Fish On

Fish On

For as long as I can remember I have had a fish tank.  For many, it began at the local carnival.  Throw a ping-pong ball into a glass bowl and you go home with a goldfish.  Or maybe you lived near a local aquarium retail store.  Ours, on Halloween, would give out a similar goldfish for the simple “trick or treat” greeting.  However, neither of these fish were destined to last very long.  My fish story begins with my Grandfather.

My Grandfather's house was one of historical prominence in Valley Stream.  Long before the village became incorporated, it was named Rum Junction.  With a town moniker like that, one would assume you had a Sherriff…and they did.  In the early 1950’s my Grandfather purchased the house that was the Sheriff of Rum Junction’s home.  A grand fireplace loomed large in the main living room.  Forgoing the flame, my Grandfather opted to place a fish tank in the cavernous space.  The fish he fancied was the guppy.  Hundreds of the diminutive fish frolicked among the mass of green moss.  It was its own perpetual habitat.

 The apartment my Mom and I had was not far from my Grandparents dwelling.  There, we set up a fish tank of our own.  Too young to handle all the responsibilities, I did absorb all the lessons.  While my Grandfather had his self-sustaining guppies, we branched out to try freshwater tropical fish.  These fish needed a little more attention and it was never more evident than the winter of 1970.  A snowstorm was coming and my Mom would rather have us trapped in a house than an apartment.  We packed up and headed to my Grandparents.  I fed the fish before we left, thinking we would return shortly.  We did not.  Upon our return I noticed a few of the fish were missing.  I soon saw the corresponding carcasses on the gravel below.  Our tank became self-sustaining too, just not in the way we would want.  When I was 8 my Mom remarried and we soon moved into our new house in Valley Stream.  I was given the end room with a bed, dressers and a desk.  Only one thing missing…a fish tank.  My Grandfather had an extra 25-gallon tank in his workshop. I quickly claimed it as mine and carted it up the street.  Back then Ed’s Aquarium was the local store for your fish tank needs.  I would still opt for tropical fish, since they were the mainstay at the store.  The years would see a parade of gouramis, swordtails and tetras.  It would remain in my room until I left for college.

In 1991 I moved into my own apartment.  That NFL season I won our Fantasy Football League.  And what would I do with my winnings?  Buy a fish tank!  It was a 50-gallon tank on a beautiful wooden chest.  I would try my hand at saltwater for the first time.  The filtration system required a second, smaller tank below.  I had never used anything with such sophistication.  You needed to get your tank balanced with nitrates and nitrites before you can add more than just your starter fish.  During that time period, I would learn about the difficulties of this new filter.  The overflow shutoff was not working properly.  I had no way of really testing it…until it was needed…and it failed.  The first person to find this out was the downstairs neighbor.  A panicked phone call and I threw open the fish cabinet doors to see a mini replica of Niagara Falls.  Eventually I would get the filter perfected.  I inhabited my tank with colorful fish from throughout the world.  They didn’t last long.  It would seem I did not have a “salt” thumb.  The harder I tried, the harder I failed.  Saltwater fish are NOT cheap, and there was nothing left in my football windfall.  In a few months I would be moving, so after my last attempt at saltwater failed, I shut her down.

In 1995 I purchased my new co-op.  The fish tank would be set up as my living room centerpiece.  I wanted something as simple as tropical fish but as colorful as saltwater.  I came across the Discus.  These fish, aptly named, come in several beautiful colors…Cobalt Blue, Red Turquoise and Sunset among them.  I had about a dozen of these sharp looking fish.  I was going on vacation for a week.  Even though it was a no-brainer, I recalled the days of the snowstorm and what had happened when the fish went unfed.  I inquired at my local store what could be done.  He suggested a solid substance I could place in the tank that would break apart over the week and feed the fish.  Brilliant!  What wasn’t so brilliant was he gave me the incorrect one for the Discus.  Instead of feeding them, it was killing them.  I returned from my trip to a Discus disaster.  I was able to save a few, but the damage was already done.  I would eventually return to tropical fish.  After a while, the tank was settled with a plethora of them.  I now wanted to add a second tank in the apartment.  I shopped around and found a tall 35-gallon hexagon tank.  I did not want to set up another tank with the same old tropical fish.  Also, saltwater and Discus were off the list.  It was then I was introduced to the African Cichlid.  They live in brackish water, part freshwater – part saltwater, and are relatively easy to maintain.  Inside the tank I built a tower-like rock structure from top to bottom.  This would provide amble ground for hiding.  Feisty and colorful, they would feed in a frenzy.  They were active and affordable.  I would fall in love with this breed of fish.

In 2004 I sold my co-op and gave away my two tanks.  I regretted this decision but thought with a new house came the opportunity for a new tank…or tanks.  While our house was being built, Christina and I attended a model home show.  And that is where I saw it.  A 150-gallon tank built into a dividing wall between the dining and living rooms.  This aquatic masterpiece was magnificent.  I had to have one.  While I dream big, reality tends to downsize.  I brainstormed with my builder.  We decided on a small dividing wall between the rooms with a 25-gallon tank.  It would have to do.  I decided tropical fish would be the way to go.  Access to the tank was limited so going with less complex fish would be the right direction.  Since its installation, there have been challenges to the tank.  One of them is cleaning the algae.  While 3 sides are showing and allow access to a magnetic cleaner, the 4^th side faces inward.  It is difficult at best to clean the algae, and it grew unyielding due to the sun’s access to both rooms.  I turned to a fish to do my dirty work.  I have had algae eaters, called Plecos, before.  However, they are expensive and sometimes derelict in their duties.  I decided I would buy a young one.  They are cheaper and it was worth a shot.  This little guy is so good I have not seen hide or hair of algae since.  I told Max he needs to step it up or he might be displaced as the #1 pet in the house.

The 25-gallon wall tank was a unique conversation piece, but I wanted to really make a statement.  A 135-gallon acrylic custom shaped tank caught my eye.  My wife cried.  I would settle for one 1/3 of the size.  This would be my African Cichlid tank.  I purchased 50 lbs of large coral rocks to create their new reef home.  Christina, now ecstatic we were not adding a bathtub to the family room, gladly accompanied me for the fish selection.  As she picked by color, I gave her the fish name.  A blue striped one caught her eye.  It was a Maylandia lombardoi Kenyi, or “Kenny” for short.  It was from this we decided to name all the Cichlids after South Park characters.  Wouldn’t you know, the fish that turned into the biggest problem was named Cartman.

As stated before, I have been an Apple aficionado from the onset.  Years back, there was an article that gave complete instructions on how to turn your old Mac into a fish tank…or Macquarium.  The only old Mac I had that could be used for this had been tossed away long ago by my parents.  Last year, I came across someone online who prepped the old computers himself.  He even added lights and a filter for a pretty reasonable cost.  I bought myself one for Christmas…I am good to myself that way.  The iMac lit up and reminded me of the tank my Grandfather had in his fireplace oh so long ago.  I would fill this tank with guppies in his honor.

I still have these three fish tanks in the house and all have since thrived.  Each one of the them representing a part of my past.  The tropical fish of my first, the guppies of my Grandfather and the colorful Cichlids of my co-op days.

Keep On Truckin'

Keep On Truckin'

After six years in Midtown Manhattan, my company bugged out and brought us to a new building.  It would still be midtown, but on the east side.  While there are many restaurants, it seems the area does not lend itself to the lunchtime crowd.  I stumbled upon a show called Eat St. on The Cooking Channel.  This show details the different food trucks that are present throughout our cities.  Of course, New York is among them.  This might just be the answer to my lunchtime dilemma.

I had seen the bright yellow truck parked across 3^rd Ave from my building many times before.  I never gave it a much thought.  That was until it made an appearance on Eat St.  I immediately recognized it and took in the episode.  What I did not remember was that this was the same waffle maker that had beaten Bobby Flay in a Throwdown episode.  They now even offered the winning waffle, simply called “The Throwdown”.  Eat St. let it be known that the truck presents itself in different locations on different days.  Friday would be my day.  Before I could take in the truck it appeared on yet another program.  The show was Amazing Eats.  The host was Adam Richman, when he could pull himself away from committing suicide by gluttony on Man V. Food.  His selection was the Pulled Pork Waffle.  You would think this would not work, but it is a marriage made in heaven.  It is topped with cole slaw and a kool-aid soaked pickle.  If you take time to soak a pickle in kool-aid, I am sure the rest of it will be quite tasty.  And it was.

If there were trucks like this right across the street, what might be just down the road.  Eat St. presented another offering, Feed Your Hole…but it was nowhere near my work.  Their unmistakable truck is part band tour bus and part bomber airplane. It is mainly a burger purveyor, but they do have other offerings.  Their flagship food is the “Nut Burger”.  An oversized grass fed beef patty is first seasoned with their special spices.  After grilling it in a flavor infused oil, it is placed upon a fresh brioche bun and topped with bacon and peanut butter.  Max would give that two paws up.  Once again, you would think this would not work together.  However, it seems that peanut butter’s next best friend after chocolate…is bacon.  Alas, I would never know…it was on the other side of town.  I followed their tweets for a few weeks, when I read the news today, Oh Boy!  And I was a lucky man.  Feed Your Hole was headed my way.  The “Nut Burger” would have its newest fan.

Every now and then I would go to Carl’s steaks to get my Philly Cheesesteak fix.  After a subway ride and a couple block walk of Avenues I would arrive.  Not exactly easy.  A friend forwarded an article about a cheesesteak trucker, Phil’s Steaks.  Their fare would actually rank higher than the brick and mortar Carl.  I would YouTube for their Eat St. appearance.  No luck.  I would turn to social media.  I found them on facebook, and their friends were many.  Again being mobile, their locale varied.  Their regular Thursday stop was in walking distance, so off I went.  The ordering window gave you instructions, but I am a seasoned steak veteran.  As I bit into my cheesestake, had I closed my eyes, I would have thought I was back in the City of Brotherly Love.

Now while these three trucks might provide enough samplings for most, it would not for me.  I was hooked and I needed to find others.  It was back to Eat St. and their tale of the food trucks.  Tonight was a new episode and New York was again on the menu.  This time it was Italian, Papa Perrone.  I was told I’d love his balls…RICE balls that is.  They had perfected their mother’s recipe and had been serving them to their friends and family for years.  It was decided to share their balls with the masses, and a truck would be their delivery system.  There are several different types of stuffing that satisfies both carnivores and vegetarians.  After watching the episode and the cook meticulously make the rice balls, my heart sank.  They were quiet the distance away for a lunchtime rendezvous.  Even with this disappointing news, I would check their website the next day.  I would luck out.  You see, you can also grab their balls from the Jiannetto's Pizza truck on 47th between Park & Madison.  Balls to the wall, I bee lined for that block.  And they would prove to be right.  I loved their balls.

I still continue my search for these fine food trucks.  In my online travels, I found a place where they all flock to on the weekends.  On Saturdays in the summer, it is off to Williamsburg, Brooklyn to an event known as Smorgasburg.  There, over 100 truck vendors of every kind, offer samplings of their fare ranging from Mexican cemita sandwiches to Shanghai-style banana-ricotta spring rolls to heirloom bean seeds to small-batch ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise.  A food truck Nirvana on the Brooklyn shores of the East River.

Too bad it’s not weekdays on the Manhattan side.

Better Fate Than Never

Better Fate Than Never

In High School our Principal was part owner in a bar that was located in a neighboring town.  He and a few of the staff would disappear around lunchtime.  It was of Valley Stream Central lore that they went to his bar for a few before reappearing in the afternoon.  I am not so sure this didn’t happen.  It would seem my guidance counselor returned from the bar long enough to influence my fate.  I was applying to 5 colleges.  He quickly scanned my paperwork, but his mind seemed preoccupied with happy hour.  He came across the application for Drexel.  He noted I did not pick a specific engineering field.  He glanced at my transcript and noticed I had taken a half-year of computers.  He said, “Lets check off Computer and Electrical Engineering”.  In retrospect he should have taken some time and discovered I should apply to be a Computer Science major.  But effort was not his forte.  Computer and Electrical Engineering would have nothing to do with Computers and ALL to do with Electrical Engineering.  Fate.

The courses for the first 2 years at Drexel for all non-business majors were the same.  I would not hit the core electrical engineering courses until my 3^rd year.  That year would be a struggle, but I managed to get through the first semester.  Even though I did not find Electrical Engineering to my liking, I decided I would bear down that following semester.  The main core course that semester was simply called Electrical Engineering II.  I had just barely gotten through Electrical Engineering I with the required grade to remain in my major.  The first 3 weeks of the new semester I did not miss a class.  Yeah, me.  Our teacher was of Indian heritage so I sat in the front row trying to decipher his every word.  The 4^th week was here and mid terms were rapidly approaching.  I was feverishly writing when a classmate next to me looked down at my notebook.  He inquired, “What the hell are you writing?”  I responded, “The professor keeps talking about Galactic Fields.  I write down everything he says but I can’t find ANYTHING in the text books that corresponds with this class!”  My fellow classmate chuckles, “Dude…that’s because he is saying ELECTRIC FIELDS, not GALACTIC FIELDS!”  With that, I closed my notebook, I got up in mid class and left the room, headed to the Dean of Students…and changed my major.  Fate.

I was a freshman in 1983 when Apple Computers initiated their University Program and initially signed up 24 colleges for their pilot program.  It would require all incoming freshman to purchase a Macintosh computer at a discounted price through Apple.  Drexel would be among the 24.  My first semester passed and we had yet to receive the computers from Apple.  1984 was now in full swing and still nothing.  Our floor gathered in late January to watch the Superbowl…when we all saw the famous Apple Ad.  Beers cans were tossed and boos resounded.  The following day we wanted to let our feelings known.  We created a 5 story banner and hung it out our dorm window.  It simply said in huge letters, “MACSHAFT”.  It made the Philadelphia Inquirer and the local TV news.  I guess both Drexel and Apple got the message.  Later that week it was announced we would receive the computers in March.  Better late than never.  Finally in the 3rd week of March we received our Apple Macintosh’s.  It would be the first time any one of us had seen a “Mouse”.  I watched as seemingly overnight the students ported their majors to their new machines.  Accounting majors with the spreadsheet application Multiplan (this would later become Excel), Art majors with the drawing application MacPaint, and I playing all the games I could find.  Through my time at Drexel I would become an Apple aficionado.  In those years, Apple Computer grew, and so did my knowledge of the platform.  By my senior year I was helping all I could transform their talents to the Mac.  Fate.

With the first few years of my transcript dance card filled with basic engineering courses, there were only a few options for a new major that would not require another 4 years.  I filled the back end with business courses to round out a degree in a new and upcoming field, Industrial Engineering.  If you recall, Drexel provided the cooperative job experience and you have to put in a certain amount of time doing so.  The majority of which for me was at the Naval Shipyard in Philadelphia.  I would graduate with an Industrial Engineering degree with a working background in the Defense Department.  “Mr. Gorbachev tear down this wall.”  And with those words my education and work experience were rendered useless.  The Cold War had come to an end…and so did the need for defense spending.  The market crash of 1987 was bad enough.  Now the defense layoffs of 1989 would make finding a job in my field near impossible.  The Navy Yard in Philly was even closing, so they could not hire me even if they wanted to.  However, I was able to connive my way in the door to several defense contracting companies and Eaton Corporation on Long Island was among them.  My friends marveled I was able to score an interview there.  It was a full day event with a printed out plan.  I passed with flying colors only to find out they would offer the job to a Grumman engineer with 10 years experience willing to take a lower salary.  Fate.

I needed something, so I expanded my horizons.  I had applied for engineering management jobs with LILCO (now called LIPA) and the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Port Authority.  The interviews went well, but they both thought I was over qualified for the job.  It was the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Port Authority interview that would stick in my mind.  Their offices were located in a non descript building on Randall’s Island.  I remember approaching it not knowing if I had the right place.  A single guard in a chair inside the big doors informed me I was.  It would be 8 years before I would see that building again…and not in person.  In the movie Men in Black, Will Smith goes on an interview after chasing down an alien on foot and impressing Tommy Lee Jones.  It is the very same Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Port Authority building I had entered years ago.  Smith enters not knowing if he has the right place and asks the guard at the door.  It is eerily similar to my actions the day I interviewed there.  Hmmm, no wonder I did not get the job…I am not quite “Men in Black” material.  Then again maybe I did…I seem to be missing parts of 1989.  Eventually I found an ad in Newsday for a Data Entry position on the Macintosh.  It was right in Valley Stream so there would be minimal commuting costs.  I had to get my foot in somewhere so I applied for the job.  After working there a few months, the owner called me into the office.  He wanted to let me know the manager who runs the computer system was leaving and if I would like to take the job.  The owner had noticed I had a knack for the Mac even though my degree did not match.  I was unsure I could handle the new responsibility however I immediately accepted.  Fate.

After 2 years at this job my degree was getting further and further away in the rear view mirror.  I decided it was time to take my career to the next level.  I dove back into the classifieds.  It was 1992 and spring had sprung.  It is the season for weddings galore…and I would be attending one that upcoming Saturday.  The reception was in New Jersey and the girl I was seeing had to work that day.  I would be going solo.  There were rooms booked at the hotel for us to stay overnight.  I behaved alcohol-wise so I decided I would return late that night.  I pleasantly surprised my girl early the next morning.  She was happy I could now travel with her to her brother’s house for Sunday brunch.  I asked if she could drive, as I had all I could handle getting back from New Jersey the night before.  As she stopped for gas, I darted into the station to grab a Newsday.  It was here I would find an ad for a Macintosh Systems Administrator for the North Shore Animal League.  It would be the only ad they would ever place for the job.  Had I not returned from New Jersey that night, I may never have picked up a Newsday the following day.  Fate.

It would seem I finally found a home.  In the 13 years that would follow I would go from Systems Administrator, to IT Manager, to Director of IT.  I was being groomed for CIO, even attending a meeting among the Non Profit elite in DC.  That meeting was in June of 2005…I would be gone by December.  A change in regime and the writing was on the wall.  I renewed my resume and a recruiter responded.  He vehemently persuaded me to interview for his job opening.  I balked but he made me reconsider.  I chose the only day I could to pull away from my job to interview.  I did not know it would be the last day they would be doing so.  They were all ready to offer the job to someone else, until they held their last interview.  Me.

Fate.

Here Comes The Weekend

Here Comes The Weekend

This past Monday was my wedding anniversary.  The wonderful 3-day event took place at a cross-country ski lodge in Killington VT that resurrects itself in the summer to accommodate weddings.  The idea of a weekend destination wedding was born when I attended one myself.  It took place in September of 2000 at “The End”...Montauk.

We had a tight knit group in the IT department at North Shore.  One of our own was getting married, and we would all be invited.  The 3-day event would take place at The Crow’s Nest in Montauk.  There would be no room at the Inn for us, since it would be filled with the immediate family.  We found a quaint Bed and Breakfast along Route 27 just across from the beach and booked all the rooms.

We were invited for the Friday night rehearsal dinner but the gang decided to arrive Saturday morning.  We would meet at the B&B and then head over to “The Nest”.  We had more girls than boys, as some significant others were unable to attend.  This caused the B&B to buzz with prom-like preparedness.  My girlfriend and I would arrive at the restaurant before the others.  We were escorted around back to a huge white tent residing on the shore of Lake Montauk.   We followed the crowd past the tent to the lakeside rows of chairs and the garden arbor dotted with roses.  We took our seats as more guests arrived.  A few of our crew were still missing.  It was two of the girls who’s primping ran past departure time.  They arrived as the wedding party was coming down the aisle.  Oblivious to this, they darted down the same path.  Onlookers must have thought they were part of the act.

Dueling “I Do”s and it was time for the cocktail hour.  Usually I fill up on the hors d’oeuvres, as the main meal never lives up to the billing.  However I was previously informed of the bounty before us.  It would be unlimited lobster.  I would indulge in a cornucopia of the crustaceans that they almost became an endangered species.  The reception was only one of the many acts of this Taming of the Shrew.  There would be a beach BBQ and bonfire later that evening.  We returned to the B&B to relax and recoup.  We arrived as a soused sort.  We invaded the dwelling like drunken sailors.  At that point we would discover we did not rent out ALL of the rooms.  An unfortunate couple had booked along with us.  Their peaceful retreat was penetrated by our raucous return.  We promised them they would be left in silence soon.  We would be heading back to the party.

Where the wedding once stood a bon fire now burned.  The chairs turned to circle the flames.  I took a familiar spot near the grill master.  My girlfriend, tired from the long day, rested upon a fireside chair and fell asleep.  We got along better that way.   I inquired to the cook about the evening’s fare.  I was impressed.  Besides the basic burgers were a sampling of swordfish and Mako.  My narcoleptic companion gave me amble opportunity to mingle.  Hey, our days together were already numbered anyway.  As the grilling subsided the staff joined in with the imbibing.  There were several single female staff and I did my best to interview for an opening position.

Our group now gathered around the fire.  My date did not stir…maybe I should have checked for a pulse.  She could sleep through an apocalypse…and once actually did.  The backyard of her house sat upon a well-travelled winding road.  It was about 2am when I awoke to the exploding sound of crunching metal.  The long backyard loomed larger in the darkness.  I could not see what caused the disturbance until I saw the flames.  I dialed 911.  I threw on some clothes to head through the pitch black back to the fire in the distance.  I could hear the sirens quickly approaching.  They arrived before I did, so I headed back to the house.  The car crash was less than 200 ft from the bedroom.  She didn’t even roll over.

A simple party stood no chance of waking her.  We had taken a spot opposite her anyway.  I kept an eye out just to make sure the ambers did not set her ablaze.  We were on the edge of a dune that dropped off to the beach.  As I was regaling the females with a few stories (I have a few of them, huh?) I took a step back.  Only there was no BACK.  I tumbled down the dune to the beach below.  I dropped off in mid sentence.  I was startled, but after a few seconds I was in full laughter.  This let everyone know I was all right.  Once they realized what had happened, one of the female staff made her way down the incline.  She arrived and helped me dust off my collection of sand.  We had a moment.

The bon fire dwindled and it was time to retire.  I was able to awaken Miss Van Winkle enough to get her to the car.  When we arrived at the B&B she headed up to the room to continue her slumber.  It was past 3am but I was not the least bit tired.  I could hear the rumbling of the surf and decided this would be my destination.  Bathing suit on and towel in hand I headed off.  The moon provided enough light to guide me through the brush covered dunes.  I took a quick dip in the ocean while mimicking the Jaws “da nuh, da nuh” music.  I dried off and laid the towel down to protect myself from the sand.  I was sans a partner to help dust me off.

As I lay on the towel I looked out over the water.  The silver-ish moon cast its glow upon the surf.  It reminded me of years ago after my prom.  My girlfriend at the time and I spent the next morning the same way.  It was a romantic setting with someone I cared for.  Now I sat there by myself.  I realized, that even if my current girlfriend were with me now, I would still be alone.  And that was the problem.

Only a few short years later I would be planning my own wedding.  Christina and I would visit The Crow’s Nest to see if it were an option.  The years were not kind to the venue plus the Town of Southampton had limited their events.  We would pass.  I did some research online and discovered Mountain Meadows in Killington, VT.  Upon our trip there Christina fell in love with the place.  She had prepared a preponderance of questions for the proprietor.  They must have all been answered appropriately.  We left a deposit before we departed.

Christina did not fall asleep at the wheel.

Commuted Sentence

Commuted Sentence

Many of you have followed my posts on Facebook detailing my trials and tribulations of commuting on the LIRR.  But, believe it or not, there are days when the railroad works perfectly fine.  This, however, does not shield me from my remaining morning commute.  I thought I would share with you a regular travel day.

Today was a typically good commute.  It usually begins with the alarm going off at 6:15.  However, this morning I would wake up a few minutes before.  This is a good sign, my body is telling me it is ready to go.  The bathroom routine, including getting dressed, lasts about 25 minutes.  The need to be quiet is removed since the wife fell asleep downstairs watching TV.   I head down the stairs to my office to gather my commuter gear.  This morning I have time to pay a few bills on the computer.  I toss my bag over my shoulder and head to leave.  Max comes over to give me a kiss goodbye, however the wife is still sound asleep.  I check his hot spot and tell him he will be allowed in the pool soon.  He wags his tail seemingly to understand. The best part of my morning has just ended.

I get in my car to go.  I forgot my wallet.  I have to turn the car off since my house key is on the same chain.  I enter and Max looks up.  He is used to me forgetting something so he doesn’t bother to come over.  I find my wallet where my wife “put it”.  Lucky for her, otherwise she would have been woken up.  Out the door, Take 2.  The car is started again and gives a huff, probably pissed off I should make up my mind.  It is now 6:55, I am a few minutes behind schedule.

The route to the train station is embedded in my still sleepy mind.  It is summer, so no school buses can hamper my progress.  But added to my commute are two new stop signs on the side street that cuts over to Terry Road.  I stop for the first, I can’t remember if I stopped for the second.   I get to the light to turn on Terry, it is a censored light so I will have to wait.  I make the left and head towards Old Nichols Road only to find cones and a cop.  Great.  I am informed I can’t go straight, I would have to turn right.  That was my intention anyway.  As I approach the LIE I have the green.  Meaningless.  It turns yellow and the entire row of laned traffic halts.  There is a camera at this intersection and everyone knows it.  Jamming on your brakes at a yellow has now become commonplace, and it will eventually cause a severe accident…a blog for another day.

I head east on the LIE as I watch the backed up traffic head west.  My journey on this road lasts only 2 exits, but that is long enough to deal with a deluge of deranged drivers.  Exit 60 is the Ronkonkoma train station.  I head to the parking garage and find a few open spots.  Seems everyone drove their SUV's today.  I find a spot that is not adjacent to one of these behemoths so I can minimize my dings.  Out of the car and off to the station.  I was able to get a spot on the first level so I would not be using the bridge overpass.  I cross the street where the vehicles are supposed to yield to the pedestrians.  Yeah, good luck with that.

I arrive at the station and have to pass through the smokers.  Smoking is prohibited on the platform so they stand just beside it.  Yeah, and we all know smoke just stays in ONE place.  Another great idea brought to you by the LIRR.  The morning's synchronized swimming of train arrivals from the stockyard progresses on.  My train, the 7:19, will arrive on Track 1.  No need for me to use the station overpass to access the other side.  The 7:04 had just pulled out of Track 2 leaving a non-passenger double decker diesel residing on Track 1.  I take the steps up to the platform and head to my usual standing spot.  This morning, a woman I recognize has beaten me to it.  Not a big deal, she usually sits on the outside of a three seater…and I like the window seat.  I arrive at the spot exactly where the second door of car #4 of the 7:19 will come to rest.  However, the diesel train is still there.  This train needs to leave before my train can arrive.  We all have to wait on the platform until the LIRR engineer gets his coffee, puts in 2 sugars and stirs.  He blows the smoke off the steaming hot cup, and takes a sip.  How do I know this?  It is the same thing EVERY morning.

I can see the 7:19 creeping into the station waiting for the diesel train to depart.  I guess coffee boy finally got her in gear and off they go.  My train pulls up right behind it.  Even though the door opens closer to me, I allow the woman to enter first.  Yeah, sometimes I can be a gentleman.  This morning she chooses to sit in the end seat of row 5.  I ALWAYS sit in row 5…perhaps she is not as observant as I.  As soon as she sits I say "excuse me" so I can get into the window seat.  She huffs.  Hey lady, you are on the outside seat.  SOMEONE is going to ask you to get up so they can sit by the window.  It just happens to be ME, the guy who sits in that very same seat every day.

Now I usually see this woman on the train.  While she looks nice and dresses well, she apparently puts her perfume on with a crop duster.  The smell permeates throughout the entire car.  I think if you look closely you can see a dust cloud around her that would make Pig Pen proud.  And today I would be in the eye of the storm.  Luckily I was tired this morning.  With my commuter pillow out, I was asleep before Brentwood.  The usual ticket taker must have been on vacation.  He always has to say “Thank You” upon seeing your ticket…even if you are asleep.  Of course you are asleep no more.  I did not wake up until just outside the tunnel.  I realized the AC was barely on in our car as I awoke in a sweat…nice.  Now I need a shower.  I look to my left and the woman is gone, but my nose believes she is still there.

We arrive on Track 15.  Good, they have an escalator…maybe it will be working today.  Of course not.  Welcome to Penn Station.  We begin to bottleneck, as riders now have to walk up the escalator steps.  We arrive at the top to find bookend homeless people.  Both are sound asleep, but their smells are not.  I long for the crop dusted lady.  They lay face down as the commuters pass by.  Are they alive?  Who knows…I am sure they have been here all weekend without getting hassled.  I arrive at the West End Corridor.  Never heard of it?  Not surprised.  All it is is a suspended tube-like overpass above the LIRR tracks.  If you thought the atmospheric conditions trackside were intolerable, welcome to the West Side.  There is no form of life support at all in this tube.  If you think the main part of Penn Station is a shithole, you should take a look at the bastard stepchild part near 8^th Avenue.

I quickly exit this sweatbox and head towards the E.  I go through the turnstiles and actually have a nice walk to the station.  It is clean compared to Penn (then again what isn’t).  Artistic tiled walls with freshly replaced billboards are a welcomed change of pace.  As I arrive to the steps of the platform I hear the subway at the station.  I quickly head up the first batch of stairs but then turn to see several fat ladies struggling up the steps.  As they blocked my passage the E pulls away.  I would have to wait in the stifling air for the next one.

Finally the next E arrives.  One of the fat ladies vies for a seat, but I arrive first.  She will have to search elsewhere.  The air-conditioned car is my only reprieve on the commute.  We arrive at 53rd and Lex to find an opposite bound E already there.  Great, two trains unloading at the same time.  As if the platform weren’t small enough.  The backup is greater than usual and I arrive to find only one working escalator.  Well, at least one of them is working.  Take the steps you say?  Well, if you did, then you have never gotten off the E at this stop.  You are in the 7^th level of hell.  I know, I counted all of them.  You are 7 stories below ground.  Like Danny Vermin in Johnny Dangerously…I walked it once…ONCE.

The 7 stories unveil decade’s worth of neglect.  Paint chips, leak stains and some unidentified disgustingness dominate the scenery.  The escalator puts me below 875 3^rd Ave.  The dilapidated jaunt gives way to a moment of refinement.  The atrium is filled with stores, plants and a piano.  It is a beautiful building…it is not mine.  I use their escalator for my final leg of my mole like travel.  I arrive above ground at 52^nd and 3^rd.  I fight my way through the stupidity of the pedestrian traffic…see my previous blog.  The 777 building is my finally destination, resting on 49^th and 3^rd.  Through the revolving glass doors and past security, I head to the elevators.  My office is on the 3^rd floor.  The elevator doors close before I can get on…thanks guys.

Gone are my mornings when the commute was an afterthought.  From living on 182 East Mineola Ave and working at 149 East Mineola Ave…to being able to beat “Stairway to Heaven” to work on the radio.  Now the hardest part of my job…is getting to it.

And this is on a good day.

Coin Tails

 Coin Tails

This week the Steelers open their annual summer training camp to prepare for the 2012 NFL season.  For 46 years the Pittsburgh Steelers have held it on the scenic fields of St. Vincent College in Latrobe, PA.  Many teams no longer uphold the tradition of bonding at a college campus.  Instead they prefer to hold it at their own training facilities.  In 1998, I would have the opportunity to attend this yearly ritual.

In 1997 the Steelers came within 3 points of the Superbowl.  However, heartbreak begat optimism for the following season…and I couldn’t have it birthed soon enough.  Midway through March I joined the “Official Steelers Fan Club”.  Jerome Bettis, the Steelers running back nicknamed “the Bus”, sponsored it.  You even received his autographed photo upon payment.  I can hear it now…Geek!...Loser! Perhaps.  But one of the perks of joining was the ability to be down on the field at training camp.  I would take full advantage.

You may have noticed I have a propensity for tying trips together.  This would be no different.  The year before I had attended my first ever air show in Elmira, NY.  I was amazed.  They had held it for several years.  Only thanks to the evolving Internet was I able to discover the show.  I assured myself I would return in 1998.  It was held in early August so I would be able to tie this road trip in with the Steelers training camp.

The first hurricane of the season formed west of Africa.  That’s a long way to come to rain on my parade.  Obviously wind and wet weather would prevent the air show from happening.  But also, in inclement weather, the Steelers move their training camp practice indoors.  No fans allowed.  I held firm to my plans as Alex was downgraded to a tropical storm.  However the remnants could wreak havoc on my travels.

Late Friday morning I was off.  Late being the operative word since I had the girlfriend in tow.  She went along since she enjoyed history and football…I just wasn’t so sure I enjoyed her.  However, I thought it would be nice to have the company on the long drive.  The air show was on Saturday, so we would not miss that.  It was Friday evening I had set up something special.  The museum that sponsored the show offered rides on their B-17 bomber nicknamed “Fuddy Duddy”.  The cost was prohibitive and non refundable if you missed it…hence why I couldn’t be late.  I called ahead to see how the weather was holding up.  Our flight was the only one scheduled that evening so they felt there would be a window of opportunity.

We were running late and my travel companion was only adding to it.  I did not want to miss my dream of flying.  I put the pedal down to make some time.  There's something good waitin' down this road and I did not want to miss whatever is mine.  We arrived only minutes before I was scheduled to take off.   I ran into the museum’s main building and informed the curator of my plight.  “Mr. Walsh, I am sorry, you missed them.  They have already left for the tarmac.”  I looked back over my shoulder, but my girlfriend was scarce.  She knew better.  It was then the walkie-talkie squawked.  The plane was being delayed by weather.  The curator responded to them that I had arrived.  The voice urged her to get me out to the runway as quick as possible.  As soon as the weather cleared we were taking off.  I was rushed out the back door and into an awaiting jeep.  I would make it.  The weather soon cleared and we were off.

On Saturday, the air show went off without a hitch.  The rain stayed south and the wind remained acceptable.  Sunday morning we departed for Latrobe.  Practice started at 2:30pm.  The rain, however, was already there.  As we made the long drive down we were greeted with a constant downpour.  The storm was heading north and it was my opinion we were passing through what had hit Latrobe hours earlier.  I felt the practice would go on as scheduled.  My girlfriend was of a different opinion, and she had no problem sharing it.  She wanted to cut our journey short and head home.  The weatherman on the radio said it was a 50% chance of rain in Latrobe.  My girlfriend informed me that with those odds I might as well just toss up a coin.  Luckily the rain and the radio drowned her out.

We arrived at St Vincent’s college in plenty of time…surprisingly.  The sun was now shining but the field was still wet.  We checked in with the person running the Steelers Fan Club.  The team had not yet announced if they were still holding the afternoon practice outdoors.  We were informed everyone was in a “wait and see” mode…it could go either way.  I believe my girlfriend pulled out a quarter to show me.  But this day I was in luck.  Here came the team out of the college’s gym and down the steps to the filed.  Game on!  Jerome Bettis came over to greet us.  His gregarious personality almost as gigantic as the gentleman himself.  We watched for over an hour as they ran through drills.  They then set up a scrimmage with Bettis in the backfield.  On the 3^rd carry it happened.  He slipped on the wet grass and fell to the ground grabbing his leg.  He was done for the day.

The rain I wished away left enough of a calling card to dampen the entire 1998 season.  Jerome Bettis seemed to be haunted by that injury all year.  Even so, the Steelers were 7-4 heading into a Thanksgiving matchup in Detroit, Bettis’ hometown.  He was made an honorary team captain for the game.  With that came the calling of the opening coin toss…ironic.  His duties were doubled that day as the game headed into overtime.  It was from this second coin toss that the Steelers would never recover.  Steeler players are instructed to always call “Tails”…it is just the way it is.  Jerome watched the airborne coin and shouted out “Tails”.  The referee heard “Heads”.  The coin landed and displayed tails.  Jerome thought he had won.  The ref informed him otherwise.  The Steelers lost the coin toss, they lost first chance with the ball, they lost the game…and they would lose the next, and last, 4 games that season.

I had won my “toss of the coin” with the weather that August afternoon.  But it seems that season the Steelers lost all of theirs.  My luck with the weather led to a long year for Jerome Bettis.  From the training camp injury to the famous phantom “Heads” call.  In 1997 they just missed going to the Superbowl.  Now in 1998, they would not even make the playoffs.  It all culminated with a coin in Detroit.  Jerome would have his revenge though.  The next time he would return to play in Detroit, the Steelers would be in the Superbowl.  He led the team out of the tunnel that day…and on to victory.

The NFL changed the coin toss rules after that 1998 season.  The words “call it in the air” that have always been a staple, even in playgrounds, are no more.  You now have to call it before the coin is tossed.  The referee even repeats your choice back to you to make sure.  This was recently spoofed in a Papa John’s Superbowl commercial.  Jerome Bettis comes out to call the coin toss.  He finds Peyton Manning dressed as a referee ready to do the honor.  Jerome calls “Tails”.

Peyton says, “Heads, he said Heads.”

On The Road Again

On The Road Again

Recently we had some work done in my backyard.  The electrician commented that you would hardly even know you were on Long Island.  My house itself sits upon a quiet street in Suffolk.  The dwellings range in size and stature.  My residence is among three that were constructed around similar times.  From the front it would seem like just another home among the many.  The backyard is where you will find yourself transported.  I grew up in a noisy postage stamp property neighborhood.  As I got older it only grew worse.  This is the reason why I transformed my home into a secluded sanctuary.

My first apartment out of college was in Lynbrook.  I was right off of Broadway.  Not the one of “Give My Regards” fame.  However this one was busy enough that it also went by a Madonnaesque one-word mantra.   It would seem that not all roads lead south, only this one did.  And everyone heading in that direction used it for their morning commute.

My second apartment would offer poorer privacy.  It was in Valley Stream, a few feet short of Sunrise Highway.  Since there is no equivalent to the LIE on the south shore, the 18-wheelers roll through around 5am.  And No, sir, it's NOT very unusual.  The sound was bad enough.  The rumble itself shook me awake each morning as if I were Cousin Vinny.

A few years later I purchased a co-op in Roslyn.  Moving there I thought I would be granted a reprieve since it was on a smaller road.  No such luck.  A few of the open units were deeper in the development, but the one that met my needs resided on this road.  But it was not Sunrise Highway, so how bad could it be.  I would find out that this was a major cut through in Roslyn, sitting between the LIE and the Viaduct.  Even the #23 bus route went right below my window.  For good measure the Roslyn Volunteer Fire Department was only a few doors down.  While that was not so bad, it was the fire alarm sitting the approximate height of my back window that was.  When it came time to sell my unit, I hoped that no fires broke out as I was showing the place.

My apartment also sat directly above a three way stop.  I use that term loosely since nobody ever did.  Apparently the two stop signs that were on the main road were only suggestions.  Many a time a driver ignoring them would have to screech his brakes to avoid hitting another motorist that was making a turn on or off the side road.  I had called the local precinct to inform them of this “accident waiting to happen”.  The co-op’s parking lot was centered in the development.  Being on the outskirts it was a bit of a distance.  I would park on that side road for convenience during the day, but return my car to rest in the lot at night.

It was late one December afternoon, a few days before Christmas.  I had just arrived at home with take-out in hand.  I parked on the side road since it was still light.  As I exited my car, I noticed a police officer sans vehicle standing on the corner.  I saw him viewing each motorist as they passed.  Finally!  They sent an officer to see what I was talking about.  I assumed that without his cop car to give him away, he was attempting to catch those who advanced uninterrupted through the intersection.  I approached him almost congratulatory, “I am glad they sent someone down here to ticket all the drivers that blow through these stops signs.”  He responded sternly, “I am here checking seatbelts.  I noticed you were not wearing yours.”  The look on his face told me this was not in jest.  I was taken aback at the fact he was here for something so minor.  I told him, “Well, you can give them a seatbelt ticket after the accident they will cause.”   He quipped, “Well, maybe I should just give you a ticket.”  Realizing the futility, I retired from this runaround.

After dinner I settled on the couch.  Day turned to night and a light snow began to fall.  Maybe we would have a White Christmas after all.  We were not expecting much but I thought I would move my car just in case.  The thought barely had time to settle in my brain when I heard it.  The usual screeching of brakes was replaced by the sound of a sliding skid.  If you are like me, when you hear that sound, you wait for the crash.  I did not have to wait long.

When out on the road there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The light on the street on the new-fallen snow

Gave the luster of mid-day to the two cars below,

And, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a 4 door sedan, hit my eight cylinder…

 

I jumped off the couch, as I knew my car was in harms way.  As I peered out the window I could see another car forming a perfect T into mine.  The gentleman exited his car to inspect the damage.  I threw open the window and yelled, “Don’t go anywhere, that’s my car…I’ll be right down.”  Hey…what’s this?  That SOB is getting in his vehicle and taking off.

He sprang to his car, put his gear in reverse,

And pulled back he did drive, my Mustang for the worse.

He could hear me exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

 

Wait til I catch you, you’ll regret this night.

 

 

Now even though it was winter I always spent my time indoors in sweat shorts.  If you have ever lived in a co-op, sometimes heat is not the issue…too much is.  I joked I “summered” in my apartment.  Well this night was no different.  There was no time for jackets or jeans.  I barely had time to throw on my sneakers.  I bolted out the door, and took off down the three flights of steps.  I rounded the building and out to the middle of the road.  Too far to see the license plate, I made it just in time to see his taillights turn left.  But it was not the end of the block, he mistakenly went into the parking lot of the nearby nursing home.  It was the only way in and out.  This was the break I was looking for.  I hopped in my car, fired her up and gunned the engine.  A car was coming down the street and must have realized what was happening…they actually stopped at the sign.  I turned right and tore off down the road…mumbling something about why don’t you give me a seatbelt ticket now cop’er.  I arrived at the entrance to see my crashing combatant trying to return out of the lot.  I did my best Starsky and Hutch to block his exit with my car.  Prevented from proceeding, he had the nerve to honk.  I guess he did not recognize his work.

It turned out he was a Domino’s deliver guy.  When I mentioned I should call the cops for leaving the scene, he said he only had 30 minutes…no time to wait.  He even had the guts to ask me if he could finish his delivery.  I told him, “Oh, you are finished right now.”

Those days are past and I enjoy the solace my sanctuary provides.  It is the escape I have always envisioned.  On some crisp nights I can hear the light murmur of the LIE off in the distance.  But that is no longer my street.

My road is the one less traveled.

Piss Off

Piss Off

It is summer and with that comes the chance that your dog may develop “hot spots” for one reason or another.  These are localized infections that develop on the skin beneath the hair.  Max has been able to avoid them the last few years.  However, this summer they returned with a vengeance.  Poor Max had to be shaved in so many spots that it would make George Sanderson from Monsters Inc. cringe.  Along with that, Max also had to have a cortisone shot and has been on antibiotics.  This has led to an unquenchable thirst…and an aftermath of peeing.  This weekend I remained downstairs to let him out every hour or so throughout the night.  I was not concerned if he had an accident…I would understand.  I just did not want him to be uncomfortable.  As I awoke this morning, I let Max out to pee before I left for work.  As I waited for him to finish, it reminded me of my own issue in the 6^th grade.

Now, maybe this blog may eventually turn out to be about self-exploration (sounds like something you might see on late night Cinemax).  However this story I have shared many times before.  I especially repeat it to Christina since she is in the education field.  Now that I am older I see teachers in a different light.  Of course students these days are hardly respectful of their teachers and do not accept their authority.  The pendulum has swung too far to one side from the days when I was a student.  Then again, maybe it used to be too far to the other.

6^th grade was the last year of my elementary school.  We would be the oldest kids in the building.  I had always been a top student...yeah me…throughout the earlier grades and this year would be no exception.  It would be the first time any of us would have a male teacher though…this is not going where you might think it is, it was not a Catholic school.  He was a tall man but who wasn’t tall to 11 year olds.  His profile resembled that of Abe Lincoln.  As we entered his class on that first day he commanded respect.  In those days the “wait til your father gets home” rule was in effect.  Also, it applied to any Dad in your neighborhood.  With our new teacher being a man, he exemplified that disciplinarian figure.

Now, what does Max peeing have to do with this?  Well, somewhere along the line in 6^th grade I developed a urination problem.  It was not the NOT being able to go, like I worry about at my age now.  It was the always having to go issue.  For those of you who drink beer, you can fully understand this.  However, not quite imbibing yet…this was peeing without the fun.  My Mom took me to the doctor but he found nothing wrong.  Ole’ Doc Hogue offered up his expertise, “If he has to pee, let him pee”.  I fully agreed with his advice.  It also was not a pants wetting issue, as I could always hold it…even as uncomfortable as it might get.  That ability became a premium when I was in that 6^th grade class.

I raised my hand.  Called upon, I informed the teacher I needed to go to the bathroom.  After my return, it hit me again.  I waited about 15 minutes and my arm was up once more.  I told him I had to return to the bathroom.  Of course he had to offer, “Did you forget to go while you were in there?”  Thanks teach, I am pretty sure I got this urination thing down pat by now.  He allowed me a second trip.  This would be the last time he would do so.

I informed my Mom about this and she called the Principal at the school.  The Principal said she would speak with the teacher.  However, the next day it was the same thing.  This kept up for the next week or so.  It all came to a head on a Friday…Assembly Day.  It was held in the afternoon so I relieved myself right after lunch.  It really didn’t matter…I would fill right back up anyway.  We headed to the auditorium and I thought I would gain some leniency since we were passing the restrooms anyway.  My request was denied.  In all my years since, I can never recall a more uncomfortable two hours…and I have indulged in a beer or two since then.  After the assembly was over, I was practically doubled over in pain.  The teacher looked and asked what was wrong.  I said, I told you I had to go to the bathroom.  His only answer was “Still?”  Did this guy fail biology?  Pee only goes away one way.  On the way back to the classroom, as we passed the bathroom, I darted in without asking.  The teacher was livid.  Later that day my Mom was called because of my urination insubordination.

For my Mom and I this was the final straw.  We went back to the Ole Doc and he penned a wonderful prescription, “If he has to pee, let him pee”.  I showed this to the teacher the following day.  Nothing.  I came home and my Mom was in disbelief.  Had I not been a good son, she might not have been so quick to believe me.  No phone calls this time.  She went directly to the school and gave the doctors note to the Principal.  Mom was very protective of me.  I was not in the room at the time and can only imagine what went on behind the closed door.  The Principal came out white as a ghost.  Maybe she pointed out my Step-Dad’s connections.  After a few days the teacher finally, begrudgingly gave in.  It would be the last time I would ever trust an adult, let alone a teacher…or anyone in authority for that matter.  I would question everything.

Eventually whatever was causing this subsided.  However the teacher’s disdain for me did not.  I had questioned his authority and judgment.  He would hold it against me the rest of the year.

I have always wondered what his motive was.  Did he think as the only male figure in the school, he needed to teach a young boy to hold it?  Did he think I was lying…what was there for me to gain?  Was it a power trip since he thought he was the ultimate authority?  Was he putting me in my place?  Did he WANT me to pee my pants?   He ignored me, my Mom, the Principal and the doctor’s note.  Who did he think he was that HE should have the final say?  I think of the pendulum and what would happen to this teacher if this occurred today.

I let Max in and gave him a treat.  Peeing is rewarded in my household.  I also will never deter anyone with a “can’t you just hold it”.   To this day, every now and then, I will still get those “really have to pee again and again” moments…even without drinking.  No doctor has ever found anything wrong.  They all seem to agree with the original “If he has to pee, let him pee” remedy.

Everyone except for one 6^th grade teacher.

The Hook Brings You Back

The Hook Brings You Back

This past week Christina had a friend stay over with her young son.  He asked me if he could play with my trains and I happily obliged.  He was thankful for the time, but it is I who should be thanking him.  It seems these days I don’t get to use them as much as I once did.  Seeing his eyes light up brings me back to his age and the days when I had all the time in the world.

I had just turned eight and in a few short months my Mom would be marrying my Step-Dad.  We would be moving up the block but currently my Mom and I still lived with my Grandparents.  My Grandfather was a tinkerer, and his garage and basement workshop were a young boys dream.  I took to tools at an early age.  It is somewhat surprising that now I am not handy around the house.  Well, at least I can cook… I got that from my Grandfather too.  I rarely needed to go to the local hardware store.  Everything I ever needed was at my fingertips.  We were at that age when we would build our own go-karts.  Race em?  Heck No!  We were more the demolition derby type of kids.  This meant our crafts where in constant need of repair.

It was a warm December that year so our outdoor activities continued well into the fall.  I sustained a huge crack in the front end of “Ole #5” and she was useless to me without some work.  One more hit without repair would be the end of her.  The garage had plenty of wood, tools and nails.  Nails are nice, but screws are better.  I would have to head to the basement workshop to chose among the many.  What was this?  The door was locked from the inside…the door is NEVER locked.  Locks in those days consisted of eyehooks and/or small sliding bolts.  It was just enough of a deterrent to keep kids out.  Well, most kids.

It had been a few years earlier when I was five that I faced a similar locked foe.  Before my Step Dad, my Mom had been dating a different guy.  He had a daughter around my age and a big beautiful house in which we were often invited to stay.  The first night we did so was a Friday and his daughter and I were sound asleep early.  Saturday morning arrived and that meant only one thing for me at that age…CARTOONS!  It was 7am and I tried to wake my sleepy "sister" to help me in my quest.  She had no interest, so I was on my own.  The den contained the TV and was off of the kitchen, so breakfast would be my first stop.  I found a bowl, a spoon, cereal and milk.  I went to push the swinging door that sat between the two rooms and was abruptly halted.  The door worked fine last night, what could be wrong.  I slowly pushed the door a second time and I could see the problem.  Way above me and on the other side was a locked eyehook.  Now the master bedroom was located on the other side of the den.  Waking the adults would not be a good option anyway.  I thought for a moment and then sprung into action.  I grabbed a butter knife from the draw and slid a chair next to the door.  On my tippy toes I was just able to slide the knife through the crack and lift the eyehook.  It was cartoon time!

Around 9am my Mom and her boyfriend emerged from the bedroom.  He stared in disbelief.  There I was watching my cartoons eating my chocolate frosted sugar bombs…all I was missing was Hobbes.  He turned to my Mom, “How did he get in here, I locked the door.”  My Mom just responded that something as simple as that would not thwart her son.

Now the door to the basement workshop would be a little tougher.  It would have the eyehook and a small dead bolt.  The door did not sit tightly in the frame so I could see the task ahead.  I retrieved some needle nose pliers and a screwdriver.  I squeezed the pliers through the opening and twisted the dead bolt around.  I was then able to ever so slightly maneuver it across.  Slowly but surely the end of the bolt passed the open slit.  The eyehook would be just a formality.  I entered the room and proceeded to go through every container, draw and anything that looked like it might be hiding the necessary screws.  Once I had what I needed I was ready to depart.  For some reason I turned around the opposite way from the door…and that is when I saw it.

There it was…a prebuilt 4ft x 6ft train set.  My eyes widened to take it all in.  The track was pristine.  The ballast glistening alongside.  The green grass so real you could almost smell it.  The light towers rose above the train yard below.  A control panel with a dual transformer and so many track switches they seemed to run out of numbers.  Christmas was only a few short weeks away and I knew this was mine. 

There are times in your life that stick with you forever.  As you look back to that moment, the excitement and joy immediately return to you.  As I now watched the young boy take control of my train set, I could see that familiar look in his eyes.

At least I had already unlocked the door for him.