KRYPTONITE

"YOU ARE GOING TO MISS THE BUS!"..My Mom at the foot of the stairs.... She said the same thing every school day. I never missed the bus. It was just something she felt she had to say, I guess.

I shuffled down the stairs in my pajamas and sat at the kitchen table to have my breakfast. Orange juice and cinnamon toast. My Dad had made a shaker jar out of a small Hellman's Sandwich Spread glass jar by poking holes in the lid, just like you would to keep lightning bugs in. Mom mixed sugar and cinnamon in it and we would shake it onto our buttered toast. Breakfast. Large glass of OJ..ready for the sugar spike. I had some butter on my fingers when I lifted the glass and it hit the edge of the table before spilling in my lap. Crap. Back upstairs.

 Rummaging through my dresser drawer.."MA! I GOT NO CLEAN UNDERWEAR!"
"Well, I didn't do a wash...wear what you have on."
"I can't...I spilt juice on 'em!"
Footsteps up the stairs. Her searching hands feeling through the dresser. She pulled out a colorful cardboard package which was, until that morning, unopened since my eighth Birthday, almost two years ago.
"Here...wear these"
"I ain't wearin those...they're for babies"
"You are the big Superman fan...YOU WANTED these.."
"I ain't wearin them"
"You AREN'T wearing them...I mean you ARE....or I'll give you a pair of your sister's"
I stared at her as if she grew an alien head and she turned and walked downstairs. I opened the package of red and blue Superman briefs and held them in front of me.
"AND YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS"
I slipped on the undies..."Coming, Lois"

Fourth grade. I am in class with about 25 other kids and slogging through Arithmetic, Social Studies, Science. All the while looking at the clock, waiting for lunch. When the hour finally arrived, you could feel a sort of release ripple through the class. We ate at our desks..the Milk Monitor walked up and down the rows handing out the tiny containers to each student. Brown bags opened, some torn open...mine always carefully unfolded and refolded when empty, so many times that it was as soft as velvet.
Lunch over. Recess. NOW we're talking. Column of twos down the hall and outside...today, because it's nice weather. The level of noise in the schoolyard must be incredible as we fly around with games of tag, girls jumping rope, bouncing spaldeens on ice cream stcks. Amazing levels of energy, but none as great as mine, because unknown to anyone,....I am Superman, and I have the underwear to prove it.

I think I felt before I heard it. A great ripping sound as I jumped across a gigantic puddle as only the Man of Steel could attempt. Horrors...I had torn the middle seam of my trousers. I reached down when no one was looking and confirmed my greatest fear...at LEAST 10 inches torn. Opened like the side of the Titanic. The hole back of my seat. From that moment on, I made sure no one walked behind me and I sat on the sidelines, faking like I was out of breath.
My teacher, Mrs.Broderick , checked her watch and blew a little whistle, ending recess. I made sure I was last in my column and shuffled back to class...undetected.

When we got back into class, the movie screen was pulled down and the projector set up on its stand. This was the best news I could have gotten. No work at the blackboard for the rest of the day, no standing up to answer questions if I get called upon. I was home free, my torn pride and secret intact. Just about 2 hours to go and I can tie my windbreaker around my waist for the bus trip home. I was Clark Kent, smiling because nobody was on to me.

My mind didn't register the sound at first...it intruded, rudely but with a finality that kicked me in the stomach. The Hallway Gong...every second. Gong. Gong. Not a Fire Drill.
Worse.
AIR RAID DRILL.
Way back then..the world wasn't that far removed from World War, the Korean War. It was the Cold War now and we lived under the threat of attack from the Communists. The Reds. The Russians.
Authorities really didn't know how to respond to the threat, and knew even less of how to prepare for it.
So...in schools all over America, we prepared for attacks by Atom Bombs and H-Bombs by kneeling in school hallways...our young heinies in the air. Torn pants and all, thank you very much, Mr. Kruschev.
And as I knelt, horrified, with my head against the wall with my Super-Ass in the air...I listened for the Giggles or Snickers that surely had to come as the teachers walked up and down, inspecting us for proper Nuclear form. I couldn't make myself any smaller.
Then, it was over and I was back in my seat, getting ready to wrap my jacket around me and head for the bus.
The bell sounded and I walked slowly to the door,making sure I was last out.
"Thomas" the teacher called.
"Yes, Mrs. Broderick?"
"You know, if it was really an Atom Bomb, even Superman couldn't help"

The Bottle Boy

Friday night..and where the hell am I? I won't be 16 for another three months. Not old enough to drive. I smoke, away from home of course,  and I am going to be a rock and roll star someday. Or play for the Yankees. Or be a famous graphic artist. I don't know. All I know is that it's Friday night and I am stuck at work in a Deli in Old Bethpage. Deli clerk..you ask? No. Delivery guy? No.

I am the freaking Bottle Boy. That's right. Each day, after school, I walked from my home on Sheridan street in Old Bethpage, up Haypath Road to the German deli by the BethView Theatre. We called it the A&P shopping center then. It might have been a mile. Kids today wouldn't dream of walking that far, much less going to work in a Deli, for God's sake. Yep, the Bottle Boy. A lot of people don't know that long before it become a law in many states, you could get money back for the markets and delis for returning bottles. You didn't even have to pay a deposit, the big soda companies were glad to get the glass bottles back for refilling. 2 cents for a small bottle and 5 cents for the big, curved glass Pepsi and Coke bottles. One of my Uncles used to drink a lot of Pepsi and would accumulate quite a few  quart bottles (yes, I said Quart, not 2 liter or any other metric crap)..and if I could haul 20 of them, I had a dollar. Beautiful. Anyway, back to the story. I needed money..and part time jobs were not that easy to come by. My older brother John worked in the Deli as a clerk and told me that the owner got aggravated every day when he walked in and saw the hundreds of glass bottles that his customers had dropped off. They needed a bottle boy to sort them out and stack them for the soda delivery drivers to pick up. Sixty-five cents an hour, off the books. Good deal. Or so I thought.

    There were actually two owners of the Deli..Herman, the young hotshot and silent partner..(though he wasn't so silent when I was around) and old John, the kindly German gentleman who was there all the time. Old John took me aside and said he would give me a Dollar an hour, just not to let Herman know. Okay...better deal.

   I usually went into the deli as a customer or with my Dad a couple of times a week to get some cold cuts or give my Brother a chance to give me the finger when Dad wasn't looking. Anyhow, I never noticed the mountain of bottles before...not before it was my job to make them go away. Coke, Pepsi, Yoo-Hoo, Orange Crush, Like, Tab...all had to be sorted by brand and size and put into incredibly heavy wooden containers and stacked. Not such a great deal, as it turned out. But, I needed the money. I wanted to buy a new electric guitar at Sam Ash in Huntington and I knew it would cost at least $500. So, I started as the Bottle Boy last year, and worked seven days a week to save for the guitar. I even missed the World's Fair in Flushing to be able to save. The bottles just kept coming.

  As with most routine jobs, I settled into a comfort zone of tasks which I followed unconsciously. I became familiar with the "regulars" and could even predict their individual purchases. People like "Frankie Fox Head", who came in every Friday night and bought Fox Head Ale, the cheapest beer ever made.....or  "1/4 Pound Jimmy".. the cold cut expert who knew exactly how many slices of Boar's Head Bologna he would be going home with.

So...another Friday night and I am thinking about going to the movies after work. "FLIGHT OF THE PHOENIX" is playing at the Bethview...I get in for free because I work in the shopping center...but I've seen it twice. "THUNDERBALL",  the newest James Bond flick is at the Morton Village...but too far to walk. As I am weighing my options, one of the "regulars" walks in.., Bobby..I think his name was. Looks like James Dean, and he knows it. Rheingold Chug-a-Mugs, for sure. Tonight he buys 3 six-packs. He's older...you can buy beer at 18 in 1965...and has his own car...he drives what we would call a "junker" today, but I am 16 and wish it was mine.
"Hey, Bottle boy"
"Hey, Bobby"
"What's shakin?"
"I've got an hour to go...having a party?"
"Just cruising"
I thought he was drunk already. The old German rang him up and I walked with him to the front.
We stood in front of the store, smoking. The parking lot was empty except for a few cars.
"Hey...are you going anywhere near Morton Village later?"
"I don't know...when Later?"
"I get off in an hour"
"Maybe if I'm around"
He walked off towards his car...I could see one other person in the front seat. I flicked my cigarette away and went back inside. I still had to set up a display of Metracal...a diet drink.
About 20 minutes later..I was sweeping the sidewalk outside the store and Bobby pulled up again, this time with a car full of kids. I knew most of them...Paul L...Roger K...Stephanie M...and Nancy.
"You still wanta ride?"
"I don't get off for about a half hour"
"Too bad...You snooze, you lose."
He drove off towards Round Swamp Rd...in 2 hours, three of the five would be dead.
It was September 17th, 1965.

You snooze, you lose.

Not always.

5 Simple Words...

 JFK was dead and buried. It was 79 days later...not a long time, at all. But America and the world were locked in a deep funk with no end in sight. The images that framed The Tragedy of our young generation were etched into our souls so deeply that we went about our routine without memory of much else.

To be a very young teenager of that time was confusing and frustrating. The very recent Holiday season had passed under a dark cloud..forever changed. Our distractions and pastimes of that age would seem primitive by today's multimedia barometer.

 Imagine if you can, a world without digital technology. No cell phones, ipad, ipod,no streaming video..no instant gratification. If you took Holiday pictures, you could probably see them in a week or so. If you parents needed emergency cash, they went to the bank, hat in hand, to beg.

 There was really little good to look forward to. A high school dance, maybe. Your birthday. We were even a little young to be dating, seriously. The Holidays had just passed, with another seemingly endless year to wait for them again. Everyone knew, and still knows,  exactly where we were when our innocence died. We were with each other. Classmates. Partners and witnesses to our first Apocalypse.
 A comedian named Vaughn Meader had been an instant hit with his Kennedy Family spoof album.."The First Family". It sold out of stores in a few hours. Now, 79 days later, it was well on it's way to the attics and basements...we couldn't bear to listen.

Kids, especially teenagers, live in the NOW. If you were feeling blue about a girl or boy who dumped you, the cure could come quickly with a smile or a wink from someone new. The world as we knew it had become instantly confusing and bewildering because we stood on the cusp of the grown-up stage of our lives. But we didn't want to jump in with both feet, not yet. We weren't REALLY sure what was on the other side. We saw our parents end their daily routines plopped in a chair or stretched out on the couch..focused on the box in the living room. Most times, we watched what our parents wanted to watch on TV, unless it was daytime and we were home from school with Pretendicitus..                                  

Our life's Soundtrack was taken up with the likes of Bobby Vinton...Little Peggy March.....Ricky Nelson....Lesley Gore..The Angels.....a new kid named Stevie Wonder...and, of ALL things.....a Singing Nun.  We had SUPER groups such as the Four Seasons and The Angels. All, however, took second place in our minds to the Dark Days in Dallas.

Finally..on February 9, 1964, a funny looking, skinny little man who came to our homes each weekend took the television stage on Sunday night and spoke 5 simple words....
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...THE BEATLES!"

I finally saw the Sun shining.

I GOT A WHOLE LOTTA THINGS TO TELL HER........

                                                           
"I will be RIGHT THERE !"...My older sister...screaming out the front door at my Dad. He was seated in his new Midnight Blue Chevy in the driveway, fiddling with the radio. It had one of those rear speakers...very cool.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"None of your beeswax"
"Maybe I want to come, too"
"No, it's just me and Daddy".
I pushed past her and ran over to the driver's side. Dad cranked the window down and I said: "where you going?"
"Korvette's,...wanna come?"
I could feel the heat from my Sister's dagger eyes beginning to scorch my t-shirt.
"Nah. I hate Korvette's...Wait...are you going into the 110 Mall?
"No. Just Korvette's".
"Nah."  I walked away, avoiding the ha-ha glance from her Princessness.

E.J. Korvette's was a small department store in Huntington on Route 110. It was just across a large parking area from the Magical 110 Mall. It was a place to buy a variety of goods, but if you were broke , as I was, it was boring. At least if you went across to the 110 Mall, there were dozens of stores to poke around in. Every Christmas we did ALL our gift shopping at the 110 Mall. But the mall was too far to bike-ride very often and there were killer hills to conquer.

I went back into the house and got involved with something or another and lost track of time. It was August 1964 and I spent a lot of time in our finished basement making car models and listening to records. BUT, our record player was shot..the speaker was dry and crumbled and I had rubber-banded two quarters to the arm to add more weight to the needle as it wore out. Hardly any sound came out. Tough to play air guitar like that. My transistor radio wasn't loud enough, and I couldn't afford batteries. I went back upstairs to watch TV.
The shoppers had returned and my sister came in the house alone. Her arm was behind her back, obviously hiding something.
"Guess what I got."
"Eye of Newt?"
"No, guess."
"Who cares"
She swung her arm around and the object became clear to me. The NEW Beatle album...entitled "SOMETHING NEW".....The Holy Grail...
"It's MINE"..she gloated..and waved it in front of my face....possible evidence at my murder trial.
I went for the cheap shot..."what are you gonna play it on?...the record player is dead"
She just smirked as my Dad walked in with a NEW Blue and White EJ Korvette record player in his hands.
"Listen, he said to my sister, with the wisdom of Solomon....this stays down here in the living room, it's for EVERYONE. If you want to play that album, you have to do it here."

"Yeah...Yeah....Yeah.........."

They're Everywhere

"Hello. My name is Thom.....and...and I'm a MALLWALKER."
"HI THOM!"

At least that's what would have happened if I joined a group.

Here's the thing...I have to keep moving. It's just too hot and steamy outside to walk the park or even around the neighborhood. So, off I went to the local mall. It's a Monday, so it's pretty empty. Except for....THEM.

They're everywhere. Limping, stretching, kvetching, retching.  I can't avoid them. The problem is, the older we get, the worse our sense of direction becomes. You know what I mean..you're setting a good, even pace...and the old guy up ahead starts to drift across your path..just a little. Should I go left around him or try to go right and pass by the kiosk with the young gum-snapper poised to spray me with the newest Calvin Klein? Well, unless it cures Shingles or Hernia or low-T...I'm not interested. I move to the right....he STOPS. Dead ahead. One more step and we are on Brokeback Mountain.
I shift to tip-toe around him at full momentum and get creamed by a speed walker in the passing lane. Now I am down and staring at the Velcro shoe-fasteners wizzing by....the woman who hit me calls me a schmuck and the Old Guy is still stopped and now is checking his Heart Monitor for his pulse rate. Hey Grandpa..at your age, it should just say yes or no.

I'm up again, now limping a little, so you can't pick me out of the herd. Got to make it back to my car.

Every day is a little harder. What do we have to look forward to in the future?

Depends.....

The Lone Ranger, Tonto, and Dad.

I was born, my Father's Son, in December 1949. When my eyes could finally focus, I'm sure I could see my brother Johnny looking at me...he being 19 months already. As the early years passed, Johnny and I were inseparable...me, because I wanted it... he, because he had no choice. We lived in the Bronx in the 50's..before the White Flight to the suburbs. We shared a bedroom with my older sister in a small apartment on the second floor at 1468 Bryant Avenue...not far from the Bronx Zoo. There was a grocery store across the street which was owned by a Cuban gentleman. My Dad took me there once to buy himself cigarettes. I stood by his side, staring at a strange, stick-like plant just outside the store entrance. "Sugar Cane," the man said. It was the greenest thing I ever saw. "How much?" Dad asked
"5 Cents"
My Dad took a nickel from his trouser pocket and pushed it across to the grocer.
The old Cuban took what I guess was a small Machete and lopped off about a foot of the cane and handed it to me. I took it home in a death grip to show my brother.
"Look what Daddy bought for me!"
"What is it?
"Sugar!" I said.
"Looks stupid"
"You're Stupid"
Dad looked over and said: "Stop it, the both of you.. Johnny, when we go to the movies tomorrow, You can have the big popcorn".
"We're going to the movies?"
"Yep,  the Lone Ranger and Tonto on the BIG screen
THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO!
AT THE MOVIES!

Television westerns were my life at 6 years old. Johnny and I would sit with Dad and watch every possible episode of The Lone Ranger or Hopalong Cassidy . My Brother and I had no idea that the plots were so thin and predictable. The entire story had to start, develop the crisis, and resolve all in 21 minutes with a break for Wonder Bread and Skippy Peanut Butter. But just before the Big
ending, Dad would say:
"Watch this...the sheriff will see the smoke signal Tonto sends and show up with a posse to save them"
"How do you know?" I asked.
Dad just smiled and said.."I wrote this one."
Sure enough, it happened..just as Dad said. I thought he was a genius.

The next day finally DID come and me and Johnny and my Dad went off to the movies, which was under the elevated subway on Southern Boulevard. In those days, they showed 2 movies, 4 or 5 cartoons AND a newsreel. You never checked the movie times..you just went. If you came in after the feature was started, you just stayed to that point when they showed it again, up to that point. That is where the expression, "This is where I came in" comes from.

So, moving ahead, we are watching The Lone Ranger and Tonto in some exciting adventure IN COLOR...and of course, Tonto, MY HERO, has to go into town to spy for the Lone Ranger. As luck would have it, the town bullies spotted him and yelled:
"Look! a dirty thievin' Redskin!"

Whoa. Wait a minute, I thought..that's Tonto,...he's GOOD.

"Let's string him up! " "Get a rope!"
I started to cry...
Tonto...MY HERO..!
I looked up at my Daddy. But he was watching the screen .
I started to sob.
My Dad looked down at me and saw the tears streaming down my enormous beaver cheeks. He put his arm around me and leaned over and said:
"Don't worry...The Lone Ranger will come into town and save Tonto"
I couldn't catch my breath..."Are you sure?":
My Dad smiled and said: "I'm sure.  I wrote this one:"
Sure enough...The Lone Ranger rode in on Silver...Six Guns a'blazin.. and shot the rope that was starting to hang his friend...Tonto jumped on the back of Silver, and off they rode.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you wrote that one"

After his 80th Birthday, my Dad was in the habit of saying "All I want to do is live to 90. That is older than anyone in my family ever lived ".

On his 85th Birthday he said:" I just want to make 90...after that, I don't care"

My Dad, John Henry McRedmond Jr., passed away in December 2012.

He was 90.

Turns out....He wrote this one, too.

   Happy Father's Day, Dad.

DAY IS DONE

 Many people confuse Memorial Day with Veterans Day. Originally called Decoration Day, it was created after the American Civil War to pay respect to those that died on either side of that conflict, Americans all.
Because no one could forsee any further wars, it was only later that those who died in future conflicts would be included in the renamed Memorial Day.

Veterans Day honors those who served in any of our Armed Forces, whether in the past or currently.

Unfortunately, all of these important dates have evolved into a reason to hold retail sales and long weekend barbecues without a thought of the ultimate sacrifices made by those  for whom the day was intended. It is human nature to take our freedoms for granted....who wants to dampen anyone's Holiday by mentioning the price these brave men and women have paid?

I am guilty of this myself. But on Monday I will take a moment to face the Flag which flies at my house each day of the year and be humbled. If only for a moment.

                                                TAPS

                Day is done,
                gone the sun,
                from the lakes 
                from the hills
                from the sky,
                all is well,
                safely, rest,
                God is near. 

REMEMBERING MY MOM

I couldn't even see the numbers on the phone, the tears had pooled up in my eyes to blur the keypad. It was the late summer of 2003, my youngest son, Jesse, had been wounded in Iraq... halfway around the world from me.
"Hello"?..Mom answered in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
"Mom? It's Tommy.... Jesse was wounded in Iraq yesterday."
"Is he okay?" she asked.
"I think so..the Army called and left a message with Aubrey"
"Keep us posted, please...I will pray for him"....I WILL PRAY FOR HIM.....Mom always said that in times like these..We all say things like that, but I knew that some time that evening my Mom, a deeply religious woman, would get down on her knees and say the words she knew would reach her God to protect her Grandson, and by extension, Me.

Mom was born Susanna Marie deSeve on February 4, 1923 in Astoria. She graduated from nursing school on D-Day,1944. She would work only briefly as a Nurse until she began to raise a family. We moved from the Bronx to Old Bethpage when I was seven and Mom hit the ground running....  organizing, decorating, managing a household that would one day have 6 children crawling, crying, jumping, laughing, bitching and moaning.

She was there for me when I would come home bloody and scraped, or when Bobby Hilsby and I stepped into a bee's nest, or beat the piss out of each other.

She was the worst driver I have known...we called her Susie boom-boom because she hit everything. She would drive with her hands thru the steering wheel of her Cutlass,..  holding a cup of tea.

Her idea of serving Italian food was 3 cans of Franco-American Spaghetti.
She was a terrible cook...but would never miss making each of us a birthday cake.
On Lincoln's Birthday she would make a Log Cabin out of chocolate cigarettes and place it on top of a cake.

We gave her a surprise birthday party for her 60th, and she walked thru the doors as Jan and Dean sang:
"IT'S THE LITTLE OLD LADY FROM PASADENA!"
A hundred of us screamed the chorus:  "GO GRANNY, GO GRANNY, GO GRANNY GO!"

She once told me to water her plants outside, and as I reluctantly did so, she came to the window to check on me through the screened window...I couldn't help myself, I sprayed her right in the face with the hose.
She screamed and slid the window closed. Then she went into the kitchen and filled up a metal bucket with water and called out to my kid brother Kevin:
"Kevin..."
"Yes?"
"Call your brother, tell him to come to the door".
Kevin went outside, and as luck would have it, saw only my older brother, John.
"Mom wants to see you"
Johnny went up the stoop and opened the front door...and was immediately drenched with a few gallons of ice cold water....... My Mother shrieked: "OH SHIT!"
And they were off to the races.., Johnny chasing her around the house and down the block, throwing toilet paper at her back.
What the neighbors thought?  Nothing...just Sue McRedmond carrying on with her boys.

She went back to work in the late 70's as a Terminal Care Nurse..nowadays they call it Hospice.          I always thought.."Thank God there are people like her"

She had to bury her youngest Son James, in 2004. It broke her heart.
She had to be helped to the coffin of her youngest sister Marie early in the 1990's, a tragic accident victim. It too broke her heart.
But She never lost her faith.

I went to see her in Pennsylvania in 2006, after hearing from my Dad that she had become very forgetful and sometimes didn't recognize some of the family.

When I walked in the door, she looked at me blankly and my heart sank. Then she reached for her glasses, blinked and said:
"Tommy!"
"Hi Mom"
It would be okay..this was my Mom.

Mom died in 2007. I miss her. If there's a twinkle in my eye, it's her fault.
6 Children
14 Grandchildren
13 Great-Grandchildren (at least )


Happy Mother's Day,  Susie Boom- Boom..... I miss you,....SAY A PRAYER FOR ME.

Like I have to ask...................

Terror Denial

Don't look for the Death Penalty to show its face at the future trial of the surviving Boston Bomber, since Obama is busting a vein in his efforts to keep the details of the terrorist training the little prick received for his Jihad.
It is no coincidence that the Stepinfetchit Attorney General Holder sent a Federal Judge to halt the interrogation once it became apparent that the truth about the terrorist training was about to unfold.

The Brutal Truth is that during Obama's watch there have been at least 2 serious terror incidences on U.S soil....the Fort Hood massacre...and the thwarted Times Square bombing attempt.  Obama denies and refuses to call either of these "Terrorist Attacks"

Just as J.Edgar Hoover swore up and down that there was "...No organized crime in America.." until Joe Valachi burst his bubble...sooner or later something is bound to happen to make Obama realize that we're not in Kansas anymore and his efforts are a dismal failure.

You can surround yourself with all the celebrities you want...but refuse to embrace the truth and we're left to pay the freight.

YOU CAN ROLL A TURD IN POWDERED SUGAR....IT'S STILL NOT A JELLY DONUT.

Really?

Believe it or not.....tomorrow, May 1st...is LABOR DAY in MEXICO.