioning her converting to her husband's faith but telling her by giving up Christ she would not go to heaven. The more I think about this the angrier I become! Rattling around my head are phrases and words like holy war, pogrom, crusade, Dachau, Crucifixion,

hate, ignorance, jihad............................

First of all it shows a lack of understanding of Christianity. I believe that's the last thing Christ would say.

It also shows disrespect and lack of understanding of one of the world's oldest religions - Judaism. Jesus of Nazareth was a Rabbi = Jewish. So does this person equate Christianity with being antisemitic? Jesus was preaching his religion to the common man. He took it to the street not the temples. There was no Christianity until after, when man made it a religion!

I was raised Christian and became Catholic by choice. I even worked for the Albany Diocese for along time. Knowing I was a lapsed Catholic, non - church attender, Bishop Hubbard had a running joke with me. In meetings he would ask," Glenn, what parish do you belong to?"

I'd always answer," I live in the St. Gabrial's Parish, Father." He'd laugh each time.

One time when I was driving him somewhere he told me that even though I wasn't going to church it was all right since I lived my religion and that I was a better person for it. I believe that.

Back to the point. So, if you are not Christian you go to hell. JUMP'N JESUS H. CHRIST HOW STUPID IS THAT? That takes out most of the world.

The person who wrote the letter would tell you she's a good person and she is; she's just very poorly informed and must have blind faith. That makes you a robot not a thinker. I know she's

reading the King Jame's Version, it's a version! Not etched in stone, no burning bush; a bunch of men sat down and decided what would go in their version. So if you are following "the word" you need to check out whose mouth it comes out of.

Just be a nice person and follow the big 10 - by the way they're from the Old Testament.

{Janice - if you don't get it call me and I'll explain it veeerry sloooooooooooowly tooooooooo youu}

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Ed Sullivan!"

From the beginning of my memories until after I married, every Sunday night at 8 was the Ed Sullivan show. Monday we'd all talk about what had been on. All the greatest singers, bands, comedians, numbers from Broadway shows, he'd talk to actors and athletes both on and off the stage and he had the greatest variety acts ever. Senor Wenses "It's alright? O.K.!", Topo Gijo "eddie!" in that mouse voice, tightrope walkers, jugglers, knife throwers, the June Taylor Dancers, magicians, he'd introduce the College All-American football players, acrobats and my all time favorite - the man or woman that would spin and balance the plates on top of the wooden dowels - " Da, da, da, da, da, ta, dadadada, da! daaaaaaaaaaaha da!"It was phenominal when they'd get 8 or 10 up and have to run around and respin the dowels.

It beyond any doubt was the BEST variety show of all time. I miss it.

"The Sound of Popping Corn"

Every night I hear, " put..pu..pop...pop..puta...phut...", the wife making popcorn. 40 years ago it was hot oil in a big pot with lots of butter. Next it was an electric popper with oil and lots of butter, then less butter. Eventually, post children, the move was made to an air popper still butter. Finally, the air popper no butter.

She lost me with the last step - popcorn no butter! Not on your life!

Where ever we went there was popcorn in her hands - movies, drive -ins, fairs, theme parks, truck stops, cruise ships, country stores........... She had it in a box, butter cup, paper bag, plastic bag, cellophane bag, big can, bowl, pot.............. Our daughter used to think that we had parties after she went to bed because she'd find evidence in the morning!

So when she turned 50 I decided to get her something special. Our basement is built out with a bar, so I bought her a theater sized popper at no small expense. It smelled fabulously. My friends and I would play cards, drink and eat some popcorn like in a real bar. She used it once!

She said it upset her stomach - "my ass!" I say. The old girl has had more popcorn pass through her than regular food.

She didn't want to clean it.

She's back to an electric popper. The bar one is in a home that appreciates it.

"You Ain't Gonna Believe This - Again!"

I am now on my 4th lift chair. At least each one has died a different death. So, there's been

variety in my anxiety.

#1 literally broke and crashed in the down position in April.

#2 broke in the up position in July.

#3 died slowly but with panache. After #1 & #2 we decided to buy new since the others were loaners from the ALS Center. It cost $1100. In the first week it lost power and the service man came. Parts were ordered. The new parts didn't work so, more parts were ordered. The new parts worked for less than a week! This chair would go up or down without anyone pushing the button. Of course it was a Saturday and I had to abuse the on call service man to get any satisfaction. They came and switched #3 and #4 and it's still July. I'm averaging 1 a month.

Is it possible that my butt is possessed or haunted by a comedic poltergiest? Could it be the ghosts of all those pond frogs we bb'd? Maybe it's the parents of all those kids we harassed or maybe just Helen Bailie or Hatty Zubal! Kathy says it's my "Mexican barking spyders", this is what I used to call a fart when my kids were little. She may have something, I have noticed an odor now and then.

"Retraction on Distraction"

I received numerous comments on yesterday's blog. My daughter blames beer and rain for her cell dilema. It was organic yogurt; French Vanilla but after drying out or coagulating his cell now works!

Also, I was reminded of some distractions that we did have. We used to install "reverberators" on our car radios. It made the radio sound like it was in an echo chamber. It wasn't right for every song so you constantly turned it off and on. I was also reminded what a pain in the ass I was! Nick reminded me about the time we were on Altamont Ave and I turned his car off and threw his keys out of the window.

My best was in the '70's when he had a huge fully optioned Pontiac. Inside the glove box was a button that would electrically open the trunk. I would push it at every opportunity.

Lastly, we used to turn everything on - the heat, radio as loud as it could go and the wipers. When some started the car they would all come on.

"Distractions"

I heard on the news that 5 young women were killed in a car accident near Rochester because the driver was text messaging while driving. Is that freak'n crazy or what? When I was a kid the radio was an option. Not the fanciness of the radio, the radio itself. Many families had cars with no radios.

Today cars have hands free cell phones, On-Star, radios, satellite radios, cd players, dvd players, playstations; some large vehicles have multiple items, and GPS systems. Now your cell phone can play music, videos, games, take picture and videos, text message, store info and take notes - oh yea, it's a phone too!

The distractions to driving are numerous before even adding a phone. Plus the cars are faster and more powerful today.

My wife and I worry about our kids but neither can keep a cell phone very long. Our daughter may have a record - she lost three in a two week stretch and our son destroyed his latest in three days. You ready for this - it died in a tub of yogurt! I believe it was organic. You think it may have been the bacteria?