IT’S HIGH TIME

Written around 1957: Read on

Leaving my firm meant leaving all perks, including first class air travel—at four times the price of coach seats. What’s so special about first class seats aside from the inflated price you might ask? The answer is plenty.

No waiting, you board first, all four of you. You exit first, all four of you. While on board you are kingpins.

The prettiest stewardesses are specifically chosen to serve you. They can’t wait to tuck you in, to make you ever so comfortable. They light your cigarette, they clean your eyeglasses, they marinate you in hot and cold beverages. They serve you meals almost fit to be on real plates and give you portions large enough to feed three people.

You are showered with newspapers, magazines, and ever constant smiles, you are it, the one and only. They just love you to pieces. After all, you might be a producer, a director, a corporate giant, a crown prince, or best of all, a practicing surgeon. You keep them guessing of course.

And the seats, oh the seats, the kind you just sink into and stretch in every direction. You just have to fall asleep and dream nice dreams, even so-called naughty dreams about that blond gal that leaned over far enough to enable you to see her perfect 34 C boobs as she served you.

Fade away to the present. The scene opens with me wedged in an air coach seat, surrounded on either side by two men large enough to be Sumo wrestlers. My knees are gently nudging the back of the seat in front of me I get dirty looks. I am in a straight jacket, my legs are glued together. I long for sleep, for oblivion, with out success.

I wait for the “Fasten seat belt sign” to go off so I can proceed to the Blue room. There are a number of drawbacks. All the cells are occupied and there are four standbys waiting to serve their sentences before me. Finally inside, claustrophobia sets in. Airlines consider every inch of space and their standing-room-only bathrooms can easily be measured in inches. “Please, please, whoever is listening, don’t crash now, “ I plead, as I maneuver awkwardly in the mini-room designed for Lilliputians.

Returning to my non-smoking seat, I squeeze myself into my measured space just in time to inhale the so called second hand smoke of smokers sitting in the permitted area some three seats behind me. Die bold smokers inhaling deeply of the weed, relaxing as they smoke themselves to an early death. With some satisfaction I listen to the coughs and wheezes of the right to smoke enthusiasts before I suspend breathing.
There is nothing more righteous than a holier than thou former smoker. I plead guilty as charged.

There is an infant who took off the moment we took off. His cries are piercing enough to puncture the fuselage or even the ozone layer. I smile at the baby, I throw love at the baby, I whisper sweet nothings, all to no avail. The Sumo wrestlers are snoring, goody, goody gumdrops. What could be next. It’s movie time. Airlines have a committee of sadists who choose their selections. I opt out. Enough torture. There is one saving grace, the baby stops crying.

Our section stewardess is going through the ‘safety features’. “Kindly note the exits located in the nose, the middle of the aircraft, and the aft compartment indicated by the red exit signs.” I am not reassured. I simply refuse to jump out of a plane at an altitude of some 36,000 feet with or without a parachute. She goes on, “Also note that your seat cushion functions as a flotation device in the event of a water landing.” Water landing? Is this a seaplane?

I am a seasoned air traveler, but listen as she dutifully continues. “In the unlikely event that cabin pressure suddenly drops, kindly extinguish all smoking materials. An oxygen mask will drop from the overhead compartment. Place mask firmly over your nose, pull on the strap, and breathe normally,” Breathe normally as the plane gaily somersaults through space? Who are they kidding?

We are further instructed on how to loosen and tighten seat belts. (The belt will keep me anchored to my seat in the event we hit turbulence determined to hit back. If we crash I will be able to take off, securely fastened to my seat. How cosy.)

The food cart is coming down the aisle trapping all passengers in front of the device. The food, packed in foam and plastic containers, is fighting for space on my tray. (Even food fights for space in the coach section.) Eating this tripe, while my arms are pasted to my torso, is no easy task.
The fasten-seat-belt sign goes on followed by a voice telling us that we will be experiencing some minor turbulence for the next little while.

I struggle with my belt and get my ‘doggie’ bag ready. ‘Some’ turbulence turns out to be SOME turbulence. It’s fun and games as the food on my tray and in my system try to join hands. Some forty-five minutes later we begin our descent. Seat backs are up. Seat belts are on. Feet are anchored to the floor, and first-time fliers are biting their fingers to the bone. Veteran fliers like myself remain outwardly calm while experiencing some turbulence inside.

I know that one out of every three landings will be anything but smooth. I am prepared for the leapfrog, a specialty of some pilots. We land and hop, skip and jump merrily along. My statistics hold true. Thank you, I say as I stagger out. I now march some two miles to the baggage carousel.

I do not rush. I know I will get one bag right away. It’s the second or third bag that will be at the tail end some sixty minutes away.

I’ve been thinking. I do that from time to time. There is a thing out now that permits one to stretch full-length, walk about, luxuriate comfortably in washrooms and in dining room areas, it’s called trains.

MY LAST SONG

I'm going down that tricky road
into that dark oblivion

I'm slipping, I'm sliding
no longer abiding

I'm going nowhere fast
I'm finished with the past

Times up ladies
and gentlemen,
cheerio and all that.

My last word?
Enough said,
I'm kinda dead!

LOVE OVER EIGHTY INTRODUCTION

I wrote the following songs of " love over eighty"
because we oldsters are not cast offs, we still
think, we still feel, we still care, and we still love,
each in our own way. I sing these songs with love
and abandon.

AN ODE TO ME ON MY 86th

Why not to a man still strong, still bold,
who's gone through hell and been through fire.
Who's not yet ready to be placed on a pyre.

Who shakes off pains, sees suns not rains,
who loves his wife and children three.

Who thinks, who reads, still thirsty for knowledge
and who may consider going back to college.

That's all good folks, that's simply me.

AN ODE TO SHE ON HER 84th

Here's to a woman, a mother and wife
who's given more spice to everyone's life.

Who laughs all the day and smiles through the night.
Who's gentle and caring and even daring.

Who's both feisty and smart, a news flunky with heart.
a thinker, a reader, a born again leader.

Well, that's all for now, that's Marcia,
that's simply she, my wife
forever to be.

ODE TO CHILDREN THREE

An ode to my children all three
insane as can possibly be.

Let's look at sanity, a kind of vanity
Their time has come, it's really dumb.
It's out-dated, it's over-rated,
lots of people have come to hate it.

These children, these life soldiers,
these informals, are the real normals.

My three are loving and caring,
young in spirit and still daring.
They're fun, they're smart,
they're part of our heart.

WORDS ARE HERE TO STAY

I love words, they are my best friends. We have been going steady since I was three and discovered letters in a picture book. A new world of letters opened up, I entered and never left.

I see letters as shapes, as paintings, as letters that logically lock into place like jigsaw puzzles. Words are like a palette holding many colors: They can be descriptive, musical, comedic, colorful, instructive, destructive, thought provoking or mixtures of some or all these. Words can shape the way one think and acts.

So why not be inventive, daring, or colorful by painting sentences with a broad brush. Here are some word paintings I kind of like:
The cold stabbed at me, The tapestry of my life unfolded. I can here the sounds of trees growing. A bunch of ideas percolated in my head. His anger hurried his words along, he spat them out with machine gun speed.Finally, there are limitless word structures that call, nay, scream for your attention. They ensnare, they captivate, they move you to tears or laughter. Enjoy the world of words in blogs, books, newspapers, leaflets and anywhere you can find them. Enjoy the world of words.