As is often the case in our youth, we are reluctant to eat our "greens" and such was the situation in our household. On one fateful day in my early years, Mom chose to introduce me to Brussels' sprouts. These small, cabbage-like green globes were soon to become my nemesis.......
After consuming a miniscule bite of the dreaded greenery, I quickly determined that these tiny orbs were not for me and hatched a quick plot to rid myself of their presence----I would surreptitiously drink a small quantity of milk from my glass and exchange the spouts into it. The plot seemed to be working well until my mother, having seen how quickly the vegetables had disappeared from my plate, erroneously decided that I liked the things and supplemented my supply. As my milk quantity diminished and my sprout supply increased, a curious and unappetizing green hue began to witness my undoing. When my subterfuge became apparent to my mother, I was forced to consume all of the dreaded soggy spheres and drink the vile, tainted milk. I have, to this day, not been able to develop an affinity for Brussels' sprouts.

The pun backfires!!!
As was the standing rule in our youth, at every meal we were reminded of all the starving children in the world and sternly admonished to: “eat every bean and pea in your plate.” Having been the victim of too many of Dad’s bad puns, my older brother and I decided to turn the table on him. We carefully orchestrated our plot and rehearsed several times before we made our “stand.” The occasion was the evening meal and, as usual, the warnings had been administered. My brother glanced over and winked at me and the game was on…..We hastily consumed every last morsel in our plates and when they were clean we both stood up in our chairs and began to feign a mock-urination ceremony.. When Dad inquired as to: “what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” We, in unison, replied; “Why we are doing exactly as instructed for we have eaten every bean and are now going to PEE in our plates.”
As our “message” set in, a grin came upon his face and he simply stated: “I can see that the bad-pun gene is hereditary and has passed on –at ease, gentlemen.”

My Father was a career Marine aviator and when my older brother and younger sister and I were growing up he often spoke about “Esprit de Corps” (spirit of the Corps) which was confusing. On one very special occasion this term became very apparent to “little” Howard, me and Diane. It was a very dark day in our young lives when we observed our mother crying and soon found out that Dad had been shot down on a combat mission in Korea and was “Missing in action, presumed dead.” Not only did this situation sadden us, but it left our family in military “limbo-land.” This uncertainty lasted for a period of six months until we learned that our father was a prisoner of war in a concentration camp overseas and, although we were glad that he was alive, the family was still fractured. His period of incarceration lasted many more months until an armistice was signed and the “Police Action” was over. The release of the last eight camps of prisoners was televised and I recall being glued to the TV-set for the better portion of an entire night as prisoners were individually released and photographed. When the last camp was reached, the tension was astronomically high in our tiny living room. Finally, when the third-from-last prisoner appeared from the hut, my mother sprang up and screamed: “that’s Howard.” I would be lying if I said I recognized him, as he had lost over 60 pounds, was a gaunt visage of his former...Continue Reading

My beloved friend, faithful companion and “bestest buddy,” Roxanne the cat passed away Sunday after a full, rich nineteen years of life. Although her last three months were spent battling lymphoma and had dropped her weight from a lithe nine pounds to frail three-point-eight pounds, she finally succumbed to the dehydration and weakness of malnutrition that the disease had wrought.

Roxanne was a remarkable ruddy Abyssinian feline and a credit to her somewhat-rare breed. Her first fourteen years were spent as a “live-aboard” on our sailboat. She was one of the few cats that I have ever known that swam and fished on a regular basis. The sound of a net being cast into the water would always bring her running in anticipation of a few free minnows.

Roxy was a little over a year old when she was first introduced to “wild” fish. Our next-boat neighbor, Bill Ainsworth had returned from a day’s fishing with a beautiful 30-pound tuna, but try as Bill might, he could arouse no interest in his catch from Roxy until he began to clean the fish. As soon as the fish’s skin was pierced and its aroma was unleashed, our cat descended upon Bill and gave him no peace until tuna-steaks were rendered. The next morning Scottie and I awoke to a loud “clunk.” We quickly dressed and stepped out on the dock to find out where the mysterious noise had come from. Bill was in his pajamas with a small knot on his head and was feeding his feline friend a tuna steak for breakfast. When we inquired as to...Continue Reading

With the passage of time, the young boy and the old man had grown closer to one another. Not only had they flown every chance that weather permitted, but they had spent many a happy hour building new planes, fishing, helping the boy’s widowed mother, repairing odds and ends at home, gardening, painting as well as schoolwork and learning to cope with life’s great lessons. The relationship was beneficial to all involved in that the voids that had been created by the untimely demises of the old man’s spouse as well as the young man’s father and the mother’s husband would, otherwise, have left a tremendous rift in their lives.

Several weeks before the boy, now a young man was scheduled to go off to college, the old man confided that a special treat was awaiting his friend and would be unveiled at the flying field this coming weekend. Try as he would, the teen could elicit no further information from his friend other than that he was sure to like it. As the weekend approached, the suspense was almost unbearable to both of them.

When the time finally came, the young man hastily rushed out to the flying field in eager anticipation of a great surprise. As he rounded the corner to the field, however, a churning in his gut told him that something was wrong. When he reached the field he saw that the old man’s truck was askew its usual parking place and his friend of many years was slumped across the seat. A letter addressed to the young flier was in the old man’s shirt pocket....Continue Reading

A young boy was furiously pedaling his shiny red bicycle down a lonely country road when he chanced to observe something circling in the sky. As he continued on the road, the mysterious flying object grew larger in his vision and he determined that it was a glider. He was fascinated that this large, slowly revolving craft silently and effortlessly remained aloft. The lad rounded a corner in the road and spied an old man in the middle of a vacant field with a box in his hands looking up and smiling at the overhead sailplane. The box had a long aerial protruding from its top and the boy could see that two tiny sticks on the surface of the “box” were being minutely manipulated by the happy old guy. The interested lad dropped his kick-stand and stood mesmerized by the miracle of flight. The plane began to grow larger as it descended and set up for landing. Just as the plane was inches from the ground, a slight puff of wind caught one of the crafts wings and caused it to careen crazily across the ground. The old man uttered a few “naughty” words, but continued to smile as he approached his undamaged airplane. The boy, more than anything, wanted to run over and take a closer look at the downed “bird” and talk to its owner but had promised his mother that he would not talk to strangers and would be home from his ride “real soon.”

The very next day, the young rider returned to the field and, once again, saw the old man flying his sailplane. Next to the pilot, several other...Continue Reading

After Hawaii, my father was stationed in Quantico, Virginia. Marine Corps Schools. This base was located approximately 60 miles South of Washington, D.C. and the Pentagon. It was the "Flagship" of all Marine Corps bases. The station was beautiful, the facilities were top of the line, the Golf Course was gorgeous (a continuous source of funds for my brother and I as we often caddied for those cash-fat generals down from the Pentagon for a round of golf) and the base swimming pools were large and plentiful (officer's, enlisted and several training pools). The base has 5 gymnasiums, numerous tennis courts as well as myriad survival courses that continually challenged us. Talk about hog-heaven! My brother and I were spoiled rotten by all the opulence.

The location of my story, however, was the football stadium. It was a natural amphitheater bowl with the concrete seating facilities carved into the sides of the "bowl." The actual football field was surrounded by a 440-yard cinder track. On the day of my "miraculous flight" the family was attending our high school team's clash with one of the surrounding area schools. During our previous tour in Hawaii, I had learned a lot of origami (Japanese art of paper folding) and I had mastered several really fine-flying paper airplanes. It just so happened that the paper for the programs for the game that day was of such an exquisite nature, that I was compelled to test it's flying abilities!

I carefully...Continue Reading

When I was 10 years old, my Father was stationed in Kaneohe, Oahu, Hawaii. As a military dependant, my older brother and myself could purchase models for next to nothing at the post exchange and we, literally, built every plastic model we could get our hands on. One miraculous day on a trip to Waikiki, beach we, fortuitously, passed by Ala Moana Park and noticed that WOODEN model airplanes were flying. Five continuous circles of U-control aircraft! Ring number one was exclusively stunt planes.There were beautiful NOBLERS, SMOOTHIES, etc., one after another, performing intricate routines. Ring number two was open to all and a long line of all types awaited their turns to be next. Ring three was COMBAT, where 4 fliers simultaneously tried to cut their opponents streamers in a deadly overhead "FURBALL." The fourth ring was exclusively for "RAT-RACING" and was populated by 4 simultaneous "teams" of pilots and pit-crews in furious 200-lap contests of speed and crew pit-stop strategies. The mysterious fifth circle was surrounded by a formidable chain-link fence and a single flier at a time would enter with a grossly over-powered miniature aircraft that flew at absolutely dizzying speeds. There was even a Dyna-Jet powered speed-pan job that everyone stopped to watch. Needless to say, my brother and I never touched a plastic model ever again. WE WERE HOOKED ON WOOD!! Our PAPER routes bought us Ringmasters and Flight Streaks and Fox 35's. My first "...Continue Reading