July 4th, 1986

I'd been all around the world,
I'd done it several times.
But on the very night we met,
I knew that you were mine. ❤

Happy 38th Anniversary to my wife Sue. 

 

The Garden of Delight

 

Here is Mother Nature,
who works so hard unseen.
All the flowers, and all the world,
are products of her dreams.

She often gets no credit
for all that She provides.
The beauty that She creates
with no homage to Her pride.

Working hand in hand with God,
and against the clock of time.
The Mother of all that we enjoy,
and all things which are so fine.

She never signs what She creates,
giving all Her time for free.
Her work is never dated
and goes on eternally.

Her seasons are unnumbered
and in a race with Father Time.
She's always right on schedule,
and Her creations all Divine.

Carolina Moon

The Carolina Moon,
I've been missing it of late.
But tonight it's full and bright,
And its kiss is like a date.

I've been missing it for weeks
its been hiding behind clouds.
But now the Carolina Moon
is back and does us proud.

The Carolina Moon
will be watching us all night.
Up while are sleeping,
a soft and lovely light.

In just a few more days
it will be leaving us again
Hiding behind clouds
while it leaves us soaked in rain.

The Carolina Moon
you need catch it while you can.
It's a long road it must travel
'til it kisses us again.

Note 1: Photo taken just now. 9:45 PM
It will go down just before I wake.
Sleep well. ❣

July 11, 2022

Note 2: Last year at this time i missed the Moon for 3 months. When I first saw it once more in September I cried. And vowed never to take it for granted again.

Moon rose at 7:45 PM. It will set at 4:44 AM

The One Whom I Love Now

If it were not set
that I had met,
the one whom I love now.

I couldn't accept
that I wouldn't yet
contrive upon just how.

To go about
and make but mine
two hearts I know would surely pine.

Would be no doubt,
nor waste in time,
that I would act in haste for thine.

Two souls would shout,
our hearts would whine,
though moon and stars couldn't help shine.

Had fate not coined
my heart be joined,
I cannot see but how.

Were it not set
that I had met,
the one whom I love now. 

After watching "If I Were King" with Ronald Coleman as the poet/bandit Francois Villon earlier in the day, I awoke at 4 o'clock this morning and wrote the following, then went right back to sleep.

Villon is in love with Katherine, who is a Lady in Waiting. Though she is also in love with him, she is also bethored to another and her duty to the Crown separates them irrevocably. A lady-in-waiting is a female personal assistant, attending on a royal woman or a high-ranking noblewoman. Historically, a lady-in-waiting was often a noblewoman, too, but of lower rank than the woman to whom she attended.

So, their love is ill fated and never to be, because he is an outlaw, and she is part of the Aristoracy.

The poem is from her point of view, but in the style of Villon, so it really expresses both of their feelings towards one another.

Written in about as long as it takes to speak. Maybe a minute, tops. Then I went back to sleep.

 

Ed's Place - "Nighthawks"

In the all night diner in the corner of my mind
there isn't anything that you can't find.
Eggs, pancakes, ham and more
there's nothing here you cannot score,
in the all night diner in the corner of my mind.

At the corner of Wide Awake and Dreams
you'll find everything and anything it seems,
that you have ever craved
or lose everything you've ever saved,
at the corner of Wide Awake and Dreams.

Though the guy who owns the joint may not be cool,
he's street wise and he doesn't suffer fools.
He'll fix up  a broken heart,
and stop fights that never start,
though the guy who owns the joint may not be cool.

In the cafe that's always open all night long,
Theres a jukebox that always plays your favorite song.
The lyrics might be kind of trite,
but it plays them every night,
in the cafe that's always open all night long.

It's a place that never seems to draw a crowd,
but in a subdued kind of way is always loud.
It's a place to wait for dawn,
sipping coffee while you yawn,
it's the place that never seems to draw a crowd.

There's one just like this place in any town,
and it seems to draw the people who are down.
For folks who have no jobs
and hearts filled with lonely sobs,
there's one just like this place in any town.

Inspired by Edward Hooper's "Nighthawks".

My First Bet

My first bet, remembered yet
was against the school house wall.
Barely twelve I had the itch.
and though I'd pitch, I didn't get rich.
But how I loved that wall.

Never stopped to wonder what I'd do
If those pitches wished would all come true.
I'd toss the coin, or flip the card,
standing in that old school yard,
not knowing life was hard.

Things went on this way for years,
enjoying laughter, fearing fears.
Though at times there were some tears,
they'd quickly dry away.
Time for those another day.

I had no scheme no plan, no guile
just passing time, with time to while,
and strength to go another mile.
With an open mind to any dare,
never pausing once to care.

Now the days grow short in hope,
I glimpse the true length of the rope
with which I used to lasso dreams,
reduced to threads to sew the seams
torn by passing time.

And yet I stand before a wall,
more aware that all walls fall.
But if I had to change a thing,
of what and who I think I've been,
I doubt I would at all.

Good and bad, or ugly yet,
I'd toss the coin, still make the bet
and flip the cards and watch them fall.
Knowing full the price I'd pay,
I still wouldn't wish my past away.

The Easter Bunny

 

The HOA said no soliciting,
but I guess he just wasn't listening
when the Easter Bunny came
knocking on my door.

Being he is Santa's cousin
I said,"I'll take an even dozen".
When I saw that they were chocolate
I took a dozen more!

As a rabbit has to make a living
and holidays are days of giving,
I ate them all and now my tummy says,
"Please stop, I'm getting sore!"

Rabbit says he'll be back next year,
and I told him he'd best tuck his ears,
if he's planning on selling
eggs from door to door.

Easter is a day for giving
but my HOA ain't that forgiving,
And if he comes again they'll be waiting,
on that point I'm pretty sure!

So be careful my chocolate toting friend.
Your next trip might just be the end.
And then I'll have to take the car
and buy my chocolate eggs at the store!

But he's an optimistic bunny
And though I know it may sound funny
I'll bet you all my Easter money that
next year he'll be right back here at my door!

The Midwatch

The Midwatch

This poem is based on the painting "Crescent Moon" by Montague Dawson.

The sails are all creaking,
there's a shroud o'er the moon.
The crew is all sleeping,
under a full mast and boom.

The day's work is done,
hatches battened down tight.
All troubles are gone
'til morning's daylight.

The ship rocks on the ocean
It sways beam to beam.
Not a sailor's awake,
all lare ost in their dreams.

3 Poems - The Thinker. A Trilogy.

 

How can one abandon
such strong feelings?
Am I that weak?
Are you that strong?
I look at what we had
and wonder...
Will i ever feel that way again?
Are there really other eyes out there
that sparkle like yours,
or shine like mine?
I really dont think so.
Turn it over,
look at the other side.
It was worth the changes,
the joys, the sorrows.
I can never forget
the way my heart pounded
at our first kiss.
Or  how time stopped when

i first entered you.
But now we are closed to one another,
and yet time moves on?
................

Sometimes i think i am
all that i need.
And at other times
I need you to be with.
It's so confusing
all of these
conflicting thoughts
and emotions.
If i seem to lean on us,
or you,
is that weakness?
Even the Pillars of Rome
had their faltering moments.
And this moment is mine.
............

How can i avoid
picking up the phone
to call you
when i feel like this?
You might call it weak,
but i don't think so.
Is it wrong to need one another?
(though it scares us both)
Do you need me?
When i ache inside,
can i lean on you?

 

Pictures in the Rain

Some painters use oil on canvas,
And then they rise to fame.
But I can't paint to save my ass,
So, I take pictures in the rain.....

It's Only Me- Chapter 2- The Early Years

As a child I lived in the shadow of World War II; an event so cataclysmic in its nature that it colored the existence of our daily lives even in the summer of 1957 when I was three years old and Mom lost the car and then hit the hydrant. It was the last time she would ever drive, although she maintained a current NY State Drivers License until the day she died some 28 years later.

Mom was challenged when it came to driving- she often misplaced the 3,000 pound Plymouth Belvedere; a black and tourquoise 1953 model that would have stuck out in an aerial photograph of Woodstock. But here we were, July 1957 , wandering the lot at Jacob Riis Park in Queens, NY.

The day had been the usual one of magic for my brother Mark and I, sandy sandwiches brought from home with thermos of cold milk. Bologna still only taste right to me if it has a little crunch to it. We would undress behind a towel that my mother would hold up to give us some privacy as we changed from our swim suits back to street clothes for the trip home. Dad couldn’t stand to have sand in the car.

But this day was not ending properly, I could tell by the worried look on her face. She had lost the car-again! My mother was an attractive, petite woman and soon we were riding in a police tow truck up and down the rows of cars looking for ours. It seemed to me then, and it seems to me now, that we started at the furthest point from where we had left the car. But Mom and the policeman seemed to be enjoying the conversation and I felt safe.

But let me get back to the War and how it colored our lives- not in an unattractive sort of way- but in a dark and romantic hue- borne of the tales my Mom told of the submarines sinking ships 10 miles off Coney Island, the oil washing ashore. The blackouts and the sirens, rationing coupons and Victory Gardens. And the Holocoust. This was the dark part- evidently there had been a German guy named Hitler who built big ovens and killed people who were Jews. Like 6 million of them! And this was something that we were reminded of each day, whenever we encountered one of the many refugees from the concentration camps, with their blue numbers tattooed on their wrists for all to see. The living remnants of “mans inhumanity to man..."
The war was everywhere- in the records my parents played- big band- Andrews Sisters- Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree. My Uncles Walter and Roy were in the Army and Navy and were the family heroes. Walter was only in Alabama but Roy served at sea and saw plenty of action in the North Atlantic. He would go on to become a Captain and was stationed out of San Diego. Walter took a differnt path.

The ‘50’s are black and white in my memories- I remember getting our first TV in 1956when I was 2 and a half. This was also around the time I got my first bed. We put chairs alongside to keep me from falling out. Times have changed but some things remain the same. We did the identical thing with my daughter some 30 years later.

It was a time of "Father Knows Best" and "Ozzie and Harriet". " I Love Lucy" was THE show. I remember Uncle I being very excited about Sputnik. The first satellite was such a big deal that I remember it although only 2 or so at the time.

When I was about 3 my father caught pneumonia- one of the few times in my life that he would be sick. The next time was in 1964 when he tried the first time to give up cigarettes. He was like a junkie going cold turkey.

Dad had a bet with Dr. Frieri, who had delivered both my brother and I, as well as our Mom. He was old and wise. His full name was A.Francis Xavier Frieri- Italian for sure. He was a combat medic in World War II and had the letter from Eisenhower to prove it. His walls were covered completely with the pictures of the thousands of babies he had delivered. The bet was that if my dad quit for good he would not pay for the visits. My Dad won and Dr. Frieri smoked until he died at about age 90.

This was around the time I began to call my Dad by the unusual cognomen of “Bail”. I suppose it was a three year olds corruption of Bill, his first name. But I never have understood why it was allowed until about age 12. I realized then that it was weird and so I called him nothing until I was 19 and it took some time to become comfortable with calling him Dad.

Whenever my mother was ill, and this was around the time she began her long odyessy- Dr.Frieri would threaten my brother and I with locking us in the closet. If you put you ear to the wall you could hear the other kids that were locked in there for being bad. We were terrified. It was years before I realized that the closet backed up to the waiting room and I was hearing the crying of waiting patients.

My parents set up a chart that cast my brother Mark and I against one another at the age of 4. each week we would get demerits for fighting etc. The one that was the least badly behaved got a prize and the loser had to go along to the store and watch the other get his reward. This would affect our relationship forever.

All in all it was a secure, though strange childhood. I have great memories of going to the roof at 3619 Bedford Avenue on Tuesday nights and watching the fireworks from Coney Island- also nights that we went there and the embers would literally fall on the crowd standing on the beach.

On hot summer nights we rode the ferry to Staten Island just for the breeze- 25 cents for the car and the family. A bargain. One night we saw the water actually split by lightning! It doesn’t get better than that for a 4 year old!

Kindergarten began at PS 197 and I remember the switch from the 48 to 50 star flag in 1959- I think it was June in Mrs. Gerbers class. She wore silk stockings with seams and even at that tender age I was smitten with her.

Around this time my Uncle Walter went to jail for passing bad checks- he was a gambler like his Dad, only not as successful at it. He wound up beholden to the mob and ran the “skim” to Kansas City during the 70’s. The FBI would frequently come calling looking for him. H died in 2000 in Las Vegas. I remember him as a kind and gentle man who gave me rides on his knee and made my Mother very happy.

Grandma Marcus and her maid Mary and her husband moved to LA at this time, causing a rift that never healed. It was like the Dodgers leaving a couple of years earlier- very traumatic for my Mom. Her dad had deserted her before she was even born, and now her Mom was going away, taking with her the woman who had raised her.

First grade was at a Public School in Canarsie-somewhere near Ralph Avenue. We had taken a half of a two family home with the Dalto’s. It was at 1186 East 57th Street. They were Italian and he was a postman. It was a new development and built on swampland. We stayed a year and moved back to the Kings Highway area where we
settled in at 1310 Avenue R at East 14th Street- where I would spends the next 11 years growing up- or avoiding the same.

Desegregation and busing were the big issues of the day. My parents were both very liberal in their political views but we had moved to within 3 blocks of school so that my brother and I could walk there. Now we were going to be "bussed" to a different school and so we had a boycott of school for the first week. The school caved in and we were allowed to attend the schools in our own neighborhood.

Second grade was a time when I formed some freindships that have lasted a lifetime. On the first day of school the teacher called the new kids up front and introduced us to the class- there were three of us- Nadine Cohen, Seth Herman and myself. I'm not sure about Nadine but Seth has remained my closest freind to this very day.

Also in Mrs. Sanders 2nd grade class was Michael Held. He and I had a freindship that went well into our twenties. Seth and Michael were at my wedding in 1986 with Seth as the Best Man.

My first memory of Seth is of his having broken an arm,jumping or falling,with Seth it's hard to tell, from a garage roof. His was the first cast I had ever seen.I remember helping him on with his coat at lunchtime.

My first memory of Michael is when we had to send Invitations to our parents for the school play. He wrote "Hey ma, give me money for ice cream" on his and got in trouble for it. Looking back I'm thinking that it wasn't bad sentence structure for someone in 2nd grade!

So these were my beginnings. I would live at 1310 Avenue R until just prior to High School Graduation. My world consisted of Kings Highway between Ocean Avenue and Coney Island Avenue to the East and West and as far as Sheepshead Bay to the South.

It's Only Me- Chapter 3- Odd Jobs and Fishing

Brooklyn was a great place to pick up odd jobs as a kid. Consequently I was never without some money- in addition to the odd jobs I had an allowance of $1 per week. I was 7 years old at this time. But still, at 15 cents a day for an ice cream bar times seven days a week I was still left with a shortage of 5 cents- and that was just for the ice cream! If I wanted to indulge in anything else- like a movie or comic book then I needed some form of extra income.

Living in an apartment building had advantages and so I struck a deal with the janitor and the doorman- I would sweep the halls for the janitor and collect the newspapers from the Incinerator Rooms, which would then be tied up for the ragman to pick up. I got a cut of the newspapers. It wasn’t much but coupled with the 50 cents from the doorman for wiping the lobby mirror I did okay.


As I got older I added to these chores by “minding” the Good Humor man’s pushcart while he went for a haircut or more often to the Off Track Betting Parlor on E. 16th Street. This was about 1966.

My first real job was delivering the NY Post by bicycle in the afternoons. First I went downtown Brooklyn to obtain my “working papers” and then to the local storefront the Post rented on Bedford Ave and Ave T to pick up my papers and deliver them. My route was in Sheepshead Bay and up Ocean Avenue. I would park my bike, locking it at each building, and take my papers in to leave at the doors. Collecting was much harder- no one was home on those days! Most of the money went for sodas and ice cream and records, so I usually broke even. It was an enjoyable job with my 6 transistor radio strapped to my handlebars and listening to “Light My Fire” and all the other hits of 1967. I especially liked “MacArthur Park” by Richard Harris and whenever I hear either one of those songs I am back in Brooklyn delivering the Post.

At 13 I got a job delivering groceries for Krauses on Coney Island Ave and Ave R. The deliveries were made on one of those old grocery bikes with a front wheel stand and basket. Some of those loads were heavy for me- I was always skinny but somehow I humped those boxes of groceries and made some good tips as well as the money Mr. Krause paid me. The best part of the job though was the deliveries themselves. Most women would order by phone and wait for the delivery boy (me) to show up.

Knowing I was coming over you would think these women would get dressed. But luck was on my side and they usually were attired in some sexy lingerie or a slip and bra. My love of sexy lingerie to this day can be traced back to these women and I can never thank them enough for sights both seen and imagined.

Life at home was a bit stressful- my Mom was sick all the time- with ulcers, colitis and later all manner of cancers. So the household was run by my brother and I. We each had an alternating list of chores- from making beds, vacumning, getting groceries and doing laundry. Of course we never did any of it well enough to suit my Dad but I always felt that I was doing my part to help.

Between 1962 and 1965 I was friends with Donald Solomon who lived on East 15th Street between Ave R and Kings Hwy. His family had a house! With a backyard garden! This was magic to me and we played there all the time. When my first turtle died at age 8 I buried him there in the flower bed. His Mom was one of the nicest women and always made time to talk to me and ask about my Mom when she was ill. She also made us lunch and generally treated me with an extra measure of kindness. This would become typical of most of my friends parents and something that I have never forgotten. Aside from playing in his yard, Donald and I went to the movies at least once a week at the Avalon on Kings Hwy and East 18th Street. He grew up to be a Realtor and we still speak- or write letters- about once a year.

Also around this time I was in Pack 40 I think of the Cub Scouts along with Mark Shorr and Gary Jetter to name a few. Somehow I talked my Dad into being Cub Master for the pack. Later, when I quit just after achieving Webloe status he was stuck with the job for an extra year- and he made me go to every meeting with him at the Avenue R Temple on East 16th Street.

When I was 11 my Great Aunt Katie died in Park Slope, Brooklyn. This was quite an event and I went on a rare trip to her house- a brownstone near Prospect Park in Brooklyn. The Williams family had settled there some 62 years earlier,in 1903.

The house was all Victorian, over furnished and very formal- I remember there was even a parlor with classic sliding doors. The whole place was trimmed in dark mahogany wood and I remember the place as always being dark. There was a player piano in the upstairs parlor and the kitchen and bathroom had all the old time sinks and tubs with claw feet. There was a very unique love seat which held the flag that had draped my Grandfathers’ coffin when he passed in 1946. He was a legend to me- having died before I was born.

But the item which intriqued me the most was a small octoganal walnut or mahogany box. It was hinged at the rear of the lid and emblazoned with the word Jerusalem on top in English and in Hebrew.

At this point I should mention that I was the product of a "mixed marriage" , as it was called back then, between my Irish Catholic father and my Russian Jewish mother. Hebrew wasn't all that strange to me. The thing that really puzzled me was how this box got to be in the home of an Irish Catholic family. Adding to this mystery was the fact that this side of the family was pretty anti-semetic at the time. My parents marriage was a problem for the family and so our visits to Aunt Katies were few.

The house was sold and the furniture divided amongst the living and I got the box. It sat in my parents house in Brooklyn for several years while I sailed the world and even got to Jerusalem several times. Each time I was there I thought about this box and the mystery of how it came to be in Brooklyn.

In 1986 I married and the box came to rest in Baltimore, Maryland. The box would disappear occasionally and without explanation for several months at a time. Then it would just as mysteriously re-appear as if it had never been gone. A genuine oddity….

Recently, while compiling a family history I found that the Williams family had a Jewish boarder named Phillipine Eckstein from Liverpool, England in the 1890 Census. Apparently she came over around the same time as my grandfather, who had emigrated from Wales through Liverpool. Ms. Eckstein came to live with the Williams family in Brooklyn. Now I am not saying that she is the source of the box- but it would seem likely.

Oh, and by the way- currently the location of the box is unknown.

My Mom and Dad were not the most encouraging of parents. For instance, at the age of ten I wanted a guitar and got one- but my parents said I would never be any good at it. When I wrote they would tell me that it was good but I would never make a living at it. So it is no wonder that, when I was 12 years old and planned to use my earnings from the delivery of the NY Post to go fishing, I was told that I would catch nothing.

Setting out early that day- at least by my standards- about 10 o’clock in the morning - I headed to Sheepshead Bay which is about 1 mile from where our family’s apartment was on Avenue R and East 14th Street. I had used my weeks earnings to buy a rod , reel and fishing tackle box complete with hooks, sinkers and lures.

I set up at the end of one of the piers along Edmonds Avenue and threaded my line with a hook and a fresh , live, wriggling worm. There was not, in my estimation, a fish in the sea that could resist this attractive piece of bait.

I sat for hours, hoping, indeed praying for a bite. I felt the sudden tug on my line several times and reeled in frantically to claim my prize, I was rewarded with a sucession of an old rubber boot, a large Horseshoe Crab, and other assorted non edible residents of the Bay.

Lunch had come and gone, I feasted that day on a bologna sandwich and a Yoo Hoo-But still no fish on the line. I was already dreading going home empty handed and listening to the “I told you that you wouldn’t catch anything” that I was sure to hear from my parents and the ribbing I would have to take from my older brother.

I was still sitting there with the weight of the world coming down on me at 3 PM as I realized that yet another dream was about to be dashed by the unrelenting forces of reality. At this time of day the fishing boats began to return to their piers, laden with fresh caught Tuna, Flounder, Snapper and the like, all underscoring my failure to catch something edible.

The merchants assembled on the pier to purchase the fresh catch, which they would then take back to the various neighborhood restaurants and fish shops for sale. I was devastated by my failure to make a single catch while all about me the boats were unloading tons of fresh caught beautiful, aromatic fish.

Slowly the crowds of buyers left the piers, bound for shops, restaurants and homes where there would be fresh seafood that night. The skipper of the boat nearest me was hosing down the deck and began tossing some things into the Bay, catching my attention.

Meekly, I approached the boat and standing dejectedly with my rod and tackle box in hand, I must have made a lonely and forlorn sight. “Catch anything?” asked the skipper, pausing in his cleanup. “No, no luck today, but tomorrow I’ll try again.” was the only reply I could make. “What ya using fer bait?” asked the man. “Worms” I replied. “Well, Hell’s Bells, no wonder you didn’t get nuthin’- you need some real bait.” With that he tossed me 2 fish, each about as large as my 12 year old hand. “Try these” he said and then returned to his work.

I contemplated trying them as bait when I realized the answer to my predicament was now right in my hands. Sitting on the edge of the pier I put hooks in the mouths of my 2 Behemouths and strung them to a short lead, just like in the movies, or like Opie and Andy on TV. Now I was ready to go home.

As I entered our apartment my Mom said from the kitchen, “Didn’t catch anything, right?” Now I had her, “As a matter of fact I caught two” was my reply. Surprised, she shot back- “ Well , you got lucky that’s all.” But there must have been some surprise that I had anything at all because my Dad arrived home a short time later and took a photo of me holding my prize catch. And then they threw the fish away, because they were probably “dirty” and not to be cooked or eaten.

But if you look closely at the picture , you can see it in my eyes and the smile on my face- I had 2 fish- no matter how I got them – I had them. And for years my parents kept that photo in a frame on the piano and would proudly exclaim “Look at the fish Robert caught in Sheepshead Bay!” I think that’s the part of the story I like best.

The Accident (1993)

The following incident happened August 26th, 1993. It doesn’t seem so long ago; but it was. This was taken from a larger chapter about the time I spent in Maryland. Noticing the date I thought it was appropriate to post it; you might even find it interesting. I know I did…

One episode which sticks out from this period is my accident in the Cactoctin Mountains outside of Camp David, Maryland. This was in the summer of 1993. (The previous posting of this story had the date incorrectly listed as 1994.) The road there is one lane in either direction and I took a curve too wide; coming face to face with a fully loaded 20 ton dump truck. I remember thinking, “Oh, shit!” Then there was a shattering of glass and a twisting of metal. The sky was turning around and around as my truck, an S-10, reacted to the collision by doing several 360 degree spins. When everything stopped there was a deathly silence.

I was passing in and out of consciousness and at one point a sheet was placed over my face. I came to with my arms flailing and yelling, “I’m not dead- I’m not dead!” The sheet was lifted and a soothing voice informed me that the sheet was to protect my face while they removed the windshield. I was pinned by the steering wheel and my right leg was impaled by some sort of rod.

At one point when I was conscious I asked Trooper Updergraff to take charge of my pistol, which was under the front seat. I did not want it to fall into the wrong hands. It was registered in my name. I recall seeing the Firemen and Troopers playing with it before I passed out again.

Using the Jaws of Life and various saws it took an hour and a half to remove me from the wreck. The mountain was closed in both directions. Being outside of Camp David had its advantages. I had 3 helicopters trying to claim the jurisdiction to fly me to the hospital in Hagerstown. The Marines from Camp David claimed me; as did the National Guard; but in the end the Maryland State Troopers won.

Sue was summoned and raced the 60 miles to the hospital. She was pulled over for speeding on the way, but after explaining the situation the Trooper let her go.

When Sue got to the hospital I had already been scanned from head to toe. I had several broken ribs and a puncture wound to my right leg. They told me the puncture wound was not serious. I disagreed and after several hours I realized that staying there was going to be a problem. They refused to debride the puncture wound!

I told Sue to grab a wheelchair- we were going home. The doctors and nurses were furious and had lots of papers for me to sign about leaving against medical advice. I signed them all as Sue wheeled me out.

The next day I went to see Doctor Shaffer, my personal Physician. He agreed about the puncture wound and debrided it. You could hear my screams way out in the waiting area.

On Sunday I woke up and the wound was bad- it was going toward gangrene. I called Dr. Shaffer and he came to the house after church. He arrived without his bag and had to debride the wound again using a knife from my kitchen, which we sterilized with boiling water and alcohol. All in all I was lucky to be alive and was back on my feet in a week or so.

Now, back to the gun; it was approaching 16 weeks after the accident, which happened in August, when I began to try and retrieve my pistol. This was not easy. Apparently my weapon had disappeared. In addition there was no record of it having been turned over to Trooper Updergraff or its' being received at the Property Clerks Office. This was going to be tricky.

On the one hand I did not want the weapon floating around and turning up after use in a crime. On the other hand I did not want to engage in a battle of wits with the State Police. But my real fear was that the pistol was going to be used as a “drop” gun by a police officer. A “drop” gun is a stolen or unregistered weapon that is “dropped” at the scene by an officer after a shooting. This gives the officer a cover story if the shooting was not “clean.” I could also picture myself being charged at some later date with a homicide if the weapon had been sold and was on the street. In short, if I could not recover the weapon I wanted a receipt.

I was informed by the State Prosecutors Office that receipts were not issued for lost property. I reiterated my position to no avail. I called Trooper Updergraff and explained my concerns. He threatened me with arrest and incarceration pending trial. This is when I started thinking... and so, accordingly, I went to the library.

Looking up the State Statutes on Weapons Charges I found one that I could live with and which would also serve as a receipt for the pistol. I called Trooper Updergraff and had him meet me in the woods behind Rick Stine's. I demanded to be cited for “carrying a handgun in a vehicle against the Peace and Dignity of the State.” It was like a traffic ticket and though it carried a penalty of 1 year and a $1,000 fine it was never enforced. Trooper Upergraff was not pleased and so he gave me a ticket for crossing the centerline as well as the weapons citation. Court was scheduled for January.

I arrived at Court early and, as usual, without counsel. The Prosecutor and Trooper Updergraff were waiting for me and we arrived at an agreement. I would plead guilty, pay a small fine and serve no time. I would also formally forfeit the weapon to the State, but this was not to infringe upon my right to Possess Arms in the future. It was a misdemeanor. I would also agree to not ask the State to produce the physical evidence. With supreme confidence we entered the Courtroom.

The Judge was in a foul mood and gave me 30 days! This was after he bullied me about not having a lawyer. We were clearly not getting along! Trooper Updergraff and the Prosecutor both approached the Judge and then summoned me to join them. It was agreed by all that the 30 days would be suspended and I would pay a $300 fine. I would also do 18 months Unsupervised Probation. I also agreed to a forfeiture of the weapon without future infringements upon my rights to purchase firearms.

This was acceptable to all parties and the case was closed. I now had my de facto receipt. This deal would never have been accomplished had I used Counsel. The next 18 months passed uneventfully, during which time I even bought a new pistol to replace the one which had been stolen.

Reflections On the Written Word

This poem, or attempt at a poem, was inspired by something Suzy, of http://mendogardens.blogspot.com/ said in an e-mail about talking on the phone. Sometimes the little nuances of writing are missing as people attempt to talk over, and outdo one another in the conversations. They seem to get lost within themselves. I don't often write in this style, so bear with me.

Reflections On The Written Word

Words on paper-seem so clear.
Much clearer than the ones we hear
on telephones.

When 2 friends speak and words collide,
There’s nothing there,
the words aside.

Words on paper seem so real.
They have a texture and a feel,
all their own.

When two write down the things they think,
The meaning’s sure,
the words distinct.

But still, the lines, between, when read,
Sometimes contain
things unsaid.

And of these two, the one that lasts,
is the one you grasp
with two bare hands.

Picking up a scrap, to see,
words that once
were writ to me.

Concord, NC June 24th, 2010

Today Is My Birthday!

This is me the day I was born. At 3 AM my Mom woke my Dad and they had to get a cab to take them to the hospital. We wouldn't have a car until I was about 3 years old. My Dad, having waited on my older brother's arrival for 12 hours, figured he had enough time to go out and get something to eat and pick up a present for my Mom. He got back and fell asleep in the waiting room, waking up at about 10:30AM and wondering how my Mom was doing.

Approaching a nurse, he asked, in that timid way that only expectant Fathers can,how my Mom was doing. She looked at him as if he were the dumbest thing she had ever laid eyes upon when she informed him that my Mom had given birth to me several hours ago at about 7:47 AM.

I know this story as my Mom told it to me every year for the 30 years of my life that she was here. I never got tired of hearing it and I never get tired of telling it. Hell, I was almost born in the taxi! And to top it off I was a full breech baby- arriving feet first- ready to hit the road. You can see it in the picture, my fists are all balled up and I'm leading with my left, holding back that right until it's needed.

Here I am today, at 55. I don't see much of a difference. However,feel free to draw your own conclusions. I just know that I wouldn't be who I am if it hadn't been for all of the colorful,and not so colorful, people that I have met along the way.

So, from all of me to all of them- Happy Birthday to all of us! And thanks...

The Only Smart Move I've Ever Made

The photo above was taken in 1985. That's Sue on the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge before South Street Seaport came along and replaced the Fish Market. It was a gloriously deserted and somewhat dangerous place to hang out.

The point I want to make is this- When I met Sue she was engaged, ring and all. But I wanted her- and in the only smart move I've ever made I pursued her. Today it would be called stalking I suppose. But I won.

I have been really sick this week with stuff relating to my HLA B27- and Sue has taken care of me in every way possible. I never knew, or realized how much I am loved. Too busy thinking about the bad stuff in the past to be thankful for what I have in the here and now.

So this is my public thank you to my partner in life. And Sue, I love you too.

Direct contact

I would love to hear more from anyone reading this blog. I realize what a pain it is to fill out all that junk and join something else with another password- so just hit comment and choose anonymous on the drop down menu- or contact me at my yahoo;
robertrswwilliams@yahoo.com

Thanks for stopping by and I look forward to any comments you may care to make.
Robert
PS That's an old picture- I am much more mellow now.