We Still Had Fun Before All of This Technology Hit

By Robert J. Ottaviani

I’m watching television on my parents 25-inch console television, which is by and large considered huge in size and doubles as a piece of furniture with the nicely fitted wood trim and speaker cloth framing both sides. I do this by pulling a singular knob out to turn the power on. Its got a grainy picture with mediocre sound quality and when one show is over someone has to get up and walk over to the set to turn the knob to change the channel. Incredibly no one seems to mind this task, which repeats itself through out the day.

Every morning my sugar laden milk bowl that once contained my fruit loops or my sugar puffs has turned a funky pink color as I watch the Flintstones, yogi bear, magilla gorilla, and the Jetsons. Occasionally in the early morning or at the end of the day a test pattern appears on the screen in the form of a series of circles with an Indian chief in the center of the screen while emitting an oddly mesmerizing whistle. Commercials interrupt the shows sporadically and we watch them with the same interest as you would the programs.

Our furnace has heating grates that lay horizontal to the floor and they serve my sisters well as they open the wrapper on a Hershey’s chocolate bar and let it rest on the opening until it melts to the desired square of goo. Mom always seems to be out in the kitchen cooking meals, which happen everyday at precisely the same time. Breakfast is as soon as you wake up, supper is always at 5 p.m. and Sunday dinner is 1 p.m. This routine never changes and your social life revolves around this and not vice versa. Sunday dinner is always pasta with chicken or roast and potatoes and salad. Always.

Dad is out working as he is the only bread winner in the family. When you didn’t feel like watching television you turned on the transistor radio, which was about the size of a loaf of bread and when you turned the dial for another station (you received about three) it would snap,crackle, and pop like your cereal did. The days were comfortably long and you savored it as it seemed to last forever.

I look outside and see the milkman leaving the porch having deposited two fresh glass bottles of milk in our silver insulated square receptacle, which we leave on our front porch for that very reason until we are able to retrieve them. I’m asked to go get some groceries from the local store that is family owned and seemingly on every block. They ask you what you want by your name and you put your bill on a house tab.

Outside we are playing stick ball or burn the base or kick the can or riding our bikes. We were always outdoors until your dad whistled for you to come home and they each had their own distinct call so that there was no confusion. Your phone was black, with a rotary dial and was attached to a wall or sat on a table. It remained in the house. If someone tries to reach you they would call the number and if you didn’t answer, it meant that you weren’t home and they would try again later. There was no message to leave, and no machine to leave it on.

You want to watch a movie? Great, you walk several blocks to downtown to one of two movie theatre’s and you choose which one.

I’m suddenly transported from the mid sixties to the year 2010. I’m watching television on my 58-inch high def flat screen Televison. It takes me seven steps to turn my T.V. on with my state of the art universal remote that replaced my previous fourteen that I had to use. I never move as I peruse the four million channels available to me at the press of a button but yet I complain that there’s nothing on.

Meals are random as time permits. Grocery shopping is done at a big chain with hordes of people roaming about and ultimately waiting in long lines while the shoppers ahead of you sort through their expired coupons as you bristle because you’re in a hurry. You always seem to be in a hurry. The kids, they never leave the house. They glam onto the Internet or play game after game after game until their senses are dulled to a nub and then say they are bored.

You can reach someone immediately with a cell phone, twitter, facebook, or myspace. You can google any information you need on any subject. You can watch a movie without leaving the house with on demand or netflix. You can pay your bills online instantly and without effort. You can shop with a credit card from your sofa.

Everything comes to you faster, more efficient and in an easier manner. We want it, we want it now, and we get it. So tell me with all this technology that allows us to have instant gratification why are we more impatient now than ever?

Robert J. Ottaviani (Bert) is a cusp born Aries the ram who has lived through summer of love in the late sixties and the hippie culture that bled into the seventies. He has a passion for music, gardening and all things nature … and laffy taffy. He is freakishly aware of music trivia to absurd levels. Most days you can find him playing his guitar or jotting down lyrics. He was so impacted from the moment he first heard the Beatles that he has Beatlemanianized his life,been to Liverpool, England and remains convinced he is the fifth Beatle. He is married to a gentle and lovely vibe of a woman with three wonderful children. He currently lives and resides in strawberry fields forever.

Commuter IV

By Cynna Woo

No commute for me this weekend because of the holidays, I’m enjoying a day off from work watching morning television in bed while trolling the Internet. I like reading newspapers online and shopping for Christmas. It is so much easier than wandering aimlessly through department stores searching for something to jump out at me.

My recently married daughter is student teaching and thus without income. She announced “we’re doing a budget Christmas this year,” does this mean I get to cut back as well? No, that’s not the spirit! I’m finally in a position where it doesn’t take until June to pay off Christmas. Now that my children are adults and give me decent lists that don’t ask for a car or a pony, I enjoy shopping for them and their boyfriend/girlfriend.

Oh that’s right; I am a mother-in-law now, something that will take time getting used to. I feel my every utterance is now shared with “him”. I must learn not to be needy and to share my daughter with another family. Thank God her “him” is the perfect person for her. Both my son and daughter have chosen to love someone I love as well, who could ask for more? (although I always do want more). In the future I’ll brace myself for the Christmas morning when it will be only the two of us. But this year everyone will be at my house on Christmas Eve. All my nieces and nephews are teenagers and have stopped jumping on the furniture. We’ll play games, open gifts and have fun being together. On Christmas morning, I’ll be mom and mom-in-law, waiting for the newlyweds to come down the stairs for coffee in front of the tree.

Tonight it is my husband who will make the commute, much more difficult because so many more people travel back from Philadelphia to New Jersey every day. This living apart can be trying. However, It does have a few positives and anticipation of my Tom’s arrival on a Friday night is one of them.

We have a little dinner when he arrives, and afterwards we walk over to the Village of Smithville, right across the street. Smithville is an old fashioned village of quaint little shops and an Inn that serves dinner and hosts weddings and events. It sits on a lake with paddle-boats ducks and giant white geese. There are 25 lighted trees floating on the lake. Music plays and the trees change colors to tunes by Mannheim Steamroller and The Carpenters. We are often the only ones observing this spectacular and I add my own interpretive dance if no one is looking. Tonight being Friday, there will probably be others about, celebrating the Christmas season by dinning at the Inn and strolling among the shops. Fred and Ethel’s, is a tavern and eatery in the village. It offers live music on Friday evenings. Who will it be tonight, the staring bartender-the one who never seems to notice an empty glass, or the perky girl bartender who serves peanuts with a flair? Either way it’s our own little “Cheers” and I love it.

The Commuter is a column by Cynna Woo. She has been commuting between South Jersey and the Philadelphia suburbs for the last four years. When she first landed her great job as an academic advisor in N.J. she did not mind the drive. But, driving 65 miles one way grew old very fast. She shortened the drive time by buying a condo in Smithville, NJ. She now lives like a single person during the week and commutes to her “big house” and husband of 35 years, on the weekends. She would like to share her commuter musings, while driving. She will actually write them down when she gets home, because she hasn’t perfected writing while driving quite yet. Cynna enjoys reviewing movies, show tunes, listening to Howard Stern, speaking in french, collecting mermaids, hiking, and spending quality time with her amazing family.

Brings It All Back

By Gayle Calder

Christmas memories … the smell of pine and cookies baking, people laughing around the table, the lights shining on the Christmas tree …

One of my earliest Christmas memories is of strolling down 5th Avenue in New York City with my mother. The store windows had beautifully dressed mechanical figures in scenes from various fairy tales and Christmas stories. Children lined up in front of the windows and watched in awe as the figures moved and glided to music that was piped to the outside. The tree in Rockefeller Center towered over the skaters in the ice skating rink below. The tree was bedecked in thousands of gloriously colored lights. Vendors sold hot chestnuts on the street corners and everywhere the shoppers hustled to and fro preparing for the big day.

I grew up in New York City in an area called Chelsea on the west side of Manhattan. People tend to think of New York City as a place where people go to work and shop and then vacate after dark but in actuality it is made up of many little neighborhoods where people live, go to school and church , frequent the little local shops.

Every Christmas eve my dad and uncle would go out and bring home the biggest tree they could find…My sister and I would go to bed , and during the night he would decorate it so that it would be a surprise on Christmas morning. We never realized till we were older that it was he and not Santa who was responsible for this wondrous creation.

My fathers family lived in Baltimore, Maryland and every Christmas morning after church and opening presents, we would get on the train and travel for several hours so that we would be at my grandparents house for Christmas dinner with all my aunts, uncles and cousins. My sister and I would gather with our cousins at the designated “children’s table”. The smells were glorious, turkey and stuffing, Christmas cookies… the memories of those times are wonderful and priceless.

When I married and moved to Long Island and had my own children I would see the wonder in their eyes on Christmas morning and it would bring me back to my own childhood memories. There is nothing like the innocence of a child in anticipation of Christmas morning…

One of my all time favorite Christmas memories is bringing home my newborn oldest son from the hospital on Christmas morning and having his older sister , who was three at the time, ask us if the new baby came with his “own set of toys”.

My three children are older now, two of them are married Over the years we have had the some same traditions (Christmas morning gift opening was replaced by Christmas eve as the kids got older and sometimes often the same foods and cookies. Even though we now have to share our time with them with their new families, at some point whether Christmas Eve or Christmas day we will be together as a family.

Every year all of us get caught up in the gift giving and trying to make everything perfect for the holidays. As I get older I realize that Christmas is about the people, friends and family, the people that we love, spending time with them, creating memories. This is what is most important.

Make some memories!

Gayle Calder, is a former school teacher and loving mother, mother-in-law, and wife who believes that passing on the power of “positive thought” is extremely important. Gayle was born in Baltimore, Md, raised and schooled in Manhattan, N.Y.C., brought her children into the world in Long Island, N.Y. and is currently living in Pennsylvania for the past 23 years and counting. Gayle enjoys her family, reading, exercise, history, music, travel and much more.

Are Your Beautiful Things Just Collecting Dust?

By Gayle Calder

I was standing at my kitchen sink the other day, doing my annual silver polishing before the holidays, and it struck me that a lot of people today would think this was very peculiar and why would I bother. In today’s disposable world who in their right mind would use real plates when there is paper let alone silver utensils that need to be polished now and again.

Appreciation Taught and Learned

I was lucky enough to be born into a family that has always respected the past, the history of family and the appreciation of the objects that were handed down through the generations along with the stories that went with them.

Grandparent’s Dining Room Furniture

My dining room set, a lovely old tiger oak, belonged to my grandparents who were married in 1908. Around that table they raised six children, a daughter and five rambunctious boys. Sometimes as I sit at that table I can hear the echoes of my father and uncles laughter, all long silenced, as they would play a spirited game of poker. I think of the dinners that were served there, the celebrations as the boys came home unharmed from World War II, the engagements and wedding celebrations, Christmas and Easters, birthdays and anniversaries. I think of my own three children who have been raised around this table and the son-in-law and daughter-in-law who have joined us in the continuity of our family , and all the celebrations and sorrows that we have shared around this same table.

Great Grandmother’s Dishes

I have my great grandmothers dishes, beautiful old Limoge china and yes, I use them and cherish them because it connects me to my past. When I wash these plates I wonder what this woman, who I never met, was thinking as she washed them and what her life must have been like. She was born in 1865 along the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland, as our country healed from the Civil War.

Avoid Waiting For A Special Occasion

How many times have you received a gift and put it away to use for a special occasion? Or maybe you have a lovely old piece of jewelry or pottery and you are afraid it might break if you use it , so you put it in the closet and never get around to using it.
Life is short. You are the special occasion! Use the things that have meaning to you in your daily life. If someone gives you a nice gift, use it don’t save it. Wear that lovely sweater. Use those great wine glasses. Celebrate your life and the lives of the people you love. Even if its just you and your loved one having dinner, set the table with your good dishes, light the candles, play some music. Don’t just do it for company.

If you are lucky enough to have something that belonged to someone in the past, use it. Tell the story of that person who owned it to your children and help them feel the connection of one generation to the next.
I know that I am going to keep polishing that silver and hope that someday I will be able to tell the stories to my grandchildren as they too sit around that table.

Gayle Calder, is a former school teacher and loving mother, mother-in-law, and wife who believes that passing on the power of “positive thought” is extremely important. Gayle was born in Baltimore, Md, raised and schooled in Manhattan, N.Y.C., brought her children into the world in Long Island, N.Y. and is currently living in Pennsylvania for the past 23 years and counting. Gayle enjoys her family, reading, exercise, history, music, travel and much more.

By Chris Mc Loone

Lessons Learned While Slaying Dragons With My Son

I’ve found that walks in the woods provide me with more knowledge of dragons than I ever thought possible. Today, as my son Owen and I made our way through his favorite woods, he discovered a rusted caulk gun. He asked me what it was, and I told him, and followed it up with my attempt at an explanation of what it was and how it works, and I failed at it. Turns out I’m not a very good explainer. It kind of bothers me at times, especially when he asks me what words mean. He stumps me every time, and they are simple words. I guess I’ll just live with not being a good explainer at the moment. Maybe I’ll lead by example or something.

So we’re walking through the woods and Owen’s got a hold of the caulk gun, and, to him, it’s treasure. And you never know when you might need something like a caulk gun to take care of some serious business—like finishing off a dragon.

We found the dragon, disguised as a fallen, rotten tree, in the middle of the woods. Owen saw through the disguise immediately and began gutting the dragon straight away. He made quick work of it all with his newfound caulk gun. It’s astounding how handy a caulk gun can be when you’re finishing off a dragon. Now, I’ve fought dragons in the woods with Owen before. The last one was already dead, and I did not know I was reslaying an already slain dragon. Today though, when I told him I thought the dragon was already dead, he exclaimed, “Dragons don’t die unless you take them apart.” And take this one apart he did. At one point he told me he found the dragon’s heart. He took it out and showed it to me. He also found its brain. “Hard as a rock,” he reported. Then he found another heart later. I told him he had already found one, but he informed me this particular dead dragon disguised as a fallen, rotten tree that really wasn’t dead yet since it was in one piece has two hearts. “You touched them with your bare hands,” I said. “That’s gross.” Owen looked up at me, a little winded from all the hard work of disemboweling a dragon with a rusted caulk gun and said, “I’m a man. I have to be gross.” I had no idea grossology was part of manhood. The things you’ll learn in the woods slaying dragons that are not dead yet since they are still in one piece, disguised as fallen, rotten trees.

Dragons from memories past.

I went to my high school recently, for an alumni day celebration. I went to a seminary for high school, and I lived away from home, and it was probably, short of getting married and becoming a father, the richest experience of my life. It has nothing to do with seminary studies or God or anything. I’ve often thought that when I finally sit down and write a story, it’s going to be about St. Joe’s. I don’t think anything has impacted my life the way it has. The memories I have of the place are clear and many. I saw people I have not seen in many, many years yesterday, and as cliché as it sounds, it was as if not a day had gone by. Sure, there was catching up to do, but there was no loss for words like you have so many times with people you’ve not seen in years. It’s the bond we all have from that place. We slept in dormitories of 40 beds and lockers. So, basically we slept together, we ate together, we took classes, and we got into mischief together. It’s an odd bond that I can’t quite explain, but even the men who traveled to Princeton who weren’t from my era shared that bond with me, though theirs was more from a bygone era.

I got to show my kids that place yesterday. But it wasn’t the same place. One wing (we referred to it as “the other side…” but really, “the other side” meant the opposite side of wherever you were) was completely closed off. They could have unlocked it for us, just so we could wander around. It’s not like we’re going to steal anything. The student lounge, once one large room has been made into two. The senior study hall, the size of the student lounge, also has been divided into two rooms. The dining room (or refectory) has the same smell. The same exact smell, and it’s 18 years later for me. The vestibules also, the same smells, and indeed, the gym (which we sneaked into) smelled exactly the same. I showed my wife the gouge in the floor in front of the foul line I used to use to set myself up for foul shots. I’m not quite sure what I did when we switched ends of the court or went to away games. I suppose my free throw percentage went into the toilet at those times.

When you return to a place that has a special place in your heart the way St. Joe’s does for me, it takes you back to a different time. It was a simpler time for me, and I long for it.

Believe me there’s a point to all this, and I do plan to get to it soon, but one more anecdote if you’ll indulge me.

Dragons from friendships past.

I am a volunteer fireman. I’m supposed to say firefighter, but I’m a fireman. In any event, for the past five years I’ve been a Lieutenant, holding two separate positions–2nd Lt., and 1st Lt. This year I’ve been nominated for captain (this is a volunteer fire company, and officers are nominated and elected) and I was nominated to run against my friend. Well, I suppose he’s a friend. He was a mentor to me very early in my career as a vollie. He was in my wedding. I would say that in recent years, as he moved up through the ranks, eventually to assistant chief, we have grown apart as firefighters, which has stressed our friendship. We rarely see eye to eye on policies, procedures, etc. Originally I told Wally I would not run against him for captain. I figured I wasn’t going to run against my friend, and while I disagreed with his moving down from assistant chief to captain, thus not allowing me to move up to captain from lieutenant, I thought was a nice gesture to let him ride out his time as he saw fit.

But then quite honestly, he did several things which made me reconsider that notion, and ultimately, my feeling is the crew would like a choice and so I told him I was going to run for captain, he got up and walked away without a word, save for “OK,” and proceeded to call me a hypocrite via his Facebook status and then defriended me—for real. Seriously, we’re adults.

I suppose I knew this was coming for quite some time, given his personality.

So what is the tie-in? Let me take a sip of my PBR and I promise to get to it.

We all have dragons, whether they are our pasts creeping up on us from time to time to remind us how easy things were or difficult decisions today that remind us just how hard things get as we all get older. I’m a Roman Catholic, which is not exactly a popular thing to be these days given the abuse scandals, and today I was at Church. I don’t pretend to be particularly religious or spiritual, even with my seminary background, but at Church today, the homilist said to the congregation to be grateful for today, because tomorrow, you can’t get today back.

“Be grateful for today, because tomorrow, you can’t get today back.”

Kill your dragons. We all have them. And make sure they are dead. Because a dragon’s not dead until you take it apart. It’s amazing how a dragon can creep up on you after you thought you slayed it. I know I sit there and think, “Damn, I’m sure I killed it. I know I did. It was dead.” Be a man and be gross—kill the dragon. Because when you don’t take the dragons apart, you end up losing days upon days when they creep up, making it impossible for you to be grateful for today.

So I’m going to wake up tomorrow, and, although a 16 year friendship appears to be in the toilet, I’m going to be grateful for it. Why? Well, because I’m a hypochondriac and any day I wake up is a bonus for me.

By Michele Stivalo

Are you a fan of jazz music?  If so, what is it about jazz that draws your interest?  And if not, can you identify the reason?

I grew up in a musical family, so I started listening to jazz at a young age. My father has been a professional musician for over 40 years, so I spent much of my childhood listening to all types of great music, both recorded and live. I have great memories of spending what seemed like endless nights at my father’s gigs. He is a true entertainer.  But my father’s music was typically popular standards, the kind of music you hear at weddings and dance parties- in other words, the kind of music just about everyone likes to listen to while dancing.

It wasn’t really until high school that I started hearing more jazz music, because by this point my brother Joe (who is a year older than I) had become a jazz musician.  His friends would form 4-piece combos and perform in local coffee houses. It was something to do on a Friday night in our little Jersey town.

My wording is deliberate when I say that is when I started hearing jazz music more, because as much as I heard it prior to this, I’m not sure that I was really listening. The truth is, jazz music intimidated me. As time passed, and Joe’s coffee house combo bands became more serious gigs, I became even more intimidated. It was its own culture, and I couldn’t figure out how to become a part of it. Either that, or I just wasn’t smart enough to “understand” it.

Sometimes I would confess these fears to Joe. “I just don’t think I get it,” I would tell him. As the sister of a big band leader who has a CD with big name New York players to his credit, it wasn’t easy to admit. He’s always been one of my most trusted confidantes, so it wasn’t that I was afraid that he would judge me. Maybe I was just afraid of what everyone else would think if they found out my deep dark secret. After all, I have always been Joe’s biggest fan.

“There’s nothing to understand,” he’d tell me.  “Do you like listening to it, or not?”

That sounds easy enough, I’d think to myself, but frankly it wasn’t that easy. Did I enjoy listening to it? I’m not sure. I liked the idea of it. I liked following Joe and his friends to the basement jazz clubs in New York. I liked hanging out with the musicians at the Park Tavern after a New Jersey City University jazz concert. That was the college my brother attended. Each year they get some big name jazz artists (this fall their guest musician was James Moody).  The conversations we had were often about music, but even when they weren’t they were always interesting and thought-provoking. I liked being a part of that scene I guess.

But it was the music itself that I was never sure about. It always seemed so … complicated. Listening to popular music was always so much easier.

Yet, I never gave up on jazz, partly because I simply couldn’t, partially because I didn’t want to, but mostly because I wasn’t about to stop being my brother’s biggest fan.  I may have been intimidated, but I was also intrigued. And always impressed. Sure, jazz music takes on many forms and can be more complex than relationships at times. But overall, jazz music is an American art form. And although it only originated within the last century, it has- in my opinion- an old soul.

So, back to my original question: are you a fan of jazz music?

If you are, what draws you to it?

If you’re not, that is OK too. But if you’re like me and you’re not really sure, I recommend keeping your mind open. May I also make some great recommendations? These albums are a great way to introduce (or reintroduce) yourself to jazz, yet they feature some of the greatest jazz artists of all time (you may be familiar with most of these artists already):Far East Suite by Duke Ellington; Count Basie Swings, Joe Williams Sings; Porgy & Bess by Miles Davis; Best of Ella Fitzgerald & Louie Armstrong; and Standards & Ballads by Wynton Marsalis.  I also proudly recommend Vanity Fair by my brother, Joe Elefante.  (You can get more information about his CD at his website, joeelefante.com).

I’ll be listening to all of these cds again myself in the next few weeks.  I’d love to know your thoughts as well so please log in and leave a comment. I hope you enjoy them!

Michele Stivalo is the co-owner of two family businesses, Elefante Music Click here for website and The Performing Arts Conservatory Click here for website, in her hometown of New Providence, NJ.  She has a degree in Business Management from Rutgers University.  She enjoys spending her free time with her husband Joe and their daughter Rose, and her extended family and friends.

By Robert J. Ottaviani

Years have a way of washing away a lot of memories but some stay firmly ensconced
and are close to the heart for recall.

When I was a young pre teen little guy looking for adventure I found myself outdoors quite often. There was a kind elderly man in the neighborhood they called “Kangy” who gathered a handful of us every Saturday morning for our sojourn to the woods.
“Kangy” was a short man of Italian descent who had a zest for life and and an interest in our well being. He led our troop with a five foot walking stick which we thought had some kind of magical power. Years later after watching the movie the ten commandments my suspicions were confirmed watching Moses part the red sea with his crooked staph. Our day consisted of watching the deer run up red clay mountain, startling the leopard frogs at leopard frog pond and walking the long winding path while being reminded to stay on the trail to keep out of danger that led us to the caves all the while listening to “Kangy” explaining all the different trees to us.

The caves were always our final destination and it was there right before entering we would pick what seemed like tootsie roll sized blackberries from a huge thicket.We entered cautiously with “kangy” in the lead with his flashlight all the while telling us where to step.We always saved the icebox cave for last as this was your test of manhood because you had to crawl in the small opening and withstand the much colder temperatures inside.All of us emerged feeling a little older and a lot more accomplished.

It was wonderful. My connection with nature was cemented for a lifetime. Now I find myself with my own meager plot of land and doing everything I can to replicate nature as I so fondly remembered it as a child. I’ve planted many trees and shrubs as well as crooked paths that meander throughout. My passion for gardening has taught me life lessons that have served me well in the parenting game. It occurs to me that there are definite parallels between the two. A young seed is planted and is nurtured with love and nourished accordingly.

We watch as it grows and blossoms into something beautiful. No two plants grow the same yet we appreciate each for their individuality. We give them plenty of space to grow and at times when they get rambunctious we clip them to keep them in bounds and manageable. We are forever moving things around until we get a good fit and achieve symmetry.

And so it is with parenting. It’s always about the love. Our legacy isn’t just about us but about our children and their children. So to reap what you sow do your soul a favor and plant a garden of love. Maybe just maybe that’s what “Kangy” was really teaching.

Robert J.Ottaviani (Bert) is a cusp born Aries the ram who has lived through summer
of love in the late sixties and the hippie culture that bled into the seventies. He
has a passion for music,gardening and all things nature … and laffy taffy. He is
freakishly aware of music trivia to absurd levels.Most days you can find him playing
his guitar or jotting down lyrics.He was so impacted from the moment he first heard
the Beatles that he has Beatlemanianized his life,been to Liverpool, England and
remains convinced he is the fifth Beatle.He is married to a gentle and lovely vibe
of a woman with three wonderful children.He currently lives and resides in
strawberry fields forever.