PHOTO ALBUMS LIE!

One of my New Year's resolutions was to organize the thousands of loose pictures I have accumulated over the years into an album or two. Not a scanned, computerized, iPhoto album, but a hand-held, many-paged, store-bought, old-fashioned picture album! I thought it would be exciting, reliving those memories caught frozen in past times. Was I ever wrong! It turned out to be a tiresome, frustrating job trying to decide which photos to keep and which to leave out. Should I keep the ones where I look great but other people don't look so hot? No problem. I kept the ones that starred me! As the album began taking shape, organized as best I could into several thematic sections, a startling fact about albums hit me! Photo albums are liars! Just take a look at one! Everyone is smiling and happy! All the kids are as cute as can be! Everyone is frozen in time--ageless. No Dorian Grey age progression in the pictures regardless of how long one keeps them! As they were seen by the camera's eye at the moment of the flash--so they will remain on the album page, and in the case of departed ones (for whatever reason)--also in our mind's darkroom. Then I realized another reason why albums are lying! During happy occasions there is always a camera handy---at weddings, at birthday parties, on vacation trips---ready at a moment's notice to snap a happy face or a happy scene! But where is the camera when my wife and I are arguing, when she's throwing shoes at me, or breaking up the furniture! Nowhere! And where is the camera and where are the pictures of the kids when they are throwing a tantrum, or throwing up on their new clothes, or hitting their sister with a plastic, baseball bat, or biting her brother in a fit of anger! Nowhere! That's why I say photo albums lie! They don't picture the whole truth! LIARS!

LOVE LETTER TO PUNKUS

Dear Punkus--you with the unlikeliest sounding of romantic pet names--I know you told me when we parted those many, many years ago that you wanted never to see me again or to hear from me. But something extraordinary happened this morning that forces me to try to reach out to touch you again--wherever it may be that life has taken you since that awful day for which you swore to never forgive me! You left and my world stopped! You took away the sweetness and the fire to which I'd become accustomed! You went away and time stood still! You left me with delicious memories--and thoughts of you still creep into my dreams. You left and took with you those magic hands that brought such pleasure and you took away those pink lips whose taste still lingers on my tongue. Am I hoping too much to suddenly find you back in my life again--back in my welcoming arms--back in my aching heart? You want to know what happened this morning to so rekindle my desire for you? When I stepped outdoors this morning, I heard a mockingbird singing. And I swear he was repeating your name--"Punkus"..."Punkus"..."Punkus"!

THE LETTER

There's something sensual about a hand-written letter! A letter does not have the electronic feel of an email or the transitory nature of a texted message. A letter is even more personal than a disembodied voice coming from a cell phone. So you can imagine my excitement when I received a letter from Punkus. It was an excitement tinged with fear--for when Punkus and I parted over ten years ago, it was not on the best of terms, as you know. (She had accused me, rightly, of being unfaithful.) My fingers shook as I opened the envelope. Inside, folded twice, was a single, perfumed page impressed with green ink upon a pink unlined sheet--typically Punkus! (Her art background led her to use an old-fashioned, wooden pen with a gold nib that she dipped into a glass inkwell when she wrote using fanciful script characters!) "What could she have written?" I wondered. What was inside could be either hopeful or damaging! I cleared a space on my desk (I had been reading Gladwell's OUTLIERS) and placed the envelope and letter in front of me. I first examined the envelope for clues. It was stark white--not the pastel color a younger, more romantic Punkus would have chosen. Not a good sign! My name, delicately written in a familiar hand, sent shivers through me! It was as though Punkus was reaching out to stroke my face! I opened the letter and began reading, with difficulty at first for my eyes were tearing, but then with more focus as I began making sense of her words. This is what I read: "Shortly after leaving Orlando, I was in an horrific auto accident in Ogden, Utah. I was in a coma for six months while doctors worked to patch my broken body. When I awoke, all past memory of my life had been erased. For ten years, my mother and brother cared for me at our family home in Killeen, Texas. Gradually, the fog surrounding my pre-accident life cleared. Because you were once such an important stabilizing influence in my life, I decided to reach out to you--as the one person who would not judge me for the emotionally and physically damaged person I am today. As you may imagine, I've had considerable cosmetic reconstruction done--especially on my face--and, though inside I'm your same Punkus, I'm not the cute woman you fell so much in love with. I'll understand if you don't respond, but here is my address...." I reached for my pen and began scribbling! [TO BE CONTINUED]

PUNKUS: THE END

[Undated letter--never mailed]

Dear Punkus,

During those long and lonely years we were apart, I made two promises. One--I would not marry until I found you and made sure we two couldn't be wed. Two--that I would not die until I held you in my arms again. Unfortunately, I can only keep one of those promises! In your recent letter to me (the first one you wrote since coming out of your years-long coma) you mentioned how memories of our past love affair came tumbling out of your fog of forgetfulness like glittering diamonds dropping out of an upturned, velvet, jewel bag. "Treasured memories," you wrote! You recounted how our parents and teachers smiled at the two of us in elementary school as we moved, hand-in-hand, throughout the day...more like grown-up lovebirds, they said, than as brother and sister-like. I don't remember those early days, but I do remember our early teen-age days when we had eyes for each other only. Our love, it seemed, just wrapped around us as naturally as a warm, morning mist. Ours was not a red-hot, torrid affair. It came to us as a gentle understanding of each other's wants and needs. No lovers' spats--no petty jealousies. We just knew instinctively that we were destined to live our lives as one unbreakable union. The words "I love you" never crossed our lips in those early days. Words like that were unnecessary additions. You wrote about the one time I did say those words to you. It was during wartime. My two best buddies had volunteered for army service. I waited as long as I could before my conscience came to terms with willingly separating myself from you. A few days before I left for overseas duty, we had a final intimate moment. Again, it was something that came about naturally--without pressure...without drama--and it was beautiful! That was the night you heard me whisper those three, precious words. And now that I am a few days, a few hours maybe, from surrendering my life to this prostate cancer piercing my body, I want my attending nurses to testify that with my last gasps I was speaking your name..."Darling...darling Punkus!" [THE END?]

TRIBUTE TO A DOG

Jimmy. Yes, that was his name. (What does an eight-year old know about naming his first pet--a German shepard puppy?) Perhaps, in response to the teasing I was getting, I should have named him, more appropriately, "Prince," or "Scout," or "Rover." At the time, though, I thought "Jimmy" sounded more friendly--more like the companion a lonely boy such as myself needed. And for the following year, Jimmy was just that--a loved and lovable companion--a close friend, even!

Each morning we would awaken together, often sharing the same breakfast (although from different plates!), before venturing out for our pre-school stroll. His black, bright eyes and wagging tail seemed to reflect the same joy I felt at being together each early dawn. And then, when reluctantly I left for school, his usually sharply-pointed ears drooped slightly as I gave him my daily farewell hug. His body was warm and trembling at those moments as I snuggled my face into his shiny brown and black fur. Both of us, I felt, looked forward to the afternoon when I returned from school and we could spend the rest of the day together. And we went everywhere. Jimmy, with his oversized paws and black claws, trotted beside me to the playground where I solitarily shot marbles from a ring drawn in the dirt. At the stream, he sat patiently on his haunches, watching as I fished alone. He trekked with me through Brandywine Forest (Delaware) as I pretended to be tracking wild and dangerous game. For that special year, Jimmy was the perfect pal!

But all of this shared joy came to a sudden and tragic end! I returned from school one afternoon eagerly looking forward to another day of pleasure with Jimmy. But, as I approached the house, I did not hear Jimmy's welcoming yelps. Unusual silence was my only greeting. Silence, that is, until my mother, in words that, even today, are heavy with sorrow, "Jimmy is gone, son!" The words hurt like no other pain I have felt before or after. Even my mother's comforting embrace could not console my young grief nor stem my flood of hot tears. (Jimmy had a distemper fit while I was at school and was "put down" by the local A.S.PC.A.) Gone forever was my best friend. Perhaps the most sincere tribute I could offer to Jimmy is the knowledge that he has never been replaced with another pet!

MURDER MOST FOUL

My three brothers died young, untimely deaths. Roland Robert died at the age of thirty-two of diabetes lying in a New York hospital bed with an amputated leg and a thinning body ravaged by the disease. Another brother, Earl Saunders, was a teen-age, random victim of an assassin's rifle bullet fired from the rooftop of a 114th Street tenement in black Harlem.

This story, however, is about the murder of my unnamed, unborn, twin brother. My reply to my court-appointed psychiatrist, Dr. Hagman, when he asked, astounded, "You did what?" may shock you as much as it shocked him.

"I murdered my twin brother," I repeated, more slowly this time. "Even though I had killed my twin-that-might-have-been in a crime that until now no one has suspected of having been committed, my brother's presence has always been a constant, invisible, accusatory companion--ever since I had left my mother's womb twenty-three years ago." I was telling my story as quickly as I could for my twin, in dreams, had sworn revenge. "I knew early in my mother's pregnancy that I was sharing her body with an evil double. Being the stronger twin, I focused every ounce of energy I could muster within that womb to weaken and destroy my evil twin. I concentrated on blocking the flow of blood and nutrition to the tubes and connections leading to my other half. I was committing murder in utero! My twin died minutes before his birth. I was a murderer before I was even born! And recent, narrow escapes with my life convinces me that his evil still exists!" I lay back on Dr. Hagman's couch--confession was tiring me! Just then a sudden thunderstorm erupted and the doctor left me alone to check on open windows in other parts of his office. Minutes later a bolt of lightning hit the building. When my psychiatrist returned, he found me dead on his couch. "Death by electrocution," said the coroner. But he had no explanation for the scorched number on my right shoulder--666!

MY GREATEST SIN

We all have done hurt to wives, friends, or relatives and I am no exception! Most of the unkind things I have done have receded to a dark corner of my memory, not igniting concerns of conscience. One disgraceful act, however, returns to send waves of shame through me. It concerns my father. And he didn't deserve what I did to him one rainy New York day! My father and I were not really very close. And aside from a few lickings from his belt when I misbehaved, he wasn't abusive. But he remains on the fringes of my memory, as I imagine will be my fate with my children as they grow older and my physical presence fades into a hazy past! I see an old photo of my dad standing in a bathing suit at Atlantic City beach. I don't remember that trip, but I must have been there also. I also recall an outing with my dad where he taught me to skeet shoot at clay pigeons. Despite few fresh memories, I know my father loved me. Each Christmas he surprised me with great gifts--a new bicycle, a Flexible Flyer sled, and, one year, a large pool table! So what I did to my father, who had turned blind later in life, cannot be excused as teenager rebellion. I was reluctantly leading him to visit his friend when some argument flared up and I abruptly left him stranded alone in the rain on that city street! The memory of that shameful act, still haunts me. What makes it even more an unbearable sin is the fact that he died when I was in the service--old enough to realize the hurt I had done and old enough to ask his forgiveness. I regret I never had the chance to say to him, "I'm sorry, Dad, and I do love you!"

A CHRISTMAS TALE

"I don't believe in Santa Claus!" I brashly announced to my parents one Christmas Eve. Or as brashly as I could muster for a nine-year-old kid! (In those days--the 30's--kids maintained their innocence a long time!) "I don't believe there is a Santa Claus," I repeated, this time more daringly, "I think you guys buy my Christmas gifts!" At least that was what some of my older schoolmates had told me. And I had searched my house looking for a new, red bicycle I had earlier written Santa for (under the guidance of my parents). Nothing. Nada. So I knew I wasn't getting my wished-for present. "Of course there's a Santa Claus, son," said Mom, "so you'd better get to bed early tonight. If Santa finds you awake, he won't leave you anything!" I wanted to stay up past my bedtime for I saw no reason to fall asleep early on Christms Eve. After all, Santa, I had been convinced, was a fiction. I figured my parents probably wanted me asleep early so they could bring out the supposedly gifts that "Santa" had left. Nevertheless, I was sent to bed early with the caution, "Don't let Santa catch you awake!" But I strained to keep alert until late. Suddenly I heard a noise downstairs. Then I heard the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs outside of my room. "Could this really be Santa?" Before the footsteps hit the final step, I was asleep! That was undoubtedly the fastest shut-eye in history. Yes, I did get my bike, but by next Christmas, I had joined the gang of realists spreading the news about who Santa really was! MERRY CHRISTMAS!

WHY I FEAR GROWING YOUNGER

Most guys my age fear growing older. Me, I fear growing younger! And I don't mean as in a second childhood kind of Alzheimer senility! I mean I'm actually aging backwards! I am unlike a lot of my buddies who slip unconcernedly into the dimming days of senior life. Nowhere is my claim of returning youthfulness more evident than on the tennis court where I play three times a week. Once I step on that green rectangle separated by a net, years of accumulated aches, pains, muscle sores, tendon strains,bone cracking, sore, flat feet, and all those other disabilities every athlete inherits just disappear! I begin playing as I did when I was at the height of my talent in my 40's. Once that first hard serve comes in my direction, an adrenalin-powered youth elixir pours through my body. If the serve is hit on a wide angle, my body, like an arrow, shoots towards the area where I must meet the ball, my rejuvenated feet churn like machinery under me, and my racket hand, no longer arthritic-stiff, stretches confidently out to meet the ball! And the ball, as if in slow motion, seems twice as normal, and my usually glaucoma-weakened eyes sees the ball clearly enough to read the brand name, and every hairy surface of the ball is visible to my heightened eyesight giving me enough time to pick out the exact spot on the ball I want to hit! My return bullets past a stunned net man and doesn't touch down until it reaches the farthest unreturnable spot on the court! Game...set...and match! "So," you ask, "why do you complain about growing younger when you can play the same soft lob, easy return, or slice-slice game that many of us are happy playing?" "I'm not complaining. I just know that there will come a point someday where I have pushed youth so far past human boundaries, that it will have no other path but to snap back hard against my real age! I do not look forward to that day! That's why I fear growing younger!"

TENNIS IN THE SNOW

"How can you play tennis in 30 degree weather?" my Florida friends ask. That's when I tell them about the times I've played in the Bronx, New York when snow was on the ground! [See photo in MY PHOTOS album] The only concession my tennis group at Pelham Bay Park made to winter was that we played only on weekends. We called ourselves, the Pelbay Polar Bears"! And we certainly looked like furry bears in our triple-layered playing outfits! We wore three shirts, three pants, three pair of socks, and thermal underwear covering our two pair of thick underwear! To top that off, we wore gloves and hats with ear muffs! We were prepared for whatever Old Man Winter threw at us. [New York had indoor courts, but in winter they were too expensive for us regular public park players.] So when we arrived at our courts after a snow storm, we would have to shovel a path to the courts and then scrape the snow from the one court we planned to use for the winter. Every winter the Parks Department removed the city nets. The first year we stretched a rope between the poles as a net. After that, we got smart and stole one city net to use for our winter play! Often we would have to chase off neighborhood kids who were using the courts for snow boarding or for playing ice hockey (in sneakers!). In 30 degree weather we had to keep our tennis balls warm. Once in a while they would suddenly become as hard as rocks! [Luckily, we had only two players over the years to suffer concussions from balls hitting them in the head.] So now when I'm asked about playing tennis in Florida in cold weather, I simply shrug my shoulders, smile warmly, and reply, "I've seen worse! I've seen worse!"

THREE RINGS FOR RAMONA

Warning! This is not a pretty story!

As the older brother of younger sisters, I met many of their girl friends. And I took full advantage of the opportunity! Mostly, the result was a casual, non-intimate relationship. There was one, however, that turned out to be an unholy affair! Her name was Ramona. It began innocently at first. Ramona asked my sister to ask me to give her a ring. I called and learned that she liked me a lot and wanted to go out with me. Since I was not then in a serious affair, and since Ramona was not bad to look at, I agreed. I began ringing her number frequently. She was my "friend with benefits." We went out on a lot of fun dates--we took moonlight cruises on the river, we rode amusement park attractions, we shared a table and a pizza at an "indie" movie theater, we ordered take-out fish fry and returned to my apartment for a meal, some scotch, and some late-night loving! One day, several months later, Ramona, who unsuccessfully had been pleading with me to marry her, pointed to a ring in a jewelry store. "I want you to buy me that," she said. We went inside and looked at many rings. Ramona insisted she wanted a diamond engagement ring. "But we're not engaged!" I protested. "Then we'll call it a friendship ring!" With that as a clear understanding, I bought the ring she wanted. After several more months of wearing the ring with no further commitment on my part, Ramona gave up, and was soon planning a wedding with a guy she didn't love. On her wedding day, I noticed my ring had been replaced on her ring finger with a gold wedding band. Since my sister was her maid-of-honor, there was no problem finding myself alone in a room with Ramona as she was about to dress for the ceremony. "For old times sake?" I asked. And, yes, we made love! Later that day, everyone commented on how radiant the bride looked in white!

VERA--Story of a woman possessed

"I could love you to death," Vera always told me. Little did I know she meant that literally! And now, as the tip of a knife pricks my neck, I realize Vera never really loved me. I spend the final, slow-motion seconds of my life reviewing my situation. Why didn't I recognize the signs that now seem so obvious--that I was an innocent actor in a plot which Vera had scripted! I was introduced to Vera by my sister, Ann. They both worked in the campaign headquarters of a local councilman whom I'll identify only as M.T. (not his real initials). A charismatic leader, M.T. was seeking to become the first black U.S. Senator from our state. Ann was his loyal executive secretary and Vera was a young, exotic-looking, new hire recently arrived from the island of Jamaica. My sister chose me to show Vera the city. From the beginning I had bad vibes about Vera. She never revealed why she had left Jamaica to come as a stranger to a new country. And during the seven months I was escorting her, I was on the receiving end of her super aggressive, heartlessly opportunistic, and coldly ambitious personality. How ambitious I didn't realize until Ann told me about a sensitive situation that was threatening to cause a blow-up at campaign headquarters. Ann had left on a two-week vacation, and when she returned, M.T. told her that Vera had taken over as his executive secretary. The office was abuzz with the pushy manner Vera had moved the direction of the senatorial campaign although she seemed always to be prepared for whatever problem arose. Someone swore M.T. had met Vera on a Jamaican vacation and had invited her to work for him. There were even rumors of an affair between Vera (who was claiming to be a virgin--which I knew not to be true!) and a very much married M.T. (who had two teen-aged daughters). Why is it the main characters in office romances wrongly believe they are engaged in a "secret" affair? "If the office suspects, does the wife also?" I wondered. "I know Mrs. T.," my sister said, "and if she ever found out this was true, it would be the end of her husband's political career." At this point, I don't know what Mr. T. is thinking, but I sure know what Vera has in mind--my silence...my murder! On the pretense of taking Mrs. T. on a gift-buying binge, the three of us had gone shopping, then returned to my apartment. What happened then was a mad-house scene from a horror movie! Vera pulled out a pistol, shot M.T.'s wife twice, once between the eyes, and emptied the gun in my direction! Before Mrs.T. hit the floor, Vera had forced me back on a couch and begun wiping her prints from the still-warm pistol. Then she pressed the tip of a knife against my neck and placed the empty murder weapon in my bloody right hand. "I really did love you to death, honey," I heard Vera whisper!

"I'LL TURN GAY" she threatened

It was a year of mass weddings! I called it the Year of Union Street Marriagethons (or Y.U.S.M.). My buddies, most of whom lived in a large, apartment house on Union Street in the Bronx, N.Y., were dropping like flies into the sticky trap of marital crevasses! Floral bouquets, tossed in the air like confetti, were grabbed by eager female hands reaching toward the sky in hopes of clutching the desired prize. Dozens were joined in holy wedlock (or deadlock, in a few cases) that Y.U.S.M.! Some of the weddings were galore (guys in tuxes) and some were poor (best men in dark suits), but poor or galore, very few escaped the ritual! I had an explanation. Most of the guys were returning from womanless tours of overseas army or navy duties. The neighborhood gals were well into their child bearing days, and attacked, without pity, those poor, defenseless veterans! . It was a crazy season. I was able to escape this marital tsunami because I had not gone overseas and did not feel female deprived! I was, however, in between dates, and was being fervently pursued by one, Teri. I had two, popular, younger sisters, and our apartment was always filled with eligible women. Teri was by far the best-looking of the gaggle and we went out on a few dates. I had promised not to get serious with any of my sister's friends. Teri, though, thought she had the inside track on my heart because she was best friends with my sisters. Her attempts to involve me sexually with her grew more desperate during Y.U.S.M.! "If you don't make love to me," she declared one day, "I'll turn gay!" I thought she was kidding and made some light comment about wanting to be there observing when she turned lesbian! Nothing more on that subject was said, and after Y.U.S.M. ended, our family moved from Union Street to the north Bronx. Years later, I asked about Teri. I was told, to my shock, that Teri was totally gay!

ANOTHER CRUEL WAR STORY

It had been a perfect day for playing tennis. The air was a crisp 65 degrees. The Orlando sky was bright blue with a few stray clouds just hanging around. From a nearby tree, a large flock of blackbirds sudddenly soared from their branch perches and rose caw-cawing across the nearby lake. Four players, myself as one, were cooling down after three hours of double play and were sitting on green plastic chairs located next to the court. After a while our conversation turned to the recently televised Academy Awards. One player hadn't seen the winning film, SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE. Since he was a hard-right conservative, we jokingly warned him not to see that film as it contained a socially conscious theme! We all, however, had seen THE READER. "I never thought I would feel sympathetic towards a Nazi guardhous jailer," I said, "but that picture brought tears to my eyes." Player K.H. wanted to know why the woman guard didn't allow the prisoners to escape from their burning building. "Because," said J.T., "she would have been shot on the spot!" "Well, war is certainly hell," exclaimed K.H. "You never know what you will be called on to do in a war situation," replied J.T. "I remember one time during World War Two when our airplane became separated from the group and our pilot, to save gas for our damaged plane in order to get back to our home field, decided to lighten the load by dropping our bombs. We had orders never to drop bombs on enemy churches. Our pilot spotted a village below that did not seem to have a church nearby and dropped his bombs on that target. I guess it was not the moral thing to do, but at the time, morality was a sentiment that we lacked!" Everyone was quiet for a moment after that story. Finally, K.H. spoke up, "I was studying in Germany to be an electronic engineer. I had been attending this school for only two months when an American bomber dropped a bomb on my school and destroyed it and my ambitions. I was drafted into the army." I could see J.T.'s head droop. He stared at his feet for a few seconds then asked: "Are you sure it was an American plane?" "Yes," said K.H.,"Russians bombed only at night. Americans always bombed during the day!" J.T. didn't say anything but later he told me that it was his group, stationed in Italy, that had done the bombing on K.H.'s town. "Was it your plane, that dropped the bomb on K's school?" I asked. "I don't know...I don't know," J.T. answered, "and that's what makes war so hellish. You never know the real damage you are doing!" I couldn't help but dwell on the coincidence of two former enemies playing a peaceful game of tennis in Florida!

HELEN OF TROY

For about one year, we both saw each other at the same, crowded, New York City parties. We were never introduced. She was like a friend of a friend of a friend. I never learned her name. I simply referred to her as "Helen of Troy" although I'm positive her name wasn't really Helen! I called her Helen of Troy because her physical beauty reminded me of that classic, Greek, female described as the "most beautiful of goddesses." Her sumptuously rounded body reminded me of those Rodin statues and those Pacific Island paintings by VanGogh that portrayed the female body in such generous, artistic dimensions! My Helen of Troy did indeed have a curvy, feminine frame that I gave a PG rating (for pretty gorgeous!). That old, Lucky Strikes cigarette commercial describes her perfectly: "So round, so firm, so fully packed--so free and easy on the draw!" Yet, surprisingly, I couldn't bear to look at her! Once I caught sight of her, I had to force my eyes to turn away! Otherwise, I would have continued to stare openly at her--at her smooth, round face, at her full breasts, at her rounded hips and rear. My eyes were thirsty to drink in her beauty without stop! But I would quickly turn away from her whenever I caught myself staring. I didn't want her telling her companion, "Some weird guy with glasses keeps staring at me!" Little did she know that the "W.G.W.G." was fantasizing about making mad love to her! After that one year of partying in the same company with Helen of Troy, I settled down to a quieter life-style with the love of my life, Punkus. I never saw Helen of Troy after that! In the ancient Greek tale, Helen's lover, Paris, kidnapped her and took her to the city of Troy. When her jealous husband, Menelaus, found her and threatened to behead her, Helen dropped her robe and Menelaus, so stunned by her beauty, dropped his upraised sword! I sometimes wonder whether my Helen of Troy ever found her Paris or Menelaus. I wonder whether their eyes burned with desire when first seeing her naked body! I wonder whether their skins grew hot, as I imagine mine would have, touching her bare skin! The real Helen of Troy started a war. My Helen of Troy was certainly capable of causing a minor skirmish!

THE CRUELEST MONTH

T.S. Eliot, the poet, called April 'the cruelest month.' For me, however, the month I find 'mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain' is February.This is the month that always finds me flipping from great highs to bottomless lows! For February is the month I found Punkus, the love of my life, and the month I lost her! Punkus is the 'dull root' that refuses to be 'stirred' ever since that fateful day when she walked out of my life never to be heard from again! I met Punkus at an end of February birthday party many years ago given by her friends. It was love at first sight for the both of us! We remained intimate friends for many years after until that unfortunate (for me) Valentine's day! We stayed together for so long because I followed Rule #1 for holding on to one you love--'Treat her as an equal and she will treat you...and treat you...and treat you.' And she will continue to treat you as you want to be treated as a man--until you mess up! And I really messed up one Valentine's eve! [That story I've told in an earlier blog] How can I describe this "perfect woman" that was Punkus? She was beautiful, yes, but not a Hollywood beauty. As the South Pacific song goes, Punkus was a 'girly, womanly, female' dame with a 'soft and wavy form' I loved to hold close. But sex was not the main reason we remained close. Great communication was the Gorilla Glue that bonded us! Although we both graduated from college (she from Hunter and I from N.Y.U.), neither of us was a "great brain" nor an "educated fool". But we did enjoy talking and learning from each other. Whatever the topic, Punkus always had inciteful thoughts about the subject. And we talked for hours--night and day--together or apart--we never tired of listening and learning from each other! Punkus combined in one person the best qualities of all the other women I have known. That's why she will always remain my "ideal" woman. So, wherever you are this cruel, sad February, Punkus, happy Valentine!

JUNE'S CHOICE

We called ourselves the Three Musketeers! Our friendship began in grade school and continued into our early thirties. It was about then that we began separate lives. I was a high school English teacher. Billy W. was an insurance adjuster for a national company. Dwayne M. was president of his own electronics business. We still managed, however, to meet at least once a month--often sooner. Ours was a tight band of brotherhood! And joining us at these meetings was June Carrol, our Lady Guinevere. We had known June since childhood, also, and considered her an equal partner in our friendship. But the three guys secretly and separately longed to be her Sir Lancelot! I say secretly because June never gave indication that she preferred any one of us over the other. And our relationship was so platonically balanced, not one of us wanted to upset the delicate intermingling of emotions by going public with our romantic fantasies. Of the three musketeers, I believe I loved June the most, and, egotistically, I thought June had the same feelings for me. But to my disappointment and wrenching heartache, I was one day proven wrong! "Sonny, you're Billy's best friend," June said, "could you do me a big favor?" I had the feeling that something dreadful was about to happen! "Would you give this note from me to Billy?" June continued. The walls of the diner where the two of us had pre-planned a meeting, began to collapse around me! "Of course!" I replied weakly. I knew instinctively that June had made a choice, and that I, who had loved her so much, was to be the go-between of her budding romance. I was crushed beyond belief! As it turned out, I was the instrument that brought June and my best friend, Billy, together, and, eventually, to their marriage! There is no torture comparable to the one I felt as, step by step, I was asked to make arrangements for June and Billy to meet secretly! Needless to say, June's choice signaled the end of the Three Musketeers!

FRED'S AMAZING TENNIS SHOT

YOU HAD TO BE THERE TO BELIEVE IT! It started out as a regular Oak Harbor doubles tennis day. The Central Florida sky was blue, cloudless, with temperature hovering around 80 degrees. We were playing our usual relaxed senior games. Those of us sitting on the sideline were chatting aimlessly, watching the game in front of us with only slight interest--not expecting anything out of the ordinary. Suddenly, action on the court became heated. Joe Thomas rushed the net after a low ball that had just cleared the net. He stretched out and touched the ball--returning it just barely back over the net--clearing it by inches! "A sure winner," we thought! Then suddenly, Fred Lee, raced full speed from his baseline position toward the sinking ball. "No way he's going to get that!" we groaned. Fred covered the distance in seconds. "I knew I could reach Joe's drop shot," said Fred later, "but could I make a play on it without crashing into the net?" Fred was forced to slow down on his approach. "I put my racket under the ball expecting, at the most, to have it pop straight up and drop harmlessly on my side of the net for a point for my opponents." But by some miracle unseen in tennis history, not only did Fred reach the dying ball, but he also tapped a return drop shot winner without either the ball, his racket, or his body touching the net which was only inches away when he made the amazing shot! YOU HAD TO BE THERE TO BELIEVE IT!

MARY JANE & I CALL IT QUITS

I've had it with Mary Jane! I first heard about her in junior high school. Boys who had gone out with her claimed she was really hot! They kept meeting with her in dark alleys and in the corners of our playground. They no longer wanted to play on our teams. All they had time for was playing with Mary Jane! They invited me to join them, but I was already puffing on Lucky Strikes, fearful that my parents would smell cigarette smoke on my breath or on my school clothes! Besides, rumors were going around that Mary Jane had driven some of the young boys insane! But despite these (and other terrible rumors), Mary Jane grew in popularity! Guys continued to spend more and more money on her! Most of the time I saw her, she was dressed in a long, thin white gown and she always wore a familiar, sweetish perfume! All through high school and my army days, I kept losing friends swallowed in the arms of Mary Jane! She was very attractive, but I was able to resist her charms! Until I reached college, that is! She kept changing her name ("Dona Juana" "Sweet Lucy" "Fine Stuff" etc.) and finally Mary Jane had me hooked! Maybe it was the long study nights and the Johnny Walker scotch, but my resistance evaporated! I fell for her like a ton of bricks! Mary Jane kept me awake for those long nights of study, and when I needed to relax, she was there to help me drift off into blissful sleep! After college, Mary Jane and I had an off and on relationship.I could take her or leave her alone! Mostly, I left her alone. Then, about a month ago I was told Mary Jane was back in town more tempting than ever--more powerful! I couldn't resist getting in bed with Mary Jane again! This time, she was going by the name of "Krippy!" And this time, she was too much for me! My old body couldn't handle what she was putting down! I was sick as a dog for several days! This time I've made up my mind for good! This is the end of what was once a lovely affair with Mary Jane!

MORE ABOUT PROSTITUTES

If I had known I was a part of a World War II history-making event, I would have paid more attention! Unfortunately, my main problem at the time was earning my Army Air Corps sergeant's stripes. This I had to do while sweating in the Florida heat, swatting pesky sand flies, surviving a hurricane on the lobby floor of a fancy Boca Raton hotel while a large chandelier swung crazily overhead, and dodging "night fighters"! "Night fighters" was a term we soldiers used for the local prostitutes--women so ugly they could only ply their trade in the dark of night! But these southern Sirens crooned bewitching songs from their darkened windows and never lacked for customers! (Any woman, I discovered, can be beautiful and sexy when they turn out the lights!) I wish I could say that my fourth and final episode with a prostitute was a wonderful experience. Not the case! I had left the army, spent three years at college, and was working in Manhatttan's main post office. For about ten years I was sorting mail next to my friend, Robert. He was a married man who spent many of his weekends chasing whores in Philly and trying to get me to join him. But I had no need nor desire--and excused myself by saying the trip was too long. Then he told me about a whore house in my Harlem neighborhood. One day the devil got into me and I told Robert I would go whoring there with him. The house was in a nice neighborhood, but I was nervous about cheating on my girlfriend. And my nervousness soon turned to fear! As we were walking up the narrow staircase to meet the prostitutes, who would be walking down the stairs but my girlfriend's brother! I recognized him, but did he recognize me? I was so shaken up with fear and guilt, I couldn't do my part with the woman I had paid for company. To this day I don't know whether my girlfriend knew where I was that night I was supposed to be with her, but since that awful time, I've never again looked at another prostitute! WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BITCH AND A WHORE? A WHORE SLEEPS WITH EVERYONE AT THE PARTY, AND A BITCH SLEEPS WITH EVERYONE AT THE PARTY BUT YOU!

PROSTITUTES I HAVE KNOWN--HELEN

I've never met a whore I didn't like! Not that there aren't some bad ho's out there--all I'm saying is that I've never met those kind. And I'm not saying I've met a lot--only four if you want to know the truth! The first when I was about 13 or 14 years old. My parents had sent me to spend a school vacation with my aunt Russel Mae and her teenage son, Horace B., at their country home on the outskirts of Norfolk, Virginia. I doubt my parents would have sent me if they had known I would get my first, adult-like, sexual experience there. Her name was Helen and she was two or three years older than Horace B. or myself. "For fifty cents, she'll show you a good time," said my cousin. At the time, a "good time" for me with New York City girls meant a little light petting, Spin-the-Bottle games, and maybe, if lucky, some French kissing! I have a theory about country gals. They've seen so much of farm animals copulating, that sex comes more natural to them and at an earlier age. Horace B. had built a rough, wooden shed away from the house. There the three of us would meet--he to smoke cigarettes and me to let Helen introduce me to a mysterious new world of sex. Now Helen was the most beautiful girl I had seen up to that time--and I had seen some beauties back in New York! I wondered why my cousin would be so willing to share Helen with me. Many years later I learned the reason why. My cousin was bisexual--with a preference for the boys! So every time we could beg or borrow some change from his mother, he would spend his on cigarettes while I spent mine on beautiful Helen. (I learned later that she married a local doctor and produced a large family! I often wonder if the good doctor ever knew about his bride's 50-cent days!)

VIVA FAIRVILLA!

I once asked Alma, "Why do you keep your eyes closed during sex?" "Because," she answered, "I just don't want to see any man enjoying himself!" Alma was funny, sexy, and adventurous, so when she phoned and said she was coming from New Jersey for a taste of Florida (and me), I was excited. I knew just where I wanted to take her. I was going to take her to my favorite Orlando attraction! Every time I walk into this place, excitement flows through me like an electric shock, and I could spend hours just walking about taking in the thrilling sights. No, I don't mean Magic Kingdom or Universal. The most exciting attraction in Orlando can be found on OBT--the Fairvilla Mega Store for Lovers! Fairvilla opened in 1992 and soon became the largest sex store in the nation! It's not the usual sex store one finds in some dark section of a large city that has sleazy-looking customers. No, Fairvilla is a large, bright, colorful world of exotic pleasure paraphernalia, catering to a mostly young, white, upscale, college crowd! When Alma first walked in her eyes lit up. Soft music was playing and on display were colorful lingerie for women, spider-web sheer nighties, fishnet dresses, peek-a-boo bikinis, nude boots, glittering spike heel shoes, and costumes for fantasy love sessions! I tried to talk Alma into buying a French Maid's outfit for later, but she declined! She also passed on the paste-on tats and sex jewelry. "My mom said I could have as many boyfriends as I wanted, but she made me promise no tatoos and no body-piercing bling!" The first floor holds a large collection of porno DVD's--of all descriptions and for all tastes. I wanted to rent "Debbie Does Dallas" but Alma chose a cartoon, "Daffy Does Daisy"! We went to the second floor where sex toys are kept. Toys in all shapes, sizes, colors--toys made of glass, rubber, cyberskin ("feels like the real thing!"), plastic or jelly. "I'm going to change my Pocket Rocket for something more modern," said Alma. A knowledgeable , female clerk helped her choose a purple, hand-held vibrator.While Alma was checking out the vibrators, I was busy copying a year's supply of sex jokes from the "cards for all occasions," the x-rated T-shirts, and the buttons with naughty sayings. "SEX IS NOBODY'S BUSINESS BUT THE THREE PEOPLE INVOLVED! SEX IS NOT THE ANSWER. SEX IS THE QUESTION. THE ANSWER IS "YES"! SHE WAS TALKING DIRTY WHILE I MADE LOVE TO HER--SO I TOOK AWAY HER CELL PHONE! Viva Fairvilla!

THE SEVEN-MONTH ITCH

Patterns we form early in life set out our path for years to come. My relationships with girls and women began when I was in first grade! You've heard of the "seven year itch", haven't you? After seven years in a relationship or marriage, a man's hunting instinct is revived, and he seeks an outside affair. (Don't worry, gals, that "itch" doesn't last forever, and when he returns to you, you won't have anything to fear from him for another seven years!) Because of what happened to me in first grade in New York, my "itch" comes in seven month cycles--not seven years! I fell in "love" with a really cute classmate, Lauralee. We sat together every chance we got. I shared my lunch cookies with her, and she shared her milk with me. We were such a "loving" pair (holding hands, hugging, cheek-kissing) that our teacher made the approving comment, "Aren't they precious. Just like kindergarten Romeo and Juliet!" That is, until she caught me with my hand under Lauralee's skirt! (I had been hearing stories told to me by boys in the upper grades--and I was curious!) Before I knew it, before I had a chance to tell her goodbye, Lauralee was out of the class and headed back down South where her parents had sent her! I can't say I was broken-hearted (after all, I was only six or seven), but I learned that from then on I would not let myself fall in love so easily. But that didn't mean I gave up girls. Oh, no! Each school term after that I spent the first few weeks getting acquainted, not with my new teachers, but with the new girls in my classes! Since I wasn't in love with them, my affairs ended after every seven school year months! Thus was set a relationship pattern that continued even after my school years--seven months and I was outta there! This pattern held true except for my two 10-year marriages (where I managed to remain faithful) and with my long (and fated) affair with Punkus!

LEARNING LIFE'S LESSONS EARLY

My dad died at the fairly young age of 46 from injuries suffered in World War I. I was 20 at the time and the army furloughed me home for his funeral. (I never got to know my dad real good as an adult, so my grief was minimal.) Also attending the funeral was my Uncle Leo and his attractive wife, Olga. "Before you return to camp," Aunt Olga said, "you must let me fix you an island-styled, Trinidadian supper." Not having a girlfriend to visit on this short trip home, I accepted. [The reason I didn't have a girlfriend was my own bone-headed fault. Before being drafted into WWII service, I did have a high school sweetheart, Barbara. But I also had eyes for her best friend, Gloria! She was more my type--petite with straight, dark hair, with brown-skinned, Latin/Oriental features--cute, but not too cute! So when I returned to camp, I APO-mailed love letters to both Barbara and Gloria. When they found out (as of course they were bound to do!) their letters to me stopped coming.] So I was glad for Aunt Olga's offer. When my friends heard about my aunt's invitation, they warned me to be careful. Uncle Leo owned a barber shop and was known, they told me, for using his razor outside of his shop defending the honor of his unfaithful-prone wife. Sure enough, after dinner, Aunt Olga made her move! But I was a young, hot-blooded, serviceman and the two of us were soon entwined in a torrid love embrace. Off came my pants, my shirt, my shoes--leaving me standing in front of my aunt in nothing but my drab, olive, army shorts! But just as I was about to follow my aunt, already naked on the bed, a loud knock came from the front door! "Uncle Leo!" I whispered. "No,he doesn't come from the shop until midnight. Wait here for me." Was she kidding? I grabbed up my clothes and started looking for a place to hide! Nowhere but a window offered escape. I looked down. The drop wasn't far. The worse I could suffer was a broken ankle! "Come to bed, hon," I heard my aunt say, "that was just a neighbor asking to borrow a cup of sugar." My dinner was beginning to churn up in my stomach, so I dressed and hastily left by the front door! I learned two life-saving rules while I was in the army. One--never write love letters to different women at the same time--especially if they are good friends! And 2--never attempt to have sex with the wife of a jealous barber!

A BACKSTABBER CONFESSES

Dear Ophelia,

I had a feeling, even before you confessed to me, that it was you who told Punkus about our one-time, ill-fated rendezvous! How you hated that Punkus and I were a couple! You insisted, with no encouragement from me, that we would have made a better-suited pair. You even referred to Punkus as "that poor, crippled, waif"! That wasn't fair. I guess you would have made a great catch for someone. You were beautiful, your parents owned a thriving, undertaking business, and you spent your more-than-modest allowance freely! I just thought you were too young for me at the time (even though you were over 21). So I don't know what happened on that fateful Friday afternoon! I thought nothing of your invitation to visit you at the funeral parlor. Usually I would have beeen able to resist your persistant attempts to seduce me. I innocently followed you down the stairs into a darkened, preparation room. "My parents won't return until the weekend," I remember you saying. I should have taken that as a warning! Before I knew what was happening, your formaldehyde-laced perfume overcame my senses, and I found myself making love to you over one of the closed coffins in the room! With that one, unintended act, my life with Punkus was over! Only one thing I need to know from you, Ophelia. Was that coffin really empty?

FINAL LETTER TO PUNKUS

Dear Punkus,

I know you agree with my friends who tell me I should have forgotten you years ago. But that has not happened, and I doubt that it ever will. I've decided to write you this one last letter asking your forgiveness. I will not bother you any longer with my pleas. Just know that some evenings will bring me bitter dreams while a cracked moon, half-eaten by envious eyes, lingers overhead. And certain harsh, summer winds will bend trees burdened with leafy cares as I sigh with them a bark-deep sorrow. You tell me you are happy now with another man, but he is not the one who found you alone and helpless, sunk in the mire of low self-esteem. It was I who mended your fractured, inner, hateful space and revived you with hopeful tomorrow-thoughts. I still remember our last day together (only I didn't know it would be our last!). We spent the night in a downtown Orlando bistro and didn't leave until morning closing time. In a rented room in a cheap hotel we talked about our future dreams--yours, a singing career (how could I forget the first time I heard you without a choir behind you! I was sitting in the balcony of a deserted church and you were on stage practicing solo, " O Holy Night"! Never have I heard it sung more hauntingly!)--and mine, ambitions to write a novel of the times! When morning came we went for breakfast coffee at an outside table that had a view of a park fountain. And then my world caved in! Some jealous man (or woman) later told you about an affair I was having at the time! "Unforgiveable," you wrote! I've spent the following years singing, with the sparrow, his forlorn song about fools and broken hearts! [Hark, he sings!]

TRUTH ABOUT REDHEADS

You know how guys talk. By the time I had reached my late 30's, I had dating experiences with a variety of women--with the exception, as did most of the guys around me, with redheads. Now I don't mean ginger-, or rust-, or auburn-haired women. I mean flaming red! They were a rarity, even in New York! So naturally there grew up a certain mystique about red-heads. About blondes we said they were dumb. And raven-haired women were sexy. But were most red heads ugly? And were they really hot-headed? However there was one burning question that none of us men could answer. So I was determined to discover the answer to this unanswered, up-in-the-air puzzle about red heads. Luckily, our principal hired a red-headed, substitute teacher! Now I don't mean she was a Nicole Kidman red head! No, she was a Rita Hayworth, flaming red, red head! As the senior English teacher in my school, I persuaded my principal to appoint me as this new teacher's "buddy"! And what a buddy I became! I schooled her on all the teaching techniques I had acquired over the years. I let her copy my best lesson plans! Since she was a single mom, one day, not having hired a baby-sitter, she invited me to her home for further help. My chance had finally come! Since I hadn't been stupid by falling in love with her, I was able to concentrate on the end game! Mission soon accomplished! Oh, and that question all the guys wanted answered? Yes---they are red all over!

CONFESSION OF A BAD HUSBAND

All right...I admit it! Like many men I know, I make a terrific lover but a terrible husband! This truth dawned upon me slowly over my marriage years. And it wasn't the fault of my better half! She didn't get fat, or stopped cooking for me, or stopped caring for our children, for our home, or for me! No...it was I who changed--not my faithful wife. And I don't mean I stopped loving my wife. I didn't fall out of love with her--I fell in love with myself! I began thinking more about what interested me (sports, politics, cars, etc.), and less about what made my wife happy. And I slipped into lazy habits--socially, physically, and emotionally! More importantly, I pushed out of my memory what had first attracted me to my wife. I no longer counted as important what first was most important to me about her--her special beauty and her need to be protected from outside forces (bad company, drugs, poor health habits, esteem-lowering environment at school and at home). I took for granted, after several years of marriage , that I had earned a gold star as a great husband! I didn't need to compliment her daily on her looks, I thought, even though she had grown even more beautiful over the years! I didn't realize she still needed protection, not from outside forces now, but from inside forces (kids, housework, homemaking duties, a lazy husband, etc.)! So this is the advice I'm passing on to you married guys out there! Keep remembering what attrracted you to your wife in the first place. And, Rule #1, regardless of age, a man, if he doesn't fall into lazy habits, can always find ways to keep happy, the one woman whose love he needs!

LIGHTER SIDE OF MARRIAGE

[Rule #1 for keeping the woman you love happy--keep your sense of humor!]

"Why are you crying?" my wife asked. "Remember 20 years ago I got you pregnant, and your father threatened to throw me in jail if I didn't marry you?" "Of course, honey," she said. "Well, I'd have been released tonight!" Our marriage was the old story of opposites attract--I wasn't pregnant and she was! We had a 50-50 relationship--she cooked and I ate! "Do you love me just because my father left me a lot of money?" I once asked my wife. She replied, "Of course not, baby. I would love you no matter who left you the money!" Marriage turned out to be an expensive way to get my laundry done! My wife spelled greedy with a capital G! "When my credit card was stolen, I didn't report it. The thief was spending less than my wife did!" Other Henny Youngman one-liners that make me laugh, follow: "I take my wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back!" "I married Miss Right. I just didn't know her first name was Always!" "My wife is on a coconut and banana diet. She hasn't lost any weight, but she can sure climb a tree!" "My wife had a sex change. Now it's Wednesdays and Saturdays instead of Tuesdays and Fridays!" "I just got back from a pleasure trip. I took my mother-in-law to the airport!" And, finally, "My wife will buy anything marked down. Last year she bought an escalator!" Not laughing yet? How about this, then: Why are married women heavier than single women? Single women come home, see what's in the refrigerator and go to bed. Married women come home, see what's in bed and go to the refrigerator!

SHEILA, THE GREEN-TOED SLUT

The first thing I noticed about Sheila as she stepped towel-wrapped from her Jacuzzi was the color of her toenails.They were emerald green. I was shocked! Green was my least favorite color. "Green toe polish?" I asked. "Yes, and in a few moments, green fingernail polish as well. Don't you like this color?" Against her dark tan skin, the toenails looked attractive--sexy, even--sparkling like green gems. But in the two months we were dating, the subject of color never came up. We had other important conversations. One being why she had the local reputation of being a bitch of a playgirl! "Many have knocked, but only a few have entered," was Sheila's defense. I had been trying to be one of the few, but, so far, no luck! "As a matter of fact, Sheila, I hate green. Key lime pie is NOT my favorite dessert. Isn't green the color of envy and jealousy?" I argued. "Sure," she replied, "but green is also the symbol of money and safety. Green means 'Go', honey!" She had a good point. I remember when MM's green and green on a mood ring meant sex ahead! I made up my mind to solve this puzzle once and for all! Before Sheila knew what was happening, I made my move! I pushed her back on the bed, grabbed her right foot, and began licking the paint on her big toe! I had expected a lime taste! "For a better taste," suggested Sheila, "suck the whole toe!" I did. She responded with a murmur of pleasure. "Oh, yes," she said, "don't stop!" By the time I reached her tenth toe, Sheila's moans had grown louder, and her bath towel fell open--exposing her tawny body to me. I entered her as her arms and legs hugged my body. The green points on her toes and fingers formed a circle around me of tiny, green flames! To be continued?

DREAMS AND DREAMING

I have a special pillow that if I place it just so under my head at night, I get marvelous, exciting dreams! I call it my Dream Pillow. I dream with other pillows, of course, but those are run-of-the-mill dreams. When I was a kid, I had the usual "monster under the bed or in the closet" dreams, as well as the dreaded "Boogey Man" dreams. As I grew older, I experienced those "naked" dreams--I'm lost in a strange and crowded city and no one appears to see or hear me, or else I'm in a city with no other people--only cold, empty buildings! And we've all had those chilling, recurring dreams! Mine involved eating in the same diner and ordering the same meal (black coffee and buttered bagel), or another where I keep taking my car to the same garage for gas and servicing. The strange thing about these dreams is that neither the diner nor the garage exists in my real, awake life! They are simply dream places in a magic world! In New York City, where I lived, we had alternate side, street parking. Some days I would forget where I had parked the night before and would spend time walking around the neighborhood looking for my car. I would dream the same situation only with this added twist. I would finally find the spot where I had parked only to see an empty space! Someone had stolen my car! I would awake in a cold sweat! In reality, I've never had any car stolen, but in my dreams, I've had dozens of cars stolen! These were ordinary dreams. What I really wanted was to record those fantastic dreams I've had while laying on my Dream Pillow. What a great story they would make! But by the time I sat at my computer to write the night's dream, I had forgotten it completely! I decided to keep a pencil and pad near my bed and write the dream as soon as I awakened. When I read the result the morning after I awoke, I was stunned! What I had written, except for a few sentences, didn't make any sense at all! Most of the account was written in a crazy code I couldn't translate! Some mornings it's just not worth getting out of bed!

MY JOURNEY THROUGH HEAVEN TO HELL

"You're surely going to burn in Hell!" my religious friends often warn me. But I stubbornly refuse to believe in something I can't clearly picture in my head. I've even had that typical atheist's dream. You know--the one that starts out with St. Peter greeting me at the Holy Gate. "So you won't believe," St. Peter begins, "until you're eyeball-to-eyeball with the Supreme One?" I nod. "This is your lucky day," he announces, "for today the Lord is holding a 'Meet Your Maker' session as a last chance for non-believers such as yourself. Follow me." Sure enough I find myself in God's presence. Sitting on a golden throne, smoking a fat Cuban cigar, sat God--and she bore a striking resemblance to Oprah Winfrey! I awoke in a cold sweat--glad it was just a dream! I wasn't born an atheist...in fact, I was baptized twice! First, when I was four months old, in St. Mark Evangelist Church in New York City. My mother, a Trinidadian, was Roman Catholic and wanted her first born to be Catholic also. I don't remember that occasion, but I certainly remember my second baptism, many years later! My father was a Southern Baptist and insisted his family become members, with him, of Harlem's Mt. Olivet Baptist Church. That involved my being re-baptized the Baptist way--by total body immersion into a tank of water. I was traumatized! I can best describe the experience as a form of Christian waterboarding! (No comparison to the gentle sprinkling of holy water on my forehead by a Catholic priest!) Despite the watery dunking, I joined the church's boys choir. I loved singing such hymns as, "Just a Closer Walk With Thee," "The Old Rugged Cross," "What a Friend We Have In Jesus," and my favorite, "The Church in the Wildwood." And though my voice was spirited, my soul never caught the "born again" spirit! After two baptisms, you would think I would have become a God-fearing believer. But that never happened! Instead, I was influenced by such readings as Clarence Darrow's "'Questions Without Answers,' 'The Gods' by atheist author, Robert G. Ingersoll, and other humanist writers. If I made the wrong choice in this issue (and I don't believe I have!) I'll just have to plead my case before an understanding God and prayfully hope she'll forgive me!

THE THREE MUSKETEERS

Around our Bronx neighborhood, we were known as the "Three Musketeers". We were three friends enjoying those carefree, fun-filled, teenage years just hovering over the looming precipice of adulthood. World War II had already begun, but we were still too young for the draft. So the three of us, Donald Manning, Bobby Williams, and myself busied ourselves with finishing high school and playing big city street games--stickball, ring-a-levio, handball, and kick-the-can. Donald was the best athlete--he beat us at every game, especially handball! Bobby was the slyest--he found a multitude of ways to cheat us! I was the shyest--more of a follower than a leader. It was Donald and Bobby who would often cut classes to sneak into downtown movies. I remember the one time I followed them, I was fearful every second that the truant officer would nab us in the act! Another time, I did get caught, this time by the police! Donald and I were walking one noon down a Bronx street. Donald was carrying a Daisy BB rifle that we were taking to his house to be fixed (he was good at fixing things). An old woman, sitting on a wooden box in front of her house, made a disparaging remark about boys with guns. Donald kinda...sorta...pointed the broken BB rifle in her direction. Before we had traveled one more block, two policemen, leaped from their car, guns drawn, ordered us to drop the rifle, and pushed us up against an iron fence to be searched! On the way to the station in the back of the squad car, Donald complained about our mistreatment, only to be rewarded by a slap across the face by one of the officers. After a few tense hours in the lockup at the police station, we were let go with a warning but without our Daisy rifle! Yes, we were the three musketeers, but only Donald was the aggressive one! He was the first to volunteer for the war. He joined the Navy. Bobby followed soon after--joining the Marines. I waited until after high school graduation to be drafted. Donald was also the most aggressive pursuing the neighborhood beauty, Ruby Peters. Ruby was well-guarded by her religious grandmother. It took relentless effort on the part of Donald to win Ruby's heart. One night, covered in grease, he dove off an anchored Navy ship and swam to meet Ruby (whom I had driven to the pier for this illegal rendezvous). They eventually married. So did Bobby and his girl, Jane. Eventually, weddings broke up the triumvirate of the three musketeers! Sic transit gloria mundi!

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