Peaceful Horizons

When I'm stressed and confused, which seems to happen more and more frequently these days, I have a mantra that I chant in my head. It often brings me a sense of peace, but most times it simply refocuses my negative energy in a more productive, orderly, direction. In a word, it stops the insanity!

The mantra comes with a picture of the place where it was born within me. Many years ago I vacationed in the Cayman Islands. The resort where I stayed had a pier which extended far into the ocean. The region was just being developed so the beach was in it's natural state and swimming was prohibited. That meant that except for the occasional docking of a fishing or snorkel tour boat, the beach and the pier were deserted and quiet most of the time.

Every day, just at sunrise, I would take my cup of coffee and pad barefoot to the end of the pier to say good morning to the ocean, the sky and the constant wind. The Caymans remain temperate largely because of a brisk ocean breeze. In the mornings it is so gusty that it dulls ones sense of hearing entirely, making the end of the pier seem even more like a secret hiding place. There I would stand, facing into the wind, gazing across the water to where the ocean met the sky. Some would call it the horizon. I considered it a sacred alter, formed by the two most powerful forces in my universe. For reasons I cannot explain, a prayer formed in my mind. A simple mantra. " Mother ocean give me strength, Father sky give me peace, Brother wind clear my mind, Sister earth keep me grounded. "

If I close my eyes, even at this moment, and chant that mantra, it's as if I am there again. I can smell the salty ocean, feel the wind, and sense the strength and order of these basic elements of life, even amid the daily chaos of my real world.

A Letter To Barb

Dear Missy O'Neil,
It's night time here in Parma. The apartment is quiet, and candle light flickers across your picture beside me. It accentuates the green of your eyes and the fiery Irish red of your hair. It's been too long since we've talked and I have so much I want to tell you.

Did you know that Wendy is pregnant? Well, maybe you knew that already. She's due in May and this time it's a boy. Remember how we celebrated Sarah's impending birth? We both wanted grandchildren so badly, yet you put your expectations aside and reveled in my joy. We planned the baby shower together. You were my Martha Stewart. You always knew exactly the right thing to do. It was a perfect event because you made the table decorations, and planned the menu and the games. We even raided the toy library and filled the party room with dozens of stuffed animals. It was perfect, because of you. This time you won't be here to celebrate with me, and that breaks my heart. At least you were rewarded for your unselfish friendship with the birth of two grandchildren of your own. God how you must miss them and they you.

And so, I think of you now as I prepare for a second grandchild. I think of you when I pass the Jigsaw on State road and when I see fireworks at the Indians games. I remember everything, Barbie, everything.

I don't know what the price of postage in Heaven is right now, but if love is payment enough, then I know that this letter will get to you in record time. I love you Barb.
Goodnight Missy O'Neil.

Thinking Is Overrated

This piece is the January assignment for the Ditalini Press
"What Was I Thinking" is the suggested topic.


A few months ago, I was putting in a lot of ten hour days at work, including half days on Saturday. At my age, that's a pretty grueling schedule, but the money was too good to pass up, so I persevered. One particular evening, I came home crabby and exhausted, knowing that I still had chores to do at the apartment, and nothing in the fridge to eat.

In spite of my fatigue, I dug into the necessary cleaning of the kitchen and bathroom, threw in a load of laundry, showered, and finally donned my PJS. Feeling good about having completed my list of things to do, I collapsed into the recliner for some mindless TV viewing. After a few minutes, I realized that I hadn't eaten yet. Grudgingly I padded back into the kitchen and boiled up the staple of human kind, Ramon Noodles. Several minutes later I was back in the recliner with the steaming bowl in hand.

While reaching for the remote, I somehow managed to knock the bowl sideways, spilling the entire mess into my lap. At this point, what was I thinking? Well, actually , I was thinking "Shit! If I stand up this stuffs going to go all over the suede recliner and onto the carpeting, and I'm going to have to spend the next hour cleaning it up." I swear, my brain actually suggested that I remain seated, as I began to carefully scoop all the noodles back into the bowl.

Suddenly from within the deep primal recesses of my mind, a ferrell scream erupted. "Get up you idiot! Your legs are on fire.!" And so, at last, I leaped to my feet and let the boiling noodles fly everywhere. In my haste to strip off my scalding PJS, I spread the mess even further. Then, as predicted, I spent the next hour cleaning up the recliner and the carpeting. I was thoroughly discouraged and exhausted. My legs were red and scalded, and to top it all off, it dawned on me that I was going to end up going to bed without any supper. As I slipped beneath the covers, I said to myself, "Sometimes it just doesn't pay to think things through."

Crustacean Crazy

About fifteen years ago, a young woman approaching her 24th birthday, decided that all she wanted as a gift, was all the crab legs she could eat. Her family accommodated her by providing exactly what she'd asked for; a crab feast. That simple gift has since become an annual family tradition for the Calderones. I was lucky enough to be one of the few quests invited to this years feast.

Eight of us crabbers arrived with our crab crackers in hand. We were greeted at the top of the stairs by Papa Cal, who donned a crab hat complete with dangling claws and pop eyes. This event was not for the shy or faint of heart, but it was certainly family tradition at its finest.

Eventually, we all settled around a large table set with plates, napkins and huge empty tins for the shells. We awaited the first batch of crustaceans with great anticipation, much laughter and half empty wine glasses. Once the steaming pot was set in the center of the table, the feeding frenzy began in earnest. The rules were simple. You got to eat as many crab legs as you could crack open, dip in butter, and shove in your mouth. Sharing was tolerated but not encouraged. And, if you flaunted a large morsel which you had skillfully plucked from a shell, it became fair game to anyone who could snatch it from your hands. Papa Calderone managed to snatch only one of mine before I learned to eat with more stealth and less bragging.

Shells cracked and flew across the table. Bibs became soaked with crustacean juices and drawn butter. Wine flowed freely and laughter permeated every delicious mouthful of crab meat. I've never before experienced so much fun and family love around a simple dinner table. This was even better than the New Years Polenta tradition I had enjoyed in the same household two weeks earlier. Only one person left the table early. The rest of us stayed the course until all 33 pounds of crab legs were consumed. I felt proud to be a newbie who had outlasted at least one veteran crabber.

I've known a lot of good families and friends in my life, but none compare to these rare Italians. I feel honored to have been accepted into their home and into their lives, and even luckier to be loved by their son.

Some Men Are Smarter Than Others

You may have noticed that one of my blog followers just happens to be my (what do we call them these days?) Manfriend? Lover? Beau? Whichever, he's the one who makes really cool comments on all my pieces. He actually reads them! We live an hours drive from each other and try to keep a balance between work and weekends. It works because he is smarter than the average man. Much smarter.

He understands that foreplay does not mean ten minutes of groping before you hop into bed. It begins as soon as I wake up and he puts a steaming cup of coffee in my hands. It continues throughout the day with e-mails he calls love bumps and a quick phone call at lunch. Yes,I think I've found a real man who isn't afraid to check his ego at the door, and enter with nothing more than a simple smile. In fact I found him lying naked under my Christmas tree when I entered my apartment the other day. And he didn't mind when I went back into the hallway, closed the door, and started laughing. Let me tell you, his smile lights up my world! What we have is simple, sincere, mature, and awesome. Well, maybe not mature.

Pee Your Pants laughter permeates our relationship, even while we are making love. Now that's something I wish I'd learned years ago. As one becomes older, it becomes more and more apparent that laughing is essential to a relationship. It's the glue that holds you together when everything else is falling apart.

He's the first thing on my mind when I wake each morning and the final thought that follows me into my dreams at night. When he tells me, "You just don't get how much I love you." I realize that I do get it because, I feel the same. In other words, we are mirror images of our emotional commitment to each other. It just doesn't get any better than that.

He Said She Said

Today I needed a few items from Giant Eagle to complete my dinner plans, so I ran next door during my lunch hour. Cleveland cold blew from the skies as I huddled in my coat and walked hunched over toward the store. On my way, I encountered an elderly couple walking arm and arm toward a restaurant entrance. As we passed on the sidewalk, I couldn't help but overhear their conversation.

She clung to him, and said simply, "BRRR It's so cold out." To this comment he replied, "It's not really cold out. It's just that it's windy and the wind chill factor makes it feel colder than it really is."

What? Wait a minute! I didn't hear her ask a question. I don't think she wanted a science lesson or a whether forecast either. I believe she was simply stating a fact. She WAS cold! He was telling her NO she really wasn't cold, and backing his opinion up with scientific reasons why.

I walked on as they entered the restaurant, but continued to fume over this silly difference between men and women. It was all I could do to keep from taking him aside, and screaming, "Next time buddy, when your wife says shes cold, just put your arm around her and say, "I know sweetie, lets hurry inside." "

Instead, I took their conversation one step further in my imagination. I visualized them inside this popular restaurant. He would turn to her and say, "Wow its really crowded in here." To which she would reply "Yes, it is. Would you rather go across the street and eat at Dimitris?" His answer? "No, it's too cold out to walk that far."

A Cleveland Parody

This was created for the Ditalini Press as a song parody.

I mean no disrespect to the beautiful anthem "America, My Country Tis of Thee." Having said that, I have lived in Cleveland and become part of the urban flight mania. I thought I might use the beauty of this anthem to contrast the ugliness that has become Cleveland.

Cleveland Community
Sweet land of poverty
Of thee I curse.
Where innocents have died,
And there's no longer pride.
Where we are locked inside
This concrete hearse.

My neighborhood in blight
We bear the renters plight,
Thy name I hate.
Land of the foreclosure
Home to the sick and poor
In which there seems no cure
For our sad fate.

Where no one seems to care
When rap pollutes the air
All through the night.
And we are kept awake
By gunfire and by hate
Until we all partake
Of Urban Flight.