my pal joey and her bridge

Her given name was Josephine. When we were little kids, I used to tease her with snatches from the tune "Come, Josephine, in my flying machine". Throughout grade school and that "dear old place" Laurel Hill Academy, I carried a torch for her. She might've had a secret sweet spot for me in her heart. If so, it was too small for even puppy love, alas for me. The closest we ever came to heart-touching-heart was a kiss on New Year's Eve. This occurred at a party I had to crash.

The moniker "Pal Joey" was in the title for her obituary. Years before that, it was on marquees for a movie starring Frank Sinatra, in the role of a life-loving free spirit. That's how I remember my Joey.

When we graduated from high school, I was headed for Penn State, and she had been turned down by Bloomsberg Teachers' College. In time, she proved it was that institution's loss. Here in predominately Republican Susquehanna County, she won her races for county commissioner as a Democrat. Truth be told, her first victory amazed me.

No doubt about it, now so obviously, Josephine was more than simply cute. She was pre-possessing. I tell'ya, she was like a camp fire on a chilly night, ya'cudda warmed yer hands on her corporeal radiance. Yeah, I knew all that. But it still took me years to discern there was something more to my pal Joey.

That obituary that appeared in the daily of record for these twin tiers was certainly her due. To be sure, on the face of it, she was only a minor politician ... dime a dozen. Yeah and year again, that obituary was nice enough as something that was only her due. So, it's understandable how come its author was in the dark, very much so, about what had motivated her. Her being turned down by that teachers' college gave her something to prove. When she set out to prove something, there was no stopping her.

Maybe, it's presumptuous of me, but I now take the liberty of surmising there was something crucial in her character, along those lines. I have in mind the moment she was informed by competent medical authority her chances of beating cancer were slim and none. Maybe, she was frightened ... natural reaction.

If so, chances are Joey was far more exasperated than frightened. Oh, dear Lord, she had so much to prove to so many more. Now that I think about that. It wouldn't surprise me that she had me in mind, to some extent, in that regard.

In the play, I wrote and self-published, I do poke a little gratuitous fun at her. Whoever wants some information about my one-act with lyrics could consider inquiring at a library. Anyway, the piece has two major designations: specifically, I S B N 0-9602044-1-5 and Library of Congress Catalog number 78-72152.

Aaay, you, whyz.ache.err, it's my blog. So, I'm perfectly free to express myself however I darn well please. So, there!

By way of chronology, I was promoting my play about the same time Joey went about moving heaven and earth for the sake of a new bridge. Whoever runs heaven must have a twisted sense of humor. Joey did not live to see it built. Today, the Susquehanna River flows through the municipality of the same name under the Susquehanna County Veterans' Memorial Bridge. It would be remiss of me to skip mentioning the plaque that credits her for getting the bridge built.

" ... loved her hometown," so opined the obituary's author. To that, I say hah! She got that bridge built because she had something to prove to that town's residents. I can believe that, for her, it was just a start. Ya'know, achievement is intoxicating.

Oh, alright (!) already, I'll own up to it. Maybe, a tad of guilt motivated my going against the town's veterans. . --- Oh, by the way, all this took place long before the events of 9/11 --- --- Myself, I should like to believe the major share of my motivation was the memory of my feelings for her. So far as I'm concerned, both then and now, that plaque is more a bone for Joey's family and friends than commensurate tribute. And that does stick in my craw.

Here's how for the sake of her memory ... ah, long before the events of 9/11 ... I went up against the town's veterans. They lobbied heavily for the bridge's present official name. In a reader's letter to The SUSQUEHANNA TRANSCRIPT, I presented a lawyer's case for a name that did more than honor only Joey. What I proposed was a name that would recall the by-gone era of mom-and-pop stores. At the same time, "U G and Joey's Bridge" would commemorate a long deceased editor of The SUSQUEHANNA EVENING TRANSCRIPT. While he was in charge, he used his barrels of ink to champion the cause of working people, and veterans returning their country's wars.

No doubt about it, I displeased the town's current veterans. This I know for sure. One of them took the trouble to inform me that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania had chosen the name they wanted. Yes, I was disappointed. Scouse all that, I'm not finished. One way or another way, Joey shall have her bridge. In a follow-up to this piece, I will reveal the plan.

toodles
. . .. he who is known as sefton

day.zah.voo, Vietnam

It must be that we human beings make for an astonishing myriad of hairpins ... 'that's the kind of hairpin I am". For all I know, they and I could've formed a mutual detestation society, under circumstances devoutly to be wished for. To repeat in a way, whatever type of "hairpin" that can be imagined, somebody qualifies.

In this case, the "they" I have in mind comprises a returned Iraq combat veteran, and his mother. As she sat on the side of his bed, she wept. Her son had lost most of his legs and a hand. In the remaining hand, there was a chunk of shrapnel. According to competent medical opinion, removing the shrapnel might entail further amputation.

From what media outlet, that bit of information came to me, I can't recall. But I'm still shaken. Well, I'm old enough to remember Vietnam. What's more, I wrote a semi-biographical nouvelle with the title WAR DODGER. Never mind how I managed that feat. That's not important here.

So far as I'm concerned, here's what's perturbing me. But for a chance encounter in a candy store, that woman's son and I might now be sharing the same fate. What (?) were so many of my contemporaries supposed to be fighting for in Vietnam! A couple weeks ago, I was in a rather ratty dollar store, and I came upon cans of fruit that were packed in Vietnam. Every so often, our news media serve up clips of bustling economic activity in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon).

We get to see buildings embellished with logos of transnationals, many of which are nominally American. Sometimes, a native-born stringer lets us in on projects, in which nominally American transnationals cooperate with the People's Republic of Vietnam.

Imagine, if you dare, what could be going through the minds of guys, who returned mutilated in body and spirit from their tour of duty in Vietnam.

No, dear reader, if you've come this far, and no again, this is in no way reasoned analysis. Really, what you're perusing is far from reasoned analysis. What you're reading is much more like a lament.

Dear Lord, how I regret my going on the record with my support for dumb'ya's invasion. What ticks me off is that I should've known better. I should've given far more weight to our president's past business experience. He was given charge over three oil companies that were based in a region, practically drowning in the stuff. And he ran them into the ground. Looking back, I realize that should've told me something.

However he got this country into that Iraq horror, it was a lead-pipe cinch it was going to be botched.

Some twenty years hence, graduate history students will be writing monographs, exegeses, treatises, term papers even, on the differences between the reasons for why this country waged war in Vietnam and war in Iraq.

mission accomplished ... in the pig's ass

toodles
. . .. he who is known as sefton

my date with sandee!

As that hoary canard goes, two's company, three's a crowd. In this instance, the crowd comprised some 15 or so good ol' regular folks. This piece is a follow-up to "egg & chunk", or maybe more properly "mulishly monomaniac". Anyway, yours ever so truly followed up on that "R S V P", and attended that breakfast, hosted by the deputy whip for the Pennsylvania House of Representatives. Yes, it was indeed an interesting experience. Must admit the breakfast did exceed expectations.

Maybe, I should've taken notes, as did one earnest guest. So, now I'm trying to remember what I think are interesting details. A few minutes were spent conversing with Debbie about the Danny Crisman memorial. Details about my impressions are recorded in the "cute enough" piece. I wonder whether I startled "sandee" with my comment on being a fan of Bill Mahr's.

The deputy whip did draw my attention with her implicit lament on the lack of enthusiasm on the part of younger people for community service as volunteers. No, yours every so truly said not a single word on that subject. Last time I volunteered ... oh, never mind!

Somebody mentioned harnessing the Susquehanna River to generate electricity. Yes, I did rain on that person's parade. First off, nowhere on the first two-thirds of the river's length, could a dam be economically built. Second, on the last third, the reservoir created by a dam would flood out thousands of people, who like living where they're living.

Oh, well, keep visiting this blog. It's a good bet this piece will be revised, as I mull over what I should further write.

toodles
. . . \
he who is known as sefton

CRYSTAL STAR - segment 10

MAMACHIEN, LIEBCHIEN:

Second song of the show: bright, bouncy and comical

Mamachien, Liebchien, sausage for me!
I'm as hungry as hungry can be.

Please don't make me suffer.
Why make me wait, wait til supper?
Mamachien, it would be a sin,
To let me get so thin.

Mamachien, Liebchien, sausage for me!
I'm as hungry as hungry can be.

Gosh, you cook delicious
I wish I could use two dishes.
Mamachien, you're really too nice.
You cook like paradise.

Mamachien, Liebchien, sausage for me!
I'm as hungry as hungry can be.

A THOUSAND YEARS

Third song: a good, rousing march with the audience being reminded of jack boots, resounding on the earth.

A thousand years of power and honor,
A thousand years of godling glory,
A thousand years for our Reich and furor.

Geist and might, world might, noble quest,
Fateful stars draw us. Eternal
Rings and bright, dread stars gave the West
Tasks divine, tools as infernal.

A thousand years of power and honor.

Join with us, come share blood and fate.
Comrades true, cling now together
March with us, come dare hazard's gate.
Soldiers all, sing now together.

A thousand years for our Reich and furor.

God on High, grant strength we insist.
Light the earth, watch and over-look.
Guide us, lest we march in mist,
Beneath Thy Hand, we undertook.

A thousand years of power and honor,
A thousand years of godling glory,
A thousand years for our Reich and furor.


YOU THAT I LOVE

Fourth song of the show: sung by a young girl, frightened and pleading with just of a hint of temptress in her voice.

Why won't you that I love
Feel what I send above?

Why must you put love to the test?
Why won't you grant my small request?
Can't you hear my heart in my breast?

Why won't you that I love
Feel what I send above?

Why have you turned love into mist?
Must your lips curl tight in that twist?
Never should lips go unbekissed.

Why won't you that I love
Touch what I send above?

Have you lost feelings that are best?
All for nought, years together blest?
Can't I warm the heart in your breast?

Why won't you that I love
Feel what I send above?


HOWL OF THE WOLF

Fifth song of the show: The music should have a strong beat for primeval blood thirst and a sinuous melody line for psychological insight.

Deep in the forest, where dwell the deer,
Snug in their home, with doom lurking near,
Nose in the wind, the deer deep an ear

For the howl of the wolf!
For the howl of the wolf!

Under the leaves of white ask and oak,
Glory arose, a new lordling folk,
Heaven shall see their earth cleansed in smoke,

Sang the howl of the wolf!
Sang the howl of the wolf!

True to his love, the wolf preys on deer.
Terror ensures that deer life revere -
Sacrifice bound, the deer thrill with fear

To the howl of the wolf!
To the howl of the wolf!
TO THE HOWL OF THE WOLF!

Copyright (c) 1978 by Albert A.M. Stella

CRYSTAL STAR - segment 11

STAR-LIT NIGHT
Sixth song of the show: a light, frothy melody in 3/4 time


On some star-lit nightOn some lovely night.
I shall be where you are,
My love, my crystal star.
Come that night, hold me tight -
Lift me high to your height.

Purest light so bright,
My own heart's delight.

Melt my soul, blaze dismiss
Pain of sins crushing bliss.
Star of peace, fate decrees -
Mad fever daze shall cease

On some star-lit night
On some crystal night.


A NOTE TO THE AUDIENCE

This is not a song. If you've stayed with me so far, thank you. Perhaps, you would be interested in having an album of the show's songs. If so, please drop me a line, and when the album's available, I'll let you know how you can get it and what it'll cost. Be sure to write the word "album" on the envelope near the address.

If your group would like to perform the play, again drop me a line. Hopefully three months from this printing date, September 1978, I'll have the music for the songs. Be sure to write the word "perform" on the envelope near the address.

If my characters have either said or sung anything you either liked or dis-liked, please don't blame or credit me the author.

If there's anybody out there who has suggestions on how I can improve the show, that person is perfectly free to drop me a line. Just be sure to write the words "circular file" somewhere on the envelope.

Sincerely,


P1-2-35312

WARM DREAMS

Seventh and last song of the show: this is a bitter-sweet comment, sung in a haunting manner.

Small boys, sleep-hid safe, grow so tall.
Snug in their beds, they shake the stars.
Warm dreams, time-dimmed dreams still will call
Near as the heart, as far as Mars.

Boys will always nuzzle kittens,
Always lose their Christmas mittens.

Must all small boys stay small that way?
True, they will grow, so big, so strong.
Warm dreams, time-dimmed dreams lure astray
Men that should know what's true from wrong.

Boys will always nuzzle kittens,
Always lose their Christmas mittens.

Small boys, grown sky-tall, cling to dreams.
All through their lives, they walk in mist.
Warm dreams, time-dimmed dreams, shape their schemes,
Beautiful lies, no men resist.

Boys will always nuzzle kittens,
Always lose their Christmas mittens.

Copyright (C) 1978 by Albert A. M. Stella


dat's all, folks ... no more easter eggs

mulishly monomaniac

.
First off, I should to thank the following lady for inviting me to continental breakfast, which I'm guessing will consist of coffee and croissant ... about what I was served in a Parisian hotel, whose name I've forgotten. The repast in question is scheduled to be served in The Starrucca House in the borough of Susquehanna Depot. By the way, this establishment is located on Depot Street, not Front Street.

Eminently pleased with such an honor, albeit bestowed through random selection, I mailed my R S V P in humble acceptance of the invitation, so graciously extended by

Sandra J Major, Member
Deputy Whip
Pennsylvania House of
. . . . . . . . . . . Representatives

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . By the way, the United States Postal Service recommends postage of 23 cents on postcards, rather than 21.

In gratitude for such an honor, I hereby dedicate the following essay to the spirit of free and frank and open exchange, for which "Sandy" expressed such ardent hope. To the greatest extent, conscience will tolerate, however begrudgingly so, I promise to the best of my ability to put the best face on my commentary. Oh, alright (!) already, so I write long sentences. Let me make up for it with another. No, it's not so short, but it's easily understood. Republicans keep their eyes on the prize, whereas Democrats allow themselves greater latitude of thought.

In obedience to offended conscience, albeit not all that easily so, I must elaborate a bit. So, here goes. Depending on one's point of view, Republicans are either steadfastly single-minded or mulishly monomaniac. Yeah, I realize I just cracked another sly joke. Turns out, I'm notorious for that.

For the moment, I should like to explain how come Democrats allow themselves greater latitude in thought. So far as I can tell, they believe they can differentiate their party from their country. Occasionally to the point of embarrassment, this belief brings Democrats into conflict with their party. At times, those recalcitrant Democrats adopt a policy goal they believe is for their country's good, even though it is manifestly incompatible with their party's avowed agenda.

It must be so. Those Democrats believe they are faithful patriots in placing the good of their country above that of their party. Every once in a great while, they justify such an espousal of policy goals by claiming whatever is good for the country, eventually, redounds to the benefit of the Democratic Party.

.... ..... ..... cast ye bread upon the waters ....

Were I to allow the spirit to me, I would adduce instances that illustrate just such a contention. But I won't, out of deference to my promise to put the best face on the matter. Depending on one's point of view, such instances would prove hilarious or wretched, or both. In fact in a few instances, nominal Democrats have aligned themselves with Republicans in pursuing this or that policy goal. Now that I think about it, adducing such instances may well be considered churlish.

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot to let the reader know that I'm painting with very broad brush strokes. Certainly, even perfunctory research could pull up exceptions. In comparison with the grand scheme of things, such exceptions among Democrats as well as Republicans may just as well be mentioned in minor footnotes. For my part, I'm concentrating on the crucial nitty gritty.

Now then, let's animadvert to what makes true-blue Republicans red-blooded Republicans. After pondering long and hard on the matter, I now opine that such Republicans conflate their party and their country. I repeat. Republicans conflate their party and their country. Repubicans conflate their party and their country, and this gives rise to a scandalous double standard.

Whatsoever is good for their party is necessarily, ipso facto even, good for their country. Whatsoever is deleterious to their party is necessarily, ipso facto again, deleterious to their country. Well, from what I can tell, the mahouts, now in charge of the fortunes of the G O P, owe their pre-eminent status to the party's rank and file, who've taken that conflation to heart ... hook, line and sinker.

Oh, for the moment, please permit me to must for a bit on a bit of hard earned lore one hears on the boulevard of that "fabulous invalid", namely, Broadway. Satire is what closes Saturday night. Keeping that bit of lore in mind, I restrict my attempt at satire to the following paragraph with brief follow-up.

Let us suppose we happen upon a true-blue and red-blooded Republican, who's gaping and "flash frozen" aghast with soul-singing disbelief. As we look about, we espy a Murphy Brown wanna-be, slinking off with live teevee camera crew in tow, and leering triumphantly. It's all too obvious. The Republican in question had resolved to present the teevee viewers with dignified demeanour, but unfortunately fell victim to scurrilous liberal media bias. The victim in question had been presented with a question only the very worst of liberal media fiends could've posed. Such a fiend would be somebody like Al Franken, who's number 34 on a certain list ... shades of the McCarthy era! Why, the very temerity, required to pose such a question, threatens the universal matrix of time and space with discombobulation. Those Republicans, who are devoutly so, are advised to skip over the follow-up.

And it is thus: ... in any "raison d'etre" conflict between your party and your country, which (?) could better and would better claim your loyalty!

. . . . . . . . oh, the horror ... the horror .... By the way, the first e in etre should be diacritically crowned circumflex.

My only excuse for the preceding satire is simply this: spirit is every bit as weak as flesh.

So ends my attempt to produce an article that adheres to the spirit of free and frank and open exchange.

toodles
. . . .. . .he who is known as sefton

"cute enough"

When paying a young woman a compliment, a young man is well advised to steer clear of "cute enough". Prepare for much longer sentence. On the other hand, "cute enough" may very well be required of a young woman, who's hoping to be hired as a receptionist at the Montrose outpost of the TIMES SHAMROCK WEEKLY GROUP. You were warned. On second thought, "optimally beautiful" may very well be a much more diplomatic turn of phrase.

A little while back, I took out a classified ad with the help of the current receptionist. From what I could tell, the young woman was favored by both nature and nurture with socially advantageous traits. I mean traits such as a pleasant enough personality, a pleasant enough manner, and adequate competence. I think my facial expression was non-committal enough, when she made that compartment of my personality with inner ear whinge. Exactly as the word "depot" is spelled, she enunciated "dee-PAHT". As I said, "adequate competence".

Later on, she demonstrated competence a tad better than adequate. Her facial expression was non-committal enough, when I asked for an actual journalist. In less than three minutes, my request was granted with the appearance of the editor of The SUSQUEHANNA WEEKLY INDEPENDENT. Anyway, I told the editor, a lady by the name of Susan Gesford, what I had come upon, as I went cruising around South Montrose in my 1999 Grand Am. Ascending Mill Street for a mile or so from the over-hanging blinking caution light, one finds a lot with a pair of monuments.

One of them is a rather imposing affair with several marble slabs and a block topped off with a plaque. There is no ignoring the resemblance with Stonehenge. The plaque declares the site as a memorial. On the slabs, one can find inscribed the names of the people, who had perished in the destruction of the Twin Towers on 9/11. Off to the side, one finds the more modest half of the pair, and it honors the memory of one Daniel Crisman. According to the weekly's editor, his mother used the money the government granted the victims' survivors to set up the monuments.

It must be so. That compartment of my personality with inner ear possesses memory. Somehow, I'm recalling a note of pride in Susan's voice, as she mentioned how members of Deb Crisman's community pitched in to help erect the monuments. The editor mentioned that the marble slabs had been donated. What's more, her nephew tends to the grass. Now that I think about it, the grass was like one would expect on the golf greens of an exclusive country club. Indisputably, it's a beautiful piece of earth with impressive tokens of love and grief. For no particular reason, I was cynically touched by a poster, proclaiming "Pouvoir la paix prevaut sur la terre." Oh,yeah, the e should in prevaut should be acute.

As for me, I'm a tech type. Every so often, I sit with two chums in the Town Restaurant in Susquehanna Depot. And I listen to them discuss batteries. Yes, I mean those objects people stick in flashlights and smoke detectors. As a tech type, I'm inclined to seek solutions to problems. Truth be told, it bothers me that the Daniel Crisman Park seems to be so easily over-looked. Granted, it is out of the way. I suspect the only time people in any great number visit is on the anniversary of 9/11.

From out of the blue, an idea came to me. Years ago, I read an article about a designer, tasked with promoting a brand of very expensive perfume. Anyway, the designer had to meet a deadline to submit some sort of promotional material to a magazine. The perfume in question was so expensive that the only appropriate advertising medium was a magazine likewise expensive. I mean the magazine in question gets hand delivered by messenger to people, with enough wherewithal for Rolex wrist chronometers and comprehensive coverage on Aston Martins. For the designer, coming up with the appropriate advertisement was quite a problem.

Half of the solution the designer hit upon was a crystal receptacle, an exquisite crystal receptacle. What do I mean by "exquisite"? Well, let's put it this. Let's suppose I'm taking in the sights in some advertising hall of fame, and then I find that receptacle being depicted in a portrait in oils. Would I be surprised? Not one bit. Here's another rhetorical question. How you suppose I apply my Burberry Brit? Answer: with a reciprocating press-down atomizer. By way of contrast, the crystal receptacle came with a crystal stopper. Evidently, the perfume in question was way too good to be sprayed on. It was meant to be dabbed on. Eminently worthy of a portrait in oils, the crystal receptacle was one half of the solution.

As for the other half, the crystal receptacle was photographed by somebody with a name like Avedon. And the photo was reproduced in a full page ad with absolutely no text, whatsoever. It must be so. People, who receive the magazine, would just know the perfume is great stuff. For all I know, they'd order it at the counter, in much the same way the way kids used to ask for penny candy by pointing and saying, "one ah dose, two ah dem".

With regards to getting people acquainted with Daniel Crisman Park, I think some like that designer's concept would help. People, who are familiar with the topography of Susquehanna Depot, can visualize the municipality's business section as two tiers. In the "hole", one finds the Shops Plaza. Up on the "shelf", one finds Main Street. Between the two, one finds a wall, whose magnitude is pretty large.

For my part, I can envision artists depicting the Park's monuments on that wall, There would be absolutely no need for text, whatsoever. Somehow, people in the area would become acquainted with the place's existence and whereabouts. Well, that's my great idea for now.

toodles
he who is known as sefton

darn, I almost forgot. There is a website for this Park, its U R L being http://www.walkoflifememorial.com/