Quote for the Day

“So long as the memory of certain beloved friends lives in my heart, I shall say that life is good.”


This little quote comes from a lady who wasn't handed the easiest of lives.  In fact, one could say that from the moment she was born, it was going to be a struggle against all odds-Helen Keller.  It's one that I cherish quite profoundly and very deeply in my heart.  In spite of setbacks, hardships, sufferings, the memory of a beloved friend remains in my heart stronger than ever....even after 135 days.  We ventured to one of our favorite haunts tonight.  It was the first time our new arrival came with us.  I had to remind him it is a special place, almost hallowed ground.  We were all there tonight, sharing it's peace, reminiscing of days gone by.  "I shall say that life is good".

FATHER HOOD

I remember him well as a young boy looking up to him as sons do their fathers.  I remember as a young boy of 3 devilishly playing in our coal bin only to imagine some cosmic escape on the wings of Flash Gordon as I sullied myself from the soot.  For some reason or other, I miraculously escaped his hand being hermetically sealed against my bottom.  It was against his nature to use his hand for disciplinary correction.  I only remember once when I was about 6 that his wrath was tested that I received a spanking; and even then it wasn't of any noteworthy proportion and unlike the cartoon characters depicted in those days, I was able to sit down after the experience.  I can remember even trying to put the proverbial pillow on my backside as to lessen the blow.

I remember him buying my first bicycle-a 3 speed Italian Road bike made by Bianchi.  I know we didn't have Consumer Reports back then but that bike outclassed the Schwinn by a hundredfold.  Being of Italian heritage, it was going to be THE only bike for his son.  I even remember what the cost of it was-$69.  In 1958, that very well could have been a fourth of his paycheck.  Being the only son had it's ranking privileges though and while mom's child bearing days were over, I was the last of the Bello clan to carry on the family name.  Nothing was going to be too good for me, plus being the baby of the family didn't hurt either.  In addition, I had two older sisters.  Why....it was like the second coming of Christ.....well....not really, but you get the picture.

What happens to young sons as they get older and the bond or faint whisper of separation from their roots begins to flourish, that innocence begins to deteriorate.  Or was it his inner demons that began to surface and the perils of raising a family became rooted in the bottle? Was the embarrassment of marrying a divorced woman with a child too much for him to muster?  His lack or inability to relinquish those demons became paramount and his frustration exacerbated the problem. Gone were those childlike games of catch, strolls hand in hand at the zoo, and the surprise gifts on paydays.  They were regrettably replaced by suspicion and contempt and a ridiculously feral attack on his family.  As this behavior escalated, the admonishments became more directed at me.  Now being the only son, had it's drawbacks.   The years sped by and conciliatory acts of redemption were lethargic.  Fleeting successes refused to penetrate my anger.  And then, almost miraculously, almost ordained by heaven, he quit.  No longer relying on the crutch of the bottle, his demeanor and attitude changed.  Those wasted years of separation seemed too distant and that father-son loss began to fade, only to replaced cruelly by another invader; one that would eventually claim him.  It was one that had sequestered itself and overlooked by others.  All to late in the end to really intervene, his last 26 days of life were spent in the hospital.  We became closer than ever as I felt his life slipping through my hands.  Whatever previous efforts at atonement had failed, it was his love and presence that I knew were always there.  The haunting words, "if you build it, he will come", encompassed my mind.  I sat there with my sister that night, in the dark, as he lapsed in and out of consciousness, not really knowing if I was there.  I hope in some small way, he knew that I was there to "ease his pain".  "Hey Dad, you wanna have catch?"  Happy Father's Day,

TWELVE

I spoke with him today like I do each day as if nothing has transpired from 122 days ago.  I know he's listening, keeping watch echoing my thoughts deep in the caverns of my mind.  Today would have been HIS special day as each of them have and come to celebrate.  I know at this time last year, it was my fervent prayer that he would have been with me to mark this occasion.  I attempted to "bargain" shamelessly with God to give me another year.  But the words, "the Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away hauntingly ring in my ears.
We would have arisen early as that robin in my back yard searching for the proverbial worm.  He would have searched aimlessly about the house for something totally ridiculous for what do you give an 84 yr. old but maybe a new lease on life.  As is customary, just he and I would have piled into the "bellomobile" and headed off to the nearest store.  This being his lucky day, he would have been able to saunter in and sashay about the aisles meandering about eyeing what suited his fancy.  If he was lucky, some unsuspecting babe would have felt a wet nose on her backside or better yet, the infamous sniff at her crotch.  Embarrassingly, I would have had to excuse his manners, harboring some totally farcical explanation, that for a senior citizen, he can't really see or smell that well anymore. Knowing full well it was a totally inept and nonsensical description only to be chuckling ridiculously under my breath.
I would have guided him to the shelf with some semblance of a reinforcer that garnered some sort of preposterous sound that faintly approximated a duck.  Only to be amused by the cocking of his head and the excitement of his body would I continue the taunting till he feverishly jumped and slobbered on it.  Then we were committed and the words, "lovely to look at, once it's wet, consider it bought for your pet" rang through my head. So, we would continue our journey in this target rich environment and venture down another aisle as I told him we couldn't go home empty handed without something for his friends.  I knew full well that once he arrived home, his excitement for his $12.99 toy would diminish faster than a block of ice on a hot asphalt pavement, only to be "stolen" from his grasp by the "Remster".  But I have to admit that watching the teasing and interplay of the three of them only brought smiles to my face.
I told him about the "new kid on the block", but again, he knows the little bugger is here certainly not as a replacement for him, but to bring some joy and happiness back.  I know he would approve and I'm eager to speak to him again and get his response.  I know he would tell me that I did a good thing and the little pooper needed a good home and he won't find a better one.  I know he'll be telling him what a softy I am, and that all he'll need to do is look at me with those "baby browns" and I'll melt.  I'll tell him that I'd like to believe that I adopted Kody but he rescued me.  Dancer, meet Kody.  Give him a tour and don't teach him to jump on the counter to get the cat morsels!!
Happy 12th Birthday Dancer, till we meet again.

Is it Real or is it Memorex?

I have to admit that I don't have many pet peeves at this stage of my life.  One of the tranquilities of life's experiences that has surreptitiously crept up on me almost without me being aware.  But the one pet peeve I steadfastly cling to almost like hot asphalt to my shoe on a blistering St. Louis summer day is reality tv shows.  I just don't get the appeal of them and the morbid and almost aberrant fixation people, not just Americans, because this is a global issue that people in general have for them.  But in saying this, I have to confess to being a bonafide regular viewer of one of the first "reality" shows back in the 50's when CANDID CAMERA first aired.  I can remember sitting with my parents watching as Alan Funt concocted story after story of people just being themselves, as he used to close the show with that classic line.  And I have to admit to busting a gut a time or two as Art Linkletter quizzed the ever precocious 5 yr. old on seeing her pregnant mother take a shower and asking her, "mommy, are you getting fat", and the mother replied, "Yes, honey, remember Mommy has a baby growing in her tummy", and her daughter replies, "Yeah, I know, but what's growing in your butt"?  But there was a sense of innocence and childlike benevolence in these shows.  Today we have Snooki enticing Pauly D to start a fight at a local bar in New Jersey, or Paris Hilton and Nicole Richey (The Simple Life) trying to figure out how to get the cap off a bottle of cleaning solution.  Is it any better when Barbara Wa-Wa listed the cast of Jersey Shore as one of the top 10 most fascinating people of 2010.

But as we give these people/shows more attention and continue to "idolize" them in some morose and dismal manner, these shows will continue to propagate.  Have our lives become so boring that the misgivings and failings of a Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston, and God forbid-"the Donald" are the flak juice we need to jump start our lives?  Do we get that much of a serotonin hit when The Bachelor gives that final rose to some unsuspecting tart only to be mesmerized by him calling her the "most amazing woman he's ever met"?  I have to accept the fact that there are minimal "reality" shows that have substance-"The Deadliest Catch", or "Survivor Man" do share somewhat of a National Geographic mentality.  How a North Atlantic crab fisherman or Les Stroud teaching me how to survive should I become stranded while hiking in Colorado will certainly benefit me if not save my life.  But watching Joe Dumb Fuck trying to elude his wife Sara I'm So Stupid while he bangs Martha Big Tits only to be caught by the discriminating eye of Joey Greco and his merry band of cameramen from Cheaters only brings the ad nauseum to my palate.  But the one thing about these shows that continues to allow them to gain momentum is money.  As long as John Q continues to watch and drive the Nielsons, we're (or at least I am) stuck with them.

So, what I propose to my millions of faithful followers, when the new season of Jersey Shore starts.....CHANGE THE CHANNEL and watch something more substantial...wholesome, entertaining, and educational.....THE 3 STOOGES!!!

96

96….where did the time go and soon to be 25.  Time is pervasive, extensive, and it never stops.  In the moment, we often wonder, “gosh, I wish time would hurry up”, or “won’t this day ever end”?  And yet, now as the golden years seem to rise faster than the morning sun, time becomes inescapable.  Several months ago, I wrote of wishing time would stop…..now….not move on so that death would not overtake him.  I thought this also 25 yrs. ago as he lay in his bed, overcome by a hideous and unavoidable outcome.  But, as my own humanity was severely tested, then and a few months ago, I realize how truly transient I am.  We’re like the proverbial incandescent light bulb.  When we’re born, it may say on the crib-1200hrs.  Whether we “last” those 1200 hrs. is anyone’s guess.  Certainly when he was born, his package read: “621,960 hrs.”, or 71 yrs.  Not an extended lifeline for him.  I would have wished he would have purchased the extended warranty.  But as he abused his body, the extended warranty probably would have been a futile and wasteful investment.  But that’s neither here nor there and as much as I miss him, I know he’s with me each day.  We had a “communique” of sorts several weeks ago with the help of another.  I often believed he was listening to me and looking out for me.  I had asked him last year at this time to look after my boy and to use whatever influence he had to give him more time.  I’m not sure exactly how that played out, but as he told me, he’s taking care of the entire brood now and that for me is golden.  His message to me is a symphony of thoughts.  I think we communicate more now than we did when he was alive.  And as his messages come through mentally, I miss the sound of his voice.  I miss him telling me he loves me and as his son, how proud he is of me.  Here me tonight, Paul, I’m proud you’re my Dad.  Happy Birthday and for old times sake will you sing it for me one more time?