Hearing these lyrics over thirty years later, I got to thinking about the songs that made up the bizarre soundtrack of my youth. The songs I recall are as farout, groovy, and downright trippy as the seventies themselves. Here are my top ten:

10. One Tin Soldier, by: Coven

I loved how this song took me back in time to a place of kings and knights. I always imagined that I was that one tin soldier who rides away–off to do more battle. In researching the song for this post, I realize why we went around singing it back then. It was a cartoon that was aired during Saturday programming. As I watched the YouTube video, I was certain that I viewed this cartoon in our Rec Room (which I always thought was spelled WReck Room because we always made a mess out of it). The cartoon is a mashup of Schoolhouse Rock and George Orwell’s 1984. This was the first war song I remember from my youth.

9. Lovin’ You, by: Minnie Riperton

This song was weird to kids, but we always had fun lip syncing the falsetto.

8. Dick and Jane (Look Dick Look), by: Bobby Vinton

My grandmother was a big fan of the Polish Prince, Bobby Vinton. I remember going around singing some gibberish for one of his songs with Polish lyrics: Yola shogga masha colta–these were the words I sang. But the real favorite was this one about two young people and love–ripped straight from the pages of our elementary school readers, Fun with Dick and Jane. This song made me ponder the meaning of the word “vain” every time I heard it (Then one day, he kissed her, but it was all in vain…) Poor Dick! Poor Jane!

7. Delta Dawn, by: Helen Reddy

Helen Reddy could rock this song–even though in this video she looks like she’s performing it at her 7th grade talent show. Everyone knew the lyrics to Delta Dawn. And I felt so sorry for her. Forty-one and not married. In my head, I would think “I’d marry you if I was older.” After all, in her younger days she was the prettiest thing you ever saw. Then there’s that faded rose–I could just picture Dawn and Barry Manilow’s Lola the showgirl commiserating with their faded rose and feathers over lost love at some singles’ bar in that mansion in the sky.

6. Muskrat Love, by: The Captain and Tennille

For anyone who did not live in the ’70s, please watch this video. It was a time so weird, so freakishly fun and uncomfortable at the same time. The video is classic kitsch from this wacky era. How could The Captain and Tennille make so many people care about rodent love? How could The Captain score a babe like Tennille? These are questions that still haunt me today.

5. Please Come to Boston, by: Dave Loggins

This song is in my top 10 because my brother and I would sing it all the time walking to and from football practice in grade school. But since we didn’t know the real lyrics, we made up our own: “Please come to Boston/ with me and Steve Austin (The 6 million dollar man)/ and we’ll have a party/ something something fart something.”

4. Dust in the Wind, by: Kansas

Even a straight-laced fifth grader wearing a tie to Catholic school everyday knew this song was about drugs. The lyrics were haunting and heavenly at the same time. I put it in my list because I remember driving home from a Saturday football game with my older brother’s friends and the mom who drove us sang this song like it was her job. Mrs. “H” was a large woman, and she could be rough and intimidating. She wore t-shirts that had cute animals on them that said things like: “I’m so happy I could shit!” Yet, when she sang Dust in the Wind she was as light as a feather, as gentle as a songbird…To this day, whenever I hear it, I think of Mrs. H.

3. Undercover Angel, by: Alan O’Day

I remember hearing this song while piled in the way back of our station wagon on the way to a pool party. There were 4 of us crammed in the back, and one guy started doing some inappropriate gestures in time with the lyrics–pretending his swim towel was a cover and motioning the angel to get underneath it. I had a confused look on my nine-year-old face. “The guy wants to have sex with this lady in the song,” he explained to me. I was shocked. What kind of angel was she? We’re all going to Hell, I thought. But it made me pay more attention to lyrics from then on.

2. Playground In My Mind, by: Clint Holmes

This song holds a special place for me because the beginning talks about a kid named Michael and a girl named Cindy who grow up and get married. It felt cool having my name in a song–a song that made it to number 2 on the Billboard Charts, believe it or not. And, the girl next door was named Cindy and we would go around singing the words and joke about getting married.

1. Seasons in the Sun, by: Terry Jacks

What a maudlin song. It captivated our minds in the ’70s as we went around on our roller skates and Schwinn bikes singing about death. I loved how this guy got to say “Goodbye” to people before he died (That’s my mother’s influence on me). I remember listening to this in a neighbor’s basement, and we all just started bawling. Such melodrama, but remember this was pre-cable TV, so we had to get our kicks wherever we could find them. Quick note–I hate the last line of this song–it’s silly: But the stars that we reached, were just starfish on the beach. Bad imagery. But not as bad as Jacks’ perm.

Honorable Mention:

Three Jolly Fishermen

This classic Boy Scout song is not one that I heard on the radio, but my family used to sing it on the ten minute drive to my grandmother’s house. What I loved about this song was we all got to curse. The last line talks about the three fishermen going down the AmsterDAM: AMster, Amster, dam, dam ,dam. Oh, how we screamed that part:)

i spent a large part of my afternoon putting together my plan for protection not weapons. in my search for similar grassroots campaigns i found www.momsirising.org which provides wonderful information for mothers and those who love us on how to be change agents in our communities, if we have a group to help us organize or if it’s just one mother in one station wagon working at it alone.

i’ve set my goals for protection not weapons, they are

1. raise awareness about gun violence against children.
2. highlight programs and people who are working to make things better.
3. fundraise money to support these program so their work can expand.

i also started a facebook page to loop in with this blog and set up my very first http://www.indiegogo.com account in order to collect donations. if you’ve never heard of it before indiegogo is a wonderful way for a grassroots organizer to raise money and keep everything transparent. it provides opportunities for you to raise money for causes or campaigns or medical expenses.

as a fortysomething i’m not as social network savvy as most. i admit it. but i am linked in with everything from twitter to youtube. i just haven’t quite figured how to best utilized my social network tools to help push the message for protection not weapons. but i believe i will learn. i’m committed to this campaign and have plans to build it up over the next twelve months. i hope that along the way i’m able to meet up with people who are also invested in ending gun violence against children.

finally i’ve organized my very first fundraiser to take place on january 19th. i’m hoping to make it a family friendly event using a local business that highlights michigan made products. this may not be a resolution in the tradition of many new year’s resolution. i’m looking at it all more as promise i made to my son a very long time ago…to keep him safe.

i thank you for your support.

The boy Sky woke and there was crust in his eyes that kept the lids together, which was good, because otherwise he would have seen the moth on the headrest. Not a moment too soon—right when his eyelids were strong enough to break the crust—he remembered the rules: Don’t look up or there they’ll be. The world opened bright around him and he gazed down at his lap. To survey the scene he used only his ears and his hands. He could tell he was in the station wagon, that was easy. Quite well he knew the plasticky smell of the seatskin, and he could feel the hum of the engine idling beneath him. Next he decided his head ached. He touched it and it hurt more. And a moth flew away, like it had been sleeping on his eyebrow all this time. It tickled the bottom of his wrist and then bounced off the ceiling. The wind on his plump little arms told him the doors were open. The doors shouldn’t be open.

And so, like his mom taught him to do when it was absolutely necessary; he polaroided. This means he shot a super-quick glance out through the window and then back down to the safety of his lap, and while staring at his lap he let the image develop in his mind. It came slow, like when you jiggleshook a picture from the old Polaroid camera his dad had. The colors and edges and things came as chemicals. The picture developed. It was the fun wooden play structure at Veteran’s Park. The station wagon had apparently parked right up against the metal bars, in the sand. Sky didn’t know you could do that. More parts of the picture joined together. His dad (!) sat on the upper level of the play structure getting ready to go down the metal slide. Sky didn’t know why his dad would risk being out in the open. The slide wasn’t even good. It screeched and slowed your butt down. One time in the summer Sky and his brother took butter to the park, to put on the slide, but it melted in his pocket when they were still on Middle Road. More of the picture: there were bugs up there with Sky’s dad, clouding his hair. They were probably moths, and Sky’s dad wasn’t even looking down at the ground like he was supposed to. Then the rest of the picture came. Next to the play structure was where the swings were with the heavy rubber seats. His brother was there, wobblestanding on one of the swings, holding the chains to keep from falling. Stand-swinging. This is a fun thing to do, but not when there were moths all around like you’re a lightbulb.

“Why are you playing,” he screamed to his knees, but his dad and brother were having so much fun they didn’t answer. Sky was too confused still to be properly horrified. He did a follow-up Polaroid, and this time when it developed his dad was already buttsqueaking down the slide, getting nowhere, and his brother was still on the swing. The two of them didn’t seem scared of the moths. And because he really wanted to, Sky started to think that maybe the moths were finally safe to look at again. This must be the case because why are dad and Joey out there? Then he got mad and clenched his fists and thought: I’ll make sure it’s the case. I’ll go play.

That’s when he heard a nearby collision, a metallic rattle. Someone somewhere had run into something, probably one of those green metal baskets they got all around the park, the ones that protect the garbage cans. He listened carefully then for more noise. Feet, running on sidewalk, sand, coming towards the car. Sky didn’t think it was a tanglebrain because tanglebrains didn’t run. They were too crazy to want to run.

To better gauge the situation, Sky polaroided sideways towards where the sound was— real fast, then back to his lap. The picture barely had time to develop: it was a very-short person, maybe a kid like him. It was running kinda towards him, kinda not. Running bent forward like his head was a battering ram. On his head was a Halloween monster mask with a roaring blue-green lizard face with rubber teeth and tongue included, though the rubber on one side of the face was partially melted and collapsed. The weird plastic face turned into black fuzz for the rest of the mask, starting from the forehead, like hair. It was one of those whole-head masks. There were tiny eyeholes for the person to see out of, too, but there was no way they lined up properly with the eyes. The mask person was very very close to the station wagon by the time the brain-polaroid had finished developing in Sky’s head. Not a moment later he heard the mask person smash headfirst into the side of the car, then collapse into the sand.

“Hey,” Sky yelled. “Did you die?”

It was a kid who responded. Sky thought maybe he was as old as Joey. “No. Come with me.” His words came hollow from beneath the big rubber jaw.

“I’m gonna play with Joey.”

“Are those your family?” said Mask.

“Yeah. What’s your name?”

“Hector. And your family is cuckoo, you can’t play with them. Come with me to my dad in the trailer.”

“Don’t say that.”

“They’re cuckoo,” said Hector. “Just look at them! Actually don’t.”

“Don’t say that,” but by then Sky was already out of the car and following Hector away from the car and the park. Toward the trees. Hector ran in a weird snake pattern but Sky managed to keep behind him by staring at the heels of his shoes. They were brand new Jordans that were too big for him. Behind, Sky heard the squeak of the swings as his older brother changed his grip on the chains.

_________

I wanted to kick the new year off with a subject near and dear to my heart: moths that make you go insane.

To catch up with the Crazy Moths franchise, check out the other installments!

Crazy Moths (Crazy Moths I)

It is I Who Lick the Garbage (Crazy Moths II)

Billy Wiff (Crazy Moths III)

If you’re like me and came into the world not long after Boomer birth rates began to wane in the US in the mid-sixties, chances are that you have or are now experiencing the joy that is raising teenagers and reliving the high school experience as a parent. (Or maybe you’re an uncle or an aunt or have friends close to your age with preteens or teenagers or kids in their twenties.) Watching my kids take part in defining their own generation, makes me think about all the things they just don’t know about mine.

And how could they? Our childhood is ancient history to them. But all those things that influenced our development – the trivial and the momentous, pet rocks and the Cold War, all the thousands of events, songs, TV shows, movies, fashions, fads, the political climates, the accelerating advance of technology – all those things are still important because they forged out future attitudes, beliefs, prejudices, preferences. We were all simmered in the same cultural soup.

Sure we’re still a diverse lot, but like every generation before or since, we also have more in common with each other than we sometimes want to admit. No matter what your race, faith, political affiliation or sexual preference, if you heard Walter Cronchite’s voice in your living room every evening or danced to Donna Summer in junior high or ever turned the collar of your Izod up, you’re just like all of us. No matter who you voted for in the last election, you’re a Gen Xer. And your kids probably think you’re a fossil because hip hop makes your teeth hurt or you think Twitter is stupid.

So just for fun, I thought I would revisit a few things our kids (aka Generation Next, Generation Y, the Millenials, or whatever they decide to call themselves) can’t understand because they’ve grown up with computers and the Internet and Facebook and phones in their pockets and cinematic video games just one step away from virtual reality. It’s like a little quiz. If most of these are true about you, you share something unique with about 55 million other Americans. You’re a member of Generation X:

1. You actually partied like it was 1999 in 1999.
2. You understood that reference.
3. You remember when “bad” was “good.”
4. You had a crush on one of (the original) Charlie’s Angels.
5. You read George Orwell’s 1984 for an English class in or before 1984.
6. You once wore Jordache jeans,  OP t-shirts, or something with a little alligator on it.
7. You have stomped your feet and chanted “We Will Rock You” on a school bus or in the bleachers at a pep rally.
8. You still know most of the words to the theme songs of Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch.
9. You know who shot J.R.
10. You have done the Time Warp.
11. You never thought it was safe to go back in the water.
12. You have ridden in the back of a station wagon facing the car behind you.
13. You have slow-danced to Madonna’s “Crazy for You.”
14. You learned to type on a typewriter, played music on a record player, and took pictures with a camera that used film.
15. You know the only way to win Global Thermonuclear War is not to play.
16. You know who will be back, who wanted to phone home, and who not to feed after midnight.
17. You had to write a paper about Watergate in high school.
18. Your mom took your temperature with a mercury thermometer.
19. You rode your bike without a helmet.
20. You have used a dime to make a phone call or buy a stamp.
21. You know what lasted for 444 days.
22. You survived second-hand smoke, McDonalds’ transfat French fries, and cars without airbags.
23. You bought your first legal alcoholic beverage on your eighteenth birthday.
24. Your family’s first microwave oven weighed as much as pony.
25. One of your childhood chores was to rake the shag carpet.
26. You learned to sing I’ve Been Working on the Railroad, My Country Tis of Thee, and This Land is Your Land in elementary school.
27. You learned to sing the Preamble to the US Constitution from School House Rock.
28. You know what a Goonie is.
29. You remember dancing zombies.
30. At some point in your childhood, you tried to learn to moonwalk.

So how did you do? Anything you’d like to add? C’mon in. Play the game. Baby Boomers are welcome too! Tell us what we (your kids) were clueless about your generation.

This was in the late 1960s, a good 17 years after the term was first seen in print, and there were frequently reported sightings of these unusual anomalies — sometimes referred to as “flying saucers.”

I never doubted that Mrs. H knew what she was talking about. She was wise and well-read. Not long after she first introduced us to UFOs, my friend, Karen, and I were sitting in the rear-facing back seat of our station wagon, feet stuck out the open window as we gazed up into the dark night. Suddenly we both screeched at my father to stop the car. We were sure we’d sighted some unusual phenomena. Fortunately, my dad, the scientist, acquiesced and in fact, joined us in our speculation.

Fast forward to December 2012…meteor showers were predicted for late night/early mornings. On our 6 a.m. run, my running partner and I counted four shooting stars. The next morning, I was alone and trying to keep an eye on the sky while avoiding bumps in the pavement.

And there it was…a slow-moving object flashing green and red. Moving so slowly that it appeared to be almost still. Over the next 20 minutes, I kept my eyes on it. At one point, an airplane flew directly over it — parallel to it.

And no…I didn’t see any alien green men. No one swooped down from the sky to take me to some unknown location. But for the rest of the day, I felt unsettled.

And this is where Facebook comes in handy…I sent out a message to my former 8th grade classmates and asked if they could guess what I saw in the sky that morning. Two of them knew exactly what I was talking about and that started a spirited discussion of our fond memories of Mrs. H.

And yes, I realize most of you are singing the “Twilight Zone” theme song right now. Go ahead and doubt. And snicker. I’ve got Mrs. H on my side.

Mary Maxim Pheasant shawl cardigan, Olivetti Lettera 32, Pilot Better Retractable (fine ballpoint), small military surplus bag — all daily essentials.

I tend to geek out over devices. Not necessarily high-tech gadgets (although those too), but the simple things used for menial, everyday tasks.

This probably comes from my father. He’s a master carpenter, and even aside from a need to have a specific drill or circular saw, his propensity for the particular is evident even in which pencils, staplers and highlighters he uses.

And I won’t begin to try to explain the level of brand loyalty he practices when purchasing clothing and footwear.

For me, it’s not so different. I like to use certain things for certain tasks. Pens are a big deal for me. So are my bookbags. I could have a “nicer” car, but hope to never part with my baby blue 1980 Volvo 240 Wagon.

Let’s not get me started on typewriters, either.

What are some daily-use “tools” that you can’t do without?

1. Pilot Better ballpoint retractable pen, fine point
2. My Olivetti Lettera 32, purchased for $20 Argentinian pesos in Buenos Aires
3. A small, military surplus backpack
4. My Mary Maxim pheasant shawl cardigan (I will end anyone that tries to come between us)

Excerpt partially drawn from memoir, Come Back Down to Earth, You Little Twit

Being the youngest in my family meant sitting in the trunk of our wagon.  While the rest of the brood faced forward and conversed, pinched, had burping contests and a grand old time, I was in quarantine.  Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we went while I perched miles behind my dear family, catching only bits and pieces of WRFM’s instrumental radio hits.  I sat deep in a well, zero window control options, sliding all over a miniature bench prior to laws mandating seat belts.  My only company was the bulk goods, food or suitcases we were transporting to our destination for my big arse family.  The worst trunk seating offense, I must say, was staring at oncoming traffic.  I mean come on.  Even today I have a hard time deciding where to look when I stroll past a stranger. I might decide to look them in the eye and extend a friendly hello but what if they don’t reciprocate?  I’ll chastise myself for being overly friendly and simultaneously feel disgusted in said stranger’s lack of manners.  No, not often worth it… except when they smile back and bid a, ‘Hello to you!’ Yes, the warm goofy feeling one gets on the inside, all because of a simple greeting.

On those rides, as I sat in the wagon’s well, I was curious to see who was bearing down on our vehicle yet still reticent about making eye contact.  Most strangers would do their best to ignore the weird curly haired kid gazing at them but every once in a while I’d receive a smile. I would smile back from beneath my eyelashes, ‘Aren’t these drivers the nicest?’ A light or so later, feeling I knew them well, I might wave a bit.  They would nod to their spouse, ‘Oh look dear, the kid stuck in the trunk is waving.’  But, at around light fifteen things got tough.  By this time both the steering wheel stranger and I were trying to figure out how to blow off this uncomfortable relationship.  Sometimes I would just slide down on my seat and wait for a sharp right or left turn, or the tick tick tick as we changed lanes on the parkway.  Freed from my discomfort I would slide back up.  Guilt would ensue, however, when I realized they had changed lanes as well.  I had made it clear, by ducking and hiding, that I didn’t want to be their eye contact buddy anymore.  I would have to live with what I perceived as a deflated stare until we finally took an exit.  If we were stuck on the Garden State Parkway, in Jersey Shore traffic, Fugetaboutit.

Often that’s where we were, on the GSP heading to or from my paternal grandparent’s home.  Their abode was in Silver Ridge Park, a little manicured neighborhood for well over 50’s folk, circa 1970’s.  Whether it was Christmas Eve or a few days prior, I recall these road trips especially the return ride home.  Lying in the back of the wagon, the thump, thump of the parkway strumming in my ears my mind would drift off.  My siblings would jostle me to alertness and tell me to watch for Rudolph’s nose.  ‘I think I just spotted it,’ Jeff would say, and the search was on.  I always caught a glimpse.  Just when my eyes were getting heavy my gaze would happen upon a strong red glow.  Certainly that’s not a plane.  I would stare until the crimson stream of light faded into the distance. 

When we were almost home and if sleep had not taken me, I would pretend.  ‘Oh, is Kathleen asleep?’ With knowing smiles on their face mom and dad would shift their ragdoll into position.  I would be lifted up by dad, carried to my second floor room and placed in my bed.  My kids have reverted to this same trickery though my oldest mostly just fell asleep.  It was a favorite undertaking of mine to carry that guy up to bed.  When I was pregnant with my second angel, my husband having joined our little family a year before, I had to pass off this treasured task.  Though hubby lofted my oldest up with love and care and placed him in bed just as effectively, I was saddened.  I knew I only had a short window left to carry my first born.  Maturity and embarrassment would prohibit this type of mommying soon.   Now he’s 19 and I ask for his help carrying his youngest brother.  Boy number three is a rock solid tank.  My back and I are happily resigned to tucking him in and allowing the heavy loaders to commence transport.

Whereas I recall good food, loving hugs and that thump, thump parkway ride when I think of my father’s parents, for Christmas Eve, I remember more vividly spending the night with my mom’s mother, Grandma McNabb. 

Grandma’s home was a three story structure on Sanford Avenue in the Vailsburg section of Newark.  My mother’s family had moved to this street in May of 1944.  In the 1970’s grandma would sell her first Sanford home and purchase my Aunt Jo’s house on the same block.  Regretfully, in 1981 grandma was mugged walking just outside her home.  The decision was made to leave this neighborhood that held so many memories for her.  These days there are many within the community of greater Newark putting time and great effort into revitalizing the city.  Hopefully mom’s old stomping grounds have turned a corner.

Grandma was a formidable lady.  She had religious conviction, strength and was always impeccably dressed down to her clip on earrings. Make that up to her clipped on earrings.  My mother remarked recently that she wished I had a better impression of grandma.  I was young when she passed away but had watched and listened.  I was always listening to the conversations between the two of them or anybody in my household. 

Mom struggled to make grandma happy but as grandma aged she fell prey to hypochondriasis. Though not alone in the effort, mom, who lived closest to grandma, tried to pacify each new ailment, fright or slight.  My grandmother, on the other hand, tended to poo poo my mom for not doing enough.  Mom was doing enough, of course, with seven kids and a job to boot.  Grandma just placed her fears and frustrations on our mother because she needed an outlet.  I can see the cycle now but as a little kid my back went up in defense.  When I saw tears in mom’s eyes as she hung up the phone…my grandmother’s hard life and elderly fears were not registered.  In my youthful naivety all I knew was grandma upset my wonderful mom.

Grandma McNabb did not have an easy life.  My Grandpa Donnelly, mom’s father, passed away when my mother was only eight leaving grandma to raise five children in depressed financial times.  Needless to say caring for multiple children on a single salary, a woman’s salary which given the era was far from lucrative, was difficult.  Still, their family dynamic fostered a very capable, compassionate and independent Joan Marie.  Mom’s amazing person is greatly due to the life she had growing up.

Grandma remarried, became Marie McNabb, and brought one additional child into the world.  I wish I had the chance to know her now, as an adult.  My life experiences have given me a new perspective.  I’m far less critical of what I see on the surface.  Everybody has a story and most people have a whole lot of good in them.  To sit down today and have a conversation with this woman…what a privilege that would be.    

There was not always contention; on the contrary, most of my memories revolve around grandma’s home on Christmas Eve and they’re happy reveries indeed.

Along with my cousins we would arrive at Grandma’s for Christmas Eve dinner.  If you’ve read any of my blog or memoir you’ll know that our family loves a good holiday roast.  Grandma’s roast, hands down, was one of the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. 

I remember little about the Sanford Avenue rooms except they were cozy and immaculate.  When we arrived the scent of sauerbraten permeated her house and radiators hissed away the cold.  Being a product of forced hot air the occasional spew of steam would often surprise me.  I loved it.  Chuckle candies would be eaten and carols would be sung.  I recall one Christmas Eve singing Silent Night to the crowds, multiple times, probably more times than anyone wanted, in my highest soprano. Gifts were most likely exchanged though this activity doesn’t come to mind.  There is a gift receipt, however, that I’ve kept with me these many years.  In 1977 grandma gave me, ‘A Child’s Story of the Nativity.’  Never had I seen such beautiful renderings, each illustration created in soft shades with outlines in iridescent gold.  The story of Jesus’ birth was unfolded in these mesmerizing pages.  Inscribed with grandma’s, ‘Merry Christmas’, I‘ve managed to hold onto this treasure for 35 years.  

My favorite part of visiting grandma’s Vailsburg home was attending midnight mass.  Given my age and lateness of the celebration I’m sure there were occasions when in slumber I was carried to and from, my Christmas best sticking out from beneath my coat.  When I was wide awake for the event, however, I recall family bundling up and walking the blocks leading to Sacred Heart Church.  Inside I would admire the walls of stained glass.  The colors and heartfelt depictions of God and saints engaged me.  The voices coming together in familiar song, led by a practiced and heavenly choir, lulled me.  It’s during these settings at church, even today, where song, family and an uncommon radiance come together to humble me and remind me of a greater power.  Remind me how blessed I truly am. 

My ultimate joy during these masses, however, was in a little white candle.  Though my age could be counted on two hands…even I, a child, was given the responsibility of a lighted candle.  I held it with great care, no fussing with my siblings or daydreaming.  I was truly part of this moment as my small hands and a vast congregation came together in prayer, proclaiming the light.     

Years later in grandma’s new apartment we continued to enjoy many Christmas Eve celebrations.  Though the backdrop differed the smell of sauerbraten continued to float through the air while cousin MaryJo, and I, crept into grandma’s bedroom to dial Santa… 976-3636.  Still, it’s the memory of my family clustered together in Sacred Heart Church, and my little white candle, that shines brightest in my Christmas Eve reveries.

When the most obvious course of action has been eliminated, you must resort to the abstract.  Jewel was hunting down a mystery that could be anywhere from one hundred to three hundred years old and all she had to go on was that it was an old wreck that washed up on the shore and was slowly decaying under the erosion of serf, sand and wind.

The scooter was supposed to max out at about forty miles an hour, but the most she could get out of it was twenty.  There was a strong headwind fighting her all the way north up Route 33.  It made hard traveling both for speed and for fuel.  The town of McDaniel had an old Exxon, which still seemed to flourish along the Eastern Shore.  There was no end to the Ford pickups in various states of repair all along the coast and islands.  The wind off the Chesapeake seemed to eat away at any kind of automobile with the vicious attack of a spurned lover.  She could imagine them as being an affront to the Bay and the ritual of following the water.

She wasn’t so far removed from her history that she still didn’t think of the Bay as a sentient being.  There was just something about it.  It seemed to move to its own accord and do whatever it felt like, that sort of ambivalence breeds a rugged freedom for those who try to pull a living out of its grasp.

Where was a pen when she needed one?  There was an article writing itself in her head as she drove along chasing down a ghost story no one wanted to talk about.  Suspicion was all she had to go on.  There was no other instinct leading her along.  The whole story might in fact be nothing, but the averted eyes and awkward silences led her to think that there was more to this than there seemed.

Tilghman Point was just a sandy marsh land.  Jewel looked out over the sloping land towards the point where the land merged with the bay.  She sat on the seat of the scooter and stared out at the bluff hoping it would tell her something.  The wind blew her hair all about and whipped it across her face no matter how many times she brushed it aside.  The wind and the waves had a mind of their own and for the Old Island Belle; the bay had done its job.

‘The water takes what she wants.’  That’s one of the old sayings she had heard spoken all around her as a child.  It had been a warning to her not to follow the ways of the water like some people in her family had done.  Her father had been the treasurer of the Easton town council and was a C.P.A. for most of the Northern Peninsula.  Four times a year he would set out in his SUV and drive all along the shore visiting clients and finding ways to help them fend off Uncle Sam.

He told stories over the dinner table about watermen who lived almost day to day trying to eek a living out of the bay.  They had forward leans on their boats and their future catches in the hope that one day the market for oysters and crabs would rise high enough for them to just break even.  The cost of maintain the boats and the shanties with the pools for the “peelers,” and the storage for the crabs was often more than the crabs were worth.  Aqua-culture, like agriculture was a dead end business with diminishing returns.  The independent people couldn’t compete with the corporate giants which dominated the market and offset the expense with other revenue channels.  Five years was the most he could keep these people afloat with losing money, and yet every year they called up looking for a mathematical miracle to get them through a rough patch.

A beat up, blue station wagon from the vintage early eighties, coughed up next to her and parked.  She brushed her hair aside as Jeffery got out of the driver’s side door.  She smiled at the duct tape which was wrapped around the top of the door and held the window up.  There was a load of newspapers in the back, probably returned issues which he would send to the pulp mill to try to recoup some of the printing costs.

“I figured I would find you here.  I knew you couldn’t let it go.”

She smiled at his obvious familiarity, looking down shyly before fixing her hair and looking out once more across the shore.

“I just want to know why there is a wrecked boat on my point.”

The wind blew her hair in every direction as she turned to face him.  She was engulfed in a mask of black hair.  Jeffery laughed at the ridiculousness of her situation.  She brushed it back forcefully, gathering it all up in her hand.  She walked off and around the back of his Station wagon and grabbed one of the newspapers.  Quickly she wrapped the rubber band around her hair and tied it into a pony tail.  Tossing the paper back in the car she closed the back window with a loud slam.

“You know, just because you share a name with something doesn’t make it yours.”

Jewel smoothed out her hair and laughed.

“It has my name on it, look at any map.  That means its mine.  School yard rules trump the law any day.”

Jeffery just smiled and shook his head in disbelief.

“You know, I just drove a long way to come out here and find you.  With tourist traffic to, by the way, after you called to apologize, I decided to come out here and tell you the only thing I can possibly teach you about the news industry.  You’re a kid half my age and you already know this business better than I ever will, but you need to make a choice, and I am going to give it to you here and now.  I will tell you about the Old Island Belle, and what you do with that will go a long way to determining who you are going to be in the world.”

Jeffery took out a cigarette and turning away from the wind he lit it.

“Lets head back to Tilghman; I know a good place down by the wharf that has great food.”

Jewel gave a short chuckle.

“You mean Dave’s Oyster House; do you really think you can tell me about my own city?”

He laughed and simply pulled on the handle of the old station wagon, which was well beyond the need or ability to lock itself, Jewel climbed on her scooter and strapped the novelty bicycle helmet onto her head.  Flipping the switch she yelled out at him to be heard over the wind and the rough worn engines between them.

“I’ll race you; I think I can beat that heap you’re pushing around!”

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• The Wreck of the Old Island Belle (Part 3) (excursionsintoimagination.wordpress.com)
• The Wreck of the Old Island Belle (excursionsintoimagination.wordpress.com)
• The Wreck of the Old Island Belle (Part 2) (excursionsintoimagination.wordpress.com)
• The Wreck of the Old Island Belle (Part 4) (excursionsintoimagination.wordpress.com)
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A book by a Marine …

This is an excerpt of Amalie Flynn’s new poem Slide.  To read the rest, go to her Wife and War blog at http://wifeandwar.wordpress.com/2012/11/27/slide/

A book by a Marine

I know, who went to war in Iraq,

And was an artillery liaison officer,

Attached to an infantry battalion,

And a forward observer, who

Made the radio call for what got hit,

And who got killed, and when, or how

There was a time he found a taxi

On the side of the road, parked

Near a roadblock, with bullet holes,

Probably because it did not stop,

And there was a brain of a small girl,

Her skull and flesh and blood and hair,

Splattered and spread, in pieces, there,

Across the backseat, and on the window,

And how he buried

Her sandals on the side of the road, and

How his friend buried her brain.

My husband is a soldier, too,

And he was gone,

For fifteen months at war in Afghanistan,

And he is sliding into the passenger seat

Of our station wagon, the belt crossing

His chest like the strap of his M9, and

He is sliding his combat boots into closets,

Sliding his body into our bed,

Sliding his hands over my back,

My spine, like a row of forgotten rounds,

And he is saying, this feels too easy, and

I know what he means, his face,

This outpost of war in my dark,

How coming home from war is never easy,

How what you see you can never forget,

And how he is sliding his life back on,

Like skin, over his war blasted heart.

Direct link: http://www.recalls.gov.au/content/index.phtml/itemId/1030630 

It happened just before midnight Friday on Colby Street.

Witnesses say they saw three or four young people take off after the crash. Two were caught by  police and later released to their parents. 

The driver has not been captured.

The house suffered minor damage. 

The owners say they were unaware of the crash until a neighbor let them know.

One owner, Carfax certified 2010 BMW 535i xDrive Touring.  This is an absolutely beautiful Titanium Silver Metallic over Natural Brown turbo 5-series wagon that comes with all the right equipment, and is priced to sell.

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This twin turbocharged 3.0L inline 6 cylinder powered wagon is the perfect blend of sport and luxury, and is sure to make an excellent vehicle for you and your family for many years to come.  This all wheel drive 535i is up to date on all service requirements through BMW, and is priced to save you thousands.  Take advantage of this super clean & loaded 5-series by contacting us right away.

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Dallas, Fort Worth, Houston, Miami, New York, Dubai, Chicago, Los Angeles, Beverly Hills

1. Audi S8:  The 2013 Audi S8 has 520 horsepower, yet it isn’t a car that is 6000 pounds and fast in a straight line like a Rolls.  Instead, it weighs 4400 pounds.  With Audi’s signature Quattro AWD system, the S8 will go where a Rolls would never think of going.  Do you know of any full-size sedans other than the S8 than can get to 60 in 3.5 seconds?  Plus, the interior will enclose you in Alacantara and leather sourced from the finest tanneries in the world.  Not a bad way to travel…
2. Bentley Mulsanne:  Would you like to make an even grander entrance than the S8?   If you do, take the 2013 Bentley Mulsanne.  A 505 horsepower 6.75 liter, twin turbo V8 powers the massive Bentley to a heart-stopping 4.8 seconds to 60.  It might not be as fast as the S8, but it will look better at speed.  All four of you and your lucky friends will be enshrouded in pillowy, massaging seats that have leather.
3. Cadillac CTS-V Wagon:   The Caddy is one of the more powerful cars here, yet one of the first choices for a back-road blast.  The CTS-V Wagon is fast, with a top speed of 190 mph (governed!), and it will carry turkeys, luggage, and plenty of eggnog and brew for Thanksgiving without breaking a sweat.  Plus, it will look like you are having a blast.  Which you WILL be, right?
4. Dodge Charger SRT-8:   The Charger has long held a soft spot in my big car heart.  It’s fast, it makes a statement, and it’s loud.  What’s not to love?  Plus, the SRT-8 can be purchased for under $50,000!  60 mph comes up in a show-stopping 4.3 seconds.  This makes it the large family-oriented performance car of the century!
5. Hyundai Genesis 5.0 R-Spec:  The Hyundai is the first Korean performance sedan.  It competes with the Mercedes-Benz E550, yet offers almost as much room as a MBZ S-Class.  It may be smaller than the gigantic Equus, but it’s MUCH more fun to drive.  Plus, it will get people asking what it is.  Some will think it’s a Lexus, others will think is a Mercedes.  Tell them it’s a Hyundai, and take some photos for me!
6. Jaguar XJL Supercharged:  The 470 horsepower, 5.0 liter engine is powerful enough to move this big boy.  Fast.  The interior is even nicer than the engine.  There is a suede-like material that Jag used for the headliner that is very soft and nice.  The engine is so powerful that you can load up the trunk and have your friends in the back stretched out.  What’s not to love?
7. Land Rover Range Rover Supercharged:  The Range Rover Supercharged has a 510 horsepower engine that is basically the same one you’ll find in the XJL Supercharged.  This powerful engine will take the nearly 5000-pound SUV to 60 in a mere 5.2 seconds.  Plus, it will haul all your gear wherever you want it.  You can quite literally load up the shotguns and go hunting wild turkeys in the Rockies.  Plus, it’s got  a very similar interior to the XJL Supercharged.  Not bad for an SUV that costs almost $120,000.
8. Mercedes-Benz GL550:  The GL wowed the 2013 Motor Trend SUV of the Year judges so much that they named it SUV of the year.  It’s the first MBZ to win that title since 2001.  The GL550 doles out globs of torque and 429 horsepower.  It’s powerful, fast, quiet, AND it will follow the Range Rover Supercharged.  For a while.  The Designo interior rivals that of the luxurious S-Class, with comfortable leather seats that seat seven.  Plus, you can take all your gear in the back and still have room.  It’s bigger than an Escalade, yet smaller than a Navigator EL.
9. Porsche Panamera GTS:  The powerful Panamera GTS will haul four people in relative comfort, thanks to it’s leather-covered Recaro seats.  It has AWD and 430 horsepower.  It’s like the Nissan GT-R Black Edition, with two more doors!  And a rumbling V8!  Plus, it will get 24.5 mpg on the highway!  VROOOOOOOOM!
10. Tesla Model S Signature Performance Edition:  The 2013 Motor Trend Car of the Year deserves to be on this list.  Why?  It’s extremely powerful electric motor produces 416 horsepower at the wheels.  This means that it’s there as soon as you start it.  It might not have the range of the Mulsanne or the Panamera, but it will make the most amazing entrance ever.  It carries almost as much as a Chevy Equinox, plus it has 285 miles of range!  Plus, you can get to 60 in jolting 4.0 seconds!  This is one silent VROOOOOOOOOOOM!

Have fun daydreaming about what could be, when you’re stuck on the interstate wishing you’d taken the backroads. These cars may not be ‘The Family’s New Car’, but they definitely have serious style!   P.S.  Do you have any cars that have at least 400 horsepower and seat four comfortably?  I’m sure you do…

On the way to Englewood Beach, my wife and I stopped at a McDonalds for a quick snack.  In the parking lot was an 80’s vintage Dodge Aries K-Car in fairly decent shape.  On the side window it said, “I’m cool” and there was a waxed mustache symbol on the back window.

A single thought hounded me that day.  “K-Cars are cool?”

I owned a K-Car back in the day.  In fact it was my very first car.  It was a 1983 Dodge Aries station wagon.  Silver with red interior.  To make it even more rare, it has a stick shift, not automatic.  That wagon was many things for me.  Freedom, privacy, adventure, transport, moving van, and mechanical school.  It was all that, but I have to admit that in my era it was never considered “cool”.  In fact, I can honestly say that I never had a girl look at it and say, “Nice ride!”

I also wore squarish, plastic framed glasses back then.  While they did have some “style” to them, like the K-Car, they were picked because of economy instead of fashion.

Same for my clothing.  I never bought $100 jeans.  Hell, I thought $25 Levis to be outrageous.  Rustler’s worked fine for me.

So I had to wonder, was I a Hipster before my time?

I did have one jazz album on cassette.  Vital Information – Global Beat if you must know.

Steve Smith, the drummer from Journey was a forming member of the band and I had to have everything that was musically related to Journey at the time.

Thinking about it, I believe that having a “Mullet” haircut probably disqualifies me from the group.  It is funny though to look back and see how many things I had are now considered trendy in a way.

I did have a 1968 VW Beetle.  These are cool on different levels.  Just the age alone now-days makes them classic.  Then there is the whole “Herbie” factor.  (One guy even begged his wife to stop and rent “The Love Bug” after seeing my car.)

Then there was the time I worked at Saturn.  (I sold the SL, SC, and L models; that’s small sedans, small coupes in 2000.) These seem to be hipster cars too now.

Flannel plaid shirts seem to always be in fashion and Journey has ridden its x-number wave of popularity.  (Steve Perry is working on a new album too!)

So the question remains: does this random act of convergence mean anything subliminally and should I even care?

I never tried to be trendy.  If anything I tried to present myself as independent.  I preferred trails in the parks and woods over the bars and cafés.  I always picked clothing on if I thought it looked nice, and not if it was in a magazine or opposite of it.

I will concede the haircut.  I got that because Steve Perry had one in the “Raised on Radio” era.  It just had to be done.

In the end, the answer seems to be, So what.

So what if some things I did might seem trendy now.  So what it they didn’t.  It didn’t matter then and it doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters it that I enjoyed the time as I was in it.  A trend here and there adds to the spice of your life, but doesn’t rule it.  Do what you want and don’t worry about what other’s think.  Now or in the future.  Who knows what the next trend will be.  Maybe you’ll visit that old ghost from your past.  Go up to it and shake hands.  Then go right on and look to the future.  Because as well all know, that’s where the really great adventures lie.

That incident involved an 8-year-old boy being offered a ride to school by a man he did not know.

Since the incident became public, two other parents have come forward with information that may be connected.

About a half-hour before the incident, several parents noticed a man sitting in a car outside the entrance for the Plymouth River School.

One mother approached the driver and asked if he was waiting for someone. The driver, who was in a car with a similar description, said he was doing work nearby and his boss told him to meet him there.

Police say that driver did not approach or speak to any students.

Another mom reported that around 12:30 p.m., on Winthrop Road, a similar car drove slowly past her home. She reported the driver appeared as if he were looking at her sons.

That same car slowly drove by in the opposite direction about five minutes later.

Police made it clear that they are not certain whether any of these incidents are related. They stress that that the driver is not in any trouble. They simply want to track him down so they can talk to him.

I thought you’d like a look at this nicely restored 1957 Chevrolet Handyman Wagon Hot Rod. It’s definitely an attention grabber in that color and it’s riding on some nice American Racing Torque Thrust wheels. It also has a full custom interior, complete with custom gauges, Tilt Column, stereo, and A/C. It’s powered by a performance built 400 SBC V8, that has been nicely detailed. I hope you find it interesting….thanks for watching!