Minerva

Standing majestically in Manhattan’s Herald Square, Minerva looks down on the busy crossroads of Sixth Avenue and Broadway. Originally perched atop the NY Herald at the north end of the square, she now overlooks the little patch of concrete like a mortuary stone. Minerva was a Roman goddess of wisdom, commerce, trade, poetry, and sponsor of the arts.

A light rain is falling now and I notice it trickling down her face. Is this precipitation dripping down a metal object, or is Minerva weeping for the death of the now defunct NY Herald? The Herald was a competitor of the New York Times, her northern rival situated in its namesake Times Square.

I believe that Minerva laments the death of a newspaper, a beacon of light that illuminates the dark corners of a dangerous world, a world that does its best through its machinations and manipulations to distort the common good. An enemy of lies, each journalistic torch adds three dimensionally to the world that envelops us and is hated by businessmen and politicians for its dogged search for the truth.

While there are still other great newspapers, the loss of one perspective results in less clarity to bring an issue into focus. Darkness, ignorance, fear and prejudice revel and thrive in the death of illumination, which interferes with their mission of malevolent self-preservation.

The Matron of Mealtime

Here’s an old joke.

How do you quiet a room full of antsy, hungry, exuberant kids?

You clunk the mic.

Get it?

No, of course you don’t. I made it up, which subsequently may account for the lack of pre-perceived laughter that I – you know – pre perceived.

Well, you may not get it, but the kindly cafeteria matron sure did. She was a gray haired little old lady ancient enough to have taken tutelage from Pavlov himself. You know, the guy with the bell and the dog? Every time he rang the bell, the dog knew it was mealtime.

In my earliest elementary years, I had thought that maybe she had these frail, clumsy hands that couldn’t hold tight to the mic and that’s why it bumped so loud, so often.

Wrong!

Whenever that thump pounded from the PA, the room turned from unruly anarchy to one of hushed expectance.

It was genius.

There was no call to quiet down, no teasing taunts of “I can wait,” while we sat there, stomachs rumbling, tongues gliding back and forth over lips soon chapped. She would click the mic on with a flick of the thumb, from the speakers above came an audible hum.

That’s about as poetic as it gets.

Thunder rumbled when that microphone clunked once and then twice over the aged wooden stage like a prop plane bouncing along the runway before reaching take-off speed. Airborne, it hovered before her mouth. The assembled grew silent.

“Table one for hot lunch,” her rasp reverberated in mirthless monotone.

Sans salute, the structured students stood.

Tables two through five looked on in awe.

With a side dish of jealousy.

Table Five, forever last to be summoned, salivated

I saw it.

I was a Table Five tenant.

“Table one,” her voice echoed. “Proceed.”

With Cub Scout cadence, the troop tromped to their spoils, simmering in silver shimmering

(not really)

troughs beneath a mounting misty miasma of fragrant fog that promised quintessential cuisine reserved for only A(B-C)-list clientele.

I didn’t think the school Principal could have commanded the respect that this woman held. It was impressive, it was daunting, and I remember from the earliest days of taking my meals in the school cafeteria that it was a little scary too.

The order was given.

The order was followed.

I never stood.

I didn’t have to.

You see, while I was taking my meals in the cafeteria, I was subsequently taking my meals to the cafeteria.

I was a brown bag lunch kid.

It’s not that I was poor.

I was picky.

A childhood affliction for which no cure could be found.

Mom packed my lunch each day, and I was always okay with the butter and jelly on white bread sandwiches.

Yes, I said butter.

I have an issue with peanut butter. I don’t think it’s a peanut allergy, though it might be. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried peanut butter. The smell alone forces my throat closed. A knife with peanut butter remnants left in the sink for me to wash

(I’m always doing dishes)

(Always)

could mean certain death.

A constricted airway leads to restricted oxygen flow to the brain and well… Land O’Lakes lightly salted butter and Welch’s grape jelly between two slices of Wonder white bread made a fine meal.

So did Spam.

You know, that gelatinous luncheon meat that comes from the Spig?

Mom would fry up the Spam the night before, put it between two pieces of (not so) lightly buttered white toast, wrap it, brown bag it and throw it in the fridge. The following day I would carry it around in my book bag until lunchtime.

Nothing said nutritional Nirvana like day old Spam served at room temperature.

My grandfather would beg to differ. Having served in World War II, he had had his fill of Spam, which was never in short supply. His nose would wrinkle and his eyes would narrow every time I mentioned it. It did help to further my educational studies however.

“Where I come from buddy, Spam is a four letter word,” he would tell me.

Though, it didn’t take a 5^th grader to figure that out.

Even in abundance, it must have been worth something back then. You needed a key to open it! Every package of yummy Spam came complete with a small metal key affixed to the bottom of the round rectangular can. Cooking it was the easy part. It was the pre-pan procedure that took a little work.

Step 1: Locate the small metal tab on the right side of the can.

Step 2: Work the tab open using the fingernail of your choice being careful not to cut the tender skin underneath. Nothing says worse pain than paper cut than an abrasion beneath the nail.

Step 3: Insert the protruding tab through the rectangular hole in the top of the key. (It’s sort of like threading a needle, something that I would know nothing about because I don’t sew).

Step 4: Twisting in a counter-clockwise direction (south, if the can is facing north, west, if facing east), peel away the strip of metal until a full rotation of 360 degrees is completed. This refers to the journey around the can as opposed to the consistent twirling of the key in motion, which will have achieved a full 360 degrees many times before reaching its final destination.

Step 5: Remove the top portion of the can, and very unceremoniously dump the lump of greasy goodness into the pan. Don’t worry about the protective slime like jelly that oozes out behind it. It’s edible.

I think.

Yes, lunch was an education. In this lesson alone, we have breached math, spelling and physics.

“Table Five for extra’s,” the never merry matron intoned.

In the interest of time, I have skipped tables one through four to leave room for this next piece of vital grade school trivia. It was neither snacks, nor dessert. The call to arms following the main meal was a call to extras. I don’t even know what that means. Maybe the nice old lady possessed some type of crystal ball, had seen into the future (our present) and had reached the realization that the terms snacks or dessert were unacceptable. Extras had a nice ring to it. It was generic, it did not draw attention to the food class system – meat and vegetables being upper class, fruits and dairy being middle class, snacks and desserts…well, from the wrong side of the tracks. Extras was politically correct in a time when political correctness had yet been considered. Extras made us all better children. A little larger in girth maybe, but overall, we were fine, upstanding, respectful little citizens.

Lunch in elementary school was so much more than feeding, frolic and the occasional food fight. The cafeteria with its long metal tables rife with sharp edges (that would never fly in today’s super safe-conscious society) and warped wooden stage pulled so much more than double duty as an eatery at mealtimes and an auditorium at others.

It was a classroom too.

And to the matron whose name I never knew,

I take this moment to offer a heartfelt thank-you.

(Hey, check it out. The poetic part didn’t end where I thought it would).

TM - Feb. 2019

Old Man Winter Oversleeps

It was a beautiful fall day and Old Man Winter was sitting on the porch. He enjoyed the off time but was a little bored and looking forward to the upcoming season. The old man opened his mail and found an invitation from Autumn to come for tea. Winter always liked Autumn and she always put out plenty of those little sandwiches with the crust cut off and delicious pastries. He responded immediately and looked forward to the occasion. It was better to get along with your coworkers whenever possible.

When the day had finally come, Winter cleaned up nicely and arrived on time for the party. Autumn met him at the door dressed in a long flowing gown as was her usual style. Her long golden hair hung loose to her waist and a wreath of beautiful dried leaves encircled her head.

“It’s good to see you, Winter. Glad you could come.”

“Thank you for the invite,” he said.

They had a nice conversation and Autumn brought out tea and sandwiches. Winter consumed his beverage rather quickly and she poured him a second cup. Soon he became drowsy and fell into a deep slumber. Unbeknownst to the old man Autumn had added a few extra ingredients to the tea, not wanting to relinquish the weather so soon.

Fall went on and on with the leaves not falling until the solstice. Autumn conditions persisted. January came and went with hardly a snowflake. The humans rejoiced at their good luck.

“Forget the Farmers Almanac,” they cried. “They don’t know what they are talking about anymore!”

February came with mild weather. Near the end of the month, a bird alighted near Winter singing his spring love song. Winter stirred now and looked around trying to get his bearings. Then he remembered the tea party. He howled a horrific bellow that reverberated off the mountains. Marching home he passed an electronics store with the weather man on television announcing that Old Man Winter was impotent this year. Fury furrowed his brow and he threw ice balls at the set until it broke.

I will deal with Autumn later. Time is of the essence, he conjectured.

Arriving at his castle, Winter called Jack Frost .

“Hi Jack. Yes I know it’s late, but I need you to cook me up something special, ice, snow a little rain and yes throw in some hail for good measure. I need to make the humans pay for their insolence.”

Next he got in touch with the four winds who were on vacation, thinking that they wouldn’t be needed this year.

“North good to talk to you. Yes I know you’re on vacation but I need you and your brothers to do me a favor. Yes you can have June off. Okay, thanks.”

Now that he had his servants lined up, the late winter would commence. It snowed for a week. When the cars were gone and the houses had almost disappeared, Winter finally calmed down. He had caught up in one week’s time and he made a mental note that next year he would pay to cater the tea party.

Jim - March 2019

Seaside Walk

Standing on the boardwalk at Jones Beach on February eighteenth with the needle at 10 O’clock and the Jones Beach Theatre at 11 O’clock, I stared at a grey sky. I gulped in the sea air and was immediately transported back six months to August eighteenth, a much more civilized time of the year.

The other side of the ellipse brings all the Eskimos that pass by back to bathing suits, sandals ,sun glasses and floppy hats holding hot dogs and coolers while keeping track of little tikes. The smell of suntan lotion and buttered corn waft on the breeze while fat seagulls glide overhead. Today the gulls look hungry searching for morsels of anything they can find. I stare at the cold surf churning the rocks and seashells into a smooth aggregate. Pieces of grey driftwood sit unasssailed by little boys not playing pirates.All the Eskimos zip by in a hurry to do whatever Eskimos do like feeding their penguins or walking the walrus, maybe taking care of little Eskimos. I hope the Sun God returns soon!