Greetings -- I Suppose

 I hate buying cards. Birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, glad you didn’t die —— it’s a chore. There never seems to be an appropriate message inside, or the artwork is simply silly, or meaningless. Happy Anniversary: here’s a couple sitting in a canoe on a lake. Get well soon: here’s a dog wearing a cast on one of its legs. Haha! I’d rather flee a swarm of angry wasps, or accidentally walk in on a Satanic human sacrifice than shop for a card. Like I said, I hate buying cards, and if you get one from me, either my wife bought it, or I must really, really like you.

Swing On By Emergency Room

  At first, I thought that this was a joke. It’s a serious toy set sold on Amazon, and it came up in my feed. Any parent who buys this for their kids either loves visiting the emergency room or hates their children. Seriously, a swing hung from a tension bar in a doorway? First, when we were kids, we treated swing sets like launch pads to the moon. We would pump hard enough so that we swung back and forth higher than the bar. And what kid wouldn’t be tempted to jump off the damn thing, whether it’s indoors or outside? Crash! Right into the China cabinet. Or the kid jumps and flies through a plate-glass window. Even if nothing else, the kid swings high enough to bonk their head on the ceiling. Also, do you think that flimsy tension bar is strong enough to not break off? We used to rock the entire swing set hard enough to pull the poles out of the ground. Even if the parents have the skills and tools to install it properly, the molding trim around the door will rip off, sending the kid flying. Put the swing aside and look at what comes with it: a knotted rope and a rope ladder. Watch the kids accidentally hang themselves with the knotted rope while playing a 21st century version of Tarzan. Also, count the minutes until the kids get the idea to dangle the rope ladder out of a window to scale down the side of their house and then plunge to their death. Amazing. Do I sound like a parent, or what? I survived childhood in the 1960s and 1970s when playgrounds culled the weak and unlucky from the herd. Concrete, steel, and scraped knees are what I remember. Because of that, I know what my friends and I would do with this home swing set and ropes. If my siblings and I had this set when we were young, our parents would have invested in their own ambulance. I don’t want kids to play survival games like we did when we were young. Oh Lord.

*Originally posted on my Facebook page 12/14/2021

Surprise! People Seen Reading in a Bookstore

 A few weeks ago I bought a new wallet. As per standard operating procedure, I waited a while before I went through the task of switching everything from my old wallet to the new one. It’s always a surprise as to what I will find buried inside that I had completely forgotten I had. In this case I discovered a Barnes and Noble gift card. I can’t remember where I got it from or who gave it to me. Anyway, I went to the bookstore and was surprised to see that not only was the store packed, people were buying books. Yes. The lost art of reading seems to be making a comeback— a least from my perspective. It was refreshing to see folks in the comfy chairs with an open book in their hands. I bought a copy of Bhagavad Gita and felt happier because the internet, cell phones, iPads, and online apps have a tenacious, enduring competitor — books.

*Originally posted on my Facebook page 1/15/2022

Urgh! A Memory Returns

Urgh! A Music War came out in 1981. However, I did not see it until years later. The film features bands I like and some I don’t. There are songs here I enjoy live, but I don’t care for the studio version. However, while the film and the album are out of circulation, loyal fans have curated videos of the film on YouTube. Damn, time has flown by. I graduated high school in 1981 and this movie and the music brings me back to the halls of Copiague Senior High School during the age of typical teen rebellion and planning for the future. While I don’t want to wander down a treacly path of nostalgia, I need to pull up the covers and warm myself to the memories of my youth now and then. If you get a chance, look up the videos on YouTube and sink into your teens again. Then look forward to a brighter future.

 

I often set three or four alarms five minutes apart so I am sure to wake up. However, when asking Siri to set the alarms she relentlessly announces that she set the alarm. Her tone is so triumphant and proud that it annoys me. And telling me that she set the alarm when I can see that it is done is really unnecessary. So, tonight when I was trying to get her to set an alarm she kept congratulating herself for doing so. I told her, rather rudely to shut the f*ck up. So she went ahead and set a shut the f*ck up alarm for 5:55 am.

Nice Job, Deskjet!

 

Whenever I replace an ink cartridge, my printer insists on printing a test page. Every time? How about getting it right the first time? What am I supposed to do with these results when they come out? “Nice job, HP Deskjet 2755e! I knew you could do it!” I think it’s nothing but another way for the printer companies to get you to waste ink and buy more. And don’t get me started as to why ink cartridges cost more money than what I spent on the printer.

Finding Faith

 Buy "The Art of God" on Amazon.

Alan Vaughn and his wife, Janet, got into a car accident. Janet dies in the crash, and Alan is in a coma. When he awakens, he believes God wishes for him to carve a work of art. Alan starts the project with unfamiliar tools and skills, enduring pain from his crash injuries. Alan finishes his artwork, which inspires deep devotion in others, and he loses his faith. Those who want more of his work, and reporters who are looking to tell his story, pursue Alan. Alan distances himself from his art and begins a personal journey to find God again.

Finding Faith

This past Easter, I was talking with acquaintances at my son’s lacrosse game. When asked if I was going to church, I fumbled as did not know what to say. The answer was no, and the moment of awkwardness did not pass quickly. They could not know that my struggle with faith was more germane in my life at that moment than ever before.

When my father was alive, I could refer to him and say that he had enough devotion for his entire family. We attended mass when we visited him, or when he came to our home for the weekend, I took him to our church. When he died, those opportunities vanished, and so did my connection to the church.

Dad was the spiritual leader of our family. My parents would bring their six children to Our Lady of the Assumption each Sunday, as it was their duty to do so. I modeled my belief in God after theirs: stoic, unquestioned, and rooted in the rites and traditions of holy days and holidays. In my teenage years, I rebelled and questioned my belief in God as only an insolent seventeen-year-old could. It was natural to me that if I were to challenge my parents, I too would turn from the Lord as the ultimate affront to my mother and father and their beliefs.

As a parent, I made sure that my kids each received their sacraments, and that made my father happy, as he was glad that we at least gave our children a chance to find their own faith. After my mother died, I would take my father to the five o’clock mass each Saturday when he came to stay with us. During this period, I learned that my father’s belief in God was not some habit drilled into him as a boy while attending catholic school. His conviction struck him during WWII on a battlefield in Italy when he had been shot and left for dead. In a magical coincidence, he awoke as he was being administered last rites by an army chaplain. He thought he had died, and when he looked at the face of the man praying over him, clad in olive drab and holding a prayer book, he recognized him to be a priest from back home. From then on, he knew deep within his heart that he was alive, and that God willed it so.

There was no such calling for me. When I pray, it is as though I am poking my head into a large, empty, darkened room and calling out to no one. The only light is a sliver sneaking in from behind me. From time to time, I check in to see if someone answered or if he left a note on the door for me. But, right now there is nothing beyond that entrance except empty space.

Maybe soon, during the next holiday season, as Christmas music fills the shopping malls and the radio airwaves, I’ll rap on the door again. Perhaps no one will answer, but I will keep returning. There will be an answer one day when I call out. I have faith.

The Mystery of the Autographed Novel

 

I found this on the internet. Very interesting. This was uploaded to a site by station14.cebu. I am not sure if that is someone's username, or if it denotes a location. Cebu is in the Philippines. The real mystery is how one of my autographed copies ended up in the Philippines. #novel #book #booklovers #author #autograph #thedaddyrock #fiction #fictionbooks

The History Dad

 

My Dad was more than a lover of books. He was an amateur historian. His library included titles covering WWI, WWII, steam engines, ships (Dad had always wanted to be a ship captain), birds (he was also a birdwatcher), and the Civil War. In addition, he shared his passion for reading with our mother, who typically sat in the living room after supper with a cup of hot tea and a mystery. My siblings and I became accustomed to shelves of literature and history books crammed into every corner of our tiny Cape Cod style home. A professor at a renowned university praised my father’s extensive knowledge of American history, stating that he knows more than the average history professor.

It should have been no surprise the number of books we accounted for in our parents’ home after dad passed away in May 2009. While searching for a box in a crawlspace with a flashlight, I stumbled upon a collection of documents that were significant because they connected to my father’s past occupation.

I dragged the flimsy, cardboard box from the eaves and into my old bedroom. Dripping with sweat and covered in dust, I eyed the contents, which at first glance seemed unimpressive. Many were reports, plain blue and gray government documents. One title grabbed me. On the pale blue cover, in all capital letters across the top, the title said, The United States Strategic Bomb Survey. Underneath, the subtitle read, The Effects of Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The words Atomic Bombs were in a much larger font size than the rest of the text.

Other booklets caught my attention, too. The End of the War in the Pacific, Surrender Documents in Facsimile, Germany Surrenders Unconditionally, International Military Trials, Nurnberg, and most impressive, Charter of the United Nations, in five languages. There were about two dozen of these government publications. Their numismatic value is uncertain, their historic significance indisputable, but their worth as family heirlooms, enormous.

Details about how my father came to own this collection of historic papers are sketchy. He worked for the US Navy in the Brooklyn Navy Yard for twenty years. Dad took the job of forklift driver in his late twenties. He was ill for years after his discharge from the army in November 1944, battling pneumonia and various infections–all complications from his wounds, and much more manageable with today’s medicines. There, he took advantage of the many education opportunities offered both by the Navy and through the GI Bill. He studied accounting, management, and mechanics. By the end of his twenty-year tenure, he worked in an office as a labor liaison between the unions and the government. The records of his employment gave few clues how he would gain access to this trove of government journals. In another box, I discovered a newspaper. The Navy published a weekly newspaper for its employees. On the front page, in the lower, right-hand corner, I noticed a picture of a group of men and women in business attire. Among the names mentioned in the caption was my father’s He was in the back row, taller than many of them, smiling, and according to the description, named to the NSA Library Committee.

As a member of a library commission, he could easily acquire the items I uncovered in his home. However, I have not confirmed if the NSA organization he worked for was indeed the National Security Agency, or a defunct branch of the government. Perhaps I don’t want to unravel the mystery surrounding my father’s trove of important booklets. The tiny enigma accompanying them adds an aura to the memory of my father as a man who had influence above the ordinary capacity of a lower-middle-class family man. I think my father kept these because of their historical importance. I’m certain he knew I would find and value them as he did before he passed away. If only he had told me about them earlier, I wouldn’t have had to go through the trouble of getting them from the dusty eaves.