A Visit to The Sandlot

The Sandlot has been one of my favorite movies since I first watched it back in 1993. The movie, about a group of young teen baseball-playing boys and their summer exploits, was set in 1962. It may have been eight years before I was born, but much of what took place was so familiar to my own childhood. Like them, we had our neighborhood team (but much more gender diverse) and daily baseball ‘games’. And also like the players in the movies, the fun went beyond just the games. We hung together, wandered the town together, and sometimes made questionable choices together.

Those stories are for another day. This post is about the movie. Rather, my family's love for the movie. The Sandlot may have been set in Southern California, but last year I discovered that it was actually filmed in Salt Lake City, Utah. Unbelievable at first, but a drive through some neighborhoods and a look at the surrounding mountains, show that Salt Lake City can pass for LA without much effort.

Since we were to go to Salt Lake City this past summer, my wife and I thought it would be fun to see the filming sites of some of our favorite scenes from The Sandlot.

Twenty-five years have passed and things change. That I can accept. What was more difficult to accept was what wasn’t even real to begin with. The actual sandlot, for one. We played ball on the field from Field of Dreams in Iowa and hoped we could do the same with The Sandlot. Not possible.

Not only was the field created for the movie. The site of the field was overgrown with Utah flora. All we could think was that it may be infested with some of Utah’s native creatures. Google told us that Utah has an abundance of snakes, from venomous pit vipers like copperheads or rattlers to the less harmless like rat and garter snakes. Then there were the spiders and other rodents to contend with along with cutting through people’s yards to get there. So THE sandlot was off the table. 

The home of Mr. Myrtle and Hercules was a facade built for the movie. Even the oak tree that housed the tree house was temporarily installed. The magic of Hollywood, I guess. 
But we still managed to find some iconic spots. 

I’ll start with the kid’s houses. We found the ‘homes’ of Scotty Smalls and Benny Rodriguez. Cruising this residential neighborhood in the south of Salt Lake City was kind of a hoot. The movie was done here 25 years ago and obviously things change. The biggest change was the trees. Everything looks so open in the movie, but as we scanned the homes for house numbers we were surprised by all the growth and some places overgrowth. Besides the trees, there was all the ‘clutter’ and stuff that occupies the real world but isn’t so obvious in cinema. 

Smalls Residence - 2019

The Smalls Residence - 1962

Benny going home in 1962

Benny's house in 2019

 In our search, we almost misidentified one of the homes. A prominent “No Trespassing” sign threw us off, thinking that maybe other Sandlot pilgrims may have been overly enthusiastic. Ultimately, we decided that the homeowner was just a crank.

Maddie & my own Wendy Peffercorn
at Vincent's Drug Store

My favorite site was Vincent’s Drug store. This is where the boys gathered to purchase pop and this is where we first learn of Squint’s love of Wendy Peffercorn. 



The name wasn’t just for the movie. It really was Vincent’s. The sign hangs over the store to this day. 

Vincent's Drug wasn’t as large as in the movie and SEE!  More trees!

I would have loved to have gone in and bought a baseball or maybe even some Big Chief Chewing Tobacco. 😉  But sadly, Vincent's was no longer in business. 

All that really seems familiar from this shot is the sign that juts from the store

Sticking with Squints and Wendy Peffercorn and on to the site of perhaps the non-field scene most identified with the The Sandlot. The pool. And it was right in Ogden where we were staying. 

No, we didn’t go in. That was a consideration, but time was an issue. So I had to take my chances as an old white guy standing outside the fence taking pictures of a pool full of children. No, I didn’t feel creepy at all. Thanks for asking. 

The façade of the building had changed quite a bit, but the pool area itself, minus the diving board, looked pretty much the same.

Wendy's Perch

The Pool Hunnies waiting for the Hammonball

Trivia Note: If you watch the movie, you may notice shivering. They were filming during the summer, but the temperature on day they were scheduled to film the pool scene was 58°. The shivering was real. We did not have that problem. Our visit saw 93°, so the pool was packed and we were standing in the blacktop parking lot baking like toasted cheesers. 

2019 - Lots of kids. No Pool Hunnies. And no diving board!

So we may have missed out on THE field, but we couldn’t do a baseball movie stop without finding A field. The sandlot was inaccessible. The field used in the opening scene was at a school that had been torn down and rebuilt, so that field no longer existed. But there was one we could see. Rose Park Field in Salt Lake City. This was the field on which our Sandlot team ‘beat the crap’ out of the bully little leaguers who cruised the town on their bikes, suited in their team uniforms. I regretted not bringing gloves, bats, and balls, but still, we made the most of it, throwing off the same mound, miming liners to left center, and running the bases.

1962 - Celebration!

2019 - Same Dugouts!

2019 - Thomas as Ham
jawing it up with the batter

1962 - Do you think your sister will go out with me? 

2019 - Giving them my Heater

I've liked a lot of movies, but there are only a few with which I feel connected.  A connection with a film can be through its plot, setting, dialogue, or characters. But with The Sandlot it was all of the above. That movie was my childhood. 

And while the point of this tour was to experience a beloved movie on another level, I found the tour churning up my own childhood memories and I was sharing with my family stories of my neighborhood friends and tales of our adventures and misadventures. We've all hit 50 now, but it was therapeutic in a way to relive our own battles with killer dogs and scary neighbors and talk of a time when our world was so small but seemed so huge.

That was a fun and successful day and we knew just how to celebrate!

Chewing tobacco and spinny rides!

Big Chief! The best!

Heaven on Earth

I'm not much of a Jesus guy. I have made no secret of the fact that I'm not the ideal Catholic. Yes, I go to mass most Sundays. I'm a lector and my kids are alter servers. But I also have my own thoughts when it comes to some of the church's teachings - and by this I don't just mean the Catholic church. I'm pretty much suspicious of all religions where dogma, rules, and finger wagging are concerned.

So, although I go, I am definitely lacking a deep belief and serious commitment to God. My attendance might be called equal parts faith, tradition, and socialization.  There is a meditative quality to church attendance that I find valuable. A big hour each week where I am away from my phone and distractions and have to think about what kind of person I am and strive to be. It ain't Catholic guilt. Everyone should take time to evaluate their soul and compare their ideals to the life they actually live.  Jesus is good for that. He's got the message, but being God as well as a man is too big of a concept for this mere mortal. How can I identify with that? Therefore, I'm more likely to be drawn to people like St. Francis, St. Anthony, and St. Thomas. They lived here. They were human and fought the real fight. They lived Jesus' message and made the world a better place. Jesus was a good guy. But he came down for the original version of Undercover Boss. In the TV show the boss comes around, does the crappy job, but he gets to leave, heading back to his mansion after dropping some financial aid and opportunity on the underlings on his way out the door. Life is hard, but Jesus knew what was waiting for him after he died. Everyone else works on faith.

I see it like Pedro Cerrano in the movie, Major League. "Jesus. I like him very much. But he no help me hit curve ball." Who helps me? Those people who lived here and saw misery and suffering in their world and thought, this isn't right and I will do something about it.

With that in mind, looking around my living space, one would always be more likely to see reference to saints. Prayer cards with Saint Anthony tucked in my mirror. A statue of Saint Francis in the flower bed. That's why this framed 8 x 10 portrait of Jesus sitting in my kitchen seems out of place.

I was at a thrift store in Ithaca. No trip to a thrift store is complete without looking to see if there are good frames available. The Jesus portrait caught my eye as I could tell it had some age. It was the standard white guy, long haired hippie Jesus, and in the bottom corner was the date, 1941. Interesting enough to investigate further. I flipped it over to check the back and that is when I was sold.

There was a long handwritten message. You could call it a letter, even. The portrait was a gift from a couple to friends who had come to help them when they needed it most.


June 10, 1944

Goodlettsville, Tenn
You came to help take care of me when I had typhoid fever, "Our first mouse"remember?!!

Dearest Lola, Sim, and Laverne,
I can never thank you enough for the ready way in which you came when we needed and called you. I'm sorry we'd just moved and everything was out of place also my being sick made you have so much to do - Come again sometime and maybe it will be differently.
For All you've done to help us, for the grand long talks we've had and even for all the "baby food" you've fed me - well, thanks for it all. To me it's another fine expression of the grand - Big Sister, you've always been to me. For the three of you - good luck and God's Blessings.
This is only a picture - but the Christ whom it represents is the One whom will try to love and serve. My One prayer is that we all may have the courage and go forwardness found in His life and the expression of His face.

Love,
Thomas and Fannie

I love this letter. I love the age. I love the handwriting. But what I love most is that this moment and kindness and gratitude that may or may not be known by any currently living person was captured on the back of this yellowed musty portrait, and lives on here in my house.

Recall that I said I am Catholic, so naturally, I am by no means a biblical scholar or for that matter, even a reader. I may have made a stab at the gospels at some point, but I can't say that any sort of lasting detailed analysis ever took place. But in some class I once listened to someone describe the gospels in a way that really stuck with me. He said that Matthew, Mark, & Luke are all pretty much the same, while the Gospel of John is different. In John, Heaven isn't some far off place. Heaven is here and now and it is our job to make our place and time on Earth as heavenly as we can. I have no verses to back this up. Nonetheless, the concept has stayed with me over the years and seems more appealing because the need is right here, right now, on this planet. The power to help and to heal is in our hands. There is no shortage of people who need help. Lend you time, your voice, and your heart. They are there in your family, school, community, town, city, state, or all over the world. You can go as big or as small as you wish. That is not the Christian thing to do. It's the human thing to do. And when someone really needs it, the helping hand of a friend or even a stranger sure feels like it came from Heaven.

The Jesus portrait stays out. The picture and the letter are not just reminders of what I need to do, but also a reminder that how I live my life can change someone else's. I can have the power of a saint and I have the power to make Heaven right here on Earth. 

And so do you.

Won't Somebody Tell Me What the Women's March Was All About?!

A week has passed since the Women's March and I still see people saying they didn't know what it was about. I also see those seeking to misrepresent what it was, cherry picking photos and video clips seeking to define the protest in their own, less flattering, terms.


This is what the March wasn't. It was not about Hillary Clinton. Or the election. It wasn't about man bashing. It wasn't specifically about Donald Trump's misogyny or even necessarily about just women. Sure, with a million plus people around the world marching, chanting, giving speeches, & holding signs, one could find examples of each of those things. There is a lot of emotion out there. But none of those were the point and none of those themes were the specific reason I went. 

To me, the Women's March was about moving forward. 

Like I said, it wasn't just about women. It is an undisputed fact that historically in the United States, and in the world, that women, minorities, and non-heterosexuals have gotten the short end of the civil rights stick. There have been or are laws that legalize discrimination based on gender, race, and sexual orientation. Sometimes it isn't law, but just some good down home double standards that'll do. I find this to be unacceptable here in the 21st Century. 




I marched because Congress' majority party and the new president have in their actions and/or words, shown that they are at worst, hostile toward the rights of women, minorities, and the LGBT community, or at best apathetic toward them.

I marched because we cannot stagnate and we cannot move backward. There are those who will try to take us back and we will not just accept it. We will not give it a chance. Morally, we cannot just go along. We will unapologetically protest, march, yell, and post annoying political rants on Facebook to fight it every step of the way. 


Because until everyone is afforded the same rights and until every citizen gets to live the dream of life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness that Thomas Jefferson put forth in the Declaration of Independence, then America isn't living up to its promise and we won't be the ideal nation that we've set out to be.

That's what the Women's March was about, Charlie Brown.

The Higgins Family & HRC

There are history people and non-history people. The non-history people just don't get it the way we do. They might know some history, and they might acknowledge the relevance of some events and people, and maybe some are able to feel a connection between what happened then and what it means to our lives today.

But real history people feel it all. All human history is relevant and history people want to feel it and know it and witness it whenever possible.

We are those kind of people. Jennie and I are and we seem to have infected our children with the same virus. We do travel from time to time and when we do, not a day will go by without some sort of stop, some observation, or history lesson. Throw a helping of patriotism and political science in there and you can understand our attraction to things presidential.

Burial sites are a thing. Driving across Iowa, we were so excited to see that Herbert Hoover was buried along the way. In addition to Hoover, we've hit Washington, Adams (John AND John Quincy), Filmore, Lincoln, & Kennedy, not to mention two time presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson in Bloomington, Illinois. In Quincy, Mass, Jennie draped herself across First Lady Abigail Adams' burial vault just so she could be that much closer to history. We did however pass on seeing Richard Nixon lying in state after his death in 1994. It was a closed casket and unless we could see him, we couldn't do the three hours of driving. 

We saw Bill Clinton jogging on a beach in San Diego, met 1984 Democratic VP candidate Geraldine Ferraro, and volunteered to work an event so we could see 2008 Republican VP candidate, Sarah Palin. But we were most successful the day we tried to meet Hillary Clinton.

I couldn't tell you the date. It had to be summer of 2003. A senator then, we knew that Hillary would be speaking at an event at Welch-Allyn, a local company that makes medical devices. So we thought, we'd try to see her. We assumed there'd be a lot of people there to see her so we made up a sign to get noticed, packed up the kids (just Zach & Thomas. Sorry Maddie, you weren't around yet), and headed out. Of course we felt like we were running late. There'd be all these people and Secret Service so we parked at the Mottville post office and walked. Having always driven this route, we never took notice of the steepness of the hill. The hike, our fitness levels, our anxiety, and the heat made for an uncomfortable walk. Still we persevered. We crested the hill and.....there was not a single person there. 

Welch-Allyn at the time, had two plants. An older one back in a built up area, and this newer plant, like all newer plants, was built on the edge of town in a wide open area. And there we were, just us, at the end of a long driveway, with two small children, and a sign, in what felt like the middle of nowhere. At this point I was feeling very conspicuous and a little stupid. We had no idea what to expect, so as cars came by we sort of halfheartedly held up the sign wondering in what kind of vehicle Senator Clinton would arrive. She was supposed to be there at top of the hour and it was a little after. Maybe we missed her?  But when it happened, we knew. 

A team of dark SUVs approached. We perked up. Jennie held up the sign. I waved. And then.... they stopped.

It all happened so fast. Doors opened and as Jennie describes it, it was like a clown car. People kept pouring out. Security, aides, people in suits all came walking toward us. Then they seemed to part and from the middle of this mess steps out a woman who was at least a head shorter than the next shortest person in the group.

I tell my kids, when you go in to a situation, know what you're going to say. At least have an idea, because when the moment is upon you, it happens fast and if you aren't ready, you'll miss it. That is experience talking, because at that moment, I felt like Ralphie in A Christmas Story when he finally got to sit on Santa's lap. He was supposed to ask for the BB gun, but he went blank. What the hell do you say? How about a nice....football? I think Hillary pretty much led the whole session. She introduced herself and asked our names. She spoke to the boys. Where are you from? Teachers and veterans and all that. It seemed like a long visit. Who knows? Maybe it was only two minutes.

So Hillary sees me holding a camera and says, "Why don't we get a picture?" We line up and I give my camera to an aide. We're standing there and the aide, the now controversial Huma Abedin, can't figure out my camera. While I show her the button, Jennie doesn't move. She and Hillary have arms around each other, Jennie's so tight that she swears the Secret Service detail is ready to pounce. Jennie tells Hillary, "I could go and help them with the camera, but I just want to stay here and hold on to you." Hillary told her, "I'm going to hold you right back."  Huma masters the camera. We get the picture. We say good-byes and thanks. The clown car filled up and left as quickly as it came.

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” - Maya Angelou

She didn't have to stop. She wasn't campaigning and wouldn't have to for another 3 years. Hillary was already running late. There was probably a speech to give and some would say, more important people than us waiting on her. There are those who are not fans of Secretary Clinton who insist that she is some sort of conniving, narcissistic, elitist.  But that would be a pretty hard sell to Jennie and I. You either like people or you don't. I guess it is possible to fake it, but she felt like a very sincere and warm person in the very brief time we met her. I will not hesitate to vote for this woman and I will always treasure our short brush with history and hope to see a President Hillary Clinton.

Side Note: This is the days of film. Going to Wal-Mart to pick up the pictures the girl working the photo center tells the guy in front of us that the machine malfunctioned and destroyed his film and all pictures. We thought we'd never get this picture, another failure under our belts.  Through the fog of disappointment, as we stepped up to the counter, the Fates had shown sympathy and granted our film a safe travel through the developing machine. 

Little Things

I write. And write. Think and think. Then write some more. 

The writing is an urge to spew all of my thoughts out somewhere, sometimes like the baby space fetus coming out of John Hurt's chest in Alien. A fraction of those thoughts end up on Facebook or in a blog. The rest, one would find, stuffed around my house, under my bed, in boxes, and on bookshelves in the form of a series of journals and books where I record everything that comes into my mind. I wonder if after I die, someone going through my things will actually read though these journals. And if they do, I wonder what they'll think. I'm curious because what I think tends to fluctuate.

The journaling can be blessing and a curse. A wonderful outlet to be sure, but there is a tendency to be overly critical of myself, of my efforts, of my goals, of my performance, of my progress, my lack of progress, and of just about everything I do. Very critical. And this very tone,  from time to time will turn me against writing anything at all because the author tends to be such a drag. And who wants to hang around with THAT guy all the time. 

Randomly choosing from one of my randomly stuffed books this week I came across an undated entry from late 2012 or early 2013. That day, Thom seemed to have grown tired of the criticism and self flagellation. To combat Debbie Downer Syndrome he made a list of everyday things that popped into his head that made him happy. 

And believe it or not, that list made me happy, too.  So I blogged it, with some editing, to keep the list a little more handy for those days when the negatives seem to be weighing me down and I need a lift. This list is by no means all encompassing. Just pop up thoughts from an unknown date.

So what makes me happy? 

I love sitting in our living room. Jennie put it together. I love the sky blue and chocolate brown colors. The stained glass window and the view of the street. It feels like comfort, color, & family.

I like the view out my backdoor. It isn't a great looking yard. Spotty grass in desperate need of manicure by way of mower and whacker. Two old stumps, a tired old clothesline and an even older shed. But the beauty is that the back door sits higher than the yard. So approaching the door and looking out at this open green space, is like going through a stadium concourse as it opens to the green outfield of a baseball park. 

I like touching my wife's hair and I love hearing her laugh.

I like making eye contact with Madeline in the rear view mirror and seeing her smile.

I like finding 10,000 pages of whatever Thomas is compulsively drawing and leaving around the house. Currently his subject is Audrey II - the man eating plant from Little Shop of Horrors. (Four years later and he still does this. But these days he draws a character named Link from the game Zelda). 

I like being amazed that everyday Zachary is more and more like an adult. 

I like the quiet and solitude of running. 

I like the chaos of watching too many kids at once. 

I like making kids laugh.

I love seeing wild life while going about my day. Birds, deer, turtles, turkeys, heron, and an occasional pheasant. Once we saw a friggin' bear! Very cool. (And this weekend - a field full of snow geese milling around. Some taking off and other gliding in to land)

I like happy dogs of any size on my lap with their big ol' dog paws and happy panting faces.

I love driving and roads that reach to the horizon.

I like exploring and seeing someplace new. 

I love the bridge, wooded area, and cemetery on Bonta Bridge Road. Especially in autumn.

I love cemeteries in general. The older the better.

I like perfume and ponytails. On women. Neither works on me very well.

I like creating. 

I live to come up with the perfect words.

I like making myself better. Even if I am not successful or even moving forward, I like that I want to make things better. 

I like the feel of hitting a baseball and that of running down a fly ball. And if you think I've never tried to do both at the same time, you're wrong. A kid who loves baseball will be on that field whether or not he has found anyone else to play.

I love music.

I love jogging the rolling hills on Shepherd Road.

There is nothing like the sound and feel of a brick road under the tires of my car. 

I love Main Street in any 100+ year old town. 

I love brick buildings. Old ornate buildings. Sleek new buildings with symmetrical lines. City people say they get used to buildings and stop looking up. I can't comprehend that.

I love arches in architecture.

I love sitting on front porches and watching traffic and people pass by.

I spend too much time watching the sky, finding a planet, and an occasional shooting star . It is addicting. 

I love wind in my face, be it from a fan, a car window, or a summer breeze off a Great Lake. 

I like good morning or good night texts from my friends. 

I love flying dreams.

I love walking through Weedsport as much as I love walking though New York City. Two completely different places, but each with their own feel, sights, and sounds. 

And these are the pop up thoughts. Imagine how much more there can be if I really tried. 

Your world is full of things, little things that don't cost a cent, that you stumble on or look forward to, that make you happy. Don't forget to take the time to notice those moments, people, and things and enjoy them while you can. 

And if any come to mind right now, feel free to comment and share. 

Resolve to Evolve

It is New Year's Day and it feels like the morning after. The party was kid friendly, so aside from alcohol, I partook in all the trappings and traditions that the holiday has to offer. 

I stayed up way too late. I ate way too much food. I played games, watched the ball drop, and made lots of noise. And, with nary a bit of shame, I wore a funny hat. I did it all. Right down to the New Year's Resolutions.

The resolution seems to have become much maligned these days. Certainly, America has always had its share of cynics, cranks, and just plain grouchy bastards, ready to mock change in any form. They are the ones who certainly don't need to change anything about themselves. Throw social media in the mix and the doubters are allowed to broadcast their snarls like some cantankerous old man shouting at the neighborhood from his porch.   

But to me, any aversion to a New Year's Resolution seems almost unnatural. The Theory of Evolution is premised on the idea that an organism adapts to its environment. In order to survive and thrive it has to change. It has to make itself better. And in general, nothing in evolution happens quickly. It doesn't take a year. Or two. 

Well, sure, maybe if you're an adorable little bacteria, you might be able to whip off some changes fairly quickly. It is easy if you can crank out a few generations in an hour. For for some of us larger organisms, who might wish to become slightly smaller organisms, say about 30 to 50 pounds smaller, who really only have one generation to work with, it can take a little longer. And against all reason, motivation might require something more than a natural urge to survive.

So that is where hope comes in to play. We want things to be better. Most people feel hope in a thousand ways over the course of a year. They want the bad guys to get caught. They want that person to beat cancer. Some people actually think the Cubs will finally do ANYTHING in the playoffs. And others want Rick to escape the clutches of the zombie hordes. If you can feel so much hope outwardly, no matter if we admit it or not, imagine what we feel for ourselves. So no matter how cynical people can be, I just don't believe it.

I certainly can't feel that way. So, I put together my list. The exercise goals, the weight goals, the writing goals, and the lifestyle goals. The kitchen sink. Some of them have been with me for years like old friends. But I have hope. Hope that I can let them go. Hope that the resolve can stay with me all the year. Hope that I can show those cocky little bacteria a thing or two and make 2016 the year for an evolutionary breakthrough.

And then you'll hear this cantankerous old man shouting from his porch, "In your face, bacteria!"

She Left Me

She left me. It's over. She said that I don't listen. That talking to me is like taking to a blank screen and there's no user interface between us. She said that I'm a grown man and I can do what I want, but she's not going to sit back and watch while I make self destructive choices.

One little slip. That's all. And I couldn't even enjoy it because I was thinking of her the entire time. But did that matter to her?

All it was, was one little trip to McDonald's. Ok, sure, I had a large Coke. But I only got one refill. I had small fries instead of large and a McDouble. That's like 23 grams of protein!

And did that matter to her? No! Does she listen to me? Never. My Fitness Pal thinks she knows everything, but does she ever consider what I'm going through? Or what it is like living my life?

She can't or won't. But what does it matter now? She packed up her nutritional charts, uninstalled herself and just left.

So, here I am on the couch with a bag of Cheetos thinking of better days. How we used to do food and exercise logs together. How she'd leave inspirational notes on my timeline. I think I want her back, but maybe this is for the best. Because I sit here and my mind wanders to her beautiful pie charts and I just know this thing between us was destined to fail.

The Troll & the Icelandic Duke Brothers

Keflavik International is the airport that serves Iceland. Lying about 30 minutes from the Icelandic capital of Reykavijk, we were first warned about it by the father of an Icelandic friend. He said, "Don't let Keflavik scare you." Not that it is a dangerous place. Keflavik is just...barren. It doesn't have the esthetic charm of Reyjkavik. Nor does it have anything like the waterfalls, geysers, oceanside cliffs, or any natural grandeur with which the rest of Iceland is blessed. But this is where our journey started and a little marina in Keflavik is the source of our best stories on the island.

Keflavik is a familiar name to Jen & I. There was an Air Force base here and this was a possibility when we were active duty. That base has since closed, but its structures are still in use. Pulling up to our hotel, everything looked oh so familiar. This was an Air Force building for sure. We were told that back in the day this building served as billeting, which is where incoming and outgoing military members stayed until they found new quarters.  The Icelanders have even kept the standard colors. Faded tan and brown. Sweet. The interior was better than I'd ever seen in my Air Force days, but there were some chairs and couches in the common areas that I know I sat in back in Germany. Holy Flashback.

Our flight left New York at 8pm, so we arrived in Iceland at 6:30am. We pulled up to our hotel too early to check in, so we set out to find breakfast. This is not a largely populated island and Keflavik is not a big town. The search for food at this time of day had the same feel as a small town Sunday morning...in the '70s. There wasn't nobody nowhere.  The GPS led us to three places. Two wouldn't open for another couple hours and the third hadn't been open in a couple years. Finally, we spotted a place with a tour bus out front and a crowd of Asian tourists milling about taking pictures. Walking in we were told that they were only open for the tour bus, but they'd put some food out for us.

Cafe Duus was a nice looking place. We were seated at a large round table near windows that gave us a full unobstructed view of a small marina. A waist high stone wall lined the marina and blended into the jetty that held back what was currently a calm Atlantic Ocean. On the other side was a large hill with an odd outcrop on the end. Breakfast was standard European fare. Meats, cheeses, fruit, and rolls. We were charmed by the friendly owner, the view, and the 10,000 year old walrus tusks mounted on the wall. So, we decided to return for dinner.

View across the marina from Cafe Duus.

On the way to the lair of the Giantess.

Following breakfast we went for a walk and took some pictures when my eyes were drawn to an odd looking structure across the marina. It looked like a house built into a cave. Time to explore!  It was 48 degrees, which is about as good as it gets on a July morning in Iceland. So, dressed in shorts but snuggled in our fleeces, we set out on our first adventure. Our little family of five followed the sidewalk to the other side of the marina until we came to a sign over the path where in a runic script was written, "SKESSUHELLIR" and large footprints were painted on the sidewalk. Curious, we moved forward, but among the kids, apprehension was setting in.

The path curved slightly and as we moved nearer there was a nervous excitement. Getting close we could see the opening to the cave with a crude shack like widow and door built into it. There was growling. This is where the kids stood back and let dad go alone.  I thought that maybe they believed that I was the strong, clever protector and could slay or defeat whatever beast lie in wait. Or I was the most expendable. Either way, I was going in.

She's watching...

Peeking inside the cave the first things I saw were a bed and a chair. They were huge. I felt like a character in Honey I Shrunk the Kids.  Next to the chair was a kind of Christmas tree decorated with pacifiers and children's toys. Behind a half door was a head. A big paper mache head of a giant troll. And it wasn't growling. It was snoring. So, it was asleep. A reading corner was off to the side. Clearly this was for kids, so I waved everyone else to join me. They did. Except Thomas. He wasn't buying that it was safe. So, while Jennie, Zach, & Maddie checked it out, I went to reassure our youngest son that the cave was ok. And I almost had him convinced. He was on his way in when Maddie ran out and pronounced that, "I think it's waking up!" That was enough for Thomas.

So, what was it? After returning home I found a web site that said this is a friendly giantess who lived in the cave. But in Keflavik, we asked around. The locals had a completely different take on this troll. An old man at the tourist bureau gave us his version. This giant troll, Gryla, looks for naughty children. She can only come out after dark. So, at bed time is when children cry, ask to stay up to watch tv, refuse to go to sleep, and argue about brushing their teeth. Gryla goes out and collects the bad children and takes them back to her cave. The man told us that she would keep them in the cave for a few days, until they were naughty no more, then return them home.

Elisabet, who worked the front desk at our hotel had a slightly different take. She agreed with the old man's version, but in her home, and many others, Gryla was used to make children behave. Especially around Christmas. Elisabet was told that Gryla would seek out naughty children alright. But it was because she was hungry. Elisabet's parents would tell her that if she wasn't good, Gryla would steal her and eat her for dinner and leave her jammies and toys hanging on the tree. Sometimes they'd tell their daughter that Gryla would boil children in a pot so they were cooked just right. That girl was scared to death. Not exactly Dr. Spock, but Elisabet seems to have survived.

We would return to Cafe Duus that evening and were seated at the exact same round table near the windows. Unlike the morning, the restaurant was teeming with customers and waitresses were scurrying from table to table. After a few minutes, we had ours. We just began to order our appetizers when we heard screams and gasps and everyone was looking our way. I turned as I heard the crash and saw a blue car, airborne, over that stone wall, and heading for the water.

It had raced through the parking lot and slammed on the breaks leaving skid marks for some 30 feet before smashing into the stone wall and being catapulted up and over, nose first into the marina. There were people outside trying to help while everyone in the restaurant was standing up against the windows.

The car was going down and we could see the air blowing and bubbling out from underneath and out of the car windows. A young man crawled out the passenger window, but as the car sunk beneath the water, the driver was still inside. Not until it was completely submerged, did a teenage boy swim to the surface from the driver's side, pushing his wet curly blonde hair back from his face. In minutes the parking lot had an ambulance, several police cars, and swarms of people.

And to our surprise, by the time we finished dinner, they were gone. The lot was empty as if nothing had happened. We wandered out for a look at the scene and that is when the teenagers started congregating. Kids on foot and on bikes. One in particular, we recognized. Blonde hair still damp, it was the driver. We didn't speak his language, but we could tell what he was saying. Recounting the adventure to his friends, he pointed at the water, complete with gestures, sound effects, and waving his keys about,  he spoke of his experience with gusto. We couldn't help but wonder, why was he there? Where were his parents? Did they even know? Wasn't he in trouble? I guessed not.

But I'll bet I know who noticed. Right across the marina, in the cave, watching it all, was Gryla. This was a naughty boy. And I wondered if some morning we might go to that cave and find those car keys hanging off that little tree and see that giantess picking some blonde hair out of her teeth.

They don't all survive.

The Cravin'

When I moved to Syracuse, my first job was in a law firm copy center. Most of my time was spent as a messenger, walking around the city delivering and picking up papers, checks, etc. What does one's brain do with all that alone walking time? Apparently, one perverts the work of Edgar Allen Poe with tales of stolen snacks at work. 

The Cravin'

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By: Edgar Allen Poe and Thom Higgins

Once upon a midnight dreary
While he pondered weak and weary
Over a faint and furious fax for Peter Swartz
As Dave Clark nodded nearly napping,
When suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on the fax room door.
“ ‘Tis just Chris, “ he muttered, “tapping at the fax room door, Chris or Thom and nothing more”.

Ah, distinctly I remember
It as a warm September
The Xerox’s greenish lantern left its light glowing o’er.
Eagerly he wished the mallow
Chocolate graham to swallow,
His craving he did follow to the break room’s modern Norge.
For the soft and sweet sensation that Pop-Tart named s’more.
Then he saw, there were no more.

As Dave went back to working
The flavor he was thirsting
It thrilled him—filled him with fantastic hunger never felt before.
But now Dave stood repeating
As the tapping became beating,
“’Tis just Chris entreating entrance at the fax room door.
Chris or Thom and nothing more.”

As the copier’s beat grew stronger
He hesitated then no longer,
“Sir,” he said, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping on the fax room door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here he opened wide the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep in to that darkness peering
He stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no messenger dared dream before.
But the silence was unbroken
And the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “s’more?”
This was whispered and an echo murmured back the word “s’more!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Then in from the darkness strutting
As the door Clark was shutting
Stepped the tall Dave Nason, with hair of sixties lore.
Not the least obeisance made he.
Not a minute stopped or stayed he.
But with mein of Lord or Lady, perched beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat upon a pack of post-its beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat and nothing more.

But that Nason sitting lonely,
On the Post-it box spoke only
Just in one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
The silence had been broken,
As these words he had spoken,
The shocking words came forth from this computer commodore:
There he said, “Tasty s’more.”

Then the air grew denser,
Perfumed as if some censor.
All around him was the scent of what was once a s’more.
Nason sat there smiling,
A smile that was beguiling
And on his jacket lining, the evidence he wore.
On his jacket lining was the smudges from a s’more.
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”

“Prophet!” said Clark, “thing of evil
Prophet still as from the devil,
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore!
Tell this soul with sorrow laden,
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall fill a savored craving for a sweet and tasty s’more!
Clasp a rare and sticky pastry that Pop-Tarts named s’more!
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”

“Be that word our sign of parting,
I.S. fiend, “ he shrieked, up starting –
“Get thee back into the basement you pastry omnivore!
Leave no frosting as a token
Of the lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my hunger here unbroken,
Quit this box beside my door!
Take thy scent of thy Pop-Tart and thy form from off my door!”
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”


And this Nason, never flitting
Still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the flaxen pack of post-its just beside the fax room door.
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming
And the lamp o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.
And Clark’s hunger from out of that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be satisfied, never more.

Post with Care

Social media has become one of my most important past times. I know it sounds cheesy, since most people use Facebook for gossip, games, or the completely inane. But for me, I found a creative outlet for writing which I didn't know I was craving. From Facebook, I moved up to a blog. I have found writing to be a way to exercise my brain and vent some happy out into the world.

When I do put words down, I try to be funny, clever, and entertaining. To take a moment and successfully put it into words that people enjoy is a challenge and one that I put a fair amount of effort into. Few things make me happier than hearing back how a reader enjoyed my words. Even better is hearing that from people I've never met and for whom what I wrote wasn't even intended. To think that you made the day of someone you don't even know is such a rewarding experience.

But it can go another way. I'm a passionate person. There are issues about which I care deeply and of which I have strong convictions. And I know the feeling I get when I see something on the screen that I find personally insulting or pointed directly at me or people like me. I'm telling you, it pisses me off.  Just thinking about it now, I can feel anger & irritation coming up from my stomach and out every one of the pores in my head and out my fingers. Hell, I'm even typing faster. And typing faster means I'm pumping out emotions and not really thinking.

Americans are so adamant about their rights to do what they want, that they don't think about their responsibilities as people. It is a twisted brand of selfishness that completely over rules any sense of compassion for others. People have Facebook and Twitter and every message board out there to voice their opinions and scream their complaints that they don't think about what it means.

I have been as guilty of this as anyone. I can debate and discuss and be very reasonable about it. But when discussions escalate, as they sometimes do, I have not been afraid to resort to some hyperbole to illustrate the misguided opinions of others and been out to dispense my own brand of common sense pellets with little thought of the people in my wake.

Which brings me to an off hand post I threw out on Facebook about the Super Bowl commercial from Nationwide Insurance that upset so many people. The commercial is narrated by a boy that is listing all the amazing things he will never do only to reveal that he can't because he is already dead. The commercial talks about child safety.

My first impression of the uproar over this ad was that it was ridiculous. Why would people complain about child safety? Why would they grouse that a downer of a commercial was run during their Super Bowl parties? It seemed so petty, so I responded in my post with ridicule. Maybe not ridicule, but it was definitely dripping with sarcasm because, of course, I know everything.

And then I came across a "Boycott Nationwide" page. I commented there, too. I don't know what I wrote, as I went back and deleted it. Because afterward I saw that a Facebook friend of mine had shared it. That page was full of parents who had lost children and were unhappy with the twist in this ad. I knew that my friend, who I have not known a long time, had lost a child under circumstances with which I am unfamiliar. I like this woman and I'd hate to think she saw what I wrote. Realizing this, I became a bit embarrassed and felt about 2 inches tall. 

And I thought, "Is this really the person I want to be?"

As rewarding and euphoric as it felt to make people feel good with my words, thinking that I used the same heart and the same brain to put together words that did just the opposite makes me ill. And I try to remember that when I feel something seething coming up from my belly. I try to take time to think in that space of time between the rolling of my eyes and my fingers tapping about the keyboard. 

This isn't about toning down beliefs or being politically correct. No one has to shed their opinions when they go online, because at least for me, debate and the volley of opinions and ideas is one of the things that makes social media social. That's what I like to do.

But prior to dispensing of our snark and before we lay down the law of our own self proclaimed wisdom like the Wizard of Oz hiding behind the curtain of the internet, we need to take a moment to consider who is on the other end of the line. Just for a second, stop thinking about what you need to say and consider what those words mean. Take the time to help bring back a more civil and compassionate society.