Sid Bolotin is a regular contributor to Cascade Lakes News & Views and is happy to find this blog will publish his pieces which News & Views, for one reason or another, has rejected. Here along with some of my haiku is another piece by Sid, originally turned down by News & Views.
Haiku, as I have pointed out in the past, is a form of Japanese poetry, usually inspired by nature, and not necessarily rhyming, which maintains a five syllable, seven syllable, five syllable pattern in its three lines. There are other versions but this is the most simple. Here is a Haiku called “August Branches” which I hope you enjoy. (You are invited to submit your Haiku, as well as other original contributions to this blog.)
August Branches
Twigs cold in winter
Awake when warmed by sunshine
Calling forth new buds.
The sweet smell of rain
Mixes with the aroma
Of green things growing.
Leaves and flowers weigh
Heavy on August branches
Refusing to snap.
A bird sees all this
And circles down from the sky
Looking for its lunch.
With your brush and ink
Commit this scene to canvas
Or leave it as words.
JL
* * * * * *
CELIA AND JAKE
SID BOLOTIN 4/3/05
Celia leaned against the wall and watched her spittle dribbling from her mouth in a long string toward the ground. The concrete rasped into her forehead, and she dry-heaved once more as tears leaked from her eyes. She had just raced out of Benny’s Ice House, a local watering hole filled to capacity for the nightly happy hour.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered, “why did I let Jake kiss me in front of all the guys at the bar? He’ll kill me when he finds out about me.” She turned her head and saw Jake approaching, beer in hand.
“Hey, hon. what’s the matter? I thought you wanted me to kiss you. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry, c’mon back inside.”
Celia squinted at Jake’s bulk through her tear-filled eyes, and her heart filled with gratitude as she saw the concern in his eyes. Looking past his shoulder she caught sight of his beloved Harley parked outside the bar’s door. When she first arrived in Florida from Texas, Jake and his band of local Harley riders who hung out at Benny’s had befriended her. Melinda, her cousin who tended bar there, had told her how great the group was…especially Jake. What had started out innocently enough had blossomed into a deep caring for this gray-haired, slightly paunchy, grandfather who was the leader of the pack of bikers…the alpha male.
“Oh, Jake,” she blubbered into his shoulder as he hugged her, “I’m sorry that I freaked out when you kissed me. I never expected it. I care for you, but I didn’t expect that from you. You don’t know anything about me. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Celia, darlin’ I know all I need to. We all have pasts. It don’t matter none. All my kids are grown, and my grandkids are scattered. All I got now is my Harley and my pack of riders. I just want you to be my riding buddy, my woman, and my friend. I know from your cousin, Melinda, that you’re not much younger than me with no family of your own. You’re a handsome woman with a great body, green eyes, and reddish hair. So why not let me be your man? These past weeks we’ve gotten to know each other and to like each other’s company. You can’t deny that, Celia.”
“Jake, in my heart what you say rings true, and I’d love to be your woman; but things need to be said about my life before I came to Florida. This last month has been a dream come true for me. We’ve boozed, schmoozed, and ridden together, but I’m not sure that I’m ready to go all the way with you. The truth is that I’m scared.”
Jake removed the bandana from around his head and wiped Celia’s eyes and mouth gently in an action that was unexpected from a burly, pony-tailed, grizzly-looking, aged biker. “Sweet thing,” he cooed as he coaxed her back toward the entrance to Benny’s, “ I know all about you. After Melinda told me your whole story, I was blown away, and a bit angry; but then I realized how much I cared about you, how much I wanted to be with you. You can start a new life with my pack and me. They all love you too, and moreover they admire your guts. Now come back in, and let’s tell ‘em all that you and I are a twosome.”
Celia let Jake’s arm support her as he guided her to the door and whispered, “Thank you, God, for letting this be the happy ending to my year-long transformation from Saul to Celia.”
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.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
A Story From Sid
Here's a nice one from the pen of Sid Bolotin. In 2004, it was "rejected" by Cascade Lakes News & Views, but here there are no such constraints. Incidentally, this blog is being worked on by a "pro" and for a while, may appear a little different. Bear with us and meanwhile, enjoy Sid's story. Jack
LOIS IN LOVE
Sid Bolotin
Lois played out the last bridge hand of the afternoon with her usual skill and announced, “ Small slam, bid and made. Thanks, girls. Now I have to scoot home to make Jack his favorite supper. He’s coming over tonight for a romantic evening.”
The other card players in the clubhouse of Cascade Lakes were also departing to return to their homes after the usual Tuesday afternoon bridge games, and Lois felt delicious to be part of this retirement scene in Florida. She and her new boyfriend, Jack, had recently moved from up North into this gated, retirement community. She as a single woman from New England, he as a widower from New York whose wife had suddenly died shortly after they had bought their retirement home.
“You know, Adele,” Lois said as she walked to her car arm-in-arm with her new best friend, “I’m so glad that I joined the Singles Club. That’s where I met Jack and fell in love with him. I’ve never been so happy. At 55 I’m one of the younger people here, but this is a wonderfully accepting community in which I can make a new life.”
“I’m delighted for you, Lois. Everyone comments on what a lovely couple you two are. Your pale skin, bright, green eyes, and long, reddish hair compliment his olive, tanned complexion. He’s only slightly balding and a very trim 65. You both play tennis and are physically fit. He was so, so sad before he met you. Now, you two can rebuild your lives together. I know that you told me that you’re all alone because your family died off so unexpectedly.”
After dropping Adele off at her house, Lois drove into her driveway, parked her car, and sat staring through the windshield. “God,” she mused quietly to herself, “I’m so lucky. My whole life has turned around. I feel like I belong, that I’m finally in the right place. It’s taken me so many years. The decision that I made five years ago was the right one, after all. No one knows me here, and I’ve made a brand new start. Jack loves me, and I certainly love him. He doesn’t probe with lots of questions, so my earlier life can remain a closed book. Like me, he’s just happy that we’ve found each other.”
Five years earlier in the therapist’s office the loud wailing bounced off the soundproofed walls: “I can’t live like this any more, Dr.Myers. My mental anguish gives me no peace. I’m in turmoil all the time. I can’t take it anymore. I’m ready to commit suicide rather than continue this way. Talk-therapy and spiritual counseling have done nothing. I’m stuck with who I am.”
“Well,” Dr. Meyers said, “maybe it is time for you to take the final step. That probably would be best for you. With my continued support you should be able to cope. And, hopefully you’ll flourish. We’ve talked about this for a long time. You’ve certainly exhausted all other possible avenues. It’s worth a shot in my opinion. But the final choice has to be yours.”
“ I know that, Dr. Meyers. You’ve been great this past year, and I believe that I’m physically and mentally ready. I know that my surgeon, Dr. Zarren has spoken to you, and he’s in agreement.”
“What name will you settle on for the new you, Larry?”
“Lois, I’ll be Lois. That was my mother’s name; so I’ll be Lois after my sex-change operation.”
LOIS IN LOVE
Sid Bolotin
Lois played out the last bridge hand of the afternoon with her usual skill and announced, “ Small slam, bid and made. Thanks, girls. Now I have to scoot home to make Jack his favorite supper. He’s coming over tonight for a romantic evening.”
The other card players in the clubhouse of Cascade Lakes were also departing to return to their homes after the usual Tuesday afternoon bridge games, and Lois felt delicious to be part of this retirement scene in Florida. She and her new boyfriend, Jack, had recently moved from up North into this gated, retirement community. She as a single woman from New England, he as a widower from New York whose wife had suddenly died shortly after they had bought their retirement home.
“You know, Adele,” Lois said as she walked to her car arm-in-arm with her new best friend, “I’m so glad that I joined the Singles Club. That’s where I met Jack and fell in love with him. I’ve never been so happy. At 55 I’m one of the younger people here, but this is a wonderfully accepting community in which I can make a new life.”
“I’m delighted for you, Lois. Everyone comments on what a lovely couple you two are. Your pale skin, bright, green eyes, and long, reddish hair compliment his olive, tanned complexion. He’s only slightly balding and a very trim 65. You both play tennis and are physically fit. He was so, so sad before he met you. Now, you two can rebuild your lives together. I know that you told me that you’re all alone because your family died off so unexpectedly.”
After dropping Adele off at her house, Lois drove into her driveway, parked her car, and sat staring through the windshield. “God,” she mused quietly to herself, “I’m so lucky. My whole life has turned around. I feel like I belong, that I’m finally in the right place. It’s taken me so many years. The decision that I made five years ago was the right one, after all. No one knows me here, and I’ve made a brand new start. Jack loves me, and I certainly love him. He doesn’t probe with lots of questions, so my earlier life can remain a closed book. Like me, he’s just happy that we’ve found each other.”
Five years earlier in the therapist’s office the loud wailing bounced off the soundproofed walls: “I can’t live like this any more, Dr.Myers. My mental anguish gives me no peace. I’m in turmoil all the time. I can’t take it anymore. I’m ready to commit suicide rather than continue this way. Talk-therapy and spiritual counseling have done nothing. I’m stuck with who I am.”
“Well,” Dr. Meyers said, “maybe it is time for you to take the final step. That probably would be best for you. With my continued support you should be able to cope. And, hopefully you’ll flourish. We’ve talked about this for a long time. You’ve certainly exhausted all other possible avenues. It’s worth a shot in my opinion. But the final choice has to be yours.”
“ I know that, Dr. Meyers. You’ve been great this past year, and I believe that I’m physically and mentally ready. I know that my surgeon, Dr. Zarren has spoken to you, and he’s in agreement.”
“What name will you settle on for the new you, Larry?”
“Lois, I’ll be Lois. That was my mother’s name; so I’ll be Lois after my sex-change operation.”
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Ophelia
We ask you again to please submit your contributions to this blog. Poems, short stories, essays, whatever, and they will be posted. Send them to me at riart1@aol.com
And here is a short story I wrote a few years ago. If you have read Hamlet, you might enjoy it. And if you haven't, you still might like it. So here's
Ophelia
Jack Lippman
“Betty, I just cannot stand him any longer! One day he says he loves me, and caresses and kisses me. And the next moment, he turns his back on me, and mumbles curses about me. And calls me a whore. I just don’t understand. I don’t care what my father wants. I will not marry him! Even if someday he might be King. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s out of his mind and I don’t want a lifetime of that. And sometimes, Betty, sometimes, I think that I cannot live without his love.”
Elizabeth, Ophelia’s companion and handmaiden, turned to the distraught girl, stroking her hair. “Ophelia, I wish I could help you. But this is all between Hamlet and you. Oh, I too see him walking around dreamily, with that blank expression on his face, and I can understand how that puzzles you. But, you have to make up your mind. Why don’t you go for a walk by yourself and think it all out. It’s so nice and calm alongside the brook down past the elm trees, with the fragrant breezes wafting in over the water. Go for a walk, Ophelia. Maybe it will clear your head.”
Ophelia nodded, and with a wave to her friend, slowly walked down to the brook. But however peaceful it was there, the questions which perplexed her still had no answers. Removing her slippers, she stepped into the brook and let the cooling ripples flow over her feet. For the first time in weeks, she smiled, as the water acted almost medicinally on her being. She took another step into the water, and another. She was no longer thinking of Hamlet. The water was up to her knees now, as she waded toward the center of the stream, where the water might cover her completely and then she would not have to seek answers to questions any longer.
* * * *
“Ophie,” Dr. Strong replied. “Even if there were such a thing as reincarnation, and you had been someone else in another life, you wouldn’t be able to remember that prior existence. People who believe in reincarnation believe that some sort of life force continues on and on, but the people who have been reincarnated, are just incidental to the process. They are just vessels, carrying it, and don’t remember the prior vessels, or people, who may have carried the same life they are carrying, but with another identity in the past.” “But Doctor Strong,” the girl answered, “I feel so strongly that I actually am her!”
“Listen,” he continued. “Ophelia was not even a person. She was a fictitious character in a play by William Shakespeare. If you had been someone in the past, in another life, it would have to have been a real person, or living thing. Ophie, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, how can you be the reincarnation of someone who was never alive in the first place, and just a figment of a writer’s imagination?
“I don’t know,” Ophie replied as Dr. Strong got up and looked out of the window. “Shakespeare wrote about her four hundred years ago, and she is still with us, whenever Hamlet is performed, or someone reads the play. You know, Dr. Strong, thousands of students read that play every year, all over the world. Could it be that all of that attention over the years has actually given real life to her, even if the only birth she had was in Shakespeare’s mind? I often think about that. And I really feel that I am the original Ophelia, recreated in my twenty-first century body. And it so bothers me that nobody believes me. At least you aren’t laughing at me, Dr. Strong, as the others do.”
“I think you have been reading a bit too much, Ophie. How many times have your read Hamlet?”
“About thirty,” the girl responded, obviously getting no satisfaction from her discussion with her favorite professor at the college where she was a senior.
“Look, Ophie. It’s a lovely autumn day out there. Why don’t you just take a walk and try to think this all out. I was just glancing out the window and noticed the sunlight glancing off the ripples of the stream down past the elm trees. It’s very calm and restful down there and a walk in the brisk air might be all you need to clear up some of these ideas in your head. And I have to get to a class in about five minutes.
Ophie got up and with a farewell wave to her friend, left his office and slowly walked down to the brook. But however peaceful it was there, the questions which perplexed her still had no answers. Removing her shoes, she stepped into the brook and let the cooling ripples flow over her feet. For the first time in weeks, she smiled, as the water acted almost medicinally on her being. She took another step into the water, and another, and then suddenly, her reverie was broken by the sound of someone splashing into the stream behind her.
A firm hand grasped her around the waist and pulled her back toward the shore.
Ophelia looked at the young man who was now helping her onto the grassy bank of the brook. She was sure that she had never seen him before, but yet he was vaguely familiar.
“Ophelia,” he said with a smile. “I’m not going to let you do that again. You may have gotten away with it once, but I’ll be damned if I am going to let you do it a second time. You know, dear, that I love you.”
“Hamlet?” the dripping girl tentatively inquired, her voice quivering with a growing, almost electric, recognition of the fulfillment of four centuries of anticipation.
“You don’t recognize me, after all the happy times we’ve spent together, Ophelia?”
Ophie looked down. “Some of them were not so happy, Hamlet. You know, you can be quite cruel,” she answered.
“If I have been cruel to you, Ophelia, I am sorry. I have had a lot on my mind lately.”
And with that, Hamlet kissed her gently on the cheek. By that time a small crowd had gathered, and the wail of an approaching siren could be heard in the distance.
(What do you think happened? Did she drown and as she died, she imagined that Hamlet had come to rescue her? Did a passer-by rescue her, but in her mind, she believed him to be Hamlet? Or, was it actually Hamlet, or the reincarnation of Hamlet, rescuing the reincarnation of Ophelia, in which case it wouldn’t matter if the girl were alive or dead. That approaching siren might be an ambulance or police car, called to the scene of a drowning, or a near-drowning. It might help to ask the people in the small crowd whether the girl were alive or dead. But does it really matter, so long as in her mind, she was reconciled with Hamlet.)
And here is a short story I wrote a few years ago. If you have read Hamlet, you might enjoy it. And if you haven't, you still might like it. So here's
Ophelia
Jack Lippman
“Betty, I just cannot stand him any longer! One day he says he loves me, and caresses and kisses me. And the next moment, he turns his back on me, and mumbles curses about me. And calls me a whore. I just don’t understand. I don’t care what my father wants. I will not marry him! Even if someday he might be King. Sometimes I get the feeling he’s out of his mind and I don’t want a lifetime of that. And sometimes, Betty, sometimes, I think that I cannot live without his love.”
Elizabeth, Ophelia’s companion and handmaiden, turned to the distraught girl, stroking her hair. “Ophelia, I wish I could help you. But this is all between Hamlet and you. Oh, I too see him walking around dreamily, with that blank expression on his face, and I can understand how that puzzles you. But, you have to make up your mind. Why don’t you go for a walk by yourself and think it all out. It’s so nice and calm alongside the brook down past the elm trees, with the fragrant breezes wafting in over the water. Go for a walk, Ophelia. Maybe it will clear your head.”
Ophelia nodded, and with a wave to her friend, slowly walked down to the brook. But however peaceful it was there, the questions which perplexed her still had no answers. Removing her slippers, she stepped into the brook and let the cooling ripples flow over her feet. For the first time in weeks, she smiled, as the water acted almost medicinally on her being. She took another step into the water, and another. She was no longer thinking of Hamlet. The water was up to her knees now, as she waded toward the center of the stream, where the water might cover her completely and then she would not have to seek answers to questions any longer.
* * * *
“Ophie,” Dr. Strong replied. “Even if there were such a thing as reincarnation, and you had been someone else in another life, you wouldn’t be able to remember that prior existence. People who believe in reincarnation believe that some sort of life force continues on and on, but the people who have been reincarnated, are just incidental to the process. They are just vessels, carrying it, and don’t remember the prior vessels, or people, who may have carried the same life they are carrying, but with another identity in the past.” “But Doctor Strong,” the girl answered, “I feel so strongly that I actually am her!”
“Listen,” he continued. “Ophelia was not even a person. She was a fictitious character in a play by William Shakespeare. If you had been someone in the past, in another life, it would have to have been a real person, or living thing. Ophie, if there is such a thing as reincarnation, how can you be the reincarnation of someone who was never alive in the first place, and just a figment of a writer’s imagination?
“I don’t know,” Ophie replied as Dr. Strong got up and looked out of the window. “Shakespeare wrote about her four hundred years ago, and she is still with us, whenever Hamlet is performed, or someone reads the play. You know, Dr. Strong, thousands of students read that play every year, all over the world. Could it be that all of that attention over the years has actually given real life to her, even if the only birth she had was in Shakespeare’s mind? I often think about that. And I really feel that I am the original Ophelia, recreated in my twenty-first century body. And it so bothers me that nobody believes me. At least you aren’t laughing at me, Dr. Strong, as the others do.”
“I think you have been reading a bit too much, Ophie. How many times have your read Hamlet?”
“About thirty,” the girl responded, obviously getting no satisfaction from her discussion with her favorite professor at the college where she was a senior.
“Look, Ophie. It’s a lovely autumn day out there. Why don’t you just take a walk and try to think this all out. I was just glancing out the window and noticed the sunlight glancing off the ripples of the stream down past the elm trees. It’s very calm and restful down there and a walk in the brisk air might be all you need to clear up some of these ideas in your head. And I have to get to a class in about five minutes.
Ophie got up and with a farewell wave to her friend, left his office and slowly walked down to the brook. But however peaceful it was there, the questions which perplexed her still had no answers. Removing her shoes, she stepped into the brook and let the cooling ripples flow over her feet. For the first time in weeks, she smiled, as the water acted almost medicinally on her being. She took another step into the water, and another, and then suddenly, her reverie was broken by the sound of someone splashing into the stream behind her.
A firm hand grasped her around the waist and pulled her back toward the shore.
Ophelia looked at the young man who was now helping her onto the grassy bank of the brook. She was sure that she had never seen him before, but yet he was vaguely familiar.
“Ophelia,” he said with a smile. “I’m not going to let you do that again. You may have gotten away with it once, but I’ll be damned if I am going to let you do it a second time. You know, dear, that I love you.”
“Hamlet?” the dripping girl tentatively inquired, her voice quivering with a growing, almost electric, recognition of the fulfillment of four centuries of anticipation.
“You don’t recognize me, after all the happy times we’ve spent together, Ophelia?”
Ophie looked down. “Some of them were not so happy, Hamlet. You know, you can be quite cruel,” she answered.
“If I have been cruel to you, Ophelia, I am sorry. I have had a lot on my mind lately.”
And with that, Hamlet kissed her gently on the cheek. By that time a small crowd had gathered, and the wail of an approaching siren could be heard in the distance.
(What do you think happened? Did she drown and as she died, she imagined that Hamlet had come to rescue her? Did a passer-by rescue her, but in her mind, she believed him to be Hamlet? Or, was it actually Hamlet, or the reincarnation of Hamlet, rescuing the reincarnation of Ophelia, in which case it wouldn’t matter if the girl were alive or dead. That approaching siren might be an ambulance or police car, called to the scene of a drowning, or a near-drowning. It might help to ask the people in the small crowd whether the girl were alive or dead. But does it really matter, so long as in her mind, she was reconciled with Hamlet.)
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Credit Cards, etc.
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.
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.
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.
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