A Good Walk, Unspoiled

My first job was caddying at the local golf course the summer after I turned 12. I received lessons on how to carry a bag, where to stand and how and when to pull the flag out of the hole. I earned three dollars for the four hours it took to carry a golfer’s bag over 18-holes. But the best thing about being a caddy was being allowed to golf on Monday mornings.

I cobbled together a mismatched set of clubs and enough balls to last me 18 holes. Typically, I would lose a half-dozen or so due to my horrible slice. Late at night as I lay in bed waiting to fall asleep, I would replay the round in my mind, trying to ferret out the mistakes that caused me to shoot in the neighborhood of 140.

My father was an avid golfer and let me accompany him when he played the nearby public courses with my uncle or my cousin.  Uncle Steve was cool as a cucumber as he consistently shot in the high seventies or low eighties. My cousin mostly scored in the eighties when he wasn’t throwing clubs after a bad shot.  My father was a nineties golfer with a temperament somewhere in between my uncle and cousin.

We would leave for the course early – when it was still dark. Dew was so thick on the grass that they took to wearing golf rubbers over their regular shoes rather than letting their golf shoes get soaked. My father never rode a golf cart. He would pull a cart and practically run between shots, typically finishing a round in less than three hours.

When I became an adult, I finally got around to buying a matched set of clubs. They didn’t do much to improve my game. Over the years, I took a few lessons which helped me correct my slice. But I never improved enough to break that elusive 100. During the 1990s, technological improvements in golf clubs brought graphite shafts and oversized club heads to help hackers, like me, improve their scores. I bought a set of these new, improved clubs. They helped a little; I didn’t hit as many errant shots. But I realized I was never going to get a lot better unless I practiced and played a lot more.

So, I asked myself if I really wanted to spend my time and money chasing around a little white ball for hours on end? I made two lists: 1) What I liked about golf and, 2) What I disliked about it. On the positive side, golf provided an excuse to get some exercise outdoors. But many golf courses now require golfers to ride a cart to speed up play. So how much exercise was I getting?  And when I thought about the frustration of chasing a bad shot, well, the positive aspects of golf weren’t exactly piling up.

On the negative side, a round of golf costs upwards of $100 these days. Sure, I could afford it, but wouldn’t I rather spend that $100 taking my wife out to a nice restaurant? Then, there is the equipment cost. A brand-new driver packed with the latest technology can cost $600. Also, playing 18 holes of golf can often take four hours in addition to the time it takes to get there and back home. Given that I’m fast approaching 70 years of age, do I want to devote that much time to golf when I could be spending it on something I actually enjoy?

I can understand why golf has often been referred to as “a good walk spoiled.” But is there a sport where a good walk is enjoyable? Less expensive? Less time consuming?

A few years ago my son introduced me to disc golf. It involves tossing a disc in the woods or across grassy meadows into a basket several hundred feet away. Like golf, disc golf has discs designed as long drivers and fairway drivers, as well as for closer approach shots and putting. A starter set of discs can be purchased for around $50. And so far, playing a round of disc golf will cost you nothing and can usually be played in less than two hours.

Like any sport, disc golf requires some practice to be able to get your disc to fly like it is designed to fly. Personally, I will never be able to throw a disc over 300 feet like many of the pros can do. And it can be frustrating, such as when my disc hits a tree 20 feet from the tee or when I miss a 6-foot putt.

But I do enjoy a walk in the woods and watching my disc sail through the air, somehow avoiding the cluster of trees in its path. And I appreciate the satisfying feeling I get when my disc makes the chains clink and drops into the basket.

My golf clubs sit in a corner of my basement, mostly untouched for the past several years. I’m not ready to get rid of them yet. But I’m glad to have discovered this new way to have a good walk, unspoiled.

They're Coming for my Guns!

I was shocked. Completely shocked. I had pulled the mail out of my mailbox and riffled through the stack of letters, magazines, and catalogues. Suddenly, I froze. The words on the envelope hit me like a cold slap on the face.

“NOTICE OF GUN CONFISCATION,” it screamed at me in all capital letters. I couldn’t believe they would go this far. But then Joe Biden is President, so how surprised should I be that it has come to this? My hands were trembling so hard that I dropped the envelope. As I picked it up off the floor, I took a few deep breaths to calm down.

“Now wait just a minute,” I said to myself. “What guns are they coming to take from me?”

My late uncle had given me a German pistol that he brought home as a souvenir from the Second World War. I had kept it wrapped up and hidden in a dark corner of my basement. But then I remembered that I had given that gun to my cousin who lives in Texas – surely a safe haven from government seizure.

Did I have any other guns? And if so, how did the government know about them? I thought for a minute, and it came to me. I had posted an article on my blog, titled, “A Gun Like Mine.” In it I mentioned having a 50-shot, pump action BB gun. That article also was published in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. So that’s how they knew! They are trying to pry my BB gun from my cold, dead hands, and I’m not even dead!

So why are they coming for my BB gun? I tore open the envelope and started reading.

“Dear Friend of Freedom.” Yes, I am a friend of freedom. I read further.

“Unless you fight back starting right now, you’ll soon face the real threat of having your guns confiscated along with your right of self-defense. No, I’m not talking about gun control. I’m talking about an actual ban on the firearms you currently own, government confiscation of those firearms, and you facing actual jail time if you fail to comply.”

I glanced up at the letterhead. This wasn’t from the government. It was from the National Rifle Association of America, Wayne LaPierre, Executive Vice President. In other words, the NRA. They were simply trying to frighten me into joining their organization.

The NRA is using fear as a recruitment tool? Sorry, Mr. LaPierre, that’s not going to work for me. Yes, I am a friend of freedom – the freedom to not be the victim of another mass shooting or gun-related crime. My freedom is jeopardized by the 72 million handguns and 20 million AR-15s that exist in the United States. They can be acquired quite easily by almost anyone who wants one. Handguns and assault rifles have only one function – to kill human beings. And the latest models are designed to kill lots of people very quickly.

If you want to use fear, Mr. LaPierre, fear the fact that over 45,000 people died from gun-related injuries in 2020 according to the Pew Research Center. More recently, 19 elementary school students and two teachers were shot last year in Uvalde, Texas. A mass shooting at the Tops Supermarket in Buffalo, New York resulted in ten deaths. 

Congress actually passed a law in the wake of those mass shootings. That law provided for enhanced background checks for 18 – 21-year-olds, though only for purchases from federally licensed gun dealers. A provision to ban 18–21-year-olds from purchasing assault rifles like the AR-15 used by the 18-year-old shooter at Uvalde was stricken from the final bill in order to gain the support of a handful of Republican Senators. The entire bill was opposed by the NRA.

So far in 2023, there have been mass shootings in California – Monterey Park (11dead, 9 wounded); Half Moon Bay (7 dead); and, Los Angeles (3 dead, 4 wounded).

Mr. LaPierre, I don’t think Joe Biden is interested in my Daisy or the rifles used by hunters to put meat on their kitchen tables. If you want me to become a dues paying member sir, the NRA should cease its fear mongering and become an advocate for keeping people safe from guns.

I might just be interested in joining an organization that promotes gun safety.

Disorder in the Court

 

Jury Duty! Seriously? In downtown Philadelphia? This was my third Summons for Jury Service at the federal courthouse in Philadelphia in the past three years.  I was excused from the first one in early 2020 when the COVID-19 pandemic shut down the federal courts.

A year and a half later, I received my second Summons to report for either two days or one trial. I dutifully called the court before each of those two days and was told I was not needed. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

There’s a saying that the third time is the charm, and that turned out to be the case with my third Summons. I called in before the first day of my possible service and was relieved to hear I did not have to report. But the second day? Well, I guess my luck had run out.

Don’t get me wrong. I had a 30-year career as a lawyer. Though I was not a trial lawyer, I believe in the American jury system and recognize there is a duty to serve. But getting to the federal courthouse in Philadelphia by 8:30AM was, frankly, a bit frightening to me.

I’ve driven countless times into downtown Pittsburgh, and I’ve crawled along in New York City traffic dozens of times. But I’ve only driven into downtown Philadelphia a very few times. The instructions that came with the Summons said I had the option of staying in a downtown hotel, because I live more than 30 miles from the court. But did I want to pack a suitcase, drive downtown, find parking and dinner on short notice? And how many days should I pack for? The train was a third option, but I hadn’t been on SEPTA train since the beginning of the pandemic.

Fortunately, my wife is braver than I am. She volunteered to drive me to the courthouse. I agreed to take the train home since I didn’t have a deadline to get back. We left our house around 6:50AM. Our GPS told us it would take about an hour to get to the courthouse. We were somewhat skeptical as the GPS directed us to follow a number of back roads. But ultimately, it got us to the courthouse by 8:05AM.

I showed my Summons and photo ID to the security guard, emptied my pockets, removed my belt, and successfully got through the metal detector. I followed directions to the Jury Assembly room and was checked in by a clerk. Close to 100 people were already in the room when I walked in. I poured myself a cup of the complimentary coffee, picked up a pastry and found a seat that was sufficiently socially distanced from other prospective jurors, given that COVID is still around. I wasn’t the last to arrive. Others continued to filter in during the next hour, letting me know that my fear of some awful penalty for missing the 8:30 deadline was unfounded.

Around 9:30, the person in charge welcomed us and played a video describing the jury selection process. Shortly after the video ended, a clerk began to call names to assemble a jury pool for one of the trials that would take place that day. He called 55 names. Mine was not among them. The clerk led the fifty-five potential jurors out of the room to the elevators that would take them to the courtroom.

The group remaining had become significantly smaller.  Another clerk arrived and began to call names for the next trial. Only 22 prospective jurors were being called for this one. I held my breath as name after name was called. Then I heard my name. I was juror number 18. The clerk asked a few of the assembled jurors questions. I heard my name again. What was my occupation?

“Retired attorney,” I replied. He made a note. Then he led us to the courtroom on the fifth floor and seated us in the gallery. The judge introduced himself and briefly described what we could expect. Eight jurors would be picked from our pool of 22. This was a civil trial involving a personal injury and an insurance company. The good news, we were told, was that the trial would be over by the end of the next day.

The judge informed us that the process was more “deselection” than selection. The attorneys would eliminate prospective jurors based on their answers to questions posed by the judge. The eight not eliminated would be the jury for this case. The judge proceeded to ask questions. If a potential juror’s answer was “yes,” he or she should hold up a sheet of paper with their juror number, and that number would be noted by the judge.

Some of the questions were obvious. “Do you know the plaintiff?” “Do you know any of the lawyers?”  Mostly, my answers were “no.” Then, the judge asked whether any of us had studied tort law or the law of negligence. Well, it may have been forty years since my first year of law school, but I raised my juror number high to be sure the judge would see it.

When the judge had finished with his questions, the lawyers for both sides joined the judge at sidebar to deselect those jurors that they didn’t want on their jury. I had mixed feelings. If I were picked for this jury, my service would be over by the end of one more day. If I were not picked, I could still be picked for another trial, and who knew how long that would last?

They started to call juror numbers and instructed those called to assemble in the jury box. “Juror #3, Juror #6.” I counted as each number was called. They only needed eight. “Juror #11.” That’s seven – only one more, I thought. “Juror #14.”  I waited. Would they pick alternates? No. The judge dismissed us. I hoped they would tell us we were free to go home. Instead, they told us to return to the Jury Assembly room.

The Jury Assembly room still contained a fair number of people besides those returning with me. It was a few minutes past noon. We were told we could go to lunch, but that we should be back by 1:30. I took a walk to find the train station for my return trip home, called my wife, and ate lunch at a Panda Express. I returned to the Jury Assembly room shortly before 1:30 and waited to see what came next. About a half hour after we returned, we were told we could go home.

Our Jury Service had been completed. We were told we wouldn’t be called again for at least two years. On my way out, I asked the clerk about how and when I might expect my jury fees. A check for my fee plus mileage would be mailed to me. I smiled as I headed for the exit and walked to the train station. About two weeks later, a check arrived for my attendance fee and calculated mileage – a total of $97.34. I immediately cashed it, satisfied that I had earned it by performing my civic duty.

Driving to New York

Driving in New York City is stressful. I am not surprised that many New Yorkers do not own a car – more than half of total households according to recent census estimates. New York’s great public transit system makes this possible.

My wife and I have a pied-à-terre in the Forest Hills section of NYC. In the past, we traveled there by train from our home in West Chester, PA. We got very adept at it and came to affectionately refer to travel on the rails as the “four-train cocktail:” One train took us Philadelphia, the next to Trenton, the third to New York’s Penn Station and the fourth, a subway to Forest Hills.  Once in our apartment, we could get to just about anywhere in New York City via the subway system.

We would drive occasionally when we needed to bring a load of things to the apartment, but then we had to find a parking spot – never an easy proposition in our neighborhood. And even when we found a great parking spot, we would have to move the car to another spot to accommodate street sweeping on Thursdays and Fridays.

Train travel took a little longer than driving, but it was more relaxing and spared us dealing with the stress of bumper-to-bumper traffic and finding a place to park once we arrived. Then, along came COVID. New York was hit particularly hard in the early days of the pandemic. So much so that our main reason for coming to New York – to visit our son and his family – disappeared as they moved into our home in West Chester. They stayed with us for five months during which time we traveled to New York only once or twice to check on things.

Once we were fully vaccinated in the spring of 2021, we felt bold enough to resume our visits to our Forest Hills apartment, but not bold enough to travel there by train and subway. Instead, we drove. By car, it’s about 135 miles from West Chester to Forest Hills. Our GPS tried to direct us through Manhattan but driving into the heart of New York City to get to Queens seemed crazy to us. So, we exited the New Jersey Turnpike at the Goethals Bridge, crossed Staten Island on I-278, crossed the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, and continued on I-278 through Brooklyn, eventually getting on I-495 after the Kosciusko Bridge, and finally exiting onto Queens Boulevard in Forest Hills.

We got quite comfortable with this route and enjoyed marking our progress by various landmarks such as the beehive dome of St. Michael’s, the stained-glass water tower designed by artist Tom Fruin, and the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. We also caught occasional glimpses of the Manhattan skyline and the Statue of Liberty. When traffic was lighter, the stretch from the Verrazano to Forest Hills took us about 45 minutes to traverse. However, when traffic was heavy, it could easily take twice that long, and, most times, traffic was heavy.

The alternative was to take the Belt Parkway from the Verrazano Bridge, which our GPS often advised us to do. But there is comfort in the familiar, and perhaps because I am older and not as open to trying new things, I persisted in driving on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway (I-278) even though I knew we would be crawling along at 20 miles per hour or less.

Perhaps out of frustration that it could take up to two hours to cover about twenty miles, my wife and I decided to give the Belt Parkway a try. From the Verrazano the Belt Parkway route takes us about seventeen miles to Exit 19 near John F. Kennedy airport. Exit 19 puts us briefly on the Nassau Expressway before exiting onto the Van Wyck Expressway (I-678 North), and finally, Queens Boulevard.

In contrast to I-278 which runs through the heart of Brooklyn, the Belt Parkway winds around Brooklyn’s southern edge with parks and beaches on one side and businesses and apartment buildings on the other. You see glimpses of Coney Island, such as the flower-like parachute tower and the Cyclone roller coaster.  Shirley Chisholm State Park and Rockaway Beach are other destinations that can be viewed while driving along the Belt Parkway. There is far more greenery on this route and enclaves of single-family homes which are largely absent along I-278.

Most importantly, traveling the Belt Parkway significantly cuts the drive time to our Forest Hills apartment. Now in most cases we can make the trip in less than three hours. Traffic is lighter and moves faster than it does on I-278 resulting in a less stressful driving experience. We recently began to rent a parking space in our apartment’s building, so that has reduced the stress of finding a spot on the street.

Driving in New York will never be as stress free as it is in our small town of West Chester, PA (population 20,000). So, until we feel safe to resume our four-train cocktail, we will follow the advice of our GPS and take the Belt Parkway when driving to New York.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

I’m not much of a sports fan these days.  I feel guilty watching football knowing that some of the players will end up with brain injuries or suffer disabling pain for the rest of their lives from the bone crushing collisions that are part of the game.  I never got into basketball because my hometown, Pittsburgh, never had an NBA team.  And hockey, well, I follow the Penguins, but I rarely have had the patience to sit through an entire game. But baseball, well, I suppose you never forget your first love.

As a young boy growing up in Pittsburgh, I was a devoted Pirates fan. Roberto Clemente was my hero, whether making his signature basket catch, throwing out a runner trying for home, or banging out hits and driving in runs. Like many Pittsburghers, I grieved when “The Great One” died in a plane crash on his way to delivering aid to earthquake victims in Nicaragua.

Besides Clemente, there was second baseman Bill Mazeroski, the hero of the 1960 World Series and master of the double play. Fans were always thinking “home run” whenever Willie Stargell came to bat. And we all prayed that Steve Blass would be able to solve whatever ailment caused him to lose the ability to throw the ball over the plate. I’ve had the good fortune to watch the Pirates win three World Series titles in 1960, 1970 and 1979, and keep hoping for one more before I buy my ticket to the field of dreams in the sky.

Beyond the Pirates, I remember being able to watch so many great players when I was growing up in the 1960s. The Giants had Mays and McCovey, Juan Marichal and Gaylord Perry. The Dodgers had Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. The Cardinals were always tough when Bob Gibson was pitching and the Cubs had “Ferguson Jenkins and his orchestra” to quote the Pirates colorful announcer, Bob Prince. There were also great players in the American League like Al Kaline, Rod Carew and 30-game winner Denny McClain, but I only got to see them in the All-Star Game or the World Series.

My love affair with baseball continued as an adult, especially after the Pirates moved into PNC Park, a short, pleasant walk from downtown where I worked. But with free agency and big market teams spending money like drunken sailors, small market Pittsburgh didn’t seem capable of putting a winning team on the field. Then in 2013, after a 20-year drought, the Pirates made it to the playoffs.

I was one of the 40,000 plus fans that squeezed into PNC Park to watch the wild card game between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. It was the most exciting baseball game I ever attended. In the bottom of the second inning with Cueto pitching, Pirate fans began to mockingly chant, “Cue-to, Cue-to.” Clearly affected by the chant, Cueto dropped the ball, and the fans went wild. Then on his very next pitch, Russell Martin clubbed it out of the park. The fans were delirious.

Pittsburgh went on to win the game 6-2, but subsequently lost the Divisional playoff to St. Louis. In the past few years, the Pirates have again become perennial losers, but that doesn’t keep me from monitoring their progress in the standings.

I now live closer to Philadelphia, and I am trying to become a Phillies fan, but it’s tough when you lack history with the team. Also, I am struggling with how the game has evolved from the baseball that I learned in my boyhood. So many statistics are bandied about today that measure things that I haven’t a clue about. And don’t get me started on the universal designated hitter rule, the expanded playoffs and the pitch clock that have been added by the recently approved collective bargaining agreement.

But despite all the changes that have taken place over the past sixty years that I have followed baseball, when I hear the crack of a bat or the pop of a ball striking leather, I will be there watching my favorite sport and cheering on my favorite team. 

Start Me Up

If you start me up,

If you start me up, I’ll never stop* 

Recently, I was getting ready to leave for an out-of-town trip. My wife’s car was behind mine in our driveway and had to be moved before I could get my car out. My wife got in her car, I got in mine, and we started our engines. In my rearview mirror, I saw my wife get out of her car and begin walking down the driveway toward me. 

“Did you remember to take any snacks for the road?” she called to me.

I got out of my car. “No,” I replied.

“I’ll get some for you,” she offered and ran back into the house. With both cars still running, I decided to move hers to the street. Then I backed my car to the street and waited. A few minutes later, my wife returned and handed me the snacks. I thanked her and drove away.

A few hours later after arriving at my destination, I discovered her keys in my coat pocket.  After moving her car, I had shut off the engine and pocketed her keys. Of course, I also had my set of keys, which included the only extra key to her car. Consequently, my wife would be unable to drive her car until I returned three days later.

Now, my wife had a number of errands to run in my absence that absolutely required a car. Fortunately, my daughter lives only a mile away. She and her husband have two cars and offered to let my wife borrow one of them. Like many newer cars, theirs doesn’t use an actual key to start it. Instead, it uses a fob containing a microchip. You push the starter button, and the chip links to the car’s computer system to start the car and keep it running until you push the starter button again to turn it off.

My son-in-law drove the loaner car to our house, picked up my wife and drove back to his house. With the engine still running, he got out of the car, said goodbye to my wife, and walked into his house. My wife climbed into the driver’s seat, and being the smart woman she is, started looking for the key fob. Unable to find it, she called my son-in-law on her cell phone and asked him where he had put the fob.

He paused for a second and said, “Oh. It’s in my pocket.”

“How far could I have driven without the fob in the car?” my wife wondered.

“You would have made it back to your house. But you wouldn’t have been able to start the car again once you shut it off.”

“Then I would have two cars in front of my house that I couldn’t start.”

“Sorry. I’ll be right out with the key.”

After my wife described this episode with my son-in-law, I pondered whether this was a man-thing, subconsciously holding onto the car key in the same manner as controlling the TV remote. I hope that’s not the case. It would be sad if it were.

You make a grown man cry,

You make a grown man cry.*

 

* “Start Me Up,” M. Jagger, K. Richards

Light Bulb Jokes

Don’t you just love those old light bulb jokes? They usually go something like this:  How many persons (of a certain group) does it take to change a light bulb? We laugh because the joke pokes fun at the target group, be they lawyers, psychiatrists, or jugglers. The joke is funny because changing a light bulb is easy, right?

Or so I thought. We moved into our current house about five years ago.  It’s a 1950s era house, but it was completely remodeled before we bought it. A few months ago, I noticed one of the lights over the bathroom sink was not lit. I reached up into the fixture to unscrew the bulb. There was no bulb like any I had ever seen. Instead, there was a glass bit about the size of my little finger beyond the second knuckle. I tried to twist it like unscrewing a regular light bulb, but it wouldn’t move. I got a flashlight and craned my neck to look up into the fixture to see if I could figure out how to remove the burned-out bulb. I saw the little glass bit sticking out of a round ceramic piece. Now was the ceramic piece and glass one unit that could be unscrewed, or were they separate pieces? I grasped the glass piece and tried twisting, but nothing moved. So, I tried gently tugging the glass, and it slowly came out.

I’d never seen a light like it, but after some investigation via the internet, I discovered that it was a type of halogen bulb. I found a place online that sold them, and after my order was delivered, I gently pushed one into the empty fixture. I felt a sense of pride when it lit up. Not only had I figured out this new-fangled light bulb, but now I had several spares ready for when the next one burned out.

A few months later, the light in our shower burned out. With my newfound sense of confidence, I figured I could get this done in no time. This fixture had a glass cover, which I assumed was to protect the light bulb from shower spray. I carefully tugged at the cover to expose the bulb, but the cover didn’t come off. Instead, the whole fixture came out of the ceiling, though it was still attached to my home’s electrical system by a wire. I jiggled a few parts of the fixture trying to figure out how to access the bulb, and then all the other lights in the bathroom went dark. Apparently, I had tripped a breaker, yet still had no idea how to get to whatever bulb type was inside the fixture.

At that point, I realized that changing this light bulb might just be beyond my limited handyman capabilities. I carefully pushed the fixture back into the ceiling, reset the breaker, and called my electrician. Since this was not an emergency, it took a few days for the electrician to come. I felt slightly less incompetent when he struggled to figure out how to remove the old bulb – an R20 LED bulb. Since I did not have an appropriate replacement, the electrician had to drive to the local hardware store to purchase one.

The bottom line was a bill for $93 from my electrician, which I was grateful to pay. I had hoped to learn from him how to do it myself the next time the bulb needs to be replaced. However, the only thing I learned was I needed to keep his number handy when that next time happened.

Oh, and how many jugglers does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but it takes three bulbs.