The Interview

It was a lovely spring day, the birds sang their songs, tree branches waved flirtatiously, children played and I walked on, at peace with the world.
I was on my way to the Golden Age Jewish Center to try and interview a few of the elder members.

A few days earlier, my wife, Marcia, had what I thought was an excellent idea, “Oscar,” she started, “I think it would be a good idea to do a series on senior citizens. They are like a forgotten species, continually overlooked.”
“And I bet,” I interrupted eagerly, “Many of them may have lived extraordinary lives, anxious to have their stories heard.”

As I came abreast of the Center, I saw an elderly man seated on a stone ledge just outside the front door. There was something about him that intrigued me.
There he sat, the past intruding on the present. He was short and frail, but his back was military straight. His hands were the size of a child’s and he rested them on a cane with a gold handle. He looked like he might be 85 or possibly older although his face was free of noticeable lines.

What really placed him apart, were his clothes. They smacked of another era, another time. His head was adorned with a broad brimmed felt hat. A velvet jacket that had seen better days, lay draped, European style over narrow shoulders. A size fourteen neck displayed a detachable shirt collar from which a string tie dangled saucily. His trousers were a mite too short and exposed a pair of shiny, patent leather button-up boots.

I sat down beside him. “Do you mind if I sit near you,” I asked. “First you sit, then you ask?” His voice seemed to be saying, go away. Contriteness was in order. “I’m awfully sorry, please, please accept my apology, “ I said, while hitting my brow with my open palm.

“You can call me Israel.”
“Israel what?”
“Israel nothing, One name is plenty?
“Okay I accept that. The thing is Mr. Israel, I’m a writer and I want to talk to you about your past”.
“Who needs my past, it’s the future I need, “ he said rubbing his hands together as if scoring a point. “What is with this past business anyway?”

"I’m trying to get people of mature age to tell me a little of their history and possibly put those histories into a book."

He looked me up and down and even a little sideways. He’d made up his mind to trust me up to a point. “How old is like mature?” he asked. “Maybe I’m not yet mature or maybe I’m too old. So how old do you think I’m being already?” He was prepared to go on but I held out my hand.

“ I would say you’re about seventy or less.” A compliment couldn’t hurt I thought.
“Sonny,” the old man said, “From lying you couldn’t make a living -- but a compliment I accept. For you now, a surprise, I’m ninety years in the business of staying alive, is that too old?”

I laughed, “Too old? Are you kidding, You’re my man and I want your story.”
“You want my story?” “Yes, yes, and double yes,” I said.

“Okay, but first my braces you should see,” as he spoke he swept his jacket to one side exposing a stained and frayed pair of suspenders.
"Second but really first, you can buy me a pair new braces.”
“Will you give me your story if I buy you a pair of new braces”
He raised his eyes, “For one pair braces, my life story you want? For even two pair braces, it don’t pay.” With that he sat back, satisfied he’d won the round.

I was beginning to see it wouldn’t be a piece of cake.
“Let me explain”, I began again patiently. “I just want to be able to talk to you awhile, it would be an enjoyment for me.”
"For you maybe an enjoyment, for me one pair braces and raking up my coals and sonny, you’ll forgive me, but you look like a kid from sixty years. You should know it's not easy to shovel up the past.”

“No coals and no shovels” I hastened to explain. “Just a few comfortable easy questions. We’ll go inside, we’ll sit down in the cafeteria, we’ll order some coffee and maybe a sandwich or two, and we’ll talk like civilized men.” I could see he wasn’t really listening, seemingly lost in another world. I bore down.
“I’m not wet behind the ears Mr. Israel with no second name. I’m a junior senior citizen who has put in almost sixty two years on this planet and you are astute enough to almost guess my right age.” I stopped for breath before continuing. “You’re not only astute, but a man of deep wisdom, insight and maturity—a man who has gone through a lot, a man of the world.” Now caught up in my own rhetoric, I raised my voice to a near shout. “So why not” I shouted, “make a contribution of this to the world?”

The old man removed his hands covering his ears. “Mr. Colman, you’ll be so kind, I may be old, but not yet deaf. Please to lower the voice.” He extended his right arm. It seemed to say, ‘your turn now.’
I opened my mouth just enough to whisper, “I’m sorry, I’m a little hard of hearing--the war--sometimes I don’t realize how loud I’m talking.”

The man’s face softened as he asked, “For whom you are writing, a magazine, a paper maybe, what is it?”
“I’m free-lance. That means I write for any newspaper, magazine or publisher.”

‘With my braces,” the old man had gone back to his original theme, “With my braces,” he repeated, “ You can buy me also some fruit—a half dozen nice red MacIntosh apples, a dozen Sunkist oranges, and from the light green grapes without the seeds, a pound.”
He stopped to inquire, “Are you married?”
“Yes,” I replied weakly. What next, I thought.

“So for your wife you can also buy a pound grapes, but remember, light green grapes--the best kind,” he emphasized, smacking his lips.
There was still no commitment. I was beginning to feel there never would be a story, that Israel would never reveal his past and the world would never know what it missed. Nevertheless, I had to try again.

“I’ll get you all the fruit you want—I’ll get you the nicest pair of braces in the whole world—I’ll buy you a cup of tea—I’ll buy you lunch—I’ll take you driving to Belmont Park, but please, please at your convenience, Sir Israel, sit down with me and let me ask you some questions about your life, OK?”
Israel rubbed his hands gleefully. He was enjoying himself to the hilt. It wasn’t often that so much attention was bestowed upon him. He was playing it for all its worth, ringing out the last drop of pleasure.

“Tomorrow you’ll buy the whole thing like I already told. You’ll come to my apartment, number 617 at twelve o’clock.” He pointed to a low rental senior citizen apartment building directly across from the Center. “I’ll serve you a glass tea with lemon yet and a cube sugar. Pictures from my wife, my children, my grandchildren, my great grandchildren, I’ll show you. Comfortable we’ll sit, balbatish, like two menschen, and questions by the thousands you can ask. OK boychick?”

My face lit up for a minute until I remembered that I would be out of town for at least three days. “I can’t tomorrow, I’ll be out of town for a few days, but how about we make it for Thursday at the same time?”
“A date it is,” Israel said, tipping his hat.
I beamed, I felt closer to the man, began to even like him, this small, frail, eccentric man with the old country European look. We shook hands.

As I got up to leave I idly asked, “Are you by chance a member of the Golden Age Center?”
Israel’s face reddened, he shook with agitation, “Am I a member, am I a member,” he repeated, “I’m a member from over thirty years,” his words were starting to come together now in his excitement, “Such a member all members should be.” He paused, smiling bitterly, “But you know here they don’t appreciate, no appreciation for how long I’m serving and coming and going and listening.”

Oh boy, another story, I enthused silently. Out loud I asked, “How come?”
“How come, how come? I’m glad you asked, this is a story from last week yet,” he shook his head, he’d already gone back in time, his eyes had a strange look.

He leaned forward, his face inches away from mine. “In the cafeteria I’m ordering a cheese sandwich. Always when I’m ordering a sandwich, inside I look first. What I’m seeing is making me feel sick to my stomach. It looks like, the expression you’ll excuse, like a dried piece of drek. I said to the lady behind the counter very kindly, “Lady I want you should look at this sandwich from the outside and the inside.” She gives a look and in two seconds this expert is finished to inspect and by her, everthing is coming out like roses. She says, giving me a dirty look, “ Mister, this sandwich I’m making myself personal and by me is no bad sandwich.”

“By you is one thing,” I said, “But by me the insides is no cheese but drekola and I want for you to make me a real sanitary cheese sandwich, like a gentleman could eat.”
I was near bursting and just managed to blurt, “So what happened?” without dying of laughter.

“What happened? It’s a good question. She gave me such a look, I could be dead from such a look and she said from lips together so tight that I don’t know how words came out. “Mr. Nudnik,” Nudnik she called me, “Mr. Nudnik, this perfect sandwich you will now take to the cashier, and seventy cents from your pocket you will take and goodbye and good riddance.”

He stopped, a grim look on his face. He took a couple of deep breaths and continued the story. “To the cashier I paid the money and then on the floor I threw the sandwich, and then on the sandwich I jumped and the whole while I was jumping, I was yelling, “This is a drek sandwich, not a cheese sandwich.” "You can’t believe boychickle how much pleasure it gave me. It was such a good feeling, from stopping I didn’t know. After a couple minutes came two members from the high staff that they are working there in the building to see what’s all about it and without one question even they asked me to leave and then they told me, a member of thirty years, not to come back."

He waited for signs of sympathy.
I bit down hard on my tongue, “It’s,” I cleared my throat, “An unfortunate situation, a misunderstanding.” I slyly added, “It was a moving experience.”

Israel was mollified. “By the way Mr. Colman, could be from your stories you’re making some money? Maybe even from my story?” He looked at me, his eyes dancing.
“If and when a story is sold there is some money.”
“So would you say from this, a living you’re making?”
“A modest living only.” It was evident that an additional bite was coming.

It came. “So now kindly add to the braces and the fruit, ten dollars, cash money it should be". ”You’ve got a deal, but remember that it is possible that your story may not be published. One can only hope.”
“Hope,” he grabbed the word as if with calipers, ‘Everybody hopes. I hope to live to a hundred at least. The Mohel hopes a good cut to make. The tailor hopes a fine suit to make. A young woman hopes to marry a man with a future.”

I held up my hands to stop him. Laughingly I said, “It’s all true, we must work, we must hope and I hope to have a nice long talk with you on my return.”
We eyed each other fondly. We shook hands. As I was leaving, Israel called out, “Don’t forget the green grapes with the seeds they shouldn’t have.”

At the appointed time I stood reading the legend in the lobby of the apartment building. It read Dr. Israel Cohen.
Wow, wow and double-wow, I thought. This guy has got a story to beat all stories.
I pressed the buzzer and waited. There was no answer. I consulted my watch, it read 12:01 exactly. I prided myself on my punctuality. I pressed the buzzer again and again with no response. As I was about to leave, a little old lady entered the lobby. “You must be Mr. Colman, the famous writer,” she said looking me up and down.

I was puzzled. “How did you know my name?”
“Ha, how do I know? Didn’t Dr. Cohen tell everybody about how you were begging for an interview to have with him. Day and night, night and day, he talked about the visit.”
“So how come he’s not answering the door for the famous writer?”

“It’s a very simple reason, Dr. Cohen, poor man, passed away yesterday and before dying he called me in and said, ‘Rachel, I want you to tell Mr. Colman, the famous author, my apologies to accept that I can’t keep the appointment on account of I’ll be boxed in.’ He died laughing.”

“He was a great guy, I’ll miss him. Did he say anything else?”
“By the way, he did, come to think of it. He also said, ‘On the other side we’ll have a nice long talk. I’ll be waiting patiently, tell him to look me up.’

I brought the new braces down to Papermans’ Funeral Home and instructed the mortician to replace Israel’s old braces with the new ones.

On the day of the funeral, I got up early, I put on my best suit, I purchased the MacIntosh apples, a dozen Sunkist Oranges, and a pound of light green seedless grapes. I arranged it all carefully in a wicker basket, covered it lightly with cellophane, tied a ribbon in a bow and went off to the funeral parlor.

There may have been some two dozen people present. I walked up to the coffin, opened the casket and satisfied myself that the new braces were on.
‘Wear them in good health,” I whispered.
I placed a ten dollar bill (cash money) in his pocket and said, “I also didn’t forget the fruit--I have here some nice MacIntosh apples, some Sunkist oranges and a pound of delicious seedless green grapes. I put the basket beside him, closed the casket and left. I was close to tears.

ASSISTANT TO THE MOHEL

The year was 1935. I was 12 and growing
fast while everything else had seemed to stop growing.

It was six years after the financial walls came tumbling down
and the echoes of that blast were still being heard and felt.
The good old depression was still hanging around but at that
time I was not really aware of it.

Suburbs was not a word in our vocabulary. There were not
too many of those around either at the time. Any dwelling,
other than two or three story flats glued together, was a mansion
surely owned by a millionaire. The only thing there was a lot of
was horses and horseshit. Birds grew fat on the seeds and
we, who used the roads as our playground, grew adept at side-stepping
the hot piles. Cars were obviously toys designed for the very rich.

We oohed and aahed over these magnificent machines the
odd time we managed to glimpse one. It was the day of
the luxurious Packard, seating some nine passengers,
the Pierce Arrow, the Whippet, the Lasalle, the Studebaker
and the common Ford. It was fine furniture on wheels. In
our wildest imaginings none of our gang dreamed of ever
having enough money to own a car, any car.
That summer I took a job working for Rabbi Colton, the mohel, who lived
up the street in a house very much like all the other ghetto
houses in the area.

I remember standing nervously in front of this red bearded
giant while he briefed me regarding my phone duties. his voice
was deep and resonant. "You will take down all the phone messages
from 10 o'clock in the morning to 3 o'clock in the afternoon.
Here is a paper and pencil near the phone. You will listen carefully
boychik, you hear!" I nodded, tongue tied.

"Tomorrow you start and I will pay you $2 a week. Nu, say something,"
he urged as I stood there awestruck at this unheard of sum. I managed a weak
"Thank you Rabbi", and shot out of there as if catapulted.

I dashed back to my house, carefully and expertly avoiding the line divisions
on the sidewalk for good luck. That night, as I lay sleeping in the old brass bed
beside my older brother, I dreamed that Rabbi Colton's six foot frame was bending
over me, his red beard massaging my face, and in his Polish/Jewish accent, was saying,
"The phone, it's ringing, answer already." But I couldn't move an inch. I awoke in a sweat.
It was morning.

My mother insisted, over my protests, that I take a bath. I got into a tub that was perched
on four legs ending in lion claws. I lazed in the hot steaming water composing appropriate
answers to the calls that would be coming in that day. I began to feel a little nervous.
Could I do it properly, would I hear all the words.
"Come out already Shika, breakfast is ready," my mother insisted. As I toweled down,
I admired myself in the bathroom mirror -- " not a bad looking boychick", I said to the mirror.
The mirror said nothing.

Ma had breakfast ready when I got out. I cracked open the raw egg, closed my eyes, pinched
my nostrils shut, and swallowed. There was no point protesting, it was a ritual that was enforced.
Then I sat down to a heaping bowl of hot porridge, two slices of pumpernickle toast,
and washed it down with a glass of milk.

I started the day all a'tremble, waiting for the first call. Most phones in our area were blessed
with party lines, and it was very seldom that I got to use the thing. You might say that this was
my baptism. Don't think too hard Oscar, I said out loud to reassure myself.

The phone rang once, twice --- I forced myself to answer; "Rabbi Colton's personal secretary here,
may I help you," I said with my best Bell Telephone voice. I took the message down easily, I felt
triumphant, I had conquered my fear, I was ten feet tall and growing every second. I waited eagerly
for the next call but the minutes ticked by and there were no other calls. I had to do something
to pass the time.

I had several options. I could read, explore the house, raid the ice box, or look out the window to
see what my friends were up to. I oped for the latter. They were playing touch football with a stuffed
stocking, I yearned to join them but I was a paid employee -- I could not leave my post.

I saw"Petska", his real name was Israel but real guys were known by aliases. Mine was "Windy" because
of my speed. "Jersey" was there zig-zagging with the football and "Moisha" was killing himself trying
to tag him. " Benjy" was yelling for "Jersey" to pass the ball. I reluctantly tore myself away and went
back to my post near the phone.

I had command of the phone, I had command of the house and was not worried about making any
noise. The Rabbi's wife and children, a boy of eleven and a girl of fifteen, were away for the summer and
the house was mine, mine. I could do anything I wanted within reason and I reasoned that I was getting
very hungry. I could never be too far or too long away from food.

I walked into the large kitchen which led off from the dining room, out the back door, along the gallery,
into the shed and there was the icebox laden with goodies. I helped myself to some chopped liver, a store
bought kasha knish and a leg ofchicken, making sure nothing was overly disturbed. I didn't feel too guilty,
after all, the Rabbi did not expressly say that the icebox was out of bounds. Besides, a growing boy,
a working boy, needs nourishment. This was beginning to be fun. Satiated, I sat down on my secretarial chair
and snoozed off.

There was a ringing in my ear -- it seemed to become more and more insistent. I got up with a start.
The phone was a living thing, would not let up. I picked up the receiver and stifling a yawn, said,
"Good morning, Rabbi Colton's residence" I had done it again. I waited, a seasoned professional,
my pencil at the ready.

"Who is this?" a woman's voice asked, actually questioning my authority. "I am Rabbi Colton's personal
telephone receptionist at your service" I announced with a descending scale of bravado. Unable to further
question the authenticity of my position, she left her name and phone number without further ado.

I had been under fire twice and had come out without being wounded. A veteran of the phone wars.

It was time for a little action. I dug up a small two wheeled bike I'd noticed in the shed and pedaled
furiously through the house, narrowly missing a glass cabinet in the dining room. I was the boy avenger
tracking down Al Capone and his gang. I made three complete circuits of the house. It was down the hall
in and out of the two bedrooms, a bathroom, back through the dining room, on to the kitchen, and into
the small back bedroom. Nothing could stop the "Avenger" except the sturdy kitchen table. After the
collision, I decided to leave Al Capone alone for the time being.

I'd been in this house once before and was one of four chosen to hold the Chuppah (wedding canopy)
aloft. The canopy was made of silk, was white in color, and supported by poles at the four corners.
The bride and groom stood under this canopy and I, at age 12, found myself towering over the couple
who were obviously lilliputians. They were immaculately attired in all the right clothes and there they
stood, level with each other, holding hands while Rabbi stood towering above, the end of his long red beard
just inches above the heads of the wedded couple to be, and began intoning the marriage ceremony. It was
too much, the giant, the little people, the red beard almost touching the wee couple, and I began to feel
the beginnings of an uncontrollable laugh bubbling up, waiting to be released. I put a finger to my mouth and bit down hard. I released a couple of muffled snorts and became serious when the holy giant brought his eyes boring down on me. When the ceremony ended, I ran outside and howled, tears streaming down my face, my hands clutching
my sides.

Now here I was, a paid employee, a working man, I began with the kitchen -- nothing much there,
just four wooden kitchen table chairs, surrounding an oblong table topped with enamel. On the other
side stood a huge wood stove, almost a duplicate of the one we owned. There was a small room at the
rear of the house boasting a wrought iron single bed and a plain dresser. In going through the drawers
I discovered it was the son's room and I soon lost interest. I tackled the walk-in pantry off the kitchen
and found shelves laden with jars of fruit and vegetable preserves, boxes of dry cereals, bags of sugar
and flour and a host of other miscellaneous food items. It was time for the next room.

I struck gold in the Rabbi's bedroom. Among his belongings I unearthed treasures galore. A pair of red
flannel "gatkas" (drawers), a long night shirt, a black skull cap, a talith
(prayer shawl), and a marvelous pair of shiny patent leather boots with button up hooks.

I couldn't resist this splendor. I slipped his red flannels over my clothes, laboriously buttoned up the boots,
wrapped the huge prayer shawl over my shoulders and donned the skull cap. I admired this masquerade
in the hall mirror. What a Purim outfit it would make, I thought. I paraded up and down the long hallway,
stepping frequently in front of a mirror. It's not every day that a pre-teen can be a Rabbi.

The phone rang and startled me. I felt guilty wearing the Rabbi's clothes. Surely it was a sin of the first
magnitude. I answered the phone contritely. "Hello', I said meekly and religiously took down the message
in print letters.

Back to the bedroom I marched, a nightmare on parade. I carefully replaced everything and stumbled
into the next bedroom. It was obviously the girl's room. Her picture smiled down at me from her dresser ---
every part of
her in the right place and every place was right. Goldie with the curly red hair,
and curves she probably was not even aware of. The body of a woman with breasts that stuck out like
pineapples.

Here I was again, committing another sin, allowing myself to think this way in the Rabbi's house yet.
I rationalized my guilt away. God was surely a man and I was nearly one. He would surely understand
that men just naturally have dirty minds.

As I looked at her photograph, my dirty mind got busy. I slowly removed her blouse and dress and admired
her bare shoulders and arms. I hesitated before taking her slip off, "but why be half dirty", I said out loud.
I removed the garment and stared awe struck at Goldie in a bra and panties and nothing else. Her shoes
and stockings had mysteriously vanished, unbidden by me.

I stopped and began looking through her dresser drawers, keeping her undressed image in my mind as
I searched. I knew what I was looking for and I found the items in a bottom drawer -- a bra and a pair
of white silk panties.

I fingered and sniffed them, and proceeded to stroke my face with the silky softness of the panties.
As I threw the bra aside, Goldie, who was standing demurely before me now, reached back and
unsnapped her bra. Her breasts poured out, exposing two pointed cones staring at me shyly. I almost
passed out. My mouth had become very dry.

I put her panties back in the drawer. Goldie blushed crimson as she looked into my eyes. Suddenly, her
arms reached for mine. "My God, she's asking me to take them off", I squeaked triumphantly. I rolled them
down with shaking hands and there she stood completely naked, her head turned to one side. Her slim
body was as perfect as I had envisioned the odd time I was fortunate enough to see her walking down the
street. Her breasts jiggled slightly, and her puckered navel stared saucily at me. My eyes admired the dip
of her waist and the flare of her hips. Could I go further? I could.

There was the bush, the burning bush covering the thing. I couldn't make it out. There was kind of a
swelling there but I didn't see any entrance. I knew there was one. I had four older sisters and had caught
glimpses here and there. I also knew that guys put their peckers in there and babies came out from the
very same place nine months later. I was no dummy, I was street-wise.

Could it be that the cut or some sort of entrance was not in front but actually in back. I turned Goldie
around and saw her tussy, parted just like mine -- nothing new there. I gave up "mind" searching.
Girls were strange creatures. I put a completely dressed Goldie back in her picture frame and left the
room kind of reluctantly.

As I sat down near my post, the phone rang. I let it ring four times before picking it up. I said smartly,
"Hello, pardon me for keeping you waiting, but we're very busy today, can the Rabbi's secretary help you?"

"You're the Rabbi's secretary?" a woman's voice inquired mockingly. "Certainly", I answered promptly.
"So tell me how old are you that you should have such an important position?" she persisted. My mind
raced, I blurted, "I'll be eighteen in July." "What year in July?" She wouldn't let go. Under my breath I said,
'God will punish you." I evaded the question by saying, "How may I help you?" She relented, gave me the
message and hung up. I wiped the sweat off my brow and decided to be a good, innocent, virginal twelve
year old for a while.

An hour or so later the phone rang again, I picked it up quickly and said, "This is the home, office, and study
of Rabbi Colton, the Mohel," I said with a broad English accent. There was a long pause at the other end.
I waited, I had time on my hands. The voice found it's tongue. It asked, "This is the home, office and study
of Rabbi Colton, all three?" I shuddered, I had recognized the Rabbi's voice. I needn't have worried. The Rabbi
had a sense of humor. "Tell me boychikal, why didn't you add also Esplanade street, between Villeneuve and
St.Joseph in the City of Montreal?" I laughed nervously but said nothing. The Rabbi continued, "So now give me
the messages and I'll tell you a little secret. It's enough to say hello, then take the message. I could almost
see the smile on his face. I decided that I loved him.

I dozed off for a while, a man needs his rest. I got up with a start, the grand-father clock registered 3pm.
It would not do for the Rabbi to find me asleep on the job.

PAYING HOMAGE

Marcia, I must pay homage to my brother Philip. Without him we may never have met.
He cared enough to take the time and the trouble to introduce me to Sam, Reuben, and the rest of the boys. It was through this friendship that I got to meet you.

It was his oratory, his intellect, and his charisma that got you interested in the progressive movement. You may have even had a teen-age crush on him. You were getting two for the price of one so to speak. However, I wanted you in every way and was willing to accept any break in my direction. I was simply head over heels in love with you and remain so, sixty-five years later.

IN GOD WE TRUST?

BELIEVERS SAY GOD IS JUST
BELIEVERS SAY GOD IS MERCIFUL
BELIEVERS SAY GOD IS FORGIVING
BELIEVERS SAY GOD IS OMNIPOTENT
BELIEVERS SAY GOD CAN DO NO WRONG

SO THIS JUST, MERCIFUL, FORGIVING, OMNIPOTENT,
GOD THAT CAN DO NO WRONG.
IS WATCHING OVER US AND LISTENING TO OUR
PRAYERS AS WE DIE AGONIZINGLY,
IN IRAQ, IN AFGHANISTAN, IN THE SUDAN, IN RWANDA,
IN ALL THE CONTINENTS OF THE WORLD
IN WARS IMMEMORIAL, IN EARTHQUAKES,
IN TSUNAMIS, IN HURRICANES,
.
WE, THE DEAD AND THE DYING WOULD LIKE SOME ANSWERS
WE, THE DEAD AND THE DYING WOULD LIKE THE TRUTH
WE, THE DEAD AND THE DYING WOULD LIKE GOD TO SPEAK TO US
DIRECTLY, NO IFS, BUTS OR ANDS. SHOW YOURSELF, PROVE YOURSELF, GODAMMIT!

I SING OF THEE a celebration

I LOVE THE LOOKS OF YOU
THE LURE OF YOU
THE SWEET OF YOU
THE SWEAT OF YOU
THE EYES, THE ARMS
THE MOUTH Of YOU

That song is but a small expression of my love for you my darling.
I sing of thee to honor your 82nd birthday, our 61 years of marriage,
to celebrate our meeting 65 years ago, to touch the past and savor it.
I sing to thee, to thee I sing.

We were so very young, I was 18 and you had just turned 16 when we
first met on Esplanade St. opposite good friend, Sam's house in Monteal,
good old Montreal, our home town.

You were
leaning against a telephone pole and I stood there dumbly as we were
introduced. The chemistry was almost immediate for both of us. I still
remember your voice, so musical, so clarion clear, so full of life. I liked
the look of you, the way you stood, your sparkling smile, the brightness
of your eyes. I knew we would be seeing a lot of each other.

And all the while I was drawn ever closer to you. How can I forget your
smiling eyes, your laughing eyes, your magnetic eyes. I can still clearly
see your swan-like neck, your pert ears, your luscious lips, your saucy
breasts pointing at me, your lustrous black hair, your more so torso that
fitted mine so well.

Memories, memories my darling. We were two peas in a pod and the pod
was comfortable, I could live there, I could be safe, away from my tumultuous
past.

When we were apart, we connected by phone. Words poured out, words of
love, of nonsense, of bonding -- crazy glue for a couple of kids crazy in love.

IT'S A DEAD ISSUE

The dead are pilng up in Iraq
Not enough coffins to go around
The dead are piling up in Darfur
Where are the coffins?
The dead are piling up in Lebanon
Coffin makers, wanted.
The living dead are piling up,
looking everywhere for,
arms, legs, screaming for mothers.
Bush is alive and well and passing
jokes and smiles around.
Cheney is saying that all is well,
Couldn't be better
And Rove has escaped the wrath.

The world is at peace.

ALL ABOUT DRIVERS

There are drivers and then there are drivers who think they can drive. This group jump into their cars, start their engines and proceed to abandon any sense of logic, compassion or courtesy. Road rage is ever at the ready. Below,  I list a few examples of drivers who abuse the road rules of common sense.

THE CELL PHONE OPERATOR

The cell phone operator cannot bear to be away from his phone even for a minute. He will leave his home at 8 a.m. and will be back at the phone the moment he is seated in his car, five minutes later. He sits with the apparatus within easy reach. In a moment he is at it again and the device is fastened to his ear. He may or may not be speaking to someone but hey, this would-be executive is in his element.
He, she never thinks of pulling over to reveal big business deals or to fake it.
For more attention. this worthy will walk the streets and talk just loud enough for all and sundry to hear every profound word. No secrets, he wants you to pay attention. Beware of this marathon talker, he is an accident waiting to happen.

THE TAIL GATE DRIVER

The tail-gate driver is a frustrated race car driver who just loves to drive inches from the back of you car. This man needs company, to be close, ever so close.

Unmindful of rain, snow or sleet, this dummy believes he can stop on a dime. Safe driving distances are for people who cannot drive he tells his drinking buddies. He reads no manuals or directions of any kind and boasts about it. Drives sane drivers insane.

THE DECORATOR

Stickers are plastered all over his back window telling all and sundry that this driver is a traveling man, hitting all the amusement and scenic parks, whoopee! Further releases include, “I love my wife,”
“Proud parent of an honor student,” (Goody, goody gum drop, I can sleep now). You are assured that Jesus loves you as well. This is a man with a mission designed to capture your attention. Frankly, I don’t care if Jesus loves me, that he loves his wife, that he has an honor student aboard, or whether he has been to any kind of park.

THE MUSIC PLAYER

This music player loves his music loud, very loud, and wants everybody to share his masterpieces, his rap and rock special. He makes sure the volume can go no higher or his driving side window can go no lower. He serenades all and sundry any time of day or night. He wants you to know that the music is an extension of himself. In a few years he may be as deaf as a door mat.

THE LITTER BUG

A master at littering, this garbage disposal expert targets the road or sidewalk with every loose object in his car without guilt. Probably uses the floors of his house in the same way. If he smokes, and this type generally does, he will likely throw his lighted cigarette butt out the window without a thought of where it may land. Environment? What is that he asks?

THE WEAVER

This is a man with a mission. He is going places even if it means taking you with him. One lane is never enough for this jockey. He pays taxes for all the lanes and he uses them all by weaving from lane to lane leaving a trail of near heart attacks as he cuts and slashes his merry way. He may even arrive at his destination all of five minutes ahead of the slowest driver, but victory is his.

THE LIGHT RUSHER

Never learns to play the lights or traffic. He can be seen rushing up to an obvious red light at full speed, relying on his overworked brakes to stop his imbecilic rush. He will always take a yellow light without a second glance to right or left. He lives a charmed life. This so-called driver plays the same charade with the green lights --- Ah, he thinks, I’ll catch that bugger before it changes, only to find himself waiting at a red light, twiddling his thumbs.

THE TOOTER

The horn blower is a frustrated musician and will toot his horn day and night. A man on the go, this gem likes to blow cars away from the lane he professes to own. If you are not exceeding the speed limit you are just to damn slow for this moron. This nutcase has horn, will travel.

ROAD RAGE

Road is all the rage by too many would-be drivers. They have a complete vocabulary of four and five letter words at what they imagine is the slightest provocation. Going too slow out of a driveway or parking spot starts this motor mouth, mouthing off. Backing into a parking spot too slowly is a massive no no. Never stops swearing.
These drivers should keep their mouths shut for a change.

THE JERKER

The jerker cannot make up his mind. Driving with him is akin to riding a bronco. His foot constantly drifts from brake to gas and back again. Amazingly, this rodeo driver believes he is one of the few good drivers. This ‘good’ driver will see cars slowing up ahead and rush to join them and find he has to come to a screeching halt. He cannot stand being lonely.

ANIMALS UNITED

The signs were placed on everytree,
in a language only animals could see.

NOTICE
Most of you can read animalish.
Even birds,reptiles and all manner of fish.

Since most of you are mostly,
listen to the following closely.
We all want to live to a ripe old age,
not to die or be put in a cage/

So,
We've got to plan to unite as one,
to stop all hunters from having fun.

Put on your thinking caps and
think with your mind.
Then make a selection,
two of a kind.
The ones you choose
should know your views
and those should gather
in ones and twos.

So, prepare to meet in
Animalville
Five weeks from now and
that's for real.

Signed,
Yours animal truly,
the animal committee
fighting for freedom
for every one in the
animal kingdom.

They gathered in ones, twos and threes,
to read the signs in
Animalese.

The day before the appointed day,
in the middle of the month of May,
they started to come in every way.
In every which way,
through the night and day,
they began to assemble
to have their say.

They came by boat,
they came by raft,
and as they came,
they joked and laughed.
They came from near
and came from far,
they came by scooter
and they came by car.
They came by plane,
they came by train.
Some were wild,
others were tame.

Some hitch-hiked,
some walked slowly.
Some came from the highest,
some came from the lowly.
Some had on clothes.
Some chose not to.
In the animal world,
they don't really got to.

The low and the high, the slim and the fat, all of them going to have a chat.

When they were all there,
the leader rose and spoke,
"I'm just a little frog
and can only croak,
so everybody move closer to me,
after all, we are family,
that is plain to see
Now who will be the the first to speak,
just take your time ,
we've got all
week".

The birds of Paradise
from distant Ausralia,
stepped forward proudly,
in all their regalia.

"Frog chair amphibian
and assorted creatures,
you must know our feathers
are our main features.
Over all these years,
we've been hunted and slain,
our feathers are plucked,
for people too vain.
The feathers we wear,
are strictly our own,
and were never intended,
to go out on loan".

The fur-bearing animals rose to their feet.
"Our fur is our coat, on us it looks
neat.
The humans who wear us cannot compete.
We's rather be alive,
instead of dead and bare,
it's a case of murder.
Why don't they care?"

The elephants raised their trunks
and trumpeted mildly.
"When our tusks are stolen,
we become quite wildly.
We know our ivory
is very valuable,
but killing us is not
very allowable."

The cute baby seals slithered up
to be heard.
"While we're still living,
we're being de-furred.
Our parents look on,
helpless and crying,
while we poor pups
are slowly dying."

The gorillas stood up and beat their
chests;
"If we had our way, we'd make some
arrests.
We"d put lots of humans
in our people's zoos,
and feed them bananas
or whatever we choose.
Those who were left,
would be made to perform
tricks in a circus in
animal uniforms."

The assorted birds
began cheep cheeping;
"Those cute little cages
are not for our keeping.
We were given wings
in order to fly,
but in those boxes
our wings will die.
We must be free,
free as birds,
and not fall prey
to human nerds."

"Well said, well said,"
roared the King of the lions.
"Our gathereing here,
is a sign of the times.
Action is needed,
in these times of stress.
To ensure our safety,
we have got to protest."

Action , action, action,"
chanted the assembly,
until the very earth
was all a'trembly.

"I've got an idea,"
hissed the rattlesnake,
as he did a convulsive shake.
"We'll print up posters,
voicing our position,
it could very well be,
a sort of petition.

"Yak, Yak,"
yaked the Yak.
"We'll carry our posters,
from coast to coasters."

They worked steadily thru the night,
and made dandy signs that were a deliight.
The signs were clever, animals
are not dumb,
and the posters were read, in a
kind of a hum.

Clean up the zoos
and the pet stores.
You can get to see us
in the great outdoors.

If humans must make war,
against their own kind,
please don't include us,
just pay us no mind.

Hunters throw away your guns.
Use a camera instead.
We'd rather be on film,
than forever dead.

Sealers use their clubs
to kill baby seals.
Is that a human way,
to earn their meals?

No more tortures on your lab
tables.
The need to test us are mostly
fables.

I'm a cute Koala, that's plain to
see.
Don't shoot me down from my favorite
tree.

Stop the trapping
it's much too painful.
We animals think
it's downright sinful.

Fur looks better on us
then it does on you.
Don't take our fur away
and our lives too.

Snakes like their skin to remain on their backs.
Don't make them into belts or purses,
stick to the facts.

Fish have feelings,
just like all of you.
Don't put us in fish tanks,
unless you go too.

When they were through reading,
they lined up in twos
and the frog leader said,
"Let's show them our views.
We'll go through the cities,
we'll go through the towns.
We'll tell the world,
we're out of bounds."

They marched like an army,
they were all of one mind.
To change the humans,
and make them more kind.

In the procession,
marched all kinds of creatures,
showing the humans,
their different features.

The Birds of Paradise.
with plumage so regal,
and dogs and cats,
and a bald-headed eagle.
Echidnas and porcupines,
showing their spines,
and lynx and leopards,
and tigers and lions.

There were snakes that slithered,
and some that were sliding.
While still others on horseback,
were seen to be riding.
And Bluebok and Reindeer,
and Moose and Caribou,
showing off their antlers,
as were Lou, the big Gnu.
The storks and the emu birds,
with heads held high,
on necks so long,
they could say, "Bye, bye."

And a host of others,
too many to mention,
but all of them getting,
plenty of attention.

They went through parks.
They marched on roads,
all jabbering away,
in strange animal codes.

They entered villages,
went up and down mountains.
When they were thirsty,
they stopped at fountains.

And all the while the people were smiling,
It was partly laughing and partly
crying.
They began to see how cruel they had been,
how thoughtless, uncaring and downright
mean.

Yes, they made promises,
they thought they would keep,
not to torture animals,
or to make them weep.
To let animals live peacefully,
in their natural homes.

ANIMALS DON'T LKE CAGES

This all happened 35 years ago, maybe it was 1960
My six year old daughter had never been to a zoo and I had promised to take her to the one in Oakland. I keep my promises, or at least most of them.

We were in a festive mood as we started out. The Sunday sun was warm, the winds were light, and there was no traffic or bottlenecks on the freeway.

At the entrance, I paid $1.50 for parking and got a stub reading, “East Bay Zoological Society – Knowland Park.” We drove through a spacious park area studded with trees. Birds were singing. We sang right along with them.

The first animals we saw were Gibbons. They were going through their acrobatic paces in a large, round, wire-meshed enclosure, devoid of trees. The floor of this cage was cement, (unbelieveable). Furry paws were stretched out through the openings of the fence in efforts to catch the peanuts being offered.

My daughter turned to me and asked, “Daddy, are monkeys criminals.” “Of course not,” I replied with a smile.
“Then how come they put them in jail?” she countered.

That floored me. I hesitated, searching for the right words. There were no right words I realized suddenly. These animals had been free and now they were not, it was as simple as all that.

“Darling,” I finally said weakly, “They are brought here, along with all the other animals we are going to see, so people, humans like ourselves, can see them close up and to learn about them, to enjoy them.” I hated myself. I could see she was as dissatisfied with my answer as I was. We looked at each other. I felt guilty.

My guilt began to wash away as we boarded the miniature scenic railway and I was able to bask in the sunshine of my daughter’s smile. We laughed with pleasure on the ‘Sky Ferry’ advertised as, “An exciting panoramic view of the zoo.” It was delightful.
The ‘Carousel’ followed. We were having a ball. I began to think that all was right with the world. The feeling did not last.

When we came down to earth we saw three Dromedary camels from Central Asia. They stood disconsolately in a dirty shallow pond at the edge of their compound. Two sorry looking palm trees stood at attention in the center of the enclosure. We stopped smiling.

We saw a mixture of crime-free prisoners in a large, drab looking compound. There were vultures, cranes, gazelles, giraffes, kudus and elands. These creatures were miles away from their true homes in India, South America, and Africa. They stood unmoving. “They look sad,” Audrey said.

Was that a lion and his mate in their pen?
They may have been Kings at one time but looked anything but royal now. They sat, backs to their audience, silent, uncaring --- they had given up hope, dethroned forever.

Two huge alligators lay in a shallow pond about the size of a miniature fish tank. They were not going anywhere.

Chimpanzees, in a small, wire cage stared at us with lusterless eyes empty of all emotion.
A Pied Hornbill flew a distance of four feet from one perch to another in its constricted cage. Back and forth it flew, again and again.

We saw Sun Bears from Southeast Asia and Indonesia. “Smallest member of the bear family,” the legend read. They paced up and down on a cement floor. No forest leafy floor here, no trees, no relatives, no frolicking, and no foraging.

A pair of giant elephants were penned in an enclsure not much bigger than a prison cell. The life span of these pachyderms could be as high as sixty or seventy years. These noble creatures, these intelligent creatures, were in for a long life sentence.

“Where are the baby animals?” Audrey asked suddenly. We were not long in discovering that the zoo officials, in all their wisdom, had created a separate section for them, away from parents and the warmth and security they could offer them. “Shouldn’t they be with their moms and dads?” she persisted. “Yes they should,” I said with a sigh.
It was too much. We left. The day had turned gray.

As we drove home, I recited a little poem I made up on the spot.

Let animals live
Let animals roam
Let them live peacefully
In their natural home

Audrey clapped her hands. “Thank you,” I said.

When we are not killing them, skinning them and eating them. We put them in cages and just love them to death.

ANT ANTICS

My name is Pierre,,
some call me Handsome
I'm a run away ant,
who lives in a transom.

Now why would I,
unlike the others,
who are my sisters,
and my brothers,
live in a cranny,
over a door,
and not think of it
as being a bore?

You see my kinfolk,
live underground,
throughout all the seasons,
like all year round.

And living and working,
in an eerie blackout,
made it kind of hard,
to really move or shout.

I remember the rooms
in our apartment,
much, much smaller,
than a toy compartment.

Yes, we were busy,
coming and going,
picking the seeds,
we'd forever keep storing,
in special bins,
some six feet under,
away from the rain,
lightning and thunder.

But I wanted a world,
that shed more light,
so I found a transome,
that gave me that sight.

Instead of six feet down,
I nested six feet high,
and was so much closer,
to a blue-lit sky.

and I'll tell you true,
and I'll tell you boldly,
when you're close to the sun,
you're not as coldly.

Living over a door,
gives me a view,
of people called humans,
and of what they do.

I can go and come,
whenever I please,
with nobody around,
to give me a tease.

I'm as free as a bird,
as happy as a bee,
it's certainly wonderful,
just to be me.

Food there's enough of,
it's here and there.
The floor is my cupboard,
It's just never bare.

Hold on a moment,
I've got a guest,
i think it's a spider,
come here to rest.

Hello said the spider,
a gleam in his eye,
not even waiting
for my reply,
but started right in,
a large web to spin,
from a supply of thread,
that lay within.

Right next to me,
without using a measure,
that spider wove,
an architectural treasure.

It was perfect,
in every conceivable way,
and seemed strong enough,
to last all the given day.

I thought I should enter,
like a friendly neighbor,
say hello and all that,
and commend his labor.

I was just about
to knock on the door,
prior to stepping
onto the silken floor.
But then I remembered
mother saying to me,
"If it's somebody new
you are going to see,
bring a little itsy gift,
to give a kind of a lift."
Those were her very words,
so cleverly spoken.

As I turned to go,
to the corner store,
something happened,
to stop that chore.

Luck smiled upon me,
cause along came a fly,
who flew into the web,
to give it a try.

The fly's exploration,
was the shortest ever.
It seems that flight,
should have been never.

The web was a trap.
The fly could not fly.
It soon gave up,
and prepared to die.

The spider crept out,
not much in a hurry,
and watched the fly,
give one last flurry.

When all was still,
the spider pounced,
and looking at me,
solemnly announced,
"All who would enter
my silky room,
will simply travel
to their doom.

"I'm a living creature,
and need food to survive,
he who comes in,
won't go out alive".

I reckoned the spider
was talking to me,
so I said,
"Dear spider,
you'll never get me.
That fly saved my life,
for sure and for real,
if not for it,
I'd have been your meal".

I decided my home,
was a little too busy
and that the height,
made me too dizzy.

I packed no bag,
I liked traveling light,
and before you could say spider,
I scrambled out of sight.

Did you ever see,
an ant that was slow,
and not ready,
to just go, go, go.
I'm sure you haven't,
because slow is a no, no.
We've got six strong legs,
and they're just not for show.

Hope you're still with me,
'Cause there's more to see.

I went over a fence,
and over a track,
around a tree
that had a crack
I crossed a road,
and horns were blaring.
My life seemed charmed,
because i kept on faring.

I climbed onto a shoe,
and up a deep forest,
but it was hair on a leg,
of a man called Horace.
His hand reached down,
to where I was climbing,
but I avoided his paw,
in the nick of timing.

i got out of there,
in mighty quick time,
or
I'd of been squashed,
like a lemon or a lime.

I went on my way,
more careful, less daring,
but soon found out,
I'd lost my bearing.

I knew not if,
I was coming or going,
and the winds started up,
whistling and blowing.

I was tossed about,
like a ship on an ocean.
There was no way,
I cold stop its motion.
The wind picked me up,
and threw me away,
I really didn't know,
if it was night or day.

I was tossed under some stones,
and I began to say,
if I ever got home,
I would never stray.

I must of been tired,
'cause I fell asleep,
and began a dream.
that was six feet deep.

i dreamed of my first home,
ao friendly and cosy,
and my foolishness in leaving,
because I was so nosy.

I dreamed of spiders,
I dreamed of flies,
I dreamed of breaking ,
my family ties.

Those ties that I'd broken,
'cause i thought there was better.
Could I in my dream,
send a wire or a good letter?

I could and I would,
so I took pen in hand,
snd started to write home,
to that place in the sand.

"Dear brothers and sisters,
dear mom and dad,,
dear uncle and auntie,
I'm ever so sad.
I'm smack in the middle,
of an alarming dream,
but all I really want,
is to be back on the team.

I miss all of you,
and grandpa and grannie,
and if I ever get home,
I won't sit on my fanny.
I'll sure pull my weight,
and I'll do my share,
and be happy to be home,
and in your care.

I'll do my lessons,
I'll take my shower,
I'll help with tunneling,
deep in our bower.

Excuse me folks,
I'll stop for a while.
It's my snoring time.
I'll just snore for a mile.

When I wake up,
and still find I'm lost,
I'll mail this letter,
no matter its cost.
And then I'll send up,
a smoke signal or two,
and hope you can come,
to my poor rescue.

When I awoke with a start,
dawn was just breaking,
and I really got busy,
a fire to be making..
I started that fire,
and made a blanket of leaves,
and the smoke signal said,
"Come quick, if you please,
it's Pierre, the wayward ant.
just follow the smoke,
I am very serious,
this is no silly joke.

I'm lost and I'm weary,'
I want to go home,
so please do listen,
to my sad little poem."

To make doubly sure,
I put on ant postage,
on my dream letter,
the one I held hostage..

I mailed it special delivery,
and sat back and waited.
I knew I'd be rescued,
I mean, was it not fated?

I was a little hungry,
so I ate a few seeds
and I combed my hair,,
and put on my beads.

I was ready to return,
to that underground condo,
and move in to my room,
with Minnie and Mondo,
and Charlie, and Sam,
and Jerry and Lizzie,
and Susan and Pam,
and Lois and Dizzy.

There are thousands of others,
just to many to name,
but all built like me,
like really the same.

I didn't wait long,
for unknown to me,
I was twelve feet away,
from our family tree.

And soon they came,,
in a long single file,
that twelve feet,
seemed like a mile.

We embraced and kissed,
as I smiled all the while,
as we inched our way back,
along that happy "mile".

I have no more wish,
to roam or to wander,
I now know my home
is really six feet under.

A DAY WITH AARON

Michael and Phyllis came to see me as a last resort
when their daytime baby-sitter quit without giving notice.
"Oscar, we're desperate," Michael said.
"We know how much you love Aaron ," Phyllis added eagerly."
" It's only for eight hours," they said in unison.
"What are good friends for," I said, kicking myself under the kitchen table.

We passed smiles all around, very much like dealing cards. I forced a kind of a smile. Phyllis sat down and wrote out a list a mile long, detailing every move I had to take in caring for their one and only.
I kicked myself under the table once more, only harder this time.

I felt weak at the knees the following morning as I climbed the stairs leading to the spacious house on Oceanview Ave.

For the next eight hours I would be, for the first time in my 35 year old history, in sole charge of a living human being who happened to be a bouncing 25 pound baby boy, some 9 months old.

Aaron was not exactly new to me. I'd played with him, held him, even changed his diaper gingerly, under supervision ... once.

Michael had already left for the day. Phyllis hastily downed a cup of coffee and was off after rehashing, in abbreviated form, the written instructions of the night before.

I was alone with twenty-five pounds of trusting baby in my arms.
Aaron knew that adults existed for the sole purpose of entertaining and caring for him. I faced the day with new resolve, determined I would not take a back seat to women on the home front.

Aaron snuggled into me, his body a dead weight in my arms. I staggered through the house. He became heavier when his head began pointing to the floor. "Straighten up me boy, you're killing me," I implored. Aaron ignored me.

Aaron continued his inspection, his gaze never faltering. "But what do you see down there?" I asked. "Glug, glug." he said,
and gave me one of his Mona Lisa smiles. This guy is a reverse periscope, scanning the ocean floor, I muttered as I went through the house, pointing out various things of interest on the walls, shelves and floor areas.

Before my arms completely gave out I managed to place hm in his low-chair while I prepared his formula for the day. I followed instructions to the letter. Aaron's mouth began to drool, his Pavlonian instincts now fully aroused. I stuck a bread stick in his mouth and completed my preparations with a bow and a flourish.
Aaron clapped his hands, ever ready for nourishment.

He lay in the crook of my arms as I sat on the living room sofa. Powerful jaw muscles tore at the nipple with a frenzy. The contents went down to zero in a matter of seconds, or so it seemed. "What a piggy you are," I said smilingly. He replied with a spendid burp. I was jealous. Babes could burp and be congratulated for it, while only censorious looks awaited the adult who tried it in company.

I stood up, eased him over my shoulder, and patted his back once more to ferret out burps that may be lying in wait; none followed, he seemed satisfied with his first explosion.

While strolling through the house I noticed his nine month old eyes sort of glazing over. His face gew very still, his cheeks reddened, and he grunted several times. It was a red alert. A poo poo platter was on the way. I galloped into his room in the rear of the house, laid him down on the dresser top change area, and prepared to hold my breath for the duration. It was a crucial test, one that would separate the men from the boys.

Aaron giggled. He'd made his deposit and now it was fun time. As I gingerly removed his diaper, he moved suddenly and managed to spread the good news all around.

"The water, where's the water," I was babbling by now. My eyes roamed the small room feverishly. Ah, there it is," I cried. It was right in front of me. Holding my ward with one hand, I unscrewed the oversized thermos with the other, no easy task.

"My gawd it's empty," I gasped. Aaron said, "Wah, bah," his eyes full of smiles.

My armpits were now awash with perspiration. "What to do, what to do?" I cried out loud. Aaron caught the look on my face, thought it was funny and howled with laughter. I was his comic for the day -- his court jester.

I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I wrapped him in a half dozen diapers and carried him at arm's length to the bathroom. In the tub I soaped and rinsed all of his chubby folds and crevices. "Kaka has gone with the wind," I said triumphantly.

He answered with mighty splashes and succeeded in drenching me from head to toe. He stopped to throw me one of his enigmatic stares and waited for me to react. I yelled on cue. This of course brought on more splashing. I wrapped him in towels and carried him towards his room, stepping only long enough to give Aaron the chance to look into the hall mirror, a never ending treat for our narcissist. He was fascinated by his likeness. "Woo," he said, as he smiled toothlessly at the mirror.

i tap-danced into his room "Fred Astaire beware," I puffed. Aaron's laugh was loud and spontaneous. It was music to my ears. For such an appreciative audience I could dance on. I did.

I put a happy boy in his carriage while I cleaned the rest of the mess. As I worked, I grew more appreciative of mothers the world over. Their love seemed to be able to conquor all, give them extraordinary strength and stamina.

I began dressing him on the dresser top. "Ah let's see, you'll need an undershirt and something to go over it." As I spoke, I crouched, my left arm restraining the bouncer, while my right groped desperately for the required items in the drawers to the right of the 'operating' center. My arms were just not long enough. I was gaining more respect for mothers by the minute.

I tried another tack. I balanced him on my knees while searcing for the items. My knees weren't doing too well. I managed to capture all the necessary clothes before they gave out completely.

Dressing him was akin to dressing a mobile pretzel -- his body moved simultaneously in all directons, an impossible feat. Just how do women do it, I mused. We men are so much stronger, aren't we?

My arms were slowly being pulled from their sockets.
"You're a very strong young man," I panted. As if to demonstrate this, he playfully reached for my mouth and practically tore my lip off.

I applied a half dozen face tissues to the wound. "Ha, ha," I laughed. "It's nothing, just a little dip in my lip." I threw him a warm look to show I bore him no ill will.

The battle was finally over. I won in three falls. The mauler of Oakland was dressed, snug in his carriage, and noisily sucking away on his pacifier as we strolled down College Avenue.

Aaron considered the carriage as his personal conveyance. In it, he was kingpin, a grand surveyer of the outdoor scene. His head seemed to be mounted on ball bearings, demonstrated by the easy way he turned hither and yon.

Women stared at Aaron and then at me. Their eyes and lips smiled. What was the message? It was obvous. Babies, especially chubby ones, healthy and good-looking to boot, serve as catylists in bringing out motherhood instincts. The baby pusher, the baby, and the carriage, are all safe, accepted symbols of life and the perpetuation of the species. Most men do not participate in this ritual, the majority not having the experience of giving birth.

Older women, veterans of the baby world, did more than smile. Their experience gave them license to exercise fuller liberties.
They stopped the carriage and began one-sided conversations. "Kootcy-kootchy-koo they simpered. This was territory they were familiar with and they were determined to elicit some response from the bewildered victim lying prisoner in his carriage. They tried clucking, they tried pinching his cheeks, they tried blowing on his face and they even tried talking real English. Aaron was not having any of this and turned his face away.

Competing baby pushers plied me with questions. I was ready.

"How old is he?" they asked. "Three months old," I lied without blinking an eyelash. "My gawd." they gasped as their mouths flew open. I shrugged modestly.
"He's very big for his age," they gulped.
I bore down. "It's the weightlifting," I explained, before moving on. I left a group of bewildered mothers talking among themselves.

As we were about to pass a bakery shop on College Ave., my charge pointed again and again. Was this a regular stop for our growing boy? I soon found out that it was. We were greeted warmly by the owner who told me that this was his baguette stop five day's weekly. We shared a fresh, hot, crusty baguette, smacking our lips in unison.

Bolstered by this satisfing interlude, we marched to a park some ten minutes away. By the time we came to it, Aaron and I were palsy, walsy. I talked, he listened, giving up the floor without hesitation.

"Look at all that green grass growing so quietly, and smelling so sweetly," I said. i inhaled deeply and louldy. He saw the game at once and followed my lead, drawing in little gulps of air -- a born mimic.

There were a grove of tall trees ahead. "See those stately trees, those venerable plants, growing ever so fat and sentinal tall, pleasure your eyes on their beauty, let your hands caress the skin of these healthy specimens." The words flew by him, but the even softness of the delivery soothed him. He eyed me approvingly.

I steered the carriage close to one of the biggest trees, stroked the bark, and waited for Aaron's reaction. He decided not to rush things. Tentative exploration with eyes fastened on the section of the tree immediately before him. His eyes then climbed the plant expertly, before a probing finger gently touched the tree to test its temperature, texture and relative safety.

Satisfied no enemy lurked there, both his hands shot out and began stroking the tree while looking at me slyly, watching for my reaction or approval. I smiled, thus assured, he began a gentle tapping. The tree was a friend, a plaything. He finally sat back triumphantly, while I applauded. He followed suit and soon we were both applauding each other. "You have gladdened this aged beauty with your youth and gentle attentions," I said with a wink and a smile. "Onward, ever onward my stalwart," I commanded.

Two nuns came toward us from the Chabot Ave. entrance to the park. I leaned down to whisper, "They will smile benignly when they come abreast of us. People in the religion business take courses in politeness and benign smiles".

As the sisters hove to, Aaron put on his Mona Lisa smile. They were enchanted. Their eyes danced religiously and they smiled benignly. I smiled back as benignly as I could, not having had real practice in the art.

We began our Chabot Avenue ascent. Many streets and avenues in the "Bay" area will simply not lay flat for very long. They start to rise at the first opportunity. Chabot was no exception. It rose ever upward.

We passed gardens featuring sculptured evergreens that reminded me of French poodles -- ghastly. I lean toward trees that grow with untamed abandon. Homes became more elaborate, more expensive looking, the higher we climbed. It seems the rich like to take to higher ground in case of floods.

We headed for the Chabot Canyon Racquet Club, the very one that Aaron's mother was a member of. "This is terrific exercise." I gasped, as we climbed the steepest section of the avenue. There was no answer. Our hero's eyes were shut tight, his face in repose. "You are beautiful," I whispered.

That last stretch seemed harder than ever. I had no more gasps
to spare when I finally reached the tennis courts. Aaron slept on, completely unaware of any tennis activity going on. I longed to join them. Only three things held me back. I was not a member, I was not dressed for tennis, and I could not leave my charge unattended. The sun was not overly strong, gentled by cool breezes -- perfect tennis weather.

We started our return journey. Half way home our hero moved, his body going through a slow, deliberate stretch. This was followed by frantic arm waving. Sounds were added to his repertoire of movement ... small mewing sounds, growing more and more distinct. I accelerated into third gear and then into fourth.

His mewing grew into full-growing cries. I stopped the carriage and kneeled before him. "Aaron my pet, Aaron my precious," I pleaded, "Please indulge me, at least until we reach home.
He only cried harder. I stroked his chest. His arms shot out and I was trapped. Who could resist this supplication, this trust. Once in my arms, all was quiet on the western front. It was as if a door had suddenly been closed on a noisy party.

I carried him with my right arm and pushed the carriage with my left. Back and forth went Aaron, from one arm to another. My arms were turning to lead. My face must have mirrored my agony. Men and women were casting sympathetic looks my way. Great drops of perspiration ran down my face. I was a mess.

"Aaron, you are a very heavy guy," I moaned as i staggered on. His body danced in my arms as if in response. "Not the best response old boy," I muttered.

i tried putting him back in the carriage. He was not up to leaving the comfort zone. My burden was mine to carry. After much groaning, gasping, and gritting of teeth, I arrived at the corner of College and Oceanview -- almost home but not quite. Oceanview did not offer a view of the ocean. It did offer a view of a hill going straight up. There was a little over half a block to traverse. Could I make it?

I slowly, laboriously, climbed the 'view' ... not my view of a refreshing climb. The house had stairs, too many. Aaron took my theatrical grunts and groans as attempts at clowning, and possibly they were. My fan roared with laughter. It was contagious. We fell in a heap on the soft living room floor and laughed our guts out.

The wonderful thing about pain and discomfort are the rewards that follow their cessation. My body floated as we lay rocking with laughter that knew no ending. We squeezed the last drop of laughter out of our bodies and were off to the kitchen and feeding time after a quick stop in the 'change' room for some dry clothes.

He ate with obvious delight, his mouth opening in Pavlovian response every time the spoon neared it. In quick order he downed a banana, cereal, half a tomato, some cottage cheese, and a bread stick. A gourmond was our Aaron, and I was delivering gourmet baby-sitting. I gave myself a ten. I cleaned him up with a paper towel. "Pat, pat, pat and that's that," said the towel.

Was it laughter time again? Why not. I moved my shoulders and made google eyes at him. It was enough. He exploded.
No half measures. I worked my shoulders until they were sore, his laughter, incentive enough.

It was time for his dessert --his bottle of course. He attacked it with a vengenace as I cradled him. What a feeling -- this little tyke depended on me -- gaining sustenance, warmth and safety in the nest of my arms. My heart turned over.

He purred as he drank -- his legs and toes moving ecstatically as he clutched the bottle securely in his arms. he was in heaven and I was his current angel.

Into his room for a diaper change. He was soaked. I know some mothers leave their children marinating in their diapers before bothering to change them. Not so this 'mother'.

I laid him gently on his change table but Aaron was not having
any of that. I want to be held, his lusty cries seemed to be saying. A possible tenor or baritone, I mused. I couldn't help but admire his face for a second or two as it contorted so piteousloy, so beautifullly, before I took action.

Three toys later, his tears stopped magically and he gave me a wide, toothless smile -- not one cavity. I deftly threw his heavy wet diaper into the disposal bucket, laved him with a soft washcloth, patted him dry, and applied cream around his buttocks and into his many folds. Aaron cooed all through this.
In a few minutes he was clean, dry, warm and fully dressed for indoor fun and games. I was learning fast.

His playpen was large and roomy. I surrounded him with cushions and toys and sat down with the morning paper to read and rest.

I was just beginning to enoy my favorite columnist when our 'playboy' keeled over in the playpen. Although not yet into the crawling stage, he somehow managed to move about in the most imaginitive way -- back flips, forward half somersaults, and sly side movements. A repertoire all his own.

Finally, he managed to lay there immobilized, very much like a turtle on his back. He did not panic, simply waited for me to right him. I left my seat and my favorite writer and set him up again.

This happened several times in the next few minutes. I tried lying him on his tummy. He didn't care for that. I introduced more toys. He through them out. He was having fun at my expense. My break was broken.

I placed him on his 'Jolly Jumper' and he began energetically jumping up and down and somehow, sideways. I hurriedly checked the calipers fastened to the frame of the door and was assured of his security.

There he was, my plump captive, harnessed, hanging partially in space, the springs of the apparatus allowing him to touch the floor and every part of his face was alive with smiles. Little shouts of pure joy escaped him. He seemed tireless -- a dynamo on springs.

I rolled one of his balls to him. "Kick it," I shouted. He kicked it the length of the room. More kicks, more shouts, more delicious smiles followed. He was prepared to play the game all day but I wasn't. He had more energy than I had. I hugged him, he hugged back. He smelled as fresh as a baby, it was a good smell.

I needed a rest. I released him and we both lay down on a blanket I placed on the floor. He managed, in his peculiar crab-like way. to reach my face. He sat down on it.

"One last bit of play before puttng you bed," I spluttered. I began pedaling my legs in a fast circular motion while laying on my back. He howled as I pedaled faster. He howled louder. He was enjoying it so much that I didn't have the heart to stop. I gave him a full ten minutes of this, collecting and savoring all of his laughter.

It was time for his afternoon nap. I consulted my notes. There were no directions on how to put the little guy to bed. I was on my own. I was determined to innovate because I needed my rest desperately.

I placed him in his crib, gave him a pacifier, and spoke ever so softly to him. My deep baritone voice caressed his ears. His eyes started to flutter and he half rose before falling back and was asleep within seconds.

I had three hours to myself, but from time to time I tip-toed into is room to watch him sleep. Is there anything more angelic, more beautiful, than a sleeping baby? They sleep very much like they play -- all out.

He was immediatelly awake the moment he arose and shouted for attention. I found hm holding on to the side of his bed, fully alert and ready for action. His eyes lit up when he saw my oustretched arms.

Another walk was called for, but first a diaper change. I was able to do this without fuss or bother and we were out and away in minutes.

More smiles from mothers and would-be-mothers. Aaron was the light that drew them in like moths. i was simply an appendage. Nevertheless, I basked in his popularity.

Twice I was mistaken for his father. I hesitated before conceding that I was not. It was a compliment, considering the extreme handsomeness of my charge.

We came abreast of an icecream emporiom. The sign boasted, "the best vanilla in the bay area". "One vanilla in a container please", I ordered. "Aaron and I want to vote on it". I added with a smile. The clerk didn't crack a smile. "She doesn't get it", I said, turning to Aaron.

Mmm, Mmm,Mmm, and Mmm," I rhapsodied as the cold delicacy paraded over my tongue and onto my palate. It was no doubt, a very, very exciting concoction. "My partner and I are ice cream tasting specialists," I declared, turning to our host. There was a beginning of a smile. The smile broadened when I added, "He's really on the wagon but I think he might go off just this once".

Aaron's face turned somersaults as the dessert found his taste buds. He made a grab for the spoon. I was faster. "Just one moment my fine feathered friend, remember you're on the wagon," I cautioned. I hastily spooned in more of the dessert. We took turns finishing it off.

We walked on to the "Adventure Center, a travel agency specializing in trips to Australia and New zealand. there were stuffed Kaola bears and boomerangs in the window.
Aaron was intrigued. He pointed and spoke his secret language.
"Did you know, you could leave Oakland one day and arrive there yesterday or is it the other way around?" Aaron shrugged, no traveler he. We paraded up and down College Street. It was retail land. Stores predominated. Restaurants and bars there were a'plenty. Americans are the snackiest snackers, their mouths well exercized around anything that smelled good.

There were at least four antique furniture stores selling furniture of the twenties, thirties and forties, at inflated prices. Maybe that is why there did not seem to be any customers shelling out dollars.

A massage parlor and hot tub combo advertised in vain. Not a soul could be seen inside. Beauty factories and hair clipping shops used other people's heads to make money. A half a dozen stores specialized in remaining closed. Their show windows still showing some scattered goods.
Were the owners just teasing us? Was this part of College turning into a mini ghost town?

Two flower shops were in the 'scenter' of the area. They competed with two outside stall entrepreneurs who defiantly set up shop nearby. Four 'scents' did not make sense at all I sensed.

Menswear, ladiesware, childswear, pregnantwear, shoeware and noveltywear shops vied for attention, all kind of wearing us down.
We needed a diversion and it came in the shape of a pasta shop
displaying, and producing pasta by the yard in living color.
We stood outside and gawked unahamedly.

Once in the store we were trapped into buying one or more of a thousand delicacies begging for attention. I bought one of those and one of that and one of these and one of the other ones near the bright-looking one that Aaron pointed out to me. We chewed in unison. Life was good.

We left College, our Street, and onto the Park, our Orchard.
"Onto the orchard." I cried, and on we went. Fifteen minutes later the orchaard opened its gates and we strode in, nature lovers to the core. We admired the flowers that grew in orderly and wild profusion, the colors competing for attention. I hoped Aaron would not ask me to name any of them. Names of flowers, plants, trees, birds in general, escape me. But isn't a rose by any other name , still a rose? We took deep satisfying breaths.

We decided to stop at the school playground off Chabot Ave. This one was completely unconventional. There were giant tires waitng for kiddies to crawl through or sprawl on.
Fat trees stumps at varying heights joined together, inviting all to sit on them, to climb them or simply stand and admire them.
Colorful sand boxes begged for pails and shovels or busy hands to
sift through the grains of sand. Wood catwalks dared adventurers to 'Walk the Plank". Slides that twisted and turned asked for experienced sliders, those with a slide degree.

We played hide-and-seek -- a favorite game of my playmate. We zoomed down the slide -- "Whee, whee," we sang ot in pure, unadulterated joy. We walked the Plank as ordered by Captain Bligh; Jump said the Captain. We jumped and landed on dry sand. "Saved, we're saved," I cried. Laugh a minute Aaron laughed uproariously.

When we had exhausted ourselves as well as the apparatus, it was time to say good-bye. Home James," I said with an exaggerated English accent.

We recessed under the Bart trellis on College and Keith. It was nice and shady and the benches were inviting and welcoming.
A cool place to cool down and observe the passing parade, a parade of ordinary people. We observed and were observed in turn.

I busied myself with making our sight-see-er comfortable when we got home. I was becomng a quick-change artist. His wet diaper was removed with a flourish, followed by a dry rubdown.
Vaseline was applied to the rashes around his buttocks. A dry diaper stood at attention while Aaron gently slipped into it.
Rubber pants came next and a fresh undershirt. A few little bits and ends, and voila. A hausfrau couldn't have done it better.
I held out my arms and Aaron leaped into them.

His midday meal started with a bottle. I placed the bottle in a pot of water to warm up. As soon as Aaron spotted it I knew I was in for anxiety cries. His mouth screwed up in anguish and his arms began waving frantically. His demanding cries became more insistent with each passing second.

"Diversion, diversion," I cried and rushed him out to the front balcony. Reaching up, I pushed the chimes suspended from the ceiling. His crying stopped at once. He was enthralled and I believe I could see his ears open up as he reached for the magic above. His famous smile emerged and my heart turned over. Not an easy task.

As usual he needed no prompting during mealtime. A gourmond of a gourmet was Aaron. My watch read 2:30 P.M. I decided to give him thirty minutes of playtime before taking him out for his last walk of the day.

His playpen seemed to work this time around. He was not falling all over the place. He chirped happily as he went at his toys with a vengeance. I managed to catch up with the news of the day, do some writing, and even took in a little television. I even managed to prepare and eat a sandwich.

We sortied out once more. He was asleep before I turned the corner. "Pleasant dreams dear boy," I said out loud. Two women trned around and smled broadly. I smled back. Aaron slept on, a soft smile on his angelc face, brightning the day.

At 6 P.M. I was ready. My charge had been aired three times, slept a total of some four hours, downed three nourishing meals, been diaper changed at least five times, bathed, played with, and treated royally throughout the day. I was exhausted but he was happy, sated, neat and sanitary.

Phyllis walked in, her eyes sending love as she saw Aaron in his chair. "How did it go?" she asked. "Nothing could of been easier," I said brightly.

I drove home in a happy daze. This bachelor had been a mother for a day and enjoyed it.

ALL CREATURES, SMALL AND LARGE

"It's raining," said Sam ever so sadly,
'The worms will emerge and fare badly."

"They're only worms," replied Liz with a shiver,
"for all I care, they can jump in the river.

"You don't know what you say, you're out of line.
They are fat and jolly and quite simply divine.
They were put on this earth for a good reason,
so plants and trees could grow all season."

"What do you mean, I don't understand?
They're so underfooot and underhand."

"Liz, if you listen, I'll tell you the truth;
How this little old earth was just about new.
Along came these worms, oh maybe a million,
and made holes in the ground, like maybe a trillion.
They bored holes to the top and then to the bottom,
although nobody, nobody, had really taught 'em.

"But Sam, I mean, why ever for,
did they do that to the earth's core?"

"You don't follow, so hear me please,
holes in the ground help the flowers and trees.
They grow to be healthy, strong and proud,
those holes make the earth breathe,
just like it was very evenly plowed.
And everyone and everything, has got to inhale,
if they did'nt do that, they wouldn't exhale.
You see how worms are really needed?
Because of what they do, plants can be seeded."

Liz shook her head in awe and wonder,
as the rain slashed down,
there was lightning and thunder.

"OK Sam, there's been enough talking.
lets put on our coats and get to walking."

"Before we go Liz,
I want to explain,
what makes these worms
come out in the rain.
The earth is loosened
so they can emerge,
when they come up,
they will not submerge."

Liz interrupted,
"Sam, let me say my piece,
they want to come out,
it's a kind of release.
The worms have no eyes,
they cannnot see,
and they have no feet,
like you or me."

"Right," said Sam, "they move to the walks
and roads,
they don't know traffic or the city codes."

Then Liz chimed in, "and then they get stuck,
'cause they move best on earth and muck."

So Liz and Sam, ran with all their might,
and soon saw a bewildering sight.
There worms that were fat,
and some that were lean.
There were mothers and fathers,
and many a pre-teen.
There were those that were short,
and those that were long,
and even a giant worm,
they named King Kong.

Sam and Liz got busy together.
Not minding the rain or the weather.
They picked them up by ones, twos, and threes,
and placed them gently, beside some trees.

They worked like beavers, for hour after hour,
to place these creatures back in their bower.
Their bodies were drenched, even their clothes,
their shorts and socks, right down to their toes.

And when they counted up to three thousand and nine,
they looked at each other, and they said fine.
They'd done their good deed, throughout the day,
and now they could go home and get to play.

Their mothers were waiting,
and they said together,
"What made you go out.
in this awful weather?"

Sam hastened to explain,
the how and the why,
"Well if we didn't,
the worms, they would simply die.
You see, these worms come out to play,
whenever there is a rainy day,
and they wiggle here,
and they wiggle there,
and they land up in spots,
that are really bare.
then they get stuck and cannot slide,
unless someone kindly puts them aside."

You're really special, you're really sweet,
we're going to
give you a special treat.

"Oh girl," said Liz,"Oh boy," said Sam,
and soon they were eating bread and jam,
and a piece of cake
like mothers bake,
and a banana split with a topping of cherries,
and apples and oranges and a bunch of berries.

So Liz and Sam had a real royal feast,
It was a rewarding day, to say the least.

A DAY CAN LAST FOREVER

Little four year old Joey was propped up in his upstairs bedroom with a medium sized cold.
He was bored, he was restless, he needed activity.
“Mommy,” he yelled as loud as he could, but he couldn’t yell very loud because of his cold. It sounded more like a croak.

Moms can hear whispers and croaks when their children are sick or feeling bad. Their ears stand at attention, just waiting to hear any signs of distress.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” answered Anita, his mom, climbing the stairs two at a time … without pausing at the landing to take a breath, she burst into the room at a gallop. “What’s wrong dearest?” she asked, breathing heavily.

“Mom, I’m bored, I’m restless and I need to do something. I’m going crazy. I want to go out and play with Sandy.” And having said all that, Joey folded his arms and waited hopefully for an o’kay.

“I can’t let you go out, my precious, you’re cold will only get worse and I’m sure you don’t want that to happen, do you?”

“But mom, I’ll dress warm, real warm. I’ll put on two sweaters, and two turtlenecks, and a jacket and a coat and a scarf and a cap and boots. I’ll be warm, I’ll sweat a lot and I’ll be all better when I come back, you’ll see. I’ll tell Sandy to stay away from me and she won’t catch my cold. Can I go mom, can I go, please, please?” The last was said so plaintively. It was sheer will power that prevented Anita from agreeing. She looked down at Joey with a half smile, thinking of how adorable, how sweet, how much of an actor he was.

“I’d love to say yes my love but I care for you too much to do that. Wearing all those clothes will make you sweat but it won’t stop the cold from getting worse. The only thing that will make you well is rest. You want to get better real fast, don’t you?”

“Yes but ----“

“ No buts my young man, you just have to stay put. Pretty soon, maybe in two or three days, you’ll be able go out and play.”

“Two or three days?” Joey’s face fell, he looked very sad. The corners of his mouth sort of drooped. “I wanna do something,” he demanded.

“Why don’t I tell you a story honey?” mom said brightly.

Joey’s eyes started to smile with excitement. “Oh boy, oh boy,” he said, clapping his hands. “Make it a real one,” he added. The outside could wait, Joey decided.

“Certainly Joey, what would you like to hear about?”
There was no hesitation. Joey wanted his favorite true story. “I want to hear about how I was borned.”

“You want to hear about how you were born?” She emphasized the last word.

“Yes I do, I do, I do,” Joey said, bouncing up and down all the while.

“After your dad and I were married a while,” Anita started, “We decided to have a baby because there was so much extra love in the house that we needed a place to put it. We thought you would be the perfect guy to give it to.” Anita paused, knowing what Joey would say.

He was right on cue. “What happened then?”

“I became pregnant and started carrying you around wherever I went. I was on the outside and you were on the inside. You kept on getting bigger and bigger,” Anita said, bringing her arms further and further apart.

“After three months had gone by, I looked down and I couldn’t see my feet because of my stomach. You kept on growing and growing and growing.”

“And I got bigger and bigger and bigger,” Joey echoed happily. “Yes you sure did,” mommy said and then continued, “What happened toward the end of my pregnancy?” she asked, a twinkle in her eyes.

“I know, I know, don’t tell me.” He thought for a second or two and then blurted, “I remember, I started to knock on the inside of your tummy. I went knock, knock.” Joey waited breathlessly for the next part of the well known drama.

“That’s right Joey, and I asked, who’s there?”

“But I wouldn’t answer,“ Joey exulted, enjoying the game more and more.

“And why couldn’t you answer, you little rascal?” Mom said with a little laugh.

:”Because babies don’t talk before they are born,” Joey shouted triumphantly.

“But I didn’t care, I just kept on talking to you as if you
were able to answer.”

“And one day you were outside,” Joey prompted.

“And I started to talk to you, nice and cosy like in my tummy. I pointed my mouth towards my belly button and said, “Isn’t it a nice day son?”

“And a man came along,” Joey interrupted, hugging himself with excitement. He knew the best part was coming.

“He looked at me and his eyes opened wide with wonder,” mom said giggling, and he asked, “Why are you talking to your tummy?”

“I’m not talking to my tummy,” I replied, “I’m talking to an almost real person.”

He laughed in a sort of funny way, “You’re talking to an almost real person and not to your tummy,” he repeated. “That’s a good one, now I’ve heard everything.” His face became really stern then and he added, “Madam, I’ll have you know that my eyesight is one hundred per cent perfect. You were definitely talking to your tummy.”

“But sir,” I answered, “I’m not talking to the outside of my tummy, only to the inside.”

“Only to the inside, only to the inside,” he repeated, his face became as red as a beet. “You mean to stand there and tell me to my face that you are talking to the inside of your stomach. Madam, you’ll be pleased to know that I was not born yesterday,” and he stamped his foot impatiently.

“That’s just it, you weren’t born yesterday, but my son will be born tomorrow or the day after and I‘m trying to make him feel less lonesome by talking to him.”

He looked at me, his mouth fell open but no words came out for at least ten seconds. Finally words came tumbling out, “Your talking to your son and he is not even born yet, boy that takes the cake,” and with that, he turned and walked off talking to himself.

“Boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, that woman is talking to someone who isn’t there in person.” Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho.

Joey started to laugh at the same time as the ho ho ho had started. When that little guy started to laugh, his whole face lit up like a beacon and it was a good thing to see.
When he finally managed to stop laughing, he asked, “And then what happened?”

“What happened? Why the very next day you decided to come out and see what the world looked like from the outside.”
“What did I look like mummy?”

“Daddy and I thought you were the most beautiful being on earth. You had lots of black hair, and you had the cutest little mouth and nose. You were big too, eight and a half pounds of chubby joy. We loved every ounce.”

Joey listened, a happy smile on his face, “What did I do next?” he asked, knowing the answer in advance, but never tiring of hearing it again.

“Well you were awfully hungry, I could see but you couldn’t. All babies do not see right after birth. Anyway your mouth kept on opening and closing and you made little mewing sounds, very much like a kitten.”
Joey mewed like a kitten several times, hugging himself all the while. This is almost better than playing outside, he thought.

His mom continued, eyes shining with laughter, “I didn’t have any peanut butter sandwiches, I didn’t have applesauce or yogurt, I didn’t have a veggie burger, and I didn’t have a fruit or tofu vegetable salad.”

Joey couldn’t contain himself, “What did you have mummy?” he shouted.

“I had good mother’s milk and you drank as if there was no tomorrow. I think you wanted t fill every ounce of your eight and a half pounds.”

The story was coming to an end. Joey wished it could go on forever. His eyes started to close, he yawned once and then again for good luck.

Anita’s voice went on, all soft and purry, Joey heard it coming from far away. It was so comforting.

“Dad and I were so proud of you. We showed you off to your grandmas and grandpas and to all your aunties and uncles and to our friends and neighbors.”

Anita stopped, Joey was fast asleep, a little smile playing across his face. She leaned forward and kissed the smile softly.

THE SMILE THAT TRAVELED

It started with one smile, a beautiful grin,
that opened Charlie’s mouth, down to his chin.
He looked in the mirror, to see his reflection,
and said with a smile, it passes inspection.

That smile is so nice, I’ll just paste it on, to
a girl or a boy, or even anyone.
A five year old girl, came skipping into view,
and he pasted her one, until she smiled too.

You see a smile, can be quite catching.
And soon all around, big smiles were hatching.
That smiled traveled like a disease,
but unlike a sickness, it was more of a tease.

Now that smile has boarded a train and all
are smiling like a big smile chain .
That grin got off in good old Texas,
and promptly infected all walking sexes.

The smile that started, is going apace,
It’s starting to inject, the whole human race.
See that couple strolling arm in arm,
now they’re smiling , so what’s the harm.

That smile won’t stop, it’s speeding like crazy,
and now it’s caught up to a girl called Mazie.
Mazie passed it on to her class teacher,
and now her mouth, is a smiling feature.

All the boys and girls, are smiling like mad,
and absolutely no one, is the least bit sad.
And now that nice smile has found its way into a post office open every night and day.
That smile went knocking inside each letter and said, “Let me in, I’ll make you better.

Each word that was sent, carried a wink and one landed on old Harry the mink.
Every hair on his body stood up and giggled, Harry was so happy, he shook and he wiggled.
The smiles are moving in every which way, most keep on going, but some stop to play.
The playground was full when smiles entered and all the smiles were suddenly dentured.

The people in the north felt down in the mouth but when the smiles entered, they went south.
Don’t ask me why, or I’ll turn over and die.

Babies were bawling on almost every street but when those smiles entered, it was a treat.
They stopped their bawling and their crying, now all those baby’s tears are kind of drying.
On and on, those smiles are running and wherever they go it starts everyone funning.
The wax museums have figures galore that look like people on every floor.
Not one was smiling, their faces were stony but now all are smiling, and that’s no baloney.

Barber of Seville has come to life, smiling broadly and so is his wife.
It’s crossed the sea, landed in Europe, how many smiles will it stir up.
I’ll tell you, the numbers are mounting but who in the world is counting
It’s reached the royal regals and pasted smiles on royal eagles.

That bird is singing God save the Queen and on its beak a smile is seen.
A smile can turn into a laugh, and now it’s seen on a spotted giraffe.
He’s laughing so hard, his spots are falling, even so, that’s better than bawling.

Hansel and Gretel are lost in the forest,
but the laugh arrives and they join in the chorus.

The skiers were skiing down a mountain slope,
and the sun came out and turned the snow into soap.
Now all of you know what a mess that can be
but the skiers just laughed, it was so funny to see.

The smile leader said, “Let’s visit all books,”
and they filled page after page with great smiling looks.

Now the smiles and laughter have left mother earth,
And visited the stars to fill them with mirth.
So now the earth was smiling, the whole universe too.
Wouldn’t it be grand if it all came true?

Oh, I forgot to tell you about the animals and the fishes.
They send you all their smirking good wishes.