Saint Patrick's Day

A while back on St. Patrick's Day, I had been thinking about the Irish, my grandfather, Thomas Francis (“T F”) Reilly, and about you and me.

T F was an Irish immigrant who came to these United States of America as an orphan.  Like many another he worked with his hands. And some hands they were, “Two-fisted Tom Reilly” was his moniker when we was a railroad man. After that tour of duty he became a contractor and a millionaire. My earliest memories of him were of this very big man we called “Poppa”. Of course all people seem huge when you're a kid, but he was exceptional. When he passed on in his late 80s he was still over 6 feet. I can still see him sitting in his living room on a straight back chair listening to Bing Crosby's recording of Toora Loora Li. Poppa became a proud American like so many others who were not born here. My clearest memory has him seated at the head of the table with a bowl of boiled potatoes as his side dish.  A part of Ireland that never left him.

Yes, besides thinking of Poppa on St. Patrick's Day, I remember too my own celebrations in New York City. Certainly they were memorable with so many Noo Yawkahs wearing green and the Big Parade. I too marched for a block with my own very young offspring, just so they could say they had marched in New York City on St. Patrick's Day.

You don't have to wear green or march in the parade to celebrate St. Patrick's day, but it's fun to do so. Just about everyone in Manhattan is Irish for that day. It's a beautiful thing. My memory is especially keen about my late friend Mel Sokolow and I celebrating the day at Tim Costello's watering hole on the East Side. St. Patrick Day parades are held in other cities to be sure, Charleston, South Carolina, and Savanah, Georgia, two notable examples. But New York is New York.   

That's the bottom line, friends. No matter where you are next March 17^th, be Irish for the day and celebrate! 

BODIES, Then and Now

By happenstance (not by design I can assure you) I came across a picture of my own self taken circa 1948.  Who is that feller?

Certainly, it was long ago. I am wearing a pair of white canvas short-shorts, then fashionable among the Jersey Shore lifeguards and we lesser mortals who hustled for a living by putting up umbrellas, setting out beach chairs and coaxing the unknowing into renting canvas surfing rafts.

There I was, coming in about 135 pounds with a suntan that would stop any modern-day dermatologist right in his/her tracks. George Hamilton broke that deep-tan barrier decades later, but in the Forties we thought we were bronze gods. 

Then time and Mother Nature moved us along.  Chests went south. 135 pounds became the weight of each thigh. PC was unknown at that time, “body shaming” although decades away, loomed threateningly. So we dug in to defend the last frontier – a great tan. It sounds crazy now to recall how teenagers mixed baby oil with iodine to enhance the tanning process. But we did. Some of the more insane amongst us doused their hair with peroxide and came forth as carrot tops. Orange was “in” for a few weeks before parents with scissors ended that madness.

It's fun to turn back the hands of time once in a while. But in the main many, if not most of us, prefer to live in the present. Where else can a chubby, balding, 90 year old find an attractive younger woman who loves him these days?  Life is good.

As for those short-short white canvas trunks? Save the photo to prove what used to be. It's but a memory now.

Sickness

No one likes to get sick. This includes you, dear reader, and certainly this writer. How men handle illness and how women handle illness provide two interesting and very different approaches.

With men, we see a return to wanting Mommy to make it better. After all, didn't she do just that in days long ago? Unhappily, for many of us, this is no longer possible. Now, to be clear here, when I speak of sickness, I'm thinking about everyday maladies – a bad cold, a touch of flu, nothing truly serious. Granted when it is YOU having to cope with a bad cold, touch of flu, etc. each setback takes on monumental importance.

For men, it starts with facial expressions. Think of the sad-face Bassett hound. Then add a bit of moaning, especially when our wives are within earshot. Pour in a tad of muttering along the lines of “don't worry about me, I'll be alright (pause) eventually.” Being simple souls, that's pretty much it. Just repeat, repeat and repeat.

With women, circumstances are far different. (It is good for men to keep in mind that only women are capable of childbirth with all the pain that accompanies it. They deserve to be honored for this alone.) And not so by the way, when it comes to common illnesses, most women simply carry on come hell, high water, or near-pneumonia. So this leaves us with that atypical +handful who do not. They are the truly memorable ones. Broadway cannot handle the oceans of dramatic tears these few inflict on the rest of us.

Women are emotional by nature, so when routine illness strikes this handful of memorable ladies, it opens up the floodgate of opportunity for full expression. Moans become thunderclaps, gestures reach for the heavens. No avenue is left untrod.

Please pray they will always be in good health.

Bicycle

I love my bike.  It's right outside, waiting for me to mount up and pedal off to another adventure.

It's true that my biking today is a far cry from when I used to ride 15, 20, 30 miles a trip. Mother Nature, a bad back and wifely concerns have combined to limit me to a modest 3 three-mile jaunt. I have no complaints, however. Any bike riding is wonderful to me.

The day I first soloed on a two-wheeler is firmly etched in my memory book.  There is no plaque marking the site and my first solo fell far short of the distance Wilbur and Orville flew at Kitty Hawk. But that day on the side yard at 2403 North 50^th Street in The City of Brotherly Love was historic nonetheless.  My father, a patient man, held the fender of my rear wheel, gently pushed me, all the while steadying the first few feet of my efforts.  (I wonder if you too recall your own moment.) After my father left to go back to the office, I got on my bike, pushed and pedaled to move forward. Better to try things without an audience, plus having a comfortable grassy landing site if things went south.

Success! Joyous success.  I ran into the house to tell my mother who promptly telephoned my father at work. I yelled the news. Dad congratulated me, excited himself. It was a big Reilly day all around.  Only now, so many decades later do I truly understand how blessed I was. First, in having a bike at all in the midst of The Great Depression, and more important, to have such caring, supportive parents sharing my success. If you've been lucky in this life, and I have, nothing beats having had loving parents.

As for that first two-wheeler of mine, it was a beauty.  Fire engine red with fat white-walled tires. I wonder if it still exists somewhere out there short of the scrap metal heap. If so, name the price. I'll be there. My steed today still sports fat tires in keeping with my own body type. It is rusty but reliable. The young women and men who pass by me on the road, which includes virtually everyone, are cyclists of the first order. Most of them are athletes and fitness buffs. They are also friendly and encouraging. They seem to welcome old timers like me even though we are slowpokes, for we too are part of the sport they all love so much.

The Pancake Breakfast

Civic-minded organizations often sponsor events for the general public. Pancake breakfasts immediately come to mind. In principle, they are win-wins for all involved. Money raised benefits the community or the cause, a piece of the action goes to the sponsoring organization and notably, the public gains (for sure in calorie counts) from such tasty treats. Happily too, they give many homemakers a chance to get out of the kitchen.

Pancake breakfasts are usually “hosted” by organizations like Rotary or Kiwanis, notable for their good works well beyond breakfasts. Rotarians, Kiwanians (or whatever), members of the Chamber of Commerce are generally good-natured guys with broad smiles and cheery dispositions. So too are the ladies in such groups. While we are used to women smiling and preparing meals, men doing the same, not so much.

Why, in the first place, are we having pancakes?  Well, the meals themselves are relatively affordable and easy to prepare (imagine the challenge in preparing coq au vin for several hundred hungry folk!) There are many benefits in showing up for the pancakes. Meeting new people among them. At the last one I met men and women who live just a few blocks away, yet our paths had never crossed before. Nice people too.

Yes, there are commercial places that specialize in pancakes, the famed International House of Pancakes (IHOP) most prominent among them. But it ain't the same as having your neighbors flipping the meal. Plus, at community pancake breakfasts, you can avoid grappling with a “suggested gratuity” schedule.

In general, those who dine at pancake breakfasts are the sort you would enjoy being with anyway. They are, like you, good neighbors who simply love pancakes

TENNIS

The 2018 tennis season is winding down.  It's a good time to reflect on the year, and perhaps on the game itself.

My love affair with tennis began in 1948, when gifted by my Aunt Catherine with a wooden Bancroft complete with genuine gut stringing, I ventured to the sideline of a tennis court. Sideline, not on the court as a player. For the next couple of years, I was manager of the college tennis team.  I learned a lot by observing and observing and observing our players in action. Eventually, this loyalty paid off by being promoted to playing status.  On the third doubles duo to be sure, but varsity nonetheless. My rise up was aided mightily by the team captain, Taney (pronounced “Tawney” ) Willcox, and player John Bateman. My college record was mediocre. However, I did earn my letter.

Off campus, I battled in singles play with my lifelong pal, Hugh Jones. This competition was marked by rare brilliance, nonstop bickering as to whether a shot was in or out and a bedrock of fraternal affection that has served both of us well over more than a half century. So here I am now in my 90^th year, rich in tennis memories of the Greats I saw play the game and of matches where I worked the lines as an official. (Not the least of which was calling the center line when Pancho Gonzales was serving. Unable to move fast enough to avoid his blistering serve, he nailed me twice in the chest.)

The equipment has changed dramatically from the days of my 1948 wooden Bancroft. High tech racquet innovations, plus an emphasis on player physical conditioning have resulted in booming serves and volleying from the baseline, a far cry from the all-court movement that was the hallmark of those long ago days. Young spectators today know only baseline play. Any departure from slugging it out “long distance” causes gasps from the gallery.

I gasp too. But mine is more of a sigh of regret that the game has become so one-dimensional.

John McCain

Newspaper people are wont to look ahead. Inevitably at some point, “looking ahead” becomes “now.”  That moment has come. Senator John McCain has moved on to the Great Unknown. Knowing of his physical challenges, I have had John McCain on my mind for some time. Along with my personal sadness, however, I will always be remembering the happy time Joan and I shared with him one night at a military ball.

For me, McCain was the epitome of a military person.  A no-excuses kind of guy. Many of us who wore the uniform, certainly those of us who had relatively easy service, will always wonder how we would have stacked up against his standard of courage when facing brutality as a prisoner of war. Reading the excerpts of what McCain and others went through in captivity makes you sick to your stomach.

For most of us, it was an honor to serve in uniform. The three words “Duty, Honor, Country” mean a lot. Later on, as veterans, they epitomize our pride when recalling our time in the service. We cherish these three words when we honor those who gave their lives in defense of our nation. We remember as well those who sacrificed through endless days as prisoners of war.

Sometimes it seems like we have so few heroes anymore. It's not true, you know. They exist everywhere across this blessed land. We just don't know about them because they serve silently, or until some event places them in the spotlight.

The President of These United States is, by virtue of his office, the Commander in Chief of The Armed Forces. What a sad, sad day it is when Mr. Trump failed to even mention Senator McCain's name when he was honored by Congress and We the People. Until he had to.

Trump let us down. Every single one of us.

DOGGERS (Part Two of Two)

It was Harry Truman who said, “If you want a friend in Washington, get yourself a dog.”  Well, I have an even better idea, Mr. President, and it's called “get a spouse.” Friend, lover and so much more! With 300 million souls here in the USA, and Canada and Mexico nestled right next door, there's got to be somebody just right for you as there was for Charles Reilly, Sr., Charles Reilly, Jr., and Charles Reilly, III ! So do your own homework and start looking.

Years ago somebody in our extended family, probably young Jeffrey, started calling dogs “doggers”.  The name stuck and doggers they are to this day.

I mentioned in my preceding column that some people are 100% animal lovers and others less so. I am in the latter category.  I do not dislike doggers but I do not place them in the top drawer category along with sports and great-grandchildren. However, there were exceptions. “Shammy” was an exception.  She was a gentle Yellow Lab and my take-a-walk buddy on fair days and snow-on-the-ground days. We two marched the township. One hiking day I dropped my key ring with the car, house and whatever-else-was-important key on it. Trying to retrace my steps was not a treat I can tell you that. I was stumbling along on a hillside, muttering when Shammy pulled on the leash to the right side.  “Lo and behold !” as writers used to say. There was the ring with all those keys peeking out from a clump of snow. Shammy would have gotten a Guinness that day, save for the fact she did not drink or smoke.

Eventually, old age caught up with Shammy just as it does with all doggers and dogger-walkers. Joan and I will never forget the day when our sensitive veterinarian, St. George Hunt, picked her up in his little SUV and took her away. Shammy mournfully looked out the car window at the two of us. We three were a portrait of sadness. It is tough to tell even as I write these many years later.

Life grants us wonderful memories of loved ones who have passed on. It does the same thing for prized pets. Happily, we have a trunk-load of Shammy memories to take out and enjoy time and again.

DOGGERS (Part One of Two)

Many people are animal lovers.  Loving dogs especially. My own Dear Heart is one such. Truth be told, she would make an excellent veterinarian assistant.

How we relate to our four-legged friends probably has a lot to do with how we were introduced to them early on. My brothers and I grew up with Great Danes, a noble species. “Gainor” was our first. She was so beloved her name was eventually passed on to another Dane in our household.  There is, somewhere, a formal picture of the young Reilly Boyz sitting on the floor around Gainor. Mischievous brothers in placid poses which no doubt had to do with the serenity projected by regal Gainor.

When we were little guys everything and everybody was big.  And Gainor was very big. She was loyal, friendly, and a marvelous, comfortable cushion. She was also obedient. When Cousin John walked up the pathway to the picket fence surrounding our porch, I yelled: “Sic him!” Gainor was up and over that fence in a blink. Heartbeats paused all round, notably Cousin John's. After assuring that John was okay, my mother then turned her attention to me. Several very long days followed. I have not issued a command to a dog since that moment at the picket fence. When Gainor departed for Doggie Heaven the air went out of the house. Eventually, Gainor was replaced by Timmy, an English bulldog. Timmy was everything Gainor was not.  Regal bearing was a non-starter.  He was friendly enough but a slobbering soul if there ever was one. As the years rolled by, there were several other misfits in residence.

The responsibility for ending the household partnership between dogs and humanity laid with Good Old Dad.  My standard exit line was “it's not fair to keep a dog all cooped up when they need lots and lots of room to run around. Like on a big farm.” That statement is an evergreen with my now-adult offspring. When there's any kind of misunderstanding one or more of them will bellow “it's off to a farm!” Kids nowadays embrace the “he's/she's part of the family” philosophy which neatly overwhelms objections from any parent anywhere.  There's no more shipping the unwanted off to a farm.

(I've got to sign off now because of my editor's word-count rules. Try to join me next time for my closing column on “Doggers”.

CHARITY

“There is Faith, Hope and Charity. And the greatest of these is Charity.”

Maybe.

                

Faith, Hope and Charity pour forth from a theological spring with the names of revered saints and a 1001 other references. FH&C have been around for centuries. They trip easily off the tongue. But practical applications in the real world are not so easy to come by. Charity especially.

Some people say paying taxes is a blessing because we generated the income to tax in the first place. Sort of a brick on the back for doing well. Likewise, charitable giving presents some sense of worthiness. We are helping those in need, PLUS we can lessen our own tax bill by claiming a deduction. Paying taxes is universally detested. I trace my own dislike of this scourge to my paternal grandfather, T. F. Reilly. T.F. reputedly kept two sets of books, causing my father, who worked for him, a lifetime of acid reflux while awaiting the knock on the door from the IRS.

On balance, giving is good, but at what cost?  How do you select the person or cause to be a recipient from the mob of worthies assaulting our limited treasuries? People like thee and me certainly can't give to one and all. Charities today are professionally marketed. They know the buttons to press, the notes to play on our heartstrings. I watch the toll their pleadings take on a good soul like my wife.  Unsolicited trinkets leave her guilt-ridden because she can't open her checkbook each time.  She has been encouraged to keep a list of donations we make because this lightens her sadness a bit when she finds a charity's name is already on it. Still, it's just a band-aid.     

We need money in order to give it away. We have to strike it rich, and quickly. Crowdfunding has appeal but that is largely over-ridden by common decency when so many others in the neighborhood are in dire straits. My only hope seems to lie in winning the lottery.

A couple of times.

ME LLAMO CARLOS

There is talk, talk, talk about borders these days. How do we secure them? Why we should not separate children from their parents who are trying to come into the USA illegally. And much, much more.  If you live close to a border as we do, this issue is on the front burner bubbling away 24/7.

We citizens are entitled to speak our minds freely. It is also one of the big reasons many unfortunates want to gain access to our blessed land. True, freedom is not fully appreciated by those of us who enjoy it as a birthright. We breathe it just as easily as the air. But when we see the faces and hear the voices of those who suffer from a loss of freedom, it becomes quite another thing altogether. We pay attention.

The issue of US residency is critically important to ALL of us, not just those outside waiting to get in. We really should put heat to the feet of our elected officials to resolve the immigration and citizenship dilemma. We cannot allow Washington to kick the issue further down the road. It is far too important to delay, again.

Florida has an abundance of transplanted Northerners, senior-seniors and Hispanics. I'm two for three here, leaning toward the Hispanics on the third, although my credentials are shaky. Long years ago the United States Army felt that my schooling which included four years of studying the Spanish language marked me as a special soldier. While the rest of the draftees in my group were marched off to the infantry, I was held aside for the Language School in Monterrey, California, where they were churning out interpreters.

Placed in an empty barracks taking various tests, I never progressed far beyond how to identify myself, “me llamo Carlos” (May Yah Mo Karl Oss) and the names of a few Mexican beers. When the testing scores came back, I was firmly at the bottom of the list.

And quickly in the field artillery.

WOMEN – Pick one.

In a recent column, I mentioned my admiration for women. Not just my wife, mother, grand-daughters, other female relatives, and friends, but all women. Not everyone feels this way. Yes, unlike the difference between being alive and the alternative to that state, cheerleading for women isn't a slam dunk. It can get complicated. I did not say women are, like men, simple souls. It seems prudent to admit up-front that along with being irreplaceable in society they are also very complex. If you are challenged in your thinking about women, I suggest taking a new look at that sex with a positive eye. Concentrate on their uniqueness. One way to do that, it seems, is to identify the qualities in specific women who move easily among groups of men, groups of women, groups of men and women.

               

It's easier if you pick one. We have in mind our friend, Barbara. What is it that she possesses that makes her so effective in business and social settings? Sounds corny I guess, but making a list of her positive qualities worked for us. You may have another approach, if so, that's your choice. My wife and I started out by jotting down Barbara’s strengths: There are the obvious ones - she is an attractive, hard-working woman, supportive of her colleagues, consistently reliable, a great communicator of information, an even better listener. She's compassionate and genuinely interested in other people (all kinds of people, from executives to doormen.) From early on she decided she wanted to help men and women get where they want to go in this life. Her professional career was designed to do just that.

               

Barbara always keeps the focus on others, never allowing the spotlight to linger on herself. Perhaps this is a holdover from her days as a young teacher where it's quite true that “they don't care how much you know, until they know how much you care.”

              

People know Barbara cares because she does. It shows.

All Those OLD People

My late (and I'll add “great”) mother-in-law used to rebel against the very thought of being placed in an assisted living facility/nursing home. “I don't want to be around all those old people!” thundered our 90-year-old woman. Her daughter (my beloved wife) and I lived through a never-ending twilight zone caught between tears and fury. We used to think we were the only twosome in America suffering this pain of dealing with men and women playing in the end game.

These days we are in Act Two of this long-running human drama. The big difference this time round is that the 90-year rebel is ME. Time certainly does fly, and with it the living we used to do with little or no effort.  Only yesterday were we gliding through life smiling and nodding our heads at occasional oldsters with canes or walkers. Truly, it is something else to BE one of the shufflers in the parade of ancients. It is another world altogether. We now wait endless hours in doctors' offices full of senior-seniors. “Pain management” has become big business and the product is old people like me. On top of all the endless waitings, evaluations and examinations comes a brand new test for us – a challenge to appear as normal as possible in order to avoid “one of the nursing homes filled with those old people.” Not easy.

Let me place two thoughts before you, dear reader: First, you are not the only one to be challenged by having older people to help. Two, before you know it, the old person needing assistance, understanding, and encouragement will be you.

Positive attitude is a critical factor either way.  It's also helpful to remember the alternative to being alive

YOUR CALL IS VERY IMPORTANT TO US

The old maxim “Don't ever lose your sense of humor” is solid gold. I have no idea who first said it, but credit that him or her with saving the sanity of many, me included. Let's look at a current challenge to peace of mind.

At one time things were simple. I lived through such days. Bet you did too, although probably not as far back as this writer. Then along came innovations, one after the other. Telephones, for example. Picture Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the phone, urgently speaking into his end of the contraption to his able assistant: “Mr. Watson....come here…I want to see you.” In came Watson and the rest is history. If Bell were here today and saw million and millions of men and women standing around and seemingly talking into the palms of their hands, he might wonder why he ever made that first telephone call. Who knows?

No question civilization benefited immensely from the invention of the telephone. Routine matters and emergencies alike. General Custer up there on that small hill at the Little Big Horn could have found it a lifesaver if he had phoned for immediate assistance.

Along with positive benefits comes the Devil's work. We all know the agony of endless “prompts” and recorded messages. But none can top the one saying “your call is very important to us.” Really? Then why, Ms. Recording, do you have to repeat it again and again even as we wait and wait?  Recently I hung on with a hope I could actually speak to one of those representatives “currently assisting another customer.” I wanted to ask this very question. No luck. My supply of patience went down the drain after eight repetitions of “your call is VERY important to us.” Is it? I don't think so.

Sometimes having a sense of humor just isn't enough.

John McCain

A White House aide has been widely quoted for her remark that Senator John McCain's voice on a political nominee's eligibility “doesn't matter, he's dying anyway.”

Saying she is widely quoted misreads the situation for “widely condemned” is far more on target. Even a little awareness of McCain's service to this nation should put him above such disrespect. “Sad” is another word that immediately comes to mind.

Any group of people anywhere contains its share of incompetents. And yes, we expect more from certain professions, communications is one, than others. Yes again, the names of the groups represented by a spokesperson call for extra research and more careful wording before going public with any pronouncements, large or small. Let alone one that is moronic in the eyes of people everywhere.

So now we come to this – a genuine hero, a national treasure, being belittled by “a White House communications staffer”. Previously unknown to virtually all of us, now known not only to God, but to honorable people around the world. Can it get any worse? Yes, it can. There is no public apology from the sinner, Ms. Kelly Sadler, or from the White House where she receives her paycheck.  Can we expect contrition from President Donald Trump for what happened on his watch?

No. Not in this age of deteriorating ethics and a general dishonoring of our cherished values. We will continue to reap what we have been sowing.

THE TALKING GENE

An acquaintance with several academic degrees proposed to us with straight face that women have a genetic trait that makes them talk, talk and talk. They cannot control it. At first, I thought he was kidding, but no. I suggested to him that “modern young women, and some not so young, are not the deferring damsels of past generations. Pick your audiences carefully when you expound on this theory, pal, or you might suffer severe consequences. Perhaps ending up speaking with a far higher pitch to your voice.”

I know a broadcaster, poised and smart, succumbed to impatience with a woman driver swerving on the highway in front of him while talking on her cell phone. Lowering a window he bellowed: “Get off the (bleep) phone, lady!” This time the woman did not talk but replied with the universal one finger salute.

My wife reminds me that men and women communicate in different ways. Men in general talk to the point, few words, key substance. Women, on the other hand, add detail at every turn of phrase. Is one better than the other? Not necessarily. The period of time involved defines the best approach. If the building is on fire we don't need to know the make-up of combustible materials in the rooms, nor what color they were, or when they were purchased. The priority, in this case, is spreading the word to one and all about immediate danger. Later on though we do need to have detail after detail in order to set the cause, fix blame and establish procedures to avoid repetition of disaster.

It's not just women who are doing the talking. Men are into the act as well as teenagers who have turned it into an art form.

Maybe Watson shouldn't have answered the call.

Snowbirds

From time to time I write about Snowbirds from the Northlands visiting Florida. I try to be evenhanded in outlining the pros and cons of living down here as opposed to “Up There.” For starters, if you don't like cold weather, take a look at sunnier scenes, particularly Florida, where in fact the living is easier.

But remember “there's no free lunch” also applies to the Land of Eternal Sun. Some random examples of Florida living include “the early bird special” (EBS) preparing for which means you start planning for dinner right after breakfast. EBS menus have customer-friendly dinner prices that knock off a buck or two from the meals in order to lure those of us on Social Security. While “having cocktails” has become an evergreen all around the country, it has become an art form in Florida. It's good to remember though that the bar bill gobbles up what few dollars are saved on EBS.

When the sun goes down, most of us retreat to our little hideaways to turn on our television sets and check the weather up north. Schadenfreude kicks in for a few minutes but is followed by hours of gloom because television consists of TV series re-runs. It could be far worse though since most of the new prime-time viewing is simply terrible. Re-runs of oldies are generally the best of what used to be better.  And still are.

Florida is often derided as “Heaven's Waiting Room” because so many of us are senior-seniors. So be it. Most of our old gang on the northern side of the Mason-Dixon Line are also senior-seniors living in retirement homes afraid to go out because of bone-chilling cold. Plus down here the nurses have attractive suntans.

With all the talk of Health Care in Washington, D.C., we Floridians share the perspective that television has the answer for most ailments. Products for every conceivable ailment flash by our eyes night after night. Especially if you are suffering from erectile dysfunction which some say make up 40% (others say 80%) of the TV commercials.

Hang in, dear reader. Spring is just around the corner and then Summer will soon come your way. That's when Florida becomes a white-hot furnace for us. You may still have the last laugh as you bask in your glorious “Up North” weather. 

OPENLY DEFIANT

Senator Lindsey Graham reminded us recently that “America is a nation of laws.” The South Carolina Republican was saying that none of us, whether in high office or just slugging along trying to make a living, is above doing what is right legally. This is a profound principle, and worth reviewing.

While there are many aspects under this overall umbrella, rules and regulations that touch on the common good seem to me to stand out.  No question we have suffered a general loss of respect for others. And yes, universal good manners is but a distant memory. It certainly “is what it is”! But that doesn't mean we each shouldn't strive to improve things.

An obvious example of violating laws can be seen in the conduct of those who do not obey traffic and pedestrian rules. Many do so by openly defying them with a “chip on the shoulder” attitude.  What's the point? People, certainly including the offender, can get injured, even killed. Young people have long rebelled against “authority” - parents, teachers and in particular during recent decades, the police. The media, on constant lookout for the negative and bad news, have highlighted the conduct of those white police officers who have mistreated young blacks. Bad cops are few in number when counted against the overwhelming number of men and women who wear the badge, faithfully exercising their duty to protect the public. But the ages old saying still stands true: It only takes one bad apple to ruin a barrel, in this case, the reputation of entire blue commands.

There are a lot of young people who are angry these days.  Some with good reason; others wanting to be part of violent peer-dominated mobs. There are also those who simply want to call media attention to themselves. In our nation of laws, there are legitimate ways to voice opposition. Breaking store windows and burning automobiles are not two of them. The examples of Mahatma Gandi and Martin Luther King, saints in our time, preached non-violent opposition. It is still the best way to achieve success in opposing injustice.

UNWANTED PHONE CALLS

Basically, I am against the death penalty.  I also understand that this subject is debatable among honorable people entitled to speak our own minds in this great USA.  But this said, let's look at the possibility that certain people should be given this most final of all solutions.

My candidates are those men and women who make the unsolicited phone calls to our homes. The biggest of culprits among these Devil's disciples are of course the robocalls where tireless programmed robots eliminate the human factor altogether by calling and calling and calling. They usually do so when they suspect that someone is going to be there – dinner time is especially a target.  Most people I know are near exhaustion at the end of a day spent in totin' the barge, liftin' the bale, or whatever else makes for a tiring day at work. We look forward to relaxation, refreshment and the companionship of our loved ones.  We want to pull up the drawbridge over the moat so we can be the King or Queen in our little castle where peace and serenity reign. Then the telephones start with their awful anvil chorus.

I am but one helpless soul frustrated at my inability to fend off these endless intrusions. Every avenue of potential assistance to me has been cut off at the pass.  The Do Not Call registry is worthless as are other avenues of potential assistance.  In earlier times we could have some fun by talking back to the “caller.” We could use language not heard since long ago days in the barracks. But that paled after a hundred or so opportunities to vent at the tekkie intruders.

Away from the ringing phones I admire the depth of why I am being pursued.  The Internal Revenue Service is one.  This is quickly dismissed because I know the IRS writes, not calls, if they have reason to contact me. How about my student loan?  I never had to take out a loan thanks to my hardworking parents. (The statute of limitations surely would protect me anyway since my college days were seven decades ago.)  There are many others.  

We did away with our land line house phone which eliminated a stress-relieving option pursued by one father, namely, ripping the telephone right out of the wall. But now “they” have our cell phone numbers! If you have an idea for us, please let us know. We'd love to hear from you

You'll have to write, however. Robocalls have tied up our phones.

BALONEY

Baloney makes up a large part of our world.  It is irrepressible. This is certainly so when we talk politics. I am convinced that folks collectively cock their eyebrows when politicians promise this or that. “Baloney” we think!

Today we are going to talk about another kind of baloney – the favored cold cut you find in delicatessens and on menus just about everywhere. Growing up, we Reillys had our own fascination with baloney.

The Original Reilly Boyz were Charles Jr. (me), Bart and Tom.  Brother Jeff came along much later (on my 19^th birthday to be precise.) The three older boys were united in brotherly connection but also in our love for baloney. Brother Tom, the youngest, mispronounced “baloney” and along came BLONEY. It stayed that way in family fun until Tom grew up to become a lean, mean US Marine and we were less inclined to make him the butt of all jokes.

Bloney became coin of the realm in our house. Withheld from our sandwiches for transgressions, permitted for mid-day snacks only if we brothers cut out fighting and presented a camouflage of harmony.

While the years since have done away with our youth and trim waistlines our love of Bloney remained. The latest chapter for me involves a present-day battle within the refrigerator of our own Florida home. Joan prefers Boar's Head baloney; I remain firmly in the Wawa bloney camp. She won the early rounds until the Pennsylvania-based Wawa opened stores right here in Palm Beach. Bloney returned triumphant to grace my sandwiches once more. Stay tuned.

Either way, Joan says, “Hold the mayo!”