The Newell Post

I was driving home from the dentist, trying not to dribble on myself when I came to a red light.

I looked down at the center console and a bunch of coins in one of the cup holders.
There were quarters, dimes, nickels, and even a few pennies (bless their heart).

Back in the day, I would have been able to buy a cup of coffee with the change in that cup holder, but now, those coins are so much refuse, not worthy of jingling in my pocket.

I hardly ever have paper money in my wallet these days. The debit card has replaced Washington, Lincoln, and Hamilton…rarely had Benjamins in my possession. And coins? Hard metal cash? Sorry, I don’t do heavy metal when it comes to do re mi. The coins in question will probably be relegated to a jar or perhaps my sock draw with my roll of Lincoln Head pennies that I bought on eBay.

Then I thought (It was a long light) of the expression “To coin a phrase.”

Kids growing up today wouldn’t understand the verb “coin,” much less the noun coin.

Banking technology has affected our culture to the extent that it won’t be long if the keeper of Webster’s Dictionary manages to keep the word coin in its publication; no doubt, it will be described as an archaic throwback to the dark ages of the late twentieth century.

What other words or expressions are doomed to the eraser of the dictionary police?

Fax?
Democracy? (Oooh, that was nasty.)

Of course, every generation has words that evolve into and out of usage, so it should be no surprise to us as we opt for plastic and shun the currency of our past.

Words have always mattered to me.

I never bought into that “sticks and stones” thing. A lot of crap that was. Words certainly do hurt you from time to time.

However, it is not about the words that hurt that I wish to write, but rather, the words that inspire and adorn our world with all that is good.

For me, it all started with my mother.

She had several expressions or sayings that she would often regale all of her family who would listen. Of course, we all listened.

Momma always attributed these pithy words to her own mother, Mary Dowd McHugh.

To be sure, I only got to appreciate the inherent wisdom of her words as I got older. Some of them infuriated me when I was a kid.

“Don’t let little things bother you.”

The times when life got the better of me and my frustration with not getting my way often resulted in this advice from my mother.

Don’t let little things bother you.

In all my frustration, I was trying to overcome the cause of frustration which, to me, was trying not to let little things bother me. My problem is I never really understood what my mother meant.

She wasn’t telling me anything about overcoming my particular problem of the day. Instead, she was telling me to forget about this minor issue. She really meant don’t sweat the small stuff. But I was too young to understand…until yesterday, I think.

Then, of course, she would often drift into the classics.

“Too much of anything is good for nothing.”

I think this is a catchier version of “Moderation in all things.”

So, Lizzie McHugh was a Greek and Roman literature student but put her own spin on the adage.

Then, of course, she used the Bard himself to have us scurry into our bedroom when it was time for bed.

“To bed to bed, there’s a knocking at the gate.”

I really thought she made this one up. But then I read Macbeth in high school, and sure enough, it was in Act V.

My mother taught me other things, but these were her classics, so I thought I would share them.

And, of course, others in my life inspired me with their words.

“Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something. I think you’ll understand.”

That still gives me goosebumps, just like it did that first time I heard it in the fall of 1963. Of course, I Want To Hold Your Hand by the Beatles is the sort of this lyric of all lyrics.

It possesses such power as to start a revolution. A revolution inspired by the concept of holding a loved one’s hand. Years before the sexual revolution, it was as erotic as it got. Goosebumps rather than lust was its outcome, and fifty-nine years later, I still have to stop typing and calm myself down.

Transitioning from the time of teenage love and romance to the words of Christ.

Ironically, it was about the same time in 1963 that I began to take the words of Christ to heart.

The Prodigal Son and other of Christ’s parables of forgiveness illustrated that God was not mad at me or disappointed with me. Christ showed the infinite ability to love and forgive. I realized both actions cost me nothing.

It didn’t matter how many people I loved because there was always enough love for one more. Forgiveness? When would you stop forgiving someone? Is it about the same time you would no longer require forgiveness for your transgressions?

I then turned to the Our Father.

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive the trespasses of others.?

Mother of Mercy! Do you mean I have to forgive others all the time when they offend me? Yeah, Jimmy, that’s what it means. Otherwise, you will run out of forgiveness sooner rather than later.

There’s no better time to introduce the words of Bob Dylan than right after writing about Christ.

“Blowin In The Wind.”

Perhaps Dylan’s most important song poses nine questions. The answers, however, were not provided, merely suggesting that the answers are Blowin In The Wind.

Go listen to the song or at least read the lyrics.

You will realize that the answer to each and every one of the questions is simply “Too Many.”

JFK inspired us to look for help rather than ask for help.

MLK dared us to dream along with him.

We were a divided nation in 1963 and 1968, and while our hatred may have gone on hiatus for a spell, it was still percolating under the surface.

We seem to be at a loss as to which words can release us from this tailspin in which we find ourselves. I don’t think we really hate each other, but maybe we’re just afraid to grasp that hand of the other in a commitment of friendship, if not full-blown love.

Before the US Postal Service put ZIP in our address, I lived at 1261 Leland Avenue, Bronx 72, New York.

That address has changed to Bronx NY, 10472.

It’s just not the same.

Like our area code which abruptly changed from 212 to 718 because of all the damn fax machines in Manhattan, our mailing address became more complicated for no apparent reason.

Of course, you couldn’t complain because of the “Postal” thing, but it really ticked me off.

It was just one more intrusion of modernity into our comfortable Bronx home, and we didn’t have any say in the matter.

The world was simpler when our addresses and phone numbers were consistent with our childhood.

There were so many other adaptations we succumbed to and new challenges that we had to meet; you think the least they could do was leave my damn address and phone number the hell alone?

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Sunday will be the sixtieth anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Beginning on October 16, 1962, and keeping my family on its knees praying the Rosary until October 29, 1962, it’s hard to believe that we are still living in fear of the mad inhabitants of the Kremlin and all their nuclear bombs.

As the modern-day version of Khrushchev, Poutin Pootin unsuccessfully tries to destroy Ukraine, maybe our strategy in 1962 to survive the blast of Soviet nuclear bombs would have prevailed.

Maybe Duck and Cover was a damn good way to face Soviet annihilation? They probably would have failed as miserably in 1962 as in 2022.

I guess the whole Sputnik thing and rushing to successfully put a man in space made it seem that the Soviets had a thing for technology.

Now, not so much.

They can’t even seem to keep their Generals out of harm’s way, much less launch a successful military campaign.

By today’s standards, Duck and Cover was sheer genius

I’ve gone through my share of hurricanes.

The earliest one I remember was Donna when I was a kid on Leland Avenue in The Bronx.

I don’t remember any others until Gloria when we first moved to East Quogue.

Then there was Bob.

And Irene, of course.

Sandy was the last one we went through while living on Long Island.

We lived in East Quogue for thirty-three years and experienced four hurricanes.

Not one severely impacted us save the loss of electricity for a week or so.

Given the destructive capacity of hurricanes, this was nothing to lament.

Five years ago, we moved to Florida and were immediately greeted by Irma, bless her heart.

We have heavy metal shutters, which, with the help of my nephew Nick, were installed, and we were safe from harm. Losing electricity, with which we are well experienced, was the worst of it.

We were spared Michael, but the panhandle of Florida was not.

Then along came Ian.

It was first aiming for Tampa, which is forty or so miles to our north, but then he changed his mind and veered off into Fort Myers.

You’ve seen the videos, you’ve read the reports, and it is uncertain still as to the number of fatalities.

It’s terrible to see the destruction of property and the loss of life, knowing you were only a few miles away from enduring the same.

It has me wondering what can we do?

We can eliminate all the carbon in the atmosphere, but I fear it is too late to turn back the geological clock.

So, should I move to higher ground?

Well, where exactly is that?

I left Long Island weary of the annual angst of the hurricane season.

If I leave Florida for the same reason, where do I go?

Give up the sun for the snow?

Blizzards can be just as devastating and deadly.

How about out west?

Arizona and Nevada are popular for retirees.

Oh yeah, no water and wildfires. Not ideal for your leisure years.

I can go back to The Bronx, but flooding and freezing are common phenomena there, too. I really don’t want to be a prisoner in my apartment for the entire winter.

I’ve been thinking about Ireland, but that’s a heck of a trip to see my kids. So, the answer to the questions, What will you do? Where are you going to go? have no good answers as far as I’m concerned.

It’s funny that we may all wind up being immigrants of a new variety…Climate immigrants.

Pray for those suffering the effects of Ian and all disasters, both natural and of human origin.

The autumnal Equinox will appear in just under three hours if you believe in such things.

This is another myth that has been perpetrated by those who insist on believing things.

For example, some still believe that Neil Armstrong took a giant step for mankind on the moon!

Then some defy flat-world logic and continue to accept that Christopher Columbus proved that the earth is round. As if!

This whole thing about equinoxes is ridiculous.

The only Equinox I believe in is the Chevy Equinox sitting patiently in my driveway waiting for the autumnal Equinox to arrive…yeah, right.

See, the thing is, the autumnal Equinox is supposed to usher in cooler weather when everyone here in Florida continues to wear white even after Labor Day because it is still ninety degrees. OOOOH, BRRR, I’m freezing.

So, go ahead and believe all that nonsense and savor your pumpkin latte.

I prefer to reside in a world where facts are for dreamers.

This entry might not make much sense if you don’t know about Stuckeyville.

In the early days of the twenty-first century, we were brought to Stuckyeville every Wednesday night on NBC.

For me, it began a perfect evening of television.

From Stuckyville, we were brought to the West Wing, and thereafter HBO gave us a taste of the mob as portrayed in The Sopranos.

Three different shows, but each is a special show in its own right.

You probably know more about the West Wing and the Sopranos than you do Stuckyville.

Stuckyville was a small town, probably in the midwest though it was never clear.
Ed Stevens was the lead character, and his name served as the show’s title.
But ED had several interesting and lovable characters, of which Ed Stevens was only one.

There is Ed’s childhood buddy, Mike, a local doctor. Mike’s wife Nancy, their friend Molly and then the love of Ed’s life, Miss Carol Vessey.

I don’t know how many seasons we waited for Ed and Carol to get together. But they finally did.

Stuckeyville appeared to be the small town that America wishes it still had.

There were no gerrymandered districts or failing infrastructures. The school provided a quality education, and there was no bullying, and of course, there were no social media to incite it. Thankfully, only flip phones existed in 2000.

There were teenagers with angst either because they were in love with the wrong girl and didn’t recognize the perfect mate right before their eyes.

There were heroes and villains, although the villains always appeared to be a love interest of Carol, who was not Ed. They were rightfully hissed whenever they slighted Ed.

It was a fun show that depicted a delightful town, and there don’t seem to be too many fun towns around anymore.

Ed was like a decaffeinated Seinfeld. The humor was there to be enjoyed, but it was soft and more functional than dysfunctional. It was like Cheers because, in Stuckeyville, everyone did know your name.

But in the end, it was too good to stay on the airwaves for too long.

It was so nice to visit there even if it was for only one hour a week.

Here we are at the waning days of summer and my biggest concern is time.

(It really isn’t but I’m trying to be entertaining this Saturday morning.)

So, I ask you, what time is it.

As I type it is 10:46 EDT but is it really?

Time is never a constant. It’s probably the one thing that started to divide our nation.

Some states, and even counties within states refuse Daylight Saving Time or is it Standard Time that they reject? Anyway, there is a movement, that I thought proved to be successful, which would do away with the biannual ritual of resetting all our clocks to conform either to daylight savings time or to revert back to standard time.

But, apparently, we are destined to once again fall behind on November 6th.

To be sure it has become a less arduous task as many of our devices automatically make the switch. iPhones, iPads, cable boxes and other devices will all make the task easy for us. Of course, I will have to change the time on our microwave and oven and the big clock that we have high up on a kitchen wall. So, I really shouldn’t be complaining.

But come on, this is a rather simple fix if we could all just agree to fix the time issue once and for all.

Who am I kidding?

There is absolutely nothing that we can agree on but so far no one appears to be willing to riot in support of one position or another.

I think we can agree that this, at least, is progress.

Well, maybe not.

You know where you were.

You know what you were doing.

You know who you were with.

You know how you felt.

You can’t help but remember.

You may have had one other event that lives in your psyche as real today as when it happened.

Twenty-one years has done nothing to alter your sense of that day.

And that is a very good thing.

As we approach the last full week of summer, change is already in the air.

It’s been quite an eventful summer in which the world lost a beloved Queen ( I wonder what our so-called beloved Founding Fathers would say to America’s reaction to the death of Queen Elizabeth II?)

Then, of course, America has its own drama unfolding every few minutes on our HD televisions (Again, what would the Founding Fathers say to that?)

But I chose to ignore the drama of the day to dwell on the Last Of The Summer Ale.

The changing of the seasons is as much symbolized by the changing of the food that is available for which we are now ravenous to enjoy as the cooler weather and darker days.

The lure of the barbecue no longer appeals to us as the prospect of fall comfort foods admittedly too dense for our summer palates.

Of course, we can include our choice of beverages in this mix.

Light wines give way to hearty reds. Gin and tonics cannot compete with a whiskey on the rocks. So, too, is our taste regarding beer.

Lager and pilsners no longer intrigue us as much as a malty stout or hoppy IPA.

The summer ale that I so enjoy as early as Memorial Day (previously dubbed the official start of summer), I regrettably savor the coming of a cinnamony pumpkin ale at the expense of my beloved summer ale..

A delicious brew sipping right out of the bottle is even better in a glass rimmed with brown sugar and cinnamon.

Scrumptious.

Tale gating and pumpkin ale!

America’s favorite pastime, well, mine, even if the tale gating occurs in my den while watching the NFL Redzone.

Of course, the ebb of summer ale can only serve as a warning that the demise of the pumpkin ale is nigh.

Before I drain the first bottle of this fall libation, I will be thinking of Christmas and Winter Ales approach.

To think that people once drank the same beer all year long?

Interesting.