Memory: Essays

When I was a young boy I wallowed in comic books and cheap humor magazines. Then I spent hours lingering in the candy store ogling the lurid covers of girly magazines, too afraid to actually buy a copy to hide under my bed. In High School my mushy brain was introduced the great variety of literature: poems by John Keats, novels by William Golding; dramas by Shakespeare; movies by Stanley Kubrick; Short Stories by Zacherli; modern dance by Freddie.

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I Voted!

I first saw “Give ’em Hell” Harry S. Truman on my grandfather’s flickering round nine-inch television set in glorious black and white. My granddad was a big Truman fan. He often explained that he was a Third Degree Mason but Harry was a Thirty-Third Degree Mason which was one of granddad’s measurements of greatness.

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Is It November 3rd Yet?

Another month in isolation. It’s raining (it’s always raining). I’m reading books and watching Criterion. T***p is well along the way to self destruction (there are still predictions out there insisting T***p will not make it to November). I’m living on cauliflower and smoked salmon dreaming of meatloaf in mushroom gravy. Sometimes I am envious of T***p’s Big Macs and KFC.

I don’t know if there is any connection with this pandemic isolation but I am feeling older and older. I rely on my rolling walker to make even the shortest trip across the bedroom (especially at night). I have to ask my son-in-law to open jars for me. My eyes water constantly and I find myself making the computer font larger almost weekly. I still have a sense of humor and a trickle of a sex drive (ha! that’s useful) but two things I have often heard of as diminishing with old age seem to have missed me: I now sleep more than ever and I love to eat.

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