The Gene Pool

The newest member of our family met another part of her gene pool yesterday. We welcomed Gabrielle into our midst, who at 5 weeks old has charmed all of us. She is lanky, like her parents with long toes and long fingers -- a pianist, perhaps, we project. "A swimmer," predicts her Australian Father, "who plays the piano."


There is a history of introducing the babies of the family to the beach. Our latest grand daughter, Cameron, went to the beach at 6 weeks old; Gabriellle now sets the record at 5 weeks.


A tender moment occurred when our grandchild, 10 year old Morgan, held Gabrielle. Morgan is Joan and I's first grandchild and she was cradling Joan's sister, Nancy's, first grandchild, Gabrielle. More than a few eyes welled up over this moment.

New Jersey Diners

For those of you who have never experienced a New Jersey Diner, let me give you my impressions. New Jersey Diners are stand-alone restaurants located on main thoroughfares – not inside malls, not attached to a Motel and with no car hops. Many Diners started in the 1950’s and may have a corrugated stainless steel look, reminiscent of the old railroad dining cars. Most of them are not 50’s themed and are devoid of decoration, except the first dollar they ever earned, likely signed by Geo. B. Humphrey, President Eisenhower’s first Secretary of the Treasury.

A Diner’s menu is extensive, perhaps with 150-200 items, including goods baked on the premises. It will feature Jersey produce, and also local delicacies such as Trenton Pork Roll, a sandwich of Liverwurst, Onion and Cheese, as well as Boiled (sic) Half Chicken.

The waitresses are generally not college-aged young women, but mature women who have worked at the diner for 20 years, or more, and know most of the locals who inhabit the place; these patrons mostly sit on the same stool or booth every time they come in. “Hi Bill/Roy/Al/Ted/etc. How ya doing taday?” is the greeting.

I wonder if Ted sat on the fourth stool instead of the second one, if anyone would know his correct name. “Most definitely,” comes the answer.

The big wide double doors going back to the kitchen are bi-directional doors. The one on the right has a big “In” painted on it and nothing in the other door, except on its reverse, kitchen side where a big “In” is painted, also. There is a careful choreography around those doors as the waitresses and the young men who carry dirty or clean dishes pass through them. No bumps, no close calls, no dropped dishes, no words either
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If you are a politician in New Jersey, you have to able to make it in your District’s Diners. Eggs are not the only things that can get fried there. The locals are pretty rough on the Trenton big-wigs. “Whaddya gonna do to help the Oysterman?” “I pay so much taxes I got no more blood left – the Red Cross won't call me any more because you got it all!” “No dollar from gambling’s ever helped me?”

Fast service, slow talking, fair prices, good food and knowing your name when you walk in the door brings the folks back to the Diner, year after year.

“What'll you have today? The usual?" she asks.

“Yeah, I’ll have the Banana Belgian Waffle with a scoop of Vanilla Ice Cream and Whipped Cream, and don’t forget the powdered sugar. Oh, how bout some Jersey Blueberries?”

“Coming right up, Bill/Roy/Al/Ted.”

Cottonwood Pass

The third revision of "Cottonwood Pass" has been returned to me for approval. Other than the "V " in "TV " looking bigger than the "T" -- but having been assured by "Laura" of the publisher, Booksurge, that the letters were the same size -- I approved this version. Now, a proof copy of the book will be generated for me in 10 business days, and then, it will be made available on Amazon.com. What a process!

RDG

Cloudburst

The wind had changed an 82 degree day into something almost chilly. Soon, an overcast filter cuts the sun’s effectiveness further as people began to gather their loose possessions to prevent losing them.

The sky in the west produced a dark, ominous cloud bank. The wind blew harder. Birds disappeared (where do they go?). A thin transparent veil of shadow reached from the cloud to the ground in the distance. People walked faster and children began to run. A thwock hit my hat; then another and another. Fat raindrops were falling, sideways.

Walking faster, I turned my back to the water. The rain followed me, wetting my shirt, my pants, my underwear, my socks, my shoes, my arms. Water was dripping off my hat. I still had a long way to go.

By the time I reached to streets, the rain had been falling hard for ten minutes. I was surprised to see the storm drains beginning to back up with little puddles covering their grates. At the end of the next block, the puddles had grown to small lakes, creeping backwards up the wheelchair ramp in the sidewalk. Considerate drivers, slowly picked their way past the growing lake, respectful of the pedestrians on the sidewalk. One driver on the other side of the road was unaware of his impending faux pas and ran through the big puddle at 30 miles per hour, sending a big wave of curb water on a man standing on the curb.

“Hey, you %$**#@!!!,” the pedestrian sputtered, seeking revenge, waving his fist.

When I arrived home, I was soaked. Standing on the back porch under the thick canopy of a huge Magnolia, I stripped down to my shorts, and began wringing out my pants with a 60 year old memory… folding them and wringing them and folding them and wringing them…like my Mother would have done, when we lived On Harrisonville Avenue.

RDG

Food for me has long been associated with pleasure. The subtle taste of a sea scallop, the brilliant dash of a lemon, the acidic sweetness of a ripe tomato -- I love them all. Many times, chefs feel the need to add a sauce but sometimes it covers the taste of the main ingredient. I'll take my sauce on the side, please.

Yesterday, I watched my Grand Daughters playing. Their electronic games were at home, the colorful puzzles were nowhere to be found. Instead they found hilarity and happiness in a simple hill, or building forts out of square jelly containers in a restaurant, or drawing thier interpretation of family members.

How complicated we build our adult lives -- because we can. Travel, here, meet there, worry about the appearence, not the fact. Most of the time, I would rather have those complications ... on the side ... and pass the jelly, please.

RDG

Dinner

Preparations are underway for the arrival of family this afternoon -- probably 12 of them. Three pounds of grapes will be gone by tomorrow morning.

This is an eating crowd and it pleases me. Dinner is always a mix of formality, tradition and fun. Two prayers are offered -- a Presbyterian Prayer and a Catholic Prayer, which is followed immediately by the younger children trying to beat each other to say "Let's Eat." Grampy Ron taught one of them to say that three years ago, much to the chagrin of Grammy Joan, and it is now a tradition to be passed along to babies -- much to the chagrin of Grammy Joan.

There will be a toast of wine and sparkling cider with clinking glasses and all saying "Cheers." The younger ones wil drain their cordial glass of the sparking cider and want more before anything is passed.

Tonight I will prepare Hungarian Goulash -- "Paprikash" as Flippo, King of the Clowns would call it while applying his make-up with me sitting next to him. Parslied noodles will accompany as will grilled zucchini from the Giles' Family Garden. There will also be applesauce for the children who haven't learned to appreciate anything zucchini other than zucchini Bread. A green salad will be presented as will a selection of breads -- crusty and otherwise.

There will be a clamor from the children about dessert. Fruit and cheeses will be offered -- a lovely Chevre, a Saga-type blend, a Vermont Cheddar, and Dutch Prima Dona with Pears, Apples and Grapes.

The eight year old will come by and whisper in my good ear, "Do you have any ice cream?" She knows the answer because each of the children, unobtrusively, has inspected the cookie jars, candy dishes and freezer within minutes of entering the house, but asking is part of the routine. "Why, yes, I do," I will say which will set up a controlled chant of "Ice Cream, Ice Cream, Ice Cream" which would have made the Gregorians smile.

I love our family dinners.

I am fortunate to have close family members that I enjoy being around -- babies and toddlers where so many things are new and fun, tweens testing and trying their wings, teens with their enthusiasm and sarcasm, young adults (our children and nieces) with families and careers, and siblings our age with whom we can reminisce. There will be much laughter, a lot of good food, some nice wines, tons of pictures taken, board games, hugs, sunsets and snoring. The next two weeks will be consumed happily with things family.

Hey !

Welcome to all who are visiting for the first time. Please look around--up down, right, left. If you go all the way to the bottom, you will see a "gadget" from Google which shows the current "hot" searches, with the "volcanic" rating representing more searches than the others.

Spend time. Read. React. Enjoy.

Cheers !!!

RDG

Further revisions

Today marks the final revisions to "Cottonwood Pass," I hope. I had finished the manuscript in March and it has taken this long with design and revisions and editing. Aaaarggh.

The story behind "Cottonwood Pass"

Joan and I were touring the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and had earlier visited Aspen. We were headed North to Interstate 70 when our GPS commanded "in nine-tenths of a mile, turn RIGHT onto C-ought-unwod-Paas Rode." Joan and I both knew that this was not the major way to get to I-70, but we had trusted "Jill" (our name for the female voice coming with the Garmin) on many other occassions and she had always gotten us there through some shortcut, so OK. A right turn at the town of El Jebel onto Cottonwood Pass Road.


The road was a two lane affair that took us through a neighborhood, but soon, the houses were far apart and the scenary was stunning. We were probably about 6500 feet when we left El Jebel, but now we were climbing higher past beautiful houses, built to capture the view. The name "Cottonwood Pass" indicated that we were going to ascend a mountain and then "pass" over it easily which we were prepared to do, but when the road turned from asphalt to gravel, I became a little concerned. And then, when the road became narrow and rutted as we went up the side of the mountain, my radar was on full alert, even though we were in a Jeep Commander.


Full alert radar went to Defcon 1 as Cottonwood Pass Road became one lane and steep as I picked my way slowly around large rocks that had washed down the ruts in the snowmelt. What happens if we meet another car coming the other way? What Happens if I have a Heart Attack? Who would find us in this wilderness if we slid off the road?


I turned on my cell phone. NO SERVICE ! That was it. I announced that we were going no further. Joan would not accept that we could not make it over the Pass and walked up to the next curve and disappeared around its bend. Returning, she reported that a landslide had taken the road over the side of the mountain; we had to turn around. Carefully executing a 23-point turn in a not-so-wide spot near us, I shifted gears to low as we crept back down Cottonwood Pass Road, not wanting to cause another landslide.


As we crunched our way down the incline, my imagination began piecing together a fictional story about someone who did slide off the mountain. Was he injured? Did he have wilderness skills? Would he die? Was he murdered? Who found him? Why was he killed?


When we got home, I jotted down some notes. In the fall, some four months later, I began working on "Cottonwood Pass."

RDG

Since you have seen the excerpt from "Cottonwood Pass" above, I thought you might enjoy a slice from "On Harrisonville Avenue." In this scene, 13 year old Ron is caught oogling a 15 year old girl in a bathing suit at the Elks Country Club Pool. His host, 38 year old Janet, surprises him.
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I looked around the swimming area and there was no sign of ‘Janet’. There were certainly many beautiful women and young ladies, some of them my age. One girl in particular was striking in a two piece white bathing suit against her dark tan skin. Her brown hair was short with no curl and her eyes were large and brown while her smile was broad and engaging. Clearly she stood out among the other girls.

“She’s 15, her name is Marne and she is the Cardiologist’s daughter – pretty isn’t she,” whispered Janet from behind me. On the one hand, I was embarrassed that she had caught me staring at the girl, but on the other hand I was pleased to be involved in a two way conversation with Janet alone.

“She’s not the prettiest one here though,” I said. As I got older, stuff came out of my mouth before I could control it. I knew that was not good, and this was one of those occasions.

Janet circled around me until she was in front of me, looking me in the eyes. “Tell me Ronnie. Who do you think here is prettier than Marne?” Janet said wryly, smiling and looking softly into my eyes. I had gotten myself into a corner and I was going to try and weasel out of it.

I started to mumble and look down at the ground. “I’d really be embarrassed to say.”

“There’s no reason for embarrassment, with me, Ronnie. I want you to feel like you can say anything you want to in front of me … so who is prettier than Marne?” Janet pressured.

I decided not to be a weasel. I knew she wanted to hear it and I wanted to tell her, so go ahead, look her right in her brown eyes and say it. “The person prettier than Marne is … (my throat tightened, I didn’t want to croak or hiss on my answer) … is … you.” There I said it. Its over.

“Do you really think so?” she asked. (It wasn’t over!) “She’s so young and, well, firm. What is there about me that would make you say that I’m prettier?”

Oh, God. I quickly started searching my mind for some lines that Cornel Wilde said to Yvonne DeCarlo at the movie last week, but nothing was coming to me.

Waiting ...

Am waiting for the proofs of Cottonwood Pass to be returned from the publisher. Time is passing quickly as two weeks of vacation nears when it will be difficult to take the time to edit.

For your amusement, below I have attached an excerpt from the book where the main character proposes to his friend, Julie:

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The awkward phone call I made announcing my Chicago move to Julie is something we have joked about in the ensuing years.

“Julie. Hi. I wanted to call you to say that I’m going to be transferring to Chicago for a great career move and … I wanted to know … if … youwanttogetmarriedandmovetoChicagowithme?”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Al, you have taken my breath away. Isn’t there supposed to be a ring … or I take you home to meet my parents … or you get down on your knees …”

“I am on my knees,” I assured her.

“You are in your office on your knees,” she asked with skepticism in her voice.

“Absolutely.”

“Aren’t there some other words you are supposed to say?” she asked.

“Julie, I love you. I love everything about you. We are perfect together. We share the same views on everything. We’ve never argued in the six years we’ve known each other. It’s true that I’ve never met your parents, never tasted your cooking and truthfully don’t have a ring – but those are just details to be worked out. What’s important is … we love each other. So will you marry me?”

“YES,” and she began to laugh which turned into tears as both of us wept into the phone in happiness and relief.