Here are some ideas on credit cards, as well as a "shortie" from Sid Bolotin. Remember that your contributions to this blog are always welcome. Just send them to me at riart1@aol.com.
Using credit cards (or debit cards for that matter … which are like writing an immediately- cashed check out of your checking account) costs money. Even if you pay your outstanding credit card balance in full each month, and presuming there is no annual fee for your card, you still are incurring a significant cost for the privilege of using the card. That cost is reflected in the increased price of merchandise which reflects what the merchant pays Visa, MasterCard, etc. to “belong” and the additional bookkeeping his accepting the cards entails. All of his customers, including those who pay in cash, pay about 3% more to cover these costs through his higher prices.
The rewards which accompany most credit card programs rarely come close to making up this 3% hit which purchasers pay. Those that offer apparently generous cash rewards usually do so for a limited period on specific types of vendor charges (5% reward for purchases at gas stations or drug stores from July to September for example) but are extremely skimpy on other rewards (for example, .01% on other purchases up to $1,000 a month, 1% over that amount) making up for their apparent generosity. I have a friend who carries around about half a dozen cards at all times, each with a piece of tape on it, indicating for what and during what period it should be used. He wears out his wallets frequently.
The best way to avoid the overcharges with which the use of credit cards has universally infected our economy is to pay cash and get a discount for doing so. Some restaurants do this by offering lower priced “specials” but on a cash only basis. Others publish 10% off coupons which specify “cash only.” Some do not accept credit cards at all, and hopefully, their prices are lower. But such generosity seems limited to the restaurant business. Nevertheless, it should not embarrass the customer to ask a merchant if the price for an item would be less if it were a cash sale rather than a credit card transaction.
And from Sid:
BLINK
Sid Bolotin
For a moment we are teenagers in love.
Then bride and groom.
Bursting into parenthood as mommy, daddy.
Suddenly we're in-laws, and
Now, grandma-grandpa.
Nearing the trail's end.
All in the blink of an eye.
About Me
- Jack Lippman
- BOYNTON BEACH, FL, United States
- Jack is a graduate of Rutgers University where he majored in history. His career in the life and health insurance industry involved medical risk selection and brokerage management. Retired in Florida since 2001 after many years in NJ and NY, widowed since 2010, he occasionally writes and paints, participates in play readings and is catching up on Shakespeare, Melville and Joyce, etc.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Pogonotrophy in the White House
Until the 1860 election of Abraham Lincoln as our sixteenth President, every one of our Chief Executives had been clean-shaven without moustache nor beard. From Lincoln on, however, with the exception of Andrew Johnson and William McKinley, all of our Presidents up until the election of Woodrow Wilson in 1912 displayed facial hair of some kind. Apparently, that was the style in the last part of the nineteenth century. Since Wilson, however, all of our Presidents have been clean-shaven, reverting to the pre-Lincoln fashion. Noting the number of beards and moustaches seen nowadays though, I wonder how long it will be before we have a President who once again practices pogonotrophy in the White House (and that ain’t a dirty word).
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Aahhtt!
Looks like I am going it alone this time around. Your submissions (poetry, short stories, essays, etc.) are appreciated. Send 'em to riart1@aol.com for unedited appearance on this blog. But let's take a look at Aaahhtt!
Aaahhtt!
I have been visiting museums and art galleries for many years and I don't hesitate to say I appreciate works I can come close to understanding. My favorites include Edward Hopper, many of whose works hang in the Whitney Museum in New York, Vincent Van Gogh and Claude Monet. You look at their work and generally can understand what they are all about. I recommend them. I might also include Pablo Picasso among my favorites. Although some of his work is difficult to understand, most ultimately get through to me. Many artists, however, leave me wondering what their paintings are all about. These include abstract expressionists and other avant guard (although abstract expressionism is almost 75 years old!)schools. When Jackson Pollock walked over a canvas spread on his garage floor, repeatedly dripping paint from cans, his work represented, in my words, its specific lack of intending to represent anything more than dripping paint on canvas, a concept which might be stimulating to some. These canvases are worth millions today, but don't ask me why.
When I see an incomprehensible canvas before me, I like to look for something by the same artist which demonstrates that he is not just blindly slinging paint, but is capable of painting something skillfully representative. If you look at paintings from Picasso's "blue period," you know he was more than a pigment slinger and worth the intellectual effort required to start to understand his cubist paintings such as "Woman in a Mirror" or "Guernica." I reiterate then that it is the viewer's responsibility to see something indicating a painter can produce a reasonable and recognizable picture of a cow before throwing a splash of white paint on a canvas and calling it "Milk."
The Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan is now undergoing a resurgence. Vacant warehouses and garages are being turned into art galleries. (When in New York, check out the streets from 21st to 24th between 10th and 11th Avenue.) The interior of all of these establishments are painted stark white and usually have no more than a dozen paintings hanging within them. Most are totally incomprehensible and carry exorbitant price tags. If a gallery sells one at the asking price, its rent, salaries and overhead are probably covered for a couple of years.
In the middle of this on 21st Street is the Chelsea Museum of Art. When I visited it, they were featuring their permanent show of the work of an abstract impressionist named Miotte. His work was too abstract to impress me. They also were featuring a show by a Japanese artist who products consisted of images of ostriches and some decorative floral arrangements which resembled wallpaper samples. In my opinion, these pieces were far below the quality which warrants being in a museum, but probably a shade better than the incomprehensible and expensive "aahhtt" on exhibit in the neighborhood's galleries.
It's back to the Whitney to look at some Hopper for me.
If you would like to look at some of Edward Hopper's work, check out http://www.museumsyndicate.com/artist.php?artist=54. (I can't reproduce them here due to copywrite laws.) There are 184 of his paintings there; just click on the small image to enlarge it. Don't miss "Nighthawks" which you probably have seen before with slightly altered faces.
Aaahhtt!
I have been visiting museums and art galleries for many years and I don't hesitate to say I appreciate works I can come close to understanding. My favorites include Edward Hopper, many of whose works hang in the Whitney Museum in New York, Vincent Van Gogh and Claude Monet. You look at their work and generally can understand what they are all about. I recommend them. I might also include Pablo Picasso among my favorites. Although some of his work is difficult to understand, most ultimately get through to me. Many artists, however, leave me wondering what their paintings are all about. These include abstract expressionists and other avant guard (although abstract expressionism is almost 75 years old!)schools. When Jackson Pollock walked over a canvas spread on his garage floor, repeatedly dripping paint from cans, his work represented, in my words, its specific lack of intending to represent anything more than dripping paint on canvas, a concept which might be stimulating to some. These canvases are worth millions today, but don't ask me why.
When I see an incomprehensible canvas before me, I like to look for something by the same artist which demonstrates that he is not just blindly slinging paint, but is capable of painting something skillfully representative. If you look at paintings from Picasso's "blue period," you know he was more than a pigment slinger and worth the intellectual effort required to start to understand his cubist paintings such as "Woman in a Mirror" or "Guernica." I reiterate then that it is the viewer's responsibility to see something indicating a painter can produce a reasonable and recognizable picture of a cow before throwing a splash of white paint on a canvas and calling it "Milk."
The Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan is now undergoing a resurgence. Vacant warehouses and garages are being turned into art galleries. (When in New York, check out the streets from 21st to 24th between 10th and 11th Avenue.) The interior of all of these establishments are painted stark white and usually have no more than a dozen paintings hanging within them. Most are totally incomprehensible and carry exorbitant price tags. If a gallery sells one at the asking price, its rent, salaries and overhead are probably covered for a couple of years.
In the middle of this on 21st Street is the Chelsea Museum of Art. When I visited it, they were featuring their permanent show of the work of an abstract impressionist named Miotte. His work was too abstract to impress me. They also were featuring a show by a Japanese artist who products consisted of images of ostriches and some decorative floral arrangements which resembled wallpaper samples. In my opinion, these pieces were far below the quality which warrants being in a museum, but probably a shade better than the incomprehensible and expensive "aahhtt" on exhibit in the neighborhood's galleries.
It's back to the Whitney to look at some Hopper for me.
If you would like to look at some of Edward Hopper's work, check out http://www.museumsyndicate.com/artist.php?artist=54. (I can't reproduce them here due to copywrite laws.) There are 184 of his paintings there; just click on the small image to enlarge it. Don't miss "Nighthawks" which you probably have seen before with slightly altered faces.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Baseball Season is Here!
Remember, folks, that this blog is open for you to "publish" all of your literary efforts: short stories, poems, essays, etc. It isn't "political" any longer. Send your stuff to me at riart1@aol.com. And here is a short story I penned a few years back which is appropriate for the baseball season and other times as well. It has sort of a message.
The Worst Ballplayer on the Field
Jack Lippman
Jerry was the worst baseball player of all the kids at the ball field in the park. Every time there was a choose-up game, he was picked last. Whenever he swung at the ball, he missed. In games, he always struck out. In the outfield, where he always played, he couldn’t catch the ball, even if it came straight to him. The others often laughed at him.
One afternoon, as Jerry was walking to the park, he heard a voice coming from the hedges beside the sidewalk. “Hey, Jerry, are you on your way to the park to play ball?” Jerry stopped and looked behind the hedge. To his surprise, he saw a little man with a wrinkled face sitting on a rock smiling.
“Jerry, I’ve a present for you,” the man said.
“Who are you, Mister?” Jerry asked, despite having been taught never to speak to strangers.
“I’m an elf! The kind you read about in fairy tales. I’ve been sent by your fairy godmother to help you.”
Jerry looked at him, replying, “I don’t believe in elves or fairy godmothers! But tell me your name. And what’s this about a present for me?”
“Well, I’m glad you’re being reasonable, Jerry. My name is Mr. Fafuffnick, and whether you like it or not, you do have a fairy godmother. Everyone does. Anyway, yours doesn’t like what has been happening to you at the ball field. So she asked me to give you these.” And with that, the elf took a well-worn baseball glove and a bat from a satchel he was carrying. “Use these, Jerry, and you will never have any more problems at the ball field.” And with that, the elf vanished in a puff of smoke.
That afternoon, as usual, Jerry was picked last and sent to play in the outfield.
The very first batter hit the ball high and far toward that part of the field where Jerry stood. He didn’t even see the ball, but somehow found himself running backwards toward the fence at the edge of the field. Sensing that it was time to leap up, he flew almost three feet off of the ground and reached over the fence. When he came down, the ball was in his glove.
The next batter hit the ball to another part of the outfield, where one of Jerry’s teammates futilely chased it as it rolled and bounced along the grass. Jerry ran, with a speed he never knew he possessed, across the outfield and picked up the ball which was continuing to elude the other outfielder. By this time, the batter was rounding third base. Jerry cocked his arm back, and from the farthest part of centerfield, threw it toward home plate, where it landed precisely in the center of the glove of the catcher, who easily tagged the runner out.
When the inning was over, Jerry’s teammates cheered him. When his turn at bat came, he hit the first pitch far over the centerfield fence for a home run. Each time he came to the plate, he hit another home run. At the end of the game, Jerry’s hand was sore from the number of times his teammates had high-fived him.
Walking home, as he passed the hedges where he had met the elf, he heard a voice. It was Mr. Fafuffnick.
“Nice game today, Jerry, baby,” he called out, offering still another high-five. “That last shot of yours must have gone 450 feet! And now, may I please have the bat and glove back?”
“No way, Mr. Fafuffnick,” Jerry answered. Suddenly, the bat and glove, which he had been carrying, dropped from his grasp and, as if they had legs of their own, they waddled over to the elf, leaving Jerry’s hands stinging.
“Jerry, you underestimate the power your fairy godmother has given me. In the future, when I ask you to give something back, I hope you will comply, and not force me to repeat what I just had to do. You see, part of my job is to take the bat and glove back to your fairy godmother each night so that she can recharge them. But don’t worry, I will be behind these hedges every day to give them back to you when you pass by on your way to the park.”
Mr. Fafuffnick was true to his word, and every day, he gave Jerry the glove and bat. Jerry continued to catch any balls hit his way, throw runners out at the plate and get hits each time he came to the plate. All of the other players, and even some of the grown-ups who came to the ball field, agreed that Jerry was the best player who had ever played at the park. At the end of the summer, they even gave him a little trophy saying exactly that.
“Pssst,” a voice came from behind the hedges, as Jerry headed home from the park for the last time that summer.
“Hello, Mr. Fafuffnick,” Jerry greeted the elf. “Here’s the bat and glove back. The season’s over now, and I really want to thank you and my fairy godmother for all that you have done for me.”
“Think nothing of it, Jerry, and this time, you get to keep the bat and the glove. They’re yours permanently. Good luck with them!” Mr. Fafuffnick replied.
“But how is my fairy godmother going to recharge them if I don’t give them back to you each time after I use them,” Jerry asked.
Mr. Fafuffnick looked at the boy. “Jerry, baby, I thought you might have caught on by now. After the first week or so, I stopped taking them back to her for recharging. You know, fairy godmothers exist to give you a hand once in a while when you need it, but no fairy godmother has ever guaranteed anyone a free ride for the rest of their life. From now on, Jerry, what you accomplish is up to you.”
And with that, Mr. Fafuffnick disappeared in a puff of smoke.
The Worst Ballplayer on the Field
Jack Lippman
Jerry was the worst baseball player of all the kids at the ball field in the park. Every time there was a choose-up game, he was picked last. Whenever he swung at the ball, he missed. In games, he always struck out. In the outfield, where he always played, he couldn’t catch the ball, even if it came straight to him. The others often laughed at him.
One afternoon, as Jerry was walking to the park, he heard a voice coming from the hedges beside the sidewalk. “Hey, Jerry, are you on your way to the park to play ball?” Jerry stopped and looked behind the hedge. To his surprise, he saw a little man with a wrinkled face sitting on a rock smiling.
“Jerry, I’ve a present for you,” the man said.
“Who are you, Mister?” Jerry asked, despite having been taught never to speak to strangers.
“I’m an elf! The kind you read about in fairy tales. I’ve been sent by your fairy godmother to help you.”
Jerry looked at him, replying, “I don’t believe in elves or fairy godmothers! But tell me your name. And what’s this about a present for me?”
“Well, I’m glad you’re being reasonable, Jerry. My name is Mr. Fafuffnick, and whether you like it or not, you do have a fairy godmother. Everyone does. Anyway, yours doesn’t like what has been happening to you at the ball field. So she asked me to give you these.” And with that, the elf took a well-worn baseball glove and a bat from a satchel he was carrying. “Use these, Jerry, and you will never have any more problems at the ball field.” And with that, the elf vanished in a puff of smoke.
That afternoon, as usual, Jerry was picked last and sent to play in the outfield.
The very first batter hit the ball high and far toward that part of the field where Jerry stood. He didn’t even see the ball, but somehow found himself running backwards toward the fence at the edge of the field. Sensing that it was time to leap up, he flew almost three feet off of the ground and reached over the fence. When he came down, the ball was in his glove.
The next batter hit the ball to another part of the outfield, where one of Jerry’s teammates futilely chased it as it rolled and bounced along the grass. Jerry ran, with a speed he never knew he possessed, across the outfield and picked up the ball which was continuing to elude the other outfielder. By this time, the batter was rounding third base. Jerry cocked his arm back, and from the farthest part of centerfield, threw it toward home plate, where it landed precisely in the center of the glove of the catcher, who easily tagged the runner out.
When the inning was over, Jerry’s teammates cheered him. When his turn at bat came, he hit the first pitch far over the centerfield fence for a home run. Each time he came to the plate, he hit another home run. At the end of the game, Jerry’s hand was sore from the number of times his teammates had high-fived him.
Walking home, as he passed the hedges where he had met the elf, he heard a voice. It was Mr. Fafuffnick.
“Nice game today, Jerry, baby,” he called out, offering still another high-five. “That last shot of yours must have gone 450 feet! And now, may I please have the bat and glove back?”
“No way, Mr. Fafuffnick,” Jerry answered. Suddenly, the bat and glove, which he had been carrying, dropped from his grasp and, as if they had legs of their own, they waddled over to the elf, leaving Jerry’s hands stinging.
“Jerry, you underestimate the power your fairy godmother has given me. In the future, when I ask you to give something back, I hope you will comply, and not force me to repeat what I just had to do. You see, part of my job is to take the bat and glove back to your fairy godmother each night so that she can recharge them. But don’t worry, I will be behind these hedges every day to give them back to you when you pass by on your way to the park.”
Mr. Fafuffnick was true to his word, and every day, he gave Jerry the glove and bat. Jerry continued to catch any balls hit his way, throw runners out at the plate and get hits each time he came to the plate. All of the other players, and even some of the grown-ups who came to the ball field, agreed that Jerry was the best player who had ever played at the park. At the end of the summer, they even gave him a little trophy saying exactly that.
“Pssst,” a voice came from behind the hedges, as Jerry headed home from the park for the last time that summer.
“Hello, Mr. Fafuffnick,” Jerry greeted the elf. “Here’s the bat and glove back. The season’s over now, and I really want to thank you and my fairy godmother for all that you have done for me.”
“Think nothing of it, Jerry, and this time, you get to keep the bat and the glove. They’re yours permanently. Good luck with them!” Mr. Fafuffnick replied.
“But how is my fairy godmother going to recharge them if I don’t give them back to you each time after I use them,” Jerry asked.
Mr. Fafuffnick looked at the boy. “Jerry, baby, I thought you might have caught on by now. After the first week or so, I stopped taking them back to her for recharging. You know, fairy godmothers exist to give you a hand once in a while when you need it, but no fairy godmother has ever guaranteed anyone a free ride for the rest of their life. From now on, Jerry, what you accomplish is up to you.”
And with that, Mr. Fafuffnick disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Another Deep One From Sid & Some Thoughts of My Own
We certainly hope that we will be receiving material from additional contributors. Thus far, only Sid, Harvey and myself are contributing. Others have suggested they might in the future but none have as of now. Keep those cards and letters coming. Submissions go to riart1@aol.com. And here is Sid's latest:
WHERE DID I COME FROM?
Sid Bolotin
“Grandpa, where did I come from?”
“Well,” he answered, “if you mean where do your roots lie, my grandparents came from the Ukraine in Russia…same as grandma’s.”
“No, no! That’s not what I’m asking. I already know about my Russian heritage.”
“Oh,” he smiled, “you mean like from your mommy’s belly?”
“Oh, gramps,” giggled Brooke, “I’m nineteen, and I know all about sperms and eggs. Remember I had sex education in grammar school. I’m in college now studying to be a child-psychologist.
“Okay, Brooke, then just what are you asking me about?”
“Well, I’ve been learning about the ego and the id and the brain and psyche, and I thought with your explorations of spirituality you could tell me where my ‘I’ came from. Was ‘I’ in the sperm or the egg? Was one half of my ‘I’ in the sperm, and the other half in the egg? And, what about the millions of other sperm? Did my ‘I’ hop from one to the other until ‘I’ landed on the one that fertilized my mom’s egg? Or, did each have a different version of my ‘I’? if you say that ‘I’ was not in the sperm nor the egg, was ‘I’ in space, on a star, or just out ‘there’? If so, then how and when did ‘I’ enter mom’s belly…at conception, at movement, at birth?”
“Whew, my munchkin,” groaned the old man, “you ask some deep, deep questions.”
“Yeah, everyone says that I take after you, gramps. We’ve chatted along these lines before. That’s probably why I’m also taking a course in Philosophy and Spirituality.”
This was not the first time one of his grandchildren had posed such an esoteric inquiry. As Gramps sat and pondered his granddaughter’s gushed questions, his mind swept back through the decades of his own search for such answers by exploring religion, philosophy, mysticism, and science. He sat silent and pondered possible answers…knowing that none were black and white. Then he said, “Brooke, honey, you know that I have no absolute answer to your questions. Throughout my own exploration of such matters, the one certainty that I’ve discovered is that there is no conclusive answer. Science has not devised a test that can address the question. In my opinion it boils down to personal belief based on a person’s private study. For example your brother, Jared, believes that his path to such wisdom lies within the teachings of the Orthodox Jewish Sect called Chabad, and he’s pursuing his learning at a Yeshiva in Jerusalem.
“Most people don’t even involve themselves in such subjects. When your cousin, Zach, was discussing his college course in Philosophy with me, I told him that learning about such subjects and discussing them with people of like minds was the best way to develop a personal understanding. That’s the best that one can do. It’s really a personal experiential journey.”
Hearing grandma call everyone to come and eat, he stood, threw an arm around Brooke’s shoulders, and said, “Let’s eat and continue our discussion over a cup of tea.”
* * *
One Thing Leads to Another (or “Can you get kosher filet mignon in Tel Aviv?”)
Jack Lippman
At lunch the other day, a close friend asked me if I knew the reason why meat from the hind portion of a cow was not kosher. After thinking for a moment I replied that I supposed that was the unclean end of the animal, and that the cuts from that part of the animal just couldn’t be kosher. “Just as I had thought,” my friend replied. “But that isn’t the case. Actually it comes from the story in the Bible about Jacob wrestling with an angel who, in the struggle, pinched his sciatic nerve leaving Jacob lame. Because a cow’s sciatic nerve runs through its hind portion, some rabbis years ago deemed that because of what happened to Jacob, any meat coming from a portion of the cow close to the sciatic nerve couldn’t be kosher.” My friend had also heard that in Israel, where beef has to be imported and is not as common as in this country, they have the expertise to remove the entire sciatic nerve from the cow, making cuts of beef from the hind end of the animal kosher! Such a procedure is not economically feasible in this country, however, even though it is done in Israel.
A few days later I repeated this story to a physician, who happened to be orthodox, who confirmed it all. This led to a discussion of kashruth in general, the reasons for it, and mention of an interesting book, Judaism – A Way of Being, by David Gelertner, a computer science pioneer on the faculty at Yale University.
Gelertner’s book, written from a modern orthodox standpoint, attempts to offer answers to some key questions regarding Judaism: Why are there so many rules observant Jews are supposed to follow? (and kashruth is just one of them), how can Jews believe in a God whose name and image are hidden from them?, what about inequities between men and women in Judaism?, and finally, why has God allowed so many bestial things to happen to Jews and all of mankind throughout history? I’ve read the book and his answers are thought provoking.
But this all goes to show you that one thing can lead to another.
WHERE DID I COME FROM?
Sid Bolotin
“Grandpa, where did I come from?”
“Well,” he answered, “if you mean where do your roots lie, my grandparents came from the Ukraine in Russia…same as grandma’s.”
“No, no! That’s not what I’m asking. I already know about my Russian heritage.”
“Oh,” he smiled, “you mean like from your mommy’s belly?”
“Oh, gramps,” giggled Brooke, “I’m nineteen, and I know all about sperms and eggs. Remember I had sex education in grammar school. I’m in college now studying to be a child-psychologist.
“Okay, Brooke, then just what are you asking me about?”
“Well, I’ve been learning about the ego and the id and the brain and psyche, and I thought with your explorations of spirituality you could tell me where my ‘I’ came from. Was ‘I’ in the sperm or the egg? Was one half of my ‘I’ in the sperm, and the other half in the egg? And, what about the millions of other sperm? Did my ‘I’ hop from one to the other until ‘I’ landed on the one that fertilized my mom’s egg? Or, did each have a different version of my ‘I’? if you say that ‘I’ was not in the sperm nor the egg, was ‘I’ in space, on a star, or just out ‘there’? If so, then how and when did ‘I’ enter mom’s belly…at conception, at movement, at birth?”
“Whew, my munchkin,” groaned the old man, “you ask some deep, deep questions.”
“Yeah, everyone says that I take after you, gramps. We’ve chatted along these lines before. That’s probably why I’m also taking a course in Philosophy and Spirituality.”
This was not the first time one of his grandchildren had posed such an esoteric inquiry. As Gramps sat and pondered his granddaughter’s gushed questions, his mind swept back through the decades of his own search for such answers by exploring religion, philosophy, mysticism, and science. He sat silent and pondered possible answers…knowing that none were black and white. Then he said, “Brooke, honey, you know that I have no absolute answer to your questions. Throughout my own exploration of such matters, the one certainty that I’ve discovered is that there is no conclusive answer. Science has not devised a test that can address the question. In my opinion it boils down to personal belief based on a person’s private study. For example your brother, Jared, believes that his path to such wisdom lies within the teachings of the Orthodox Jewish Sect called Chabad, and he’s pursuing his learning at a Yeshiva in Jerusalem.
“Most people don’t even involve themselves in such subjects. When your cousin, Zach, was discussing his college course in Philosophy with me, I told him that learning about such subjects and discussing them with people of like minds was the best way to develop a personal understanding. That’s the best that one can do. It’s really a personal experiential journey.”
Hearing grandma call everyone to come and eat, he stood, threw an arm around Brooke’s shoulders, and said, “Let’s eat and continue our discussion over a cup of tea.”
* * *
One Thing Leads to Another (or “Can you get kosher filet mignon in Tel Aviv?”)
Jack Lippman
At lunch the other day, a close friend asked me if I knew the reason why meat from the hind portion of a cow was not kosher. After thinking for a moment I replied that I supposed that was the unclean end of the animal, and that the cuts from that part of the animal just couldn’t be kosher. “Just as I had thought,” my friend replied. “But that isn’t the case. Actually it comes from the story in the Bible about Jacob wrestling with an angel who, in the struggle, pinched his sciatic nerve leaving Jacob lame. Because a cow’s sciatic nerve runs through its hind portion, some rabbis years ago deemed that because of what happened to Jacob, any meat coming from a portion of the cow close to the sciatic nerve couldn’t be kosher.” My friend had also heard that in Israel, where beef has to be imported and is not as common as in this country, they have the expertise to remove the entire sciatic nerve from the cow, making cuts of beef from the hind end of the animal kosher! Such a procedure is not economically feasible in this country, however, even though it is done in Israel.
A few days later I repeated this story to a physician, who happened to be orthodox, who confirmed it all. This led to a discussion of kashruth in general, the reasons for it, and mention of an interesting book, Judaism – A Way of Being, by David Gelertner, a computer science pioneer on the faculty at Yale University.
Gelertner’s book, written from a modern orthodox standpoint, attempts to offer answers to some key questions regarding Judaism: Why are there so many rules observant Jews are supposed to follow? (and kashruth is just one of them), how can Jews believe in a God whose name and image are hidden from them?, what about inequities between men and women in Judaism?, and finally, why has God allowed so many bestial things to happen to Jews and all of mankind throughout history? I’ve read the book and his answers are thought provoking.
But this all goes to show you that one thing can lead to another.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
A Haiku and a Short Story for You!
We again invite all of you to submit your poetry, short stories, etc. for publication in this blog. Just send them to me at riart1@aol.com. (We have yet to edit or reject a submission, and have no intention of doing so.) Today, we include a short haiku (unrhymed poetry in a five-seven-five syllable pattern in the Japanese style) inspired by one of my stays in New York City and a short story by Harvey Sage which has some historical basis. Enjoy!
New York Haiku
Jack Lippman
Manhattan is no
Place to raise kids nor keep dogs,
Unless you’re wealthy.
What passes for a
Manhattan supermarket,
Elsewhere is a joke.
People are so used
To being ripped off that they
Do not feel the pain.
Sitting in Starbucks
Hypnotized by their laptops,
Unemployed yuppies.
Illegal parking
Is the lifeblood of commerce
In New York City.
* * *
MANIFEST DESTINY
Harvey Sage
CV puffed hungrily on his custom cigar and spat into the spitoon. "Butterfield," he told me, "her plea for King Willie’s life is most touching. She almost swayed me. Almost." He chuckled complacently, befitting the well fed and super rich man who he was.
"He is a very striking fellow sir," I stated. "In a few years he proclaimed himself president of the two countries which he established. Why, our own government recognized his independent land right down here. And last year, in his visit to the states, he was treated as a hero. They had parades for him, wrote songs and stories, and even put on a Broadway show recounting his exploits."
CV was miffed. "Yes, he even wrote a book, The War in Nicaragua, which garnered him support for his latest ventures. Fools!"
"But sir, he is surely a dashing fellow, a leading exponent of our policy of Manifest Destiny. That was the term that John O’Sullivan coined."
"John O’Sullivan, that bombastic newspaper man. He certainly started something didn’t he by declaring it was the God given right of Americans to grab hold of everything west of the Mississippi, south of the Rio Grand, and North of where we currently are."
"And we have done quite a bit sir. California, Texas, Arizona territory- these are all part of our growing country. As his concubine just pointed out, all William Walker was guilty of is continuing the American dream."
"Dream", CV asked me, "the man is like a nightmare. He formed a group of filibusteros in California back in 1853 and invaded Baja. They defeated the Mexican Army at La Paz. He declared Sonora an independent government and himself as president. He even had a flag designed and he sold land grants, on land that he didn’t even possess, to potential followers. What gall! They flocked from Tennessee, Kentucky, and many slave states, to help push the Manifest Destiny dream. The free and independent country of Sonora. Ha! The only free people there would be Anglo-Saxon whites. Slavery would be legal and Sonora and her sister province were to become slave states, adding to the power of the South."
I had to admit that CV was correct. "He did have a lot of followers though and almost pulled it off."
CV smiled. "King Willie bit off more than he could chew. Due to poor planning, his troops lacked proper supplies. The Mexican banditos harassed him, and the Mexican Army attacked. He and his rag tag bunch fled back across the border. Adios Sonora."
"He was lauded as a hero, sir. When they arrested him on violation of the laws of neutrality, the jury took only eight minutes to acquit him."
"Yes. After he gave an impassioned speech about our rights to grab. What a lot of bull."
I reminded him "What of the gold rush? Fremont took over California, stealing it from the Mexicans. Countless adventurers flocked to the new territory, establishing it as a potential state. That’s where you saw an opportunity and entered the Manifest Destiny race."
"Yes Butterfield. It took months to sail from New York to California or back, rounding the Horn. My company, the Accessory Transit Company, the ATC, acquired the rights to the Isthmus of Nicaragua. We had a a steamboat route from the Atlantic to the west end of Lake Nicaragua. Then we provided a mule train from there to the Pacific. Coast to coast travelers had their travel time cut in half. It was also safer, avoiding Cape Horn and its stormy weather."
"So, how did you and Walker get involved?"
CV reminisced. "We needed help. The company, ATC, was being gouged by local politicians and war lords. I sent for Walker and his filbusteros from the states. We joined forces and in no time defeated the Army of Nicaragua. My initial gratitude turned sour when he declared Nicaragua a free and independent state with him in command, and of course, a new flag!. That’s when President Franklin Pierce recognized his newly proclaimed country. Then King Willie turned on me, joining my ATC aids in seizing control of my company. He even went further and declared war against neighboring Costa Rica, Honduras and Guatemala. Big mistake. No one crosses me. I ruin people!"
CV filled me in on how he hired agents to infiltrate and fight Walker and his cronies. He had flooded the market with ACT stock, devaluing it. The holdings of his former aids became worthless. CV also got the US to withdraw recognition of Walker’s new country. And he helped get Costa Rica to attack him.
"In 1856 King Willie, President of Nicaragua by, believe it or not, an election, had to flee. He came to New York where, as you mentioned, he was hailed as a hero. Walker used his notoriety to garner funds and backers. Again and again he set sail for Nicaragua or Honduras to conquer and rule. He was stopped by either the US navy, cholera epidemics, or local armies. He sacked the old Nicaragua city of Granada and overran the Honduras city of Trujillo. Finally the British had enough of him. Their navy rescued King Willie after his last venture against the Hondurans ended with him and his men sick and defeated. That’s when they turned him over to Honduran authorities."
"Yes," I said, "and that’s where he is now, rotting in jail, sentenced to death tomorrow morning by firing squad. As his concubine stated, it seems a nasty ending to a brilliant career."
"What career? The man was a filibustero, a rapist, a killer, a thief. He acted in the name of Manifest Destiny. If he is spared he’ll be like Napoleon. He’d flee and return to attack somewhere, bringing death and misery as he proclaimed himself king or president or emperor."
"But sir, haven’t you, through the ATC, taken over part of Nicaragua? Isn’t that acting according to the doctrine of Manifest Destiny? "
CV thought and then said "In a sense. But I’m using economic means. People I deal with make money and can live a better life without fear from bloodshed. There is a difference, a big difference. We build. We don’t tear down. I hope you realize that."
With that, Cornelius Vanderbuilt left the consul’s office. Though I knew that a word from me to the authorities today would spare Walker’s life, I did nothing. The following morning the past president of Sonora and Nicaragua met a firing squad which rendered his ultimate destiny.
A few months later, led by men with the same mind set as Walker the filibustero had, the state of South Carolina seceded from the Union, causing the issue of the South’s Manifest Destiny to be settled in blood.
New York Haiku
Jack Lippman
Manhattan is no
Place to raise kids nor keep dogs,
Unless you’re wealthy.
What passes for a
Manhattan supermarket,
Elsewhere is a joke.
People are so used
To being ripped off that they
Do not feel the pain.
Sitting in Starbucks
Hypnotized by their laptops,
Unemployed yuppies.
Illegal parking
Is the lifeblood of commerce
In New York City.
* * *
MANIFEST DESTINY
Harvey Sage
CV puffed hungrily on his custom cigar and spat into the spitoon. "Butterfield," he told me, "her plea for King Willie’s life is most touching. She almost swayed me. Almost." He chuckled complacently, befitting the well fed and super rich man who he was.
"He is a very striking fellow sir," I stated. "In a few years he proclaimed himself president of the two countries which he established. Why, our own government recognized his independent land right down here. And last year, in his visit to the states, he was treated as a hero. They had parades for him, wrote songs and stories, and even put on a Broadway show recounting his exploits."
CV was miffed. "Yes, he even wrote a book, The War in Nicaragua, which garnered him support for his latest ventures. Fools!"
"But sir, he is surely a dashing fellow, a leading exponent of our policy of Manifest Destiny. That was the term that John O’Sullivan coined."
"John O’Sullivan, that bombastic newspaper man. He certainly started something didn’t he by declaring it was the God given right of Americans to grab hold of everything west of the Mississippi, south of the Rio Grand, and North of where we currently are."
"And we have done quite a bit sir. California, Texas, Arizona territory- these are all part of our growing country. As his concubine just pointed out, all William Walker was guilty of is continuing the American dream."
"Dream", CV asked me, "the man is like a nightmare. He formed a group of filibusteros in California back in 1853 and invaded Baja. They defeated the Mexican Army at La Paz. He declared Sonora an independent government and himself as president. He even had a flag designed and he sold land grants, on land that he didn’t even possess, to potential followers. What gall! They flocked from Tennessee, Kentucky, and many slave states, to help push the Manifest Destiny dream. The free and independent country of Sonora. Ha! The only free people there would be Anglo-Saxon whites. Slavery would be legal and Sonora and her sister province were to become slave states, adding to the power of the South."
I had to admit that CV was correct. "He did have a lot of followers though and almost pulled it off."
CV smiled. "King Willie bit off more than he could chew. Due to poor planning, his troops lacked proper supplies. The Mexican banditos harassed him, and the Mexican Army attacked. He and his rag tag bunch fled back across the border. Adios Sonora."
"He was lauded as a hero, sir. When they arrested him on violation of the laws of neutrality, the jury took only eight minutes to acquit him."
"Yes. After he gave an impassioned speech about our rights to grab. What a lot of bull."
I reminded him "What of the gold rush? Fremont took over California, stealing it from the Mexicans. Countless adventurers flocked to the new territory, establishing it as a potential state. That’s where you saw an opportunity and entered the Manifest Destiny race."
"Yes Butterfield. It took months to sail from New York to California or back, rounding the Horn. My company, the Accessory Transit Company, the ATC, acquired the rights to the Isthmus of Nicaragua. We had a a steamboat route from the Atlantic to the west end of Lake Nicaragua. Then we provided a mule train from there to the Pacific. Coast to coast travelers had their travel time cut in half. It was also safer, avoiding Cape Horn and its stormy weather."
"So, how did you and Walker get involved?"
CV reminisced. "We needed help. The company, ATC, was being gouged by local politicians and war lords. I sent for Walker and his filbusteros from the states. We joined forces and in no time defeated the Army of Nicaragua. My initial gratitude turned sour when he declared Nicaragua a free and independent state with him in command, and of course, a new flag!. That’s when President Franklin Pierce recognized his newly proclaimed country. Then King Willie turned on me, joining my ATC aids in seizing control of my company. He even went further and declared war against neighboring Costa Rica, Honduras and Guatemala. Big mistake. No one crosses me. I ruin people!"
CV filled me in on how he hired agents to infiltrate and fight Walker and his cronies. He had flooded the market with ACT stock, devaluing it. The holdings of his former aids became worthless. CV also got the US to withdraw recognition of Walker’s new country. And he helped get Costa Rica to attack him.
"In 1856 King Willie, President of Nicaragua by, believe it or not, an election, had to flee. He came to New York where, as you mentioned, he was hailed as a hero. Walker used his notoriety to garner funds and backers. Again and again he set sail for Nicaragua or Honduras to conquer and rule. He was stopped by either the US navy, cholera epidemics, or local armies. He sacked the old Nicaragua city of Granada and overran the Honduras city of Trujillo. Finally the British had enough of him. Their navy rescued King Willie after his last venture against the Hondurans ended with him and his men sick and defeated. That’s when they turned him over to Honduran authorities."
"Yes," I said, "and that’s where he is now, rotting in jail, sentenced to death tomorrow morning by firing squad. As his concubine stated, it seems a nasty ending to a brilliant career."
"What career? The man was a filibustero, a rapist, a killer, a thief. He acted in the name of Manifest Destiny. If he is spared he’ll be like Napoleon. He’d flee and return to attack somewhere, bringing death and misery as he proclaimed himself king or president or emperor."
"But sir, haven’t you, through the ATC, taken over part of Nicaragua? Isn’t that acting according to the doctrine of Manifest Destiny? "
CV thought and then said "In a sense. But I’m using economic means. People I deal with make money and can live a better life without fear from bloodshed. There is a difference, a big difference. We build. We don’t tear down. I hope you realize that."
With that, Cornelius Vanderbuilt left the consul’s office. Though I knew that a word from me to the authorities today would spare Walker’s life, I did nothing. The following morning the past president of Sonora and Nicaragua met a firing squad which rendered his ultimate destiny.
A few months later, led by men with the same mind set as Walker the filibustero had, the state of South Carolina seceded from the Union, causing the issue of the South’s Manifest Destiny to be settled in blood.
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Trio of Creativity
Today, we have a insightful poem by Sid Bolotin, a nice short story by Harvey Sage and finally, the plot of a possible screenplay, the source of which some of you might be able to identify. I hope our stable of contributors will grow.
ONCE UPON A TIME
Sid Bolotin 3/6/10
Fifty years ago he is three.
And I am twenty-six.
I kneel behind him.
My arms embrace him and the fishing rod
Clutched in his tiny hands.
The pond’s water laps at his feet.
Twighlight’s glow lights the shore.
The bobber flutters,
And goes under.
I help him snap the rod upward
To set the hook, to reel in the Sunfish.
My son squeals with delight.
I swell with joy.
He’s my first-born
Learning to be.
While I learn fatherhood.
* * *
MY GAL LINDA
Harvey Sage
I know that Cindy and I were wedded for eternity. But that was the past and I must deal with today. The wedding rings we exchanged said "You Are Mine Forever". We meant it. But then she died. What was I supposed to do?
Fifty five years we were married. Kids, grand kids, we had everything one could wish for. Papa and Nana. That was us. We baby sat once a month and ate with our family quite often. We felt blessed by God and thanked Him each morning. Then the accident happened. And Cindy was laid to rest. I asked God, "why"?
I was assured that while her body or shell was interred, her soul is with the Master, waiting for me to "come home." I know she expected me to remain true, to avoid getting involved with another female, even if I were lonely. I was to have faith and be stalwart, a man true to his love, even in death. Sounds great and noble. Try it. Try living by yourself after fifty five years of having a companion.
I told my friends that I would never cheat on my wife, and getting involved after Cindy’s demise constituted, in my mind, cheating. Oh, I know plenty of guys my age who are widowers- ugh, I hate that word- have started a new life. They date, go over the houses of single women and have supper, and even stay the night.
"Joe" my friend Elliot said to me, "it’s a new lease on life. You spark a romance, go on trips, share new aspects of life. Don’t be a stick in the mud. Get out, get around, and get going- before it’s too late. You realize, you’re not getting any younger!"
I must confess, I was tempted. Going to bed alone each night was not fun. I missed home cooked meals, the sharing of watching TV together, shopping at local stores, comparing day’s events, and even having someone to help clean the house.
At first I tried to replace Cindy with her image. I would walk around the house talking to her. This lasted a month or two and then I realized, as Elliot told me, "I was going nuts". I needed someone to share my life with. But how could I bring a new female friend with me when I visited my kids or grand kids? And did I want to get chummy with hers? These things get complicated. You don’t only take on a new life, you lose parts of the one you had. I had a great thing going with Cindy. I didn’t want to lose one iota of our mutual companionship, one that I was still convinced would continue on beyond the Pearly Gates. Oh, what to do?
Elliot had the answer ready. "The world we live in centers itself around our own selves. That’s not the world’s doing, it is ours. We are an ego-centric bunch who even claim to be made in God’s image."
Well an image is an image- like a shadow. Not much resemblance between the object and the image, is there. Or do you enjoy looking through a glass darkly? If we are in God’s image then He has a great sense of humor. I mulled over what Joe was firing at me, and eventually came to a conclusion. I needed a companion. I longed for someone to talk to, to share my evenings with. And even to hug. But definitely, no sex.
So I let him fix me up. First there was Anna, or was she Hanna? She was comely and demure and a good conversationalist. That is to say, she kept her mouth shut as I talked.. I laughed inside, knowing that if her dream of a new companion ever came true she’d pay him back a thousand words to his one. Then there was Jenny or was it Ginny? She kept telling me how lonely I must be as she caressed my arm without ceasing. She exuded physical attraction and I couldn’t wait for the evening to end . This went on for a couple of months till I told Elliot, "all right all ready. Stop!" I made it abundantly clear that I’d find my own female friend, if indeed I wanted one.
I’ve experienced that God is good and satisfies. Two days later as I was walking in the mall I went into a store and that’s when I saw her. I knew right away that she was meant for me.
I think the feeling was mutual. I say that because as soon as she saw me she gave every indication that she wanted me to come over and say hello. So I did. We were properly introduced by the store manager. I looked at her. Long blond hair. Big brown eyes that captivated my heart. A slender muscular body. And happy. Her vibrating body indicated that she was overjoyed to see me. Her name was Linda, and I just knew that God intended her to be my gal.
The next day Linda and I spent some time together, perambulating through the park. I told her of my Cindy and how there was a lonely place in my heart. I told her of my need for female companionship and asked her if she minded being secondary. I’d always treat her well, but she had to understand that Cindy was number one. She gave no indication of resentment. That clinched it.
Linda is living with me. Elliot learned of her, came over to see her, and left shaking his head. He’d never be able to understand. That’s all right with me. Linda sleeps in the same bed room with me, but not in my bed. I drew the line, though at first she tried to climb in. "Sorry young lady. The marriage bed is sanctified." She wasn’t happy, but seemed to understand, and yielded.
Our daily routine is pretty repetitive. We eat breakfast together, go for walks, and enjoy each other’s company through suppertime. I’ll turn on the TV for evening relaxation and she curls up on the couch by my side as we spend time together. I often talk to her about the world’s affairs and politics and the economy. She looks at me with her big brown eyes and hangs on my every word, never interrupting, just moving her self back and forth as she snuggles closer to me. Now and then she’ll lean up and give me a big wet kiss with her long pink tongue. Heaven! Just me and my Gal Linda. Too bad she sheds.
* * *
Idea for a Screenplay
Jack Lippman
So there’s this senior citizen rich guy, a widower, who begins to feel that he is finally losing it and decides to retire from the hands-on management of his life. Two of his daughters agree to split his real estate holdings and investment portfolio in exchange for a promise to take care of him in his declining years. His other daughter, somewhat of a free spirit, won’t have any part of what she sees as a sleazy deal on the part of her sisters. Dad promptly disinherits her and she runs off to Paris with a Frenchman.
Before long the two daughters are fighting over which one can do less for Dad and finally, fed up with them both, he sneaks out of the house in the middle of the night in a driving rainstorm. One of his old buddies, whom he doesn’t even recognize, manages to get him out of the torrent into a cheap motel and tries to convince him to go back to his daughters, but the old guy refuses. He realizes that he was wrong in disinheriting his third daughter and his old buddy tells him that she is actually coming back from Paris to help him, having heard of the shoddy treatment her sisters were providing.
While this tragic story was unfolding, a retired senior executive of the rich old guy’s former business was having his own family problems with his two sons, one of whom was a real bastard who spent his time lying, cheating and trying to convince his father that he was a better son than his brother. It’s clear that he’s after the full inheritance. This father also got involved in attempting to shelter his old boss when he was out in the storm. For doing that, the sadistic husband of one of the old man's daughters brutally beats and tortures him, blinding him in the process, to which his bastard of a son quietly acquiesces, allying himself with the two sisters who are just as greedy as he is!
Meanwhile, the sisters, tipped off as to their kid sister’s return from Paris and fearing that they might lose their inheritance, heed the advice of their new-found friend, the one whose father had been tortured and blinded, who helps them call in some tough guys to take care of the situation. By then the third daughter had found her father at a Motel 6, but sadly, the bad guys capture them both. One of them chokes the girl to death, but the old man manages to clobber him with a two by four and escape. Then, mustering his last bit of strength to carry her body out of the place in his arms, he dies. How sad.
As for the sisters, one of them had lost her husband in a fight with a servant over how she was treating her father. The other sister’s husband files divorce papers after he finds that she was having an affair with the rotten bastard whose father was blinded. The two girls end up fighting over him before he is deservedly killed by his brother. Finally one sister poisons the other and then commits suicide.
A few weeks later, we find the old man’s old buddy and the surviving son of the blinded man, also dead by this time, in a sleazy bar. After commiserating with each other over a few drinks, they agree that life sucks and wonder if they should tell this whole sad story to their writer buddy, Bill, who might even use it for the plot of a screenplay or something.
ONCE UPON A TIME
Sid Bolotin 3/6/10
Fifty years ago he is three.
And I am twenty-six.
I kneel behind him.
My arms embrace him and the fishing rod
Clutched in his tiny hands.
The pond’s water laps at his feet.
Twighlight’s glow lights the shore.
The bobber flutters,
And goes under.
I help him snap the rod upward
To set the hook, to reel in the Sunfish.
My son squeals with delight.
I swell with joy.
He’s my first-born
Learning to be.
While I learn fatherhood.
* * *
MY GAL LINDA
Harvey Sage
I know that Cindy and I were wedded for eternity. But that was the past and I must deal with today. The wedding rings we exchanged said "You Are Mine Forever". We meant it. But then she died. What was I supposed to do?
Fifty five years we were married. Kids, grand kids, we had everything one could wish for. Papa and Nana. That was us. We baby sat once a month and ate with our family quite often. We felt blessed by God and thanked Him each morning. Then the accident happened. And Cindy was laid to rest. I asked God, "why"?
I was assured that while her body or shell was interred, her soul is with the Master, waiting for me to "come home." I know she expected me to remain true, to avoid getting involved with another female, even if I were lonely. I was to have faith and be stalwart, a man true to his love, even in death. Sounds great and noble. Try it. Try living by yourself after fifty five years of having a companion.
I told my friends that I would never cheat on my wife, and getting involved after Cindy’s demise constituted, in my mind, cheating. Oh, I know plenty of guys my age who are widowers- ugh, I hate that word- have started a new life. They date, go over the houses of single women and have supper, and even stay the night.
"Joe" my friend Elliot said to me, "it’s a new lease on life. You spark a romance, go on trips, share new aspects of life. Don’t be a stick in the mud. Get out, get around, and get going- before it’s too late. You realize, you’re not getting any younger!"
I must confess, I was tempted. Going to bed alone each night was not fun. I missed home cooked meals, the sharing of watching TV together, shopping at local stores, comparing day’s events, and even having someone to help clean the house.
At first I tried to replace Cindy with her image. I would walk around the house talking to her. This lasted a month or two and then I realized, as Elliot told me, "I was going nuts". I needed someone to share my life with. But how could I bring a new female friend with me when I visited my kids or grand kids? And did I want to get chummy with hers? These things get complicated. You don’t only take on a new life, you lose parts of the one you had. I had a great thing going with Cindy. I didn’t want to lose one iota of our mutual companionship, one that I was still convinced would continue on beyond the Pearly Gates. Oh, what to do?
Elliot had the answer ready. "The world we live in centers itself around our own selves. That’s not the world’s doing, it is ours. We are an ego-centric bunch who even claim to be made in God’s image."
Well an image is an image- like a shadow. Not much resemblance between the object and the image, is there. Or do you enjoy looking through a glass darkly? If we are in God’s image then He has a great sense of humor. I mulled over what Joe was firing at me, and eventually came to a conclusion. I needed a companion. I longed for someone to talk to, to share my evenings with. And even to hug. But definitely, no sex.
So I let him fix me up. First there was Anna, or was she Hanna? She was comely and demure and a good conversationalist. That is to say, she kept her mouth shut as I talked.. I laughed inside, knowing that if her dream of a new companion ever came true she’d pay him back a thousand words to his one. Then there was Jenny or was it Ginny? She kept telling me how lonely I must be as she caressed my arm without ceasing. She exuded physical attraction and I couldn’t wait for the evening to end . This went on for a couple of months till I told Elliot, "all right all ready. Stop!" I made it abundantly clear that I’d find my own female friend, if indeed I wanted one.
I’ve experienced that God is good and satisfies. Two days later as I was walking in the mall I went into a store and that’s when I saw her. I knew right away that she was meant for me.
I think the feeling was mutual. I say that because as soon as she saw me she gave every indication that she wanted me to come over and say hello. So I did. We were properly introduced by the store manager. I looked at her. Long blond hair. Big brown eyes that captivated my heart. A slender muscular body. And happy. Her vibrating body indicated that she was overjoyed to see me. Her name was Linda, and I just knew that God intended her to be my gal.
The next day Linda and I spent some time together, perambulating through the park. I told her of my Cindy and how there was a lonely place in my heart. I told her of my need for female companionship and asked her if she minded being secondary. I’d always treat her well, but she had to understand that Cindy was number one. She gave no indication of resentment. That clinched it.
Linda is living with me. Elliot learned of her, came over to see her, and left shaking his head. He’d never be able to understand. That’s all right with me. Linda sleeps in the same bed room with me, but not in my bed. I drew the line, though at first she tried to climb in. "Sorry young lady. The marriage bed is sanctified." She wasn’t happy, but seemed to understand, and yielded.
Our daily routine is pretty repetitive. We eat breakfast together, go for walks, and enjoy each other’s company through suppertime. I’ll turn on the TV for evening relaxation and she curls up on the couch by my side as we spend time together. I often talk to her about the world’s affairs and politics and the economy. She looks at me with her big brown eyes and hangs on my every word, never interrupting, just moving her self back and forth as she snuggles closer to me. Now and then she’ll lean up and give me a big wet kiss with her long pink tongue. Heaven! Just me and my Gal Linda. Too bad she sheds.
* * *
Idea for a Screenplay
Jack Lippman
So there’s this senior citizen rich guy, a widower, who begins to feel that he is finally losing it and decides to retire from the hands-on management of his life. Two of his daughters agree to split his real estate holdings and investment portfolio in exchange for a promise to take care of him in his declining years. His other daughter, somewhat of a free spirit, won’t have any part of what she sees as a sleazy deal on the part of her sisters. Dad promptly disinherits her and she runs off to Paris with a Frenchman.
Before long the two daughters are fighting over which one can do less for Dad and finally, fed up with them both, he sneaks out of the house in the middle of the night in a driving rainstorm. One of his old buddies, whom he doesn’t even recognize, manages to get him out of the torrent into a cheap motel and tries to convince him to go back to his daughters, but the old guy refuses. He realizes that he was wrong in disinheriting his third daughter and his old buddy tells him that she is actually coming back from Paris to help him, having heard of the shoddy treatment her sisters were providing.
While this tragic story was unfolding, a retired senior executive of the rich old guy’s former business was having his own family problems with his two sons, one of whom was a real bastard who spent his time lying, cheating and trying to convince his father that he was a better son than his brother. It’s clear that he’s after the full inheritance. This father also got involved in attempting to shelter his old boss when he was out in the storm. For doing that, the sadistic husband of one of the old man's daughters brutally beats and tortures him, blinding him in the process, to which his bastard of a son quietly acquiesces, allying himself with the two sisters who are just as greedy as he is!
Meanwhile, the sisters, tipped off as to their kid sister’s return from Paris and fearing that they might lose their inheritance, heed the advice of their new-found friend, the one whose father had been tortured and blinded, who helps them call in some tough guys to take care of the situation. By then the third daughter had found her father at a Motel 6, but sadly, the bad guys capture them both. One of them chokes the girl to death, but the old man manages to clobber him with a two by four and escape. Then, mustering his last bit of strength to carry her body out of the place in his arms, he dies. How sad.
As for the sisters, one of them had lost her husband in a fight with a servant over how she was treating her father. The other sister’s husband files divorce papers after he finds that she was having an affair with the rotten bastard whose father was blinded. The two girls end up fighting over him before he is deservedly killed by his brother. Finally one sister poisons the other and then commits suicide.
A few weeks later, we find the old man’s old buddy and the surviving son of the blinded man, also dead by this time, in a sleazy bar. After commiserating with each other over a few drinks, they agree that life sucks and wonder if they should tell this whole sad story to their writer buddy, Bill, who might even use it for the plot of a screenplay or something.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
"Pauline" by Sid Bolotin
Well, well! This blog isn't going to be a solo operation! Sid Bolotin has graciously submitted "Pauline," a short story which also appeared in the March 2010 issue of Cascade Lakes News & Views. (I liked the "O'Henry" style ending.) Enjoy!
PAULINE
Sid Bolotin
Walking along the corridor toward the kitchen to get another breakfast tray, I passed room 101 and heard the patient calling, “Hello, hello, is anyone there?”
I pushed open the door, knocked to announce my presence, and approached the bed.
The woman lay quietly, snow-white hair elegantly coiffed, her body neatly enfolded by the bed-linens, and her arms lay on either side of her tiny body as if one of the aides had just finished arranging her.
The card above the bed gave her name as Pauline, and her year of birth as 1910.
“Pauline,” I asked, “do you need something? A nurse?”
“Oh, I don’t need anything,” she smiled, “I just want to chat for a bit. Will you sit with me?”
“Of course I will. I’m a volunteer here at hospice,” I said as I pulled a chair close to the bed.
“Hold my hand,” she whispered.
I took her thin, graceful hand in mine, marveling at the delicate network of veins that lay just below her translucent skin.
As Pauline closed her eyes and gently began to speak of her childhood in Russia. I was taken aback by her lucidness. My experience had been that patients of her age in the Care Center were either heavily sedated or severely agitated making coherent conversation impossible.
So, I sat entranced as she softly described her life as if she was reading from some inner teleprompter that was passing across her mind’s eye. She described how she left her beloved Ukraine at the urging of her sisters, her arrival in America, and finding the love of her life…a man who emigrated from a town close to hers near Kiev.
Thinking that she had dozed off I rose to leave, whereupon she fairly shouted, “Not yet! There’s more to tell!”
Although I had more breakfasts to deliver and patients to feed, I sat back down as she continued her recitation. It was as if her life was passing before her, and she needed some sort of closure of some unfinished business.
The room was warm, and I drifted in and out of wakefulness, hearing only pieces of her history.
A marriage, a child’s birth, death of her true love, family interactions as she raised her child alone, lovers taken, her son’s family, and her descent into old age. As she spoke, she had a gentle, peaceful smile, and even reached across to pat my hand that still clasped hers.
Suddenly I realized that Pauline had stopped speaking, and I almost bolted out of the chair.
“Pauline,” I called gently, thinking she had fallen asleep. Getting no response, I watched carefully for any signs of breathing as I’d been taught to do. Seeing none, I gently released her hand, placed it beside her as it was when I had first entered, and rose to get the a nurse to verify my conclusion.
Then it hit me…Pauline was my mother’s name, and if she had not died 26-years ago, she’d be 100 also. Her story was much like the patient’s. No wonder I had sensed a familiarity as Pauline spoke!
When I told the nurse about Pauline, she incredulously insisted, “Can’t be! The patient in 101 did pass. But she died last night. The family is on their way.”
PAULINE
Sid Bolotin
Walking along the corridor toward the kitchen to get another breakfast tray, I passed room 101 and heard the patient calling, “Hello, hello, is anyone there?”
I pushed open the door, knocked to announce my presence, and approached the bed.
The woman lay quietly, snow-white hair elegantly coiffed, her body neatly enfolded by the bed-linens, and her arms lay on either side of her tiny body as if one of the aides had just finished arranging her.
The card above the bed gave her name as Pauline, and her year of birth as 1910.
“Pauline,” I asked, “do you need something? A nurse?”
“Oh, I don’t need anything,” she smiled, “I just want to chat for a bit. Will you sit with me?”
“Of course I will. I’m a volunteer here at hospice,” I said as I pulled a chair close to the bed.
“Hold my hand,” she whispered.
I took her thin, graceful hand in mine, marveling at the delicate network of veins that lay just below her translucent skin.
As Pauline closed her eyes and gently began to speak of her childhood in Russia. I was taken aback by her lucidness. My experience had been that patients of her age in the Care Center were either heavily sedated or severely agitated making coherent conversation impossible.
So, I sat entranced as she softly described her life as if she was reading from some inner teleprompter that was passing across her mind’s eye. She described how she left her beloved Ukraine at the urging of her sisters, her arrival in America, and finding the love of her life…a man who emigrated from a town close to hers near Kiev.
Thinking that she had dozed off I rose to leave, whereupon she fairly shouted, “Not yet! There’s more to tell!”
Although I had more breakfasts to deliver and patients to feed, I sat back down as she continued her recitation. It was as if her life was passing before her, and she needed some sort of closure of some unfinished business.
The room was warm, and I drifted in and out of wakefulness, hearing only pieces of her history.
A marriage, a child’s birth, death of her true love, family interactions as she raised her child alone, lovers taken, her son’s family, and her descent into old age. As she spoke, she had a gentle, peaceful smile, and even reached across to pat my hand that still clasped hers.
Suddenly I realized that Pauline had stopped speaking, and I almost bolted out of the chair.
“Pauline,” I called gently, thinking she had fallen asleep. Getting no response, I watched carefully for any signs of breathing as I’d been taught to do. Seeing none, I gently released her hand, placed it beside her as it was when I had first entered, and rose to get the a nurse to verify my conclusion.
Then it hit me…Pauline was my mother’s name, and if she had not died 26-years ago, she’d be 100 also. Her story was much like the patient’s. No wonder I had sensed a familiarity as Pauline spoke!
When I told the nurse about Pauline, she incredulously insisted, “Can’t be! The patient in 101 did pass. But she died last night. The family is on their way.”
Friday, March 5, 2010
The Boca Nosher
Continuing with some of the short stories I wrote a few years back, here is "The Boca Nosher." Hope you enjoy it. Remember, this blog is available to all of you who might like to publish their short stories, essays, poetry, etc. online. Just E-mail your submissions to me at riart1@aol.com and I will include them.
The Boca Nosher
Jack Lippman
“See that guy over there? The one noshing on the crabmeat spread on crackers. That’s the fifth one I saw him take!”
“Yeah, Lou,” the older Costco employee replied. “I’ve been watching him too. He took a couple of the Hotpockets samples, too. Aren’t they awful? Come to think of it, I‘ve seen him in here a couple of times this week stuffing himself with our giveaway samples.”
“You’re right, I’ve seen him too. Look, look at him now! He has one of those baked ham chunks on a toothpick in his hand, and he’s grabbing another. He’s even shoving one into a baggie and slipping into his pocket for later.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him do that before too. Probably taking it home for supper”!
No longer smiling, the older man, obviously the possessor of some authority, removed a small camera from his shirt pocket and snapped a picture of the man they had been observing, who was by now sipping his fourth two ounce cup of Ocean Spray melon flavored cranberry juice and strolling over to the woman distributing Sara Lee miniature cherry filled strudel.
“It looks like he is about to leave the food section. I’d like to ask someone from security to follow him. Will you handle it for me, Lou”?
“Sure, consider it done.”
The next afternoon, the two of them reviewed the report from the surveillance team the security agency had assigned to the gentleman they had dubbed “the Boca Nosher.”
After leaving the Boca Raton Costco, he had driven to Delray Beach where he was seen to enter The Boys Farmers Market. Inside, he consumed several chunks of pineapple, four pieces of assorted melon, three paper cups of minestrone and five samples, on crackers, of their spinach dip. He was also noted to have shoved some of the fruit samples and crackers spread with spinach dip into baggies, apparently for later consumption. He then left the store, returned to his car, the report went on, where he was seen to make a phone call, and then re-entered the store repeating his entire nibbling process. This time he also sampled two small cups of a 2004 Australian merlot which was being offered in the wine section. He then drove north to Boynton Beach where the surveillance team lost him in BJ’s parking lot.
“Lou,” call the manager at BJs. See if they are having the same problem with this guy. You might even fax them the picture I took of him yesterday.”
A few minutes later, Lou entered his boss’s office with a smile on his face. “They know the guy, alright. In fact, yesterday, they phoned their regional office as to whether they could have him arrested. He was going back for his sixth sample of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, and the lady dishing it out called the manager. By the way, I faxed a copy of the picture you took to our Lantana store, and the manager up there just called me back. This guy is there at least three times a week, just like here, and in fact, he’s there right now, eating his third helping of a new pepperoni-gefilte fish-pizzette they’re featuring. Are we going to get that here, Boss”?
“Forget the pizette! Get on your cell, tell him to find some reason to hold the guy, and we’re going to drive up there right now. This guy’s noshing has got to be stopped. After all, there gotta be a limit”!
Later that afternoon, the two Costco managers, as well as one of the brothers who run The Boys and the manager of the Boynton BJ’s Food Department, were all assembled in the Lantana Costco’s training room. Seated at a table before them, sipping the Diet Pepsi with which they had provided him, was a middle-aged man wearing a blue golf shirt, khaki pants and sneakers. He had a smile on his face.
“Okay, Mister,” the Costco Manager from Boca started off, “What’s with you? All of our places, Costco, The Boys, BJ’s, we all offer food samples. People try them and maybe some of them buy the product. That’s what it’s all about! But none of us are running an ‘all-you-can-eat buffet.’ You just can’t go around taking unlimited quantities of whatever samples we’re offering. Get it? Either you change your behavior, or we’ll ban you from all of our places of business. Okay”?
“Nope, you can’t do that,” the smiling man replied. With that he pulled out his wallet and badge, identifying himself as an undercover food-handling inspector from the Palm Beach County Health Department.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me now,” he said as he got up from his chair, “I have to get over to Sam’s Club right away. I understand they’re offering sample mini Buffalo wings and cubes of imported Gouda cheese this afternoon.”
He waved back as he walked toward the door, “Bye now, and thanks for the Pepsi.”
The Boca Nosher
Jack Lippman
“See that guy over there? The one noshing on the crabmeat spread on crackers. That’s the fifth one I saw him take!”
“Yeah, Lou,” the older Costco employee replied. “I’ve been watching him too. He took a couple of the Hotpockets samples, too. Aren’t they awful? Come to think of it, I‘ve seen him in here a couple of times this week stuffing himself with our giveaway samples.”
“You’re right, I’ve seen him too. Look, look at him now! He has one of those baked ham chunks on a toothpick in his hand, and he’s grabbing another. He’s even shoving one into a baggie and slipping into his pocket for later.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him do that before too. Probably taking it home for supper”!
No longer smiling, the older man, obviously the possessor of some authority, removed a small camera from his shirt pocket and snapped a picture of the man they had been observing, who was by now sipping his fourth two ounce cup of Ocean Spray melon flavored cranberry juice and strolling over to the woman distributing Sara Lee miniature cherry filled strudel.
“It looks like he is about to leave the food section. I’d like to ask someone from security to follow him. Will you handle it for me, Lou”?
“Sure, consider it done.”
The next afternoon, the two of them reviewed the report from the surveillance team the security agency had assigned to the gentleman they had dubbed “the Boca Nosher.”
After leaving the Boca Raton Costco, he had driven to Delray Beach where he was seen to enter The Boys Farmers Market. Inside, he consumed several chunks of pineapple, four pieces of assorted melon, three paper cups of minestrone and five samples, on crackers, of their spinach dip. He was also noted to have shoved some of the fruit samples and crackers spread with spinach dip into baggies, apparently for later consumption. He then left the store, returned to his car, the report went on, where he was seen to make a phone call, and then re-entered the store repeating his entire nibbling process. This time he also sampled two small cups of a 2004 Australian merlot which was being offered in the wine section. He then drove north to Boynton Beach where the surveillance team lost him in BJ’s parking lot.
“Lou,” call the manager at BJs. See if they are having the same problem with this guy. You might even fax them the picture I took of him yesterday.”
A few minutes later, Lou entered his boss’s office with a smile on his face. “They know the guy, alright. In fact, yesterday, they phoned their regional office as to whether they could have him arrested. He was going back for his sixth sample of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, and the lady dishing it out called the manager. By the way, I faxed a copy of the picture you took to our Lantana store, and the manager up there just called me back. This guy is there at least three times a week, just like here, and in fact, he’s there right now, eating his third helping of a new pepperoni-gefilte fish-pizzette they’re featuring. Are we going to get that here, Boss”?
“Forget the pizette! Get on your cell, tell him to find some reason to hold the guy, and we’re going to drive up there right now. This guy’s noshing has got to be stopped. After all, there gotta be a limit”!
Later that afternoon, the two Costco managers, as well as one of the brothers who run The Boys and the manager of the Boynton BJ’s Food Department, were all assembled in the Lantana Costco’s training room. Seated at a table before them, sipping the Diet Pepsi with which they had provided him, was a middle-aged man wearing a blue golf shirt, khaki pants and sneakers. He had a smile on his face.
“Okay, Mister,” the Costco Manager from Boca started off, “What’s with you? All of our places, Costco, The Boys, BJ’s, we all offer food samples. People try them and maybe some of them buy the product. That’s what it’s all about! But none of us are running an ‘all-you-can-eat buffet.’ You just can’t go around taking unlimited quantities of whatever samples we’re offering. Get it? Either you change your behavior, or we’ll ban you from all of our places of business. Okay”?
“Nope, you can’t do that,” the smiling man replied. With that he pulled out his wallet and badge, identifying himself as an undercover food-handling inspector from the Palm Beach County Health Department.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me now,” he said as he got up from his chair, “I have to get over to Sam’s Club right away. I understand they’re offering sample mini Buffalo wings and cubes of imported Gouda cheese this afternoon.”
He waved back as he walked toward the door, “Bye now, and thanks for the Pepsi.”
Monday, February 8, 2010
Let's Start with "Sarge"!
From now on this blog will be cruising down a literary stream! Initially, I am going to periodically post some of the short stories I wrote for a writers group in the Cascade Lakes community (Boynton Beach, FL) a few years ago. Each of you is invited to submit their short stories, essays or poetry (e-mail them to me at riart1@aol.com)for inclusion in the blog which I hope will become a true potpourri of all levels ( good, bad or otherwise) of original writing. And now, although it's nowhere near Halloween, here's
Sarge
Jack Lippman
“Sarge, it’s the middle of fall already, and up north, we call weather like this the ‘dog days of summer.’ It’s August weather at the end of October! Boy, I’m hot and itchy.”
The lanky sergeant looked disdainfully at his companion on the wagon as it bumped its way, pulled by four tired mules, along the old military trail that ran down the east coast of Florida. It was 1903, five years after the Spanish-American War, but the government still felt the forts running up and down the Florida peninsula had to be maintained and supplied, to protect the country’s southern flank.
“Sarge,” the young soldier continued. “When are we going to get to Fort Lauderdale? I sure could use a real bed for a change instead of camping in the woods along here every night, with all of the bugs and snakes and things out there.”
“Shut up, soldier,” the obviously irritated sergeant replied. “We’re going to camp around here tonight, clean up the wagon, rest the mules and maybe get to Lauderdale tomorrow. Now shut your damn mouth and stop your bitching about everything. We might as well stop right now, so you can get started feeding them mules and tying down the cargo. Move it, soldier. And stop calling me ‘Sarge’! You call me Sergeant O’Toole, you hear, none of this ‘Sarge’ crap, any more.”
And as he pulled the wagon to a stop, Sergeant O’Toole raised his bullwhip, usually reserved for use with the mules, and flicked its lash out across the young soldier’s back, as he was dismounting. The soldier screamed with pain and turned to face the sergeant.
“You dumb bastard! Why did you do that? Get down from the wagon, Sarge, and fight like a man, if you are one.”
The infuriated sergeant raised the bullwhip again and sent it screaming through the air, wrapping its lash around the soldier’s arm and shoulder, throwing him to the ground.
“That’ll teach you to give me some respect, soldier,” he called out as he climbed down from the wagon. But he never saw the soldier rise, turn and aim his Springfield rifle directly at his stomach, which, as the fiery round of steel tore into it, spurt forth blood and innards in several directions simultaneously.
The mules bolted and tore off into the woods, dragging the wagon behind them. The soldier dug a shallow hole and buried the still warm body of Sergeant Timothy O’Toole in the sandy Florida soil, and hiked eastward, eventually reaching the ocean near the village of Boynton, where he found a job and settled down, quite correctly figuring the Army would never find him.
A century later, Sue and Sam Pincus were lying awake in bed in their Cascade Lakes home.
“Sam,” Sue asked. “Do you feel … I don’t know … sort of funny tonight? You know I’ve gotten up about three times already and looked through the house. I’ve been hearing, I think, noises. Almost as if we had a break-in and someone is in here with us, but everything is locked and the alarm didn’t go off. Sam, I swear something is wrong, but I don’t know what.”
Raising himself up on his elbows, he muttered, “Then, it’s not just me. I can’t sleep either. I can’t put my finger on it, but something weird is going on. Feel my hands, honey.”
“They’re ice cold,” she replied, “but mine are too. Let’s get up and see if we can find out what’s the matter. I’ll make some coffee.”
But they didn’t have time to get out of the bedroom. Bursting through the bedroom doorway, in filthy, dirt-covered rags, with disheveled hair flying in all directions, came a ponderous hulk, which because it had a head, arms and legs, appeared to be a man. And in its mid-section, a gaping wound, still spewing gore, dripped blood onto the rug. In his right hand was a bullwhip, which the creature was swinging around the room in whistling ellipses. And from his throat, there came a rasping moan.
“A hundred years, and Sergeant O'Toole ain’t dead yet, despite this hole in my guts … but at least I was at rest where that bastard buried me alive … until you put this damn house on top of where I lay. For years I crawled from my grave at night to get what to eat, and you covered it all with a concrete slab. Have you no respect for me? A hundred years, and Sergeant O’Toole ain’t dead yet!”
With that he snapped the whip again, its tongue curling painfully around Sam’s leg. The pain was excruciating.
Sam screamed, and sat up in bed. Sue screamed too, and grabbed her husband and held him, as the first rays of morning sun crept into the house.
“Hold me close, Sam, I’m frightened.”
“There’s no one here to be frightened of anymore, Sue. I must have had a nightmare,” he said.
“Come off of it, Sam,” Sue said. “Let me look at your leg, because I think we were both having the same nightmare. And you’re right. Whoever, or whatever was here is gone now. I can feel it.”
The red welt around Sam’s ankle was clearly visible.
“I must have tied my shoelaces too tightly yesterday,” he said. Let’s leave it at that, Sue. Okay”?
“Sam, all you ever wear are loafers! But all right, Sam, we’ll leave it at that.”
Two weeks later, the real estate agent told them they could get a great price for their house, looked at them curiously and suggested that they had better get the bloodstains off of the rug in the bedroom before she brought any prospective buyers around.
Sarge
Jack Lippman
“Sarge, it’s the middle of fall already, and up north, we call weather like this the ‘dog days of summer.’ It’s August weather at the end of October! Boy, I’m hot and itchy.”
The lanky sergeant looked disdainfully at his companion on the wagon as it bumped its way, pulled by four tired mules, along the old military trail that ran down the east coast of Florida. It was 1903, five years after the Spanish-American War, but the government still felt the forts running up and down the Florida peninsula had to be maintained and supplied, to protect the country’s southern flank.
“Sarge,” the young soldier continued. “When are we going to get to Fort Lauderdale? I sure could use a real bed for a change instead of camping in the woods along here every night, with all of the bugs and snakes and things out there.”
“Shut up, soldier,” the obviously irritated sergeant replied. “We’re going to camp around here tonight, clean up the wagon, rest the mules and maybe get to Lauderdale tomorrow. Now shut your damn mouth and stop your bitching about everything. We might as well stop right now, so you can get started feeding them mules and tying down the cargo. Move it, soldier. And stop calling me ‘Sarge’! You call me Sergeant O’Toole, you hear, none of this ‘Sarge’ crap, any more.”
And as he pulled the wagon to a stop, Sergeant O’Toole raised his bullwhip, usually reserved for use with the mules, and flicked its lash out across the young soldier’s back, as he was dismounting. The soldier screamed with pain and turned to face the sergeant.
“You dumb bastard! Why did you do that? Get down from the wagon, Sarge, and fight like a man, if you are one.”
The infuriated sergeant raised the bullwhip again and sent it screaming through the air, wrapping its lash around the soldier’s arm and shoulder, throwing him to the ground.
“That’ll teach you to give me some respect, soldier,” he called out as he climbed down from the wagon. But he never saw the soldier rise, turn and aim his Springfield rifle directly at his stomach, which, as the fiery round of steel tore into it, spurt forth blood and innards in several directions simultaneously.
The mules bolted and tore off into the woods, dragging the wagon behind them. The soldier dug a shallow hole and buried the still warm body of Sergeant Timothy O’Toole in the sandy Florida soil, and hiked eastward, eventually reaching the ocean near the village of Boynton, where he found a job and settled down, quite correctly figuring the Army would never find him.
A century later, Sue and Sam Pincus were lying awake in bed in their Cascade Lakes home.
“Sam,” Sue asked. “Do you feel … I don’t know … sort of funny tonight? You know I’ve gotten up about three times already and looked through the house. I’ve been hearing, I think, noises. Almost as if we had a break-in and someone is in here with us, but everything is locked and the alarm didn’t go off. Sam, I swear something is wrong, but I don’t know what.”
Raising himself up on his elbows, he muttered, “Then, it’s not just me. I can’t sleep either. I can’t put my finger on it, but something weird is going on. Feel my hands, honey.”
“They’re ice cold,” she replied, “but mine are too. Let’s get up and see if we can find out what’s the matter. I’ll make some coffee.”
But they didn’t have time to get out of the bedroom. Bursting through the bedroom doorway, in filthy, dirt-covered rags, with disheveled hair flying in all directions, came a ponderous hulk, which because it had a head, arms and legs, appeared to be a man. And in its mid-section, a gaping wound, still spewing gore, dripped blood onto the rug. In his right hand was a bullwhip, which the creature was swinging around the room in whistling ellipses. And from his throat, there came a rasping moan.
“A hundred years, and Sergeant O'Toole ain’t dead yet, despite this hole in my guts … but at least I was at rest where that bastard buried me alive … until you put this damn house on top of where I lay. For years I crawled from my grave at night to get what to eat, and you covered it all with a concrete slab. Have you no respect for me? A hundred years, and Sergeant O’Toole ain’t dead yet!”
With that he snapped the whip again, its tongue curling painfully around Sam’s leg. The pain was excruciating.
Sam screamed, and sat up in bed. Sue screamed too, and grabbed her husband and held him, as the first rays of morning sun crept into the house.
“Hold me close, Sam, I’m frightened.”
“There’s no one here to be frightened of anymore, Sue. I must have had a nightmare,” he said.
“Come off of it, Sam,” Sue said. “Let me look at your leg, because I think we were both having the same nightmare. And you’re right. Whoever, or whatever was here is gone now. I can feel it.”
The red welt around Sam’s ankle was clearly visible.
“I must have tied my shoelaces too tightly yesterday,” he said. Let’s leave it at that, Sue. Okay”?
“Sam, all you ever wear are loafers! But all right, Sam, we’ll leave it at that.”
Two weeks later, the real estate agent told them they could get a great price for their house, looked at them curiously and suggested that they had better get the bloodstains off of the rug in the bedroom before she brought any prospective buyers around.
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