The End Of Time

Bike Crash # 2 - 2020

The other night I rode the A Train to Brooklyn. I got off at Hoyt-Schmeerhorn. The next C train was 15 minutes away and I decided to bike the short distance to Myrtle Avenue. 

I climbed the stairs to ground level and set out home.

Unfortunately a car swerved into the bike lane to alter my path and my front wheel dropped into a grating. My impetus halted instantly and I flew over my handlebars without a thought for self-preservation.

My mouth faceplanted on the pavement. 

Like I had been suckered by Sonny Liston.

I stood up, expecting to spit out teeth.

Several people rushed up and asked if I was okay.

"I'm not okay." I spit out a little blood, but no teeth. Blood spewed from wounds to my legs and arms. "Fuck, but I ain't fucked either."

I straddled my bike and slowly rode to 387.

Hurt and knowing that tomorrow the hurt would only be worse.

Right leg.

Left upper thigh.

Busted face.

We Neanderthals will outlive Homo Sapiens, because we don't care about possessions.

Only love.

Boy Scout Shota

In the summer of 1962 my brother and I set out  with a large contingent of fellow Boy Scouts for a Sixty-Mile hike in emulation of JFK's call for a physical resurgence of youthful health. We departed from Adams Pond Camp south of Ossipee, NH and tramped through burnt forests and passed fields filled with tall cornstalks. The only memorable campsite was atop Evans Mountain next to a supposedly haunted house surrounded by blueberry fields.

None of us was older than twelve and the next day the temperature rose into the 90s and the scout masters promised their weakening troops a swim at New England's most beautiful pond. We picked up our pace and ended up a muddy hole rimmed by thirsty cows. The scout leader shooed away the cattle and the oldest adult explained that tradition required a naked run around the pond.

The boys from South of the Charles River rejected this demand.

"Then you get no food tonight."

"Fuck you then," said a Eagle Scout from Southie.

The rebels outnumbered the obedient, but the leaders and their adherents stripped off their clothes to trot around the waterhole.

We went into the pond wearing our shorts.

That night we ate nothing.

The Scout Leaders and their followers sat around a bonfire and ate fried chicken washed down by 'bug juice' or Kool-Aid. None of the rebels joined them. We slept together with the older boys standing guard. 

The next morning we rose before the dawn and trekked to the nearest road.

A farmer in a big truck stopped for us and asked, "Are you boys on that 'hike'?"

"We were," said a boy from Dorchester.

"I thought as much. Jump in the back and I'll drive to Adams Pond." He looked over his shoulder, as if the Boy Scout Leaders might stop him from aiding thirty-plus boys. 

As we approached the camp, the oldest boy from Southie warned, "Don't say nothing. Those motherfuckers will get you or us. I wish we could stop them from hurting our fellow scouts, but no one will believe us. Be prepared."

1962 was almost sixty years ago.

Not yesterday, but I still see the young boys running naked around a dirty pond.

Fuck the Boy Scouts.

ps the last entry in the Boy Scout Handbook was about 'noctural emissions'.

Frannie Fitzpatrick - A Constant Friend - See You Later

My good friend Fran Fitzpatrick has set off on a distant journey with the stars.

Frannie was my family's auto repair specialist. He knocked out dents and worst on our VW Beetles. 
I attended Boston College from 1970 to 1974. His brother Robert taught THE MYSTERIES OF THE HOLY EUCHARIST and at a family gathering Frannie said to me, "My brother's class will be cancelled if he doesn't get any students. I guarantee you no less that a B and your first crash is on me."

"I'll see what I can do."

The offer of a good grade appealed to several of my less studious friends and six of us signed up in 1973 for the autumn semester, expecting our first class to be our last in attendance, however his brother's lectures were a study on the transmutation of the flesh and our longhair philosophy melded with his brother's knowledge.

I recall his departure with his loving wife Ann to the church. It was a happy day for the Menconis. My brother and I might have been the altar boys.

He lived as a good man, a husband, a father, a friend, a great story and also an 18 year-old Coast Guarder whose landing craft was sunk at the Bay of Pigs. Stranded on the beach he felt bad abandoning the Cubans, but fled across southern Cuba to Gitmo. At the entrance he was confronted by a Marine.

"Who are you?"

"I am an American."

"How do I know that?"

"You ever hear anyone else in the world speak with a Boston Accent."

"I'm from Revere. Welcome back to America." The guard opened the gate to a grateful member of the Coast Guard.

At their Christmas Eve parties my favorite time was a short sit-down with Frannie

A son of Ireland.

Slan a fhagail.

Farewell.

Feicfidh me ar ball thu.

See you later.

I hope where has a bar. Frannie liked a stiff drink.

We are who we are.

Forever more than ever.

foto of Bob Moschowitz, moi, Frannie, and his loving wife Ann.

What Will Be Tomorrow - Kilimanjaro

The 2020 Kili Initiative team left Kibo Hut at midnight. I wished them well on the final stage of the climb. The falling snow turned to sleet. My brother Ma'we said, "You should come, my brother."

"I know." I had failed to summit in 2019. My right ankle was weak and my thin gloves guaranteed little protection from the cold. "Maybe next year. See you tomorrow."

I returned to my bunk bed and snaked into my sleeping bag.

Warmth.

Darkness.

Quiet.

Dawn arrived early and I tramped across the ice-encrusted dirt to the WC.

The sun nimbused the eastern horizon and I turned my head to Kilimanjaro. The team had to close to the summit. I squinted, but failed to spot them on the trail. I blew on my bare hands and returned to bed. My old body took its time getting warm. I reached over to my cell phone and called my family in Thailand. Despite the weak connection I was able to say I love you and hear my son Fenway shouted, "Lak Pah."

My phone still showed bars and I tapped in www.theguardian.com

Joe Biden had beaten Bernie Sanders in Iowa, Britain was leaving the EEU, China's pollution levels had dropped during the spread of Coruna Virus, and the headline was UK FEARS OF UNDETECTED CASES GROW AS 13 MORE TEST POSITIVE.

The park ranger approached with a glance at the rim. We knew each other for two years. He was a LA Lakers fan. He pointed to my phone and then the Maasai Plains.

"What do you think will happen?"

"I don't know, but it will not be good."

The guard pointed to a line of climbers.

"Your friends are at the top."

"I'll be in Marangu this evening."

"We'll drink beer together at the Big Tree."

The two of us exchanged a knowing smile, for whatever awaited on the plains coming today or tomorrow was the future and we were happy enough to know a cold beer might save not so much our lives, especially if tomorrow was not today.

Bahati njema.

THE EYE OF THE STORM by Peter Nolan Smith

In early September of 1960 Hurricane Donna struck New England as a category 2/3 storm. The radio station WBZ announced numerous school closing led by Beaver County Day School and closely followed by my primary school on the South Shore, Our Lady of the Foothills. My older brother and I were happy to stay home. We were new kids in town.

That morning a raging gale whipped through the woods of the Blue Hills. Telephone wires moaned with each gust and the windows ofour split-level ranch house windows vibrated in their sashes. The electricity died at noon and my father lit a kerosene lamp, which he placed on the kitchen table.

Our family of seven huddled around the flame like Neanderthals sheltering in a cave.

Several hours later the howling hurricane abated to a whisper.

“Where are you going?” my mother demanded with hands on her hips, her voice ringing with the authority of a woman, who had carried five babies in her womb.

“Outside to show them the eye.” My father loved a good storm.

“Hurricanes are not a joke.” My mother had experienced the 1938 hurricane. That tempest didn’t have a name, yet hundreds of New Englanders had died in its path.

“I know.” My father shrugged in weak surrender to the truth.

"You act, as if you don't."

Hurricane Edna in 1954 had destroyed his sailboat on Watchic Pond. The hull lay in our backyard.

Six years later he had yet to repair the damage to the mast.

He never had much free time and five kids under the age of ten were a lot of work.

“The skies have cleared." My father looked out the window and then back to my mother.

"We’ll only be a few minutes.”

“I wanna go too.” My two-year old brother bounced off his high chair.

"Not a chance." My mother grabbed his wrist. Padraic had almost died at birth from pneumonia. She wasn't giving Nature any second chances and sternly regarded my father. “Only a few minutes.”

"Maybe even less."

"Then go." My mother trusted my father to obey his promise, since he loved her enough to convert to Catholicism.

“I’ll keep them safe.” My father led us outside.

We lived in the shadow of Chickatawbut Hill.

Branches were scattered across the yard.

Overhead a counter-clockwise swirl of the cloud funnel opened to the blue heavens.

“That is the eye of the storm.”

The three of us 360ed on the lawn to gawk at the storm’s awesome power and glory.

Lightning pulsed within the cloud wall like the Aurora Borealis. If my best friend hadn’t drowned a month ago, the cyclonic display would have reinforced my faith in the Almighty. Instead I said, “Wow.”

Rain dotted the walkway. The wind was soon once more a gale. The raindrops stung our skin.

My mother yelled for us to get inside.

My father lifted his finger to indicate we wanted a few more seconds.

He had fought the Maine’s Great Fire of 1949. I never had seen him scared of anything other than my mother’s wrath. He quickly explained to us how hurricanes formed in the tropics. We were 9 and 8. His meteorological lesson was lost on his sons and the oppressive pressure of the powerful storm weighed heavily on our flesh.

“Remember this for the rest of your life. Few people see this.”

My mother’s next demand was an ultimatum.

“If you don’t come in, I’m locking the doors.” She was serious.

“We better do as she says.” My father guided us inside the house. He gave my mother a hug. She was relieved to have us back inside.

The second half of the hurricane stuck within minutes and lasted into the evening.

The weatherman on WBZ radio announced the all-clear message wagon, as we were going to sleep. School had been cancelled throughout New England. My father was excited as a child on Christmas Eve and he whispered, “Tomorrow Revere Beach.”

The beach there was ideal for watching the storm die against land. Giant waves would slap the concrete flood walls with a force strong enough to make the streets shudder with fear.

The boyish joy in his voice kept us awake for another three minutes, for tomorrow promised to be a day of big waves and wild sea spray.

We could hardly wait.

Shakespeare 101

A middle-aged male teacher had been hitting on a pretty female student. He thought she was a little stupid and during class asked her, "Name three plays by Shakespeare."

The blonde co-ed thought pondered over the question for a few seconds and then replied slyly, "4 inches, 8 inches and 12 inches."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The professor smirked like he had caught her naked.

"Much Ado About Nothing, As You Like It and A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Not all blondes are stupid.

Special thanks once more to Sam Royalle of Pattaya.

He had kept his humor when many of those around him have lost theirs, then again they never had one to begin with. I miss him always.