My wife and I had just sat down to lunch at a well known seafood restaurant. It was lobster fest season again. I always get sucked in by the commercials showing steaming platters of succulent lobsters with drawn butter. From one lobster fest season to the next, I conveniently forget that the lobster in the commercials bears no resemblance to the lobster on my plate. I have no idea where the seafood chain in question finds the lobsters that agree to appear in these commercials, but I am certain that none of them are ready to do an encore in Franklin, Tennessee.
Regardless, before I even had a moment to peruse the menu, I spotted something that captivated my attention much more than the shrimp, crab legs and lobster combo. It was Debbie the server’s name tag. It had her name of course but just below her name I saw the words “Seafood Expert.” People who know me well can attest to the fact that I can be a stickler for words. I’m no William Safire but I do pay attention to the way people say things and the words they choose. When I saw “Seafood Expert,” presumably a title bestowed upon Debbie with good reason, I was more than a little bit intrigued.
Naturally, I asked her what it meant to be a seafood expert. Was she a marine biologist making a few extra bucks serving shrimp scampi? Had she recently joined the restaurant staff after twenty years with Fulton’s Fish Market? Maybe she just graduated from a culinary arts college that specialized in seafood.
None of the above as it turned out. She said the restaurant held meetings every two or three months to discuss different fish. And there were handouts that could be studied after the meeting. I’m not sure that level of exposure to fish qualifies one for expert status. Synonyms for expert include professional, specialist and authority to name a few. Apparently the marketing team at this seafood restaurant chain is working on the assumption that diners, upon seeing that their server has a name tag with the words seafood expert emblazoned on them, will readily put their palates in the hands of the server. After all, how many customers are going to ask how the server achieved such lofty status? Would they be more or less likely to consider the server’s recommendations if they knew that expert status had been conveyed based on occasional meetings that may or may not include glamour shots of certain fish?
Our server said she’s been working at the seafood restaurant for five years. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was required to work there for a couple of years before seafood expert was added to her name tag. Let’s see, that would amount to maybe ten meetings and presumably, ten different types of seafood. There are 48 different species of lobster alone and there must be at least ten species of trout to consider. More meetings might be a good idea.
In his book Outliers, Malcolm Gladwell estimated that expertise in anything requires about 10,000 hours of study and practice. If that’s true, I suspect the restaurant might be intentionally misusing the word expert in a misguided attempt to improve customers’ overall dining experience.
While most people probably wouldn’t question the validity of the claim, at least not consciously, on some level they are almost certainly aware of its insincerity. And no matter what business you’re in that is a problem. How fresh is the fish being served that day? Is the martini really made with Bombay Sapphire or is it a generic substitute? The word expert shouldn’t be treated like a marketing buzz word. Marketers should stick with new and improved.
The restaurant chain isn’t the only culprit by the way. When I Googled the words “seafood experts” I found a company that distributes seafood nationwide. They listed experts in specific categories like shrimp, lobster and grouper. The shrimp expert is a trained accountant who worked in mortgage banking as well. According to her bio, having worked in purchasing and sales for the seafood distributor, she got “a complete seafood education.” No doubt this includes the shrimp.
As usual, I’m probably just not seeing the upside to playing games with words. Until now that is. It may be late in the game for me, but having worked in both sales and purchasing for a healthcare company, I’ve already updated my resume. My qualifications now include “medical expert.” I’m having my new name tag made this afternoon.
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The Bachelor: An Alien's View
So Jake the bachelor asked Vienna the vixen to marry him. I’ve been watching The Bachelor on and off this season. While Jake seems to have some doubts about who he is and what he wants, Ali (the next Bachelorette) had enough sense to choose her job over Jake which might have been the only lucid decision anybody made on the show.
As I watched I found myself wondering what a visitor from another planet might make of all this. Much to my surprise I got an email this very morning that was obviously not intended for me. A creature by the name of Merlin Xenzac from the planet Zepheron was filing a report back to his headquarters and the ethereal wires must have gotten crossed. Here is Merlin’s unedited transcript.
To Your Highest Excellency:
I have just spent the last eight weeks in a tiny motel room watching American television exactly as you instructed. I have noted a very curious courting custom that escaped our notice on my previous mission in earth year 1984. Here are my pithy observations:
1. In spite of decades of progress toward equal rights, earth women are desperate to find a husband. They will enter into a no holds barred competition if necessary, to meet and marry the man of their dreams.
2. Women will put up with and do almost anything if you promise them a chance to get a red rose. Unlike planet Zepheron, bachelors are permitted to date as many as 25 women and not only tell these girls about each other but bring them together in harmony.
3. These men can be caught on camera(!) kissing, hugging and all but fondling each woman and not have to worry about being called a cad, or a womanizer. In fact each girl will put on her finest and hope against hope that the bachelor will want her more than the others. (Oh to be young, single and an earthling.)
4. Apparently, earth has eliminated all maladies that can be transmitted via bodily fluids.
5. When a bachelor dumps a woman (or several of them) he can do this without fear that they will cry, carry on or beg him to reconsider. The bachelor has no reason to fear reprisals such as a beating from the girl’s brother or a year or two of being stalked. Instead, women will hug the man in question and wish him the best life has to offer with a smile and perhaps a few brave, but silent tears. I can’t say for sure, but I think this might have something to do with the fact that all dating now takes place in fabulous vacation destination points. A bachelor doesn’t take a girl to a moldy smelling movie theatre followed by a greasy hamburger and fries at the local diner anymore. Dates are now conducted in places like New York, San Francisco and St. Lucia.
6. Women who are dumped will tell anyone who will listen that the bachelor in question just made a huge mistake that he will regret for the rest of his life. They do not perceive any misjudgments on their part for entering the contest.
7. Bachelors are expected to fall deeply in love with several women at the same time. Earthlings have advanced so far that they can develop deep feelings for one another without the benefit of months of getting to know one another exclusively. Lifelong commitments can now be made without knowing whether a woman squeezes the toothpaste from the tube incorrectly or whether the man has any idea of where the garbage can is.
8. However, it appears to be a rule that the bachelor express grave concern over his quandary. He will express the strongest feelings imaginable to several women in words and actions, leading them to believe that each one of them is likely to get not just a rose, but an engagement ring. However, he must express sadness over having to give up all but one lady. As a side note I must report that the one-and-only rule does not apply to a certain professional golfer.
9. I have also learned that families will permit a bachelor that may be taking their princess for a ride destined to end in agony, into their homes and treat him as an honored guest.
10. Finally, it isn’t clear yet what affect this custom has on young earthlings who just got here in the last 15 years or so. However buying stock in companies that sell roses might be a good bet.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
As I watched I found myself wondering what a visitor from another planet might make of all this. Much to my surprise I got an email this very morning that was obviously not intended for me. A creature by the name of Merlin Xenzac from the planet Zepheron was filing a report back to his headquarters and the ethereal wires must have gotten crossed. Here is Merlin’s unedited transcript.
To Your Highest Excellency:
I have just spent the last eight weeks in a tiny motel room watching American television exactly as you instructed. I have noted a very curious courting custom that escaped our notice on my previous mission in earth year 1984. Here are my pithy observations:
1. In spite of decades of progress toward equal rights, earth women are desperate to find a husband. They will enter into a no holds barred competition if necessary, to meet and marry the man of their dreams.
2. Women will put up with and do almost anything if you promise them a chance to get a red rose. Unlike planet Zepheron, bachelors are permitted to date as many as 25 women and not only tell these girls about each other but bring them together in harmony.
3. These men can be caught on camera(!) kissing, hugging and all but fondling each woman and not have to worry about being called a cad, or a womanizer. In fact each girl will put on her finest and hope against hope that the bachelor will want her more than the others. (Oh to be young, single and an earthling.)
4. Apparently, earth has eliminated all maladies that can be transmitted via bodily fluids.
5. When a bachelor dumps a woman (or several of them) he can do this without fear that they will cry, carry on or beg him to reconsider. The bachelor has no reason to fear reprisals such as a beating from the girl’s brother or a year or two of being stalked. Instead, women will hug the man in question and wish him the best life has to offer with a smile and perhaps a few brave, but silent tears. I can’t say for sure, but I think this might have something to do with the fact that all dating now takes place in fabulous vacation destination points. A bachelor doesn’t take a girl to a moldy smelling movie theatre followed by a greasy hamburger and fries at the local diner anymore. Dates are now conducted in places like New York, San Francisco and St. Lucia.
6. Women who are dumped will tell anyone who will listen that the bachelor in question just made a huge mistake that he will regret for the rest of his life. They do not perceive any misjudgments on their part for entering the contest.
7. Bachelors are expected to fall deeply in love with several women at the same time. Earthlings have advanced so far that they can develop deep feelings for one another without the benefit of months of getting to know one another exclusively. Lifelong commitments can now be made without knowing whether a woman squeezes the toothpaste from the tube incorrectly or whether the man has any idea of where the garbage can is.
8. However, it appears to be a rule that the bachelor express grave concern over his quandary. He will express the strongest feelings imaginable to several women in words and actions, leading them to believe that each one of them is likely to get not just a rose, but an engagement ring. However, he must express sadness over having to give up all but one lady. As a side note I must report that the one-and-only rule does not apply to a certain professional golfer.
9. I have also learned that families will permit a bachelor that may be taking their princess for a ride destined to end in agony, into their homes and treat him as an honored guest.
10. Finally, it isn’t clear yet what affect this custom has on young earthlings who just got here in the last 15 years or so. However buying stock in companies that sell roses might be a good bet.
Copyright Len Serafino 2010. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Motel Life: Pumping Iron While You Iron
I’ve been traveling again. This week I was in Naples, Florida. Yes, it beats a stick in the eye and then some, but it was strictly a business trip and I wasn’t ensconced at the Ritz Carlton on the Gulf of Mexico. My accommodations were relatively modest; okay they were light years from plush carpets and thick bathrobes with hotel logos on them. I was holed up at the Best Western, a stone’s throw from the interstate where the towels are as thin as my hair and every blanket has a cigarette burn. Now Naples is, if nothing else, a wealthy retirement community. But the folks at Best Western, perhaps because of it’s proximity to the highway, don’t assume that its patrons are routinely listed on the annual Forbes 400 or, for that matter, are strictly on the up-and-up.
When I unpacked my suitcase and hung my suits and shirts I saw that I would need to do a little ironing. I slid open the mirrored closet door, which was partially jammed with what I took to be the remnant of a Snicker’s bar, and searched for the iron and ironing board. It turned out to be a set. The iron was tethered to the board with a plastic wrapped metal coil. My first reaction was embarrassment. Let me explain. Earlier in the evening I had picked up three gentlemen from Australia. Nigel was from New Zealand to be exact. In the short time I spent with him, I’m quite certain he would insist on the distinction. Looking at my iron/ironing board contraption, I could not help wondering whether our prospective business partners, all of whom turned out to be very bright and witty, would think that America must be a nation of thieves. Why else would the hotel chain find it necessary to secure their irons?
Then I had another thought that bothered me even more. I wondered if the men from down under might be thinking we are also stupid thieving Americans in the bargain. Neither the TV nor the microwave was tethered. I know because my curiosity got the better of me. I checked. Perhaps you’re thinking: “Seriously Len, how could a hotel guest carry such large objects through the lobby unnoticed? Irons can be hidden in suitcases after all.” All I can say is, if you don’t believe it would be easy to distract a motel desk clerk long enough to empty your room and the so-called lobby furniture too, you probably don't stay in motels very often.
When I went to actually use the iron I realized I might have overlooked an entirely different explanation for the tightly wrapped coil connection. I soon discovered while ironing my shirts and pants that moving the iron back and forth required a good deal more effort to stretch the coiled wire than one might expect. I not only got the wrinkles out of my clothing, I got a biceps and pecs workout that rivaled an hour at Gold’s Gym. That was all well and good but I never slept a wink after that, worrying that the motel might charge extra for using its workout equipment.
Another curious thing about staying in today’s version of the roadside inn is the breakfasts they serve. Most of these places offer breakfast for free. The breakfast area is always busy. Yet, no one ever checks for a room key to be sure the diners are paying guests. I suppose the possibility that thieving Americans might pilfer Cheerios and a banana hasn’t occurred to the motel security staff yet. Invariably breakfast includes coffee and juice, what appears to be day old bread for toast, cereal and the most hideous looking Danish I have ever seen.
Some motels throw in hot items as well. They have do-it-yourself waffles, scrambled eggs the shape and color of a half-moon and frisbee like sausage patties. Since new management joined our company, I’ve stayed at several Best Westerns. I’ve noticed that in addition to the items already mentioned, their specialty seems to be hard boiled eggs. Trust me: a protein rich hard boiled egg and a cup of coffee after pumping the iron is almost appetizing. If only they served beer for breakfast too.
Coyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
When I unpacked my suitcase and hung my suits and shirts I saw that I would need to do a little ironing. I slid open the mirrored closet door, which was partially jammed with what I took to be the remnant of a Snicker’s bar, and searched for the iron and ironing board. It turned out to be a set. The iron was tethered to the board with a plastic wrapped metal coil. My first reaction was embarrassment. Let me explain. Earlier in the evening I had picked up three gentlemen from Australia. Nigel was from New Zealand to be exact. In the short time I spent with him, I’m quite certain he would insist on the distinction. Looking at my iron/ironing board contraption, I could not help wondering whether our prospective business partners, all of whom turned out to be very bright and witty, would think that America must be a nation of thieves. Why else would the hotel chain find it necessary to secure their irons?
Then I had another thought that bothered me even more. I wondered if the men from down under might be thinking we are also stupid thieving Americans in the bargain. Neither the TV nor the microwave was tethered. I know because my curiosity got the better of me. I checked. Perhaps you’re thinking: “Seriously Len, how could a hotel guest carry such large objects through the lobby unnoticed? Irons can be hidden in suitcases after all.” All I can say is, if you don’t believe it would be easy to distract a motel desk clerk long enough to empty your room and the so-called lobby furniture too, you probably don't stay in motels very often.
When I went to actually use the iron I realized I might have overlooked an entirely different explanation for the tightly wrapped coil connection. I soon discovered while ironing my shirts and pants that moving the iron back and forth required a good deal more effort to stretch the coiled wire than one might expect. I not only got the wrinkles out of my clothing, I got a biceps and pecs workout that rivaled an hour at Gold’s Gym. That was all well and good but I never slept a wink after that, worrying that the motel might charge extra for using its workout equipment.
Another curious thing about staying in today’s version of the roadside inn is the breakfasts they serve. Most of these places offer breakfast for free. The breakfast area is always busy. Yet, no one ever checks for a room key to be sure the diners are paying guests. I suppose the possibility that thieving Americans might pilfer Cheerios and a banana hasn’t occurred to the motel security staff yet. Invariably breakfast includes coffee and juice, what appears to be day old bread for toast, cereal and the most hideous looking Danish I have ever seen.
Some motels throw in hot items as well. They have do-it-yourself waffles, scrambled eggs the shape and color of a half-moon and frisbee like sausage patties. Since new management joined our company, I’ve stayed at several Best Westerns. I’ve noticed that in addition to the items already mentioned, their specialty seems to be hard boiled eggs. Trust me: a protein rich hard boiled egg and a cup of coffee after pumping the iron is almost appetizing. If only they served beer for breakfast too.
Coyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Sinatra Does American Idol
What if Frank Sinatra came back and tried out for American Idol? After all, Frank was the original American Idol back in the forties. His career ran for more than 50 years and his music is sill heard around the world today, some 12 years after his death.
What would it be like for The Chairman of the Board to sing in front of Kara, Randy and Simon? Try to imagine the scene. It’s New York City. You can see Hoboken from the studio’s windows overlooking the Hudson.
Simon asks, “Who do we have here?”
“I’m Frank Sinatra and I’m your next American Idol.”
“Well, we’ll see Frank. Before you tell us what you plan to sing, who are these gentlemen in the dark suits with you?”
“That’s Vinny and Alonzo,” Frank says with significance. “They’re part of my family.”
“Well that’s highly unusual Frank. We don’t usually allow that sort of thing.”
“Make an exception.”
Wanting to keep things moving, Randy pipes up. “What are you going to sing for us Frank?”
“I’m going to sing a Cole Porter tune, I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Kara: “Do you mean the Four Seasons version Frank?”
“Kara you really ring my bell doll, but please, I just ate lunch. This is an arrangement done especially for me by swingin’ Nelson Riddle.”
“Who may I ask is Nelson Riddle? Simon asks.
Frank smiles but his eyes are icy blue. He glances at Alonzo who takes a step forward. Simon averts his eyes and mumbles, “Can we just get on with it?”
♫ “I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you deep in the heart of me…”♫
“Thanks Frank, very interesting but you know Dawg, it was a little pitchy.”
“Oh, I loved it,” Kara gushes, “His voice has a quality that is hard to define. I felt like he was singing just to me.”
“I was singing to you Kara -with the long and melodious Italian last name. I’ll be thinking about you until the wee small hours of the morning learnin’ the blues tonight. You could fly me to the moon, doll.”
“Alright Frank. Your voice does have an interesting quality but I think you need lots of practice. I simply don’t see you as the next American Idol. A saloon singer perhaps,” It was Simon, suddenly remembering that the show had its own security staff.
“I am a saloon singer Simon and a good one. I’m the best there is. Listen to this:
♫ It’s a quarter to three, there’s no one in the place but you and me so set-em up Joe…” ♫
“Hey I liked that one Dawg,” Randy jumps in. “Let’s hear something a little more current Frank.”
“Sure I can do that. This one’s called New York New York.”
“Hold on a minute Frank. You were just beginning to change my mind a little about letting you move forward, but no one has ever been able to sing that song but that guy who sings it after every New York Yankee baseball game. Karaoke bars have removed that song from their play list because too many drunks shattered the eardrums of onlookers trying to sing it. It can’t be done Frank. Don’t you have something else?”
“Simon baby I can sing New York, New York and knock your black socks off, but I’ll save it for when I get to the finals in a few months.”
Simon and Randy look at each other. Kara is putting more makeup on. “What’s it going to be then Frank?” Simon asks.
“I’m going to do a Rolling Stones number, Sympathy for the Devil…Just kidding guys and dolls, here’s one you’ll like…”
♫ “Strangers in the night exchanging glances, wondering in the night what were the chances we’d be sharing love…♫
“Let’s vote!” Kara screams.
Randy smiles. “You got something man. Still a little pitchy but I think you should go to Hollywood. Simon?”
“What can I say?” Simon answers, casting a wary eye on Vinny and Alonzo. “You’ll never make it in this business with that voice Frank. You’re not really a singer but Kara is already bewitched bothered and bewildered so it’s a yes.”
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
What would it be like for The Chairman of the Board to sing in front of Kara, Randy and Simon? Try to imagine the scene. It’s New York City. You can see Hoboken from the studio’s windows overlooking the Hudson.
Simon asks, “Who do we have here?”
“I’m Frank Sinatra and I’m your next American Idol.”
“Well, we’ll see Frank. Before you tell us what you plan to sing, who are these gentlemen in the dark suits with you?”
“That’s Vinny and Alonzo,” Frank says with significance. “They’re part of my family.”
“Well that’s highly unusual Frank. We don’t usually allow that sort of thing.”
“Make an exception.”
Wanting to keep things moving, Randy pipes up. “What are you going to sing for us Frank?”
“I’m going to sing a Cole Porter tune, I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
Kara: “Do you mean the Four Seasons version Frank?”
“Kara you really ring my bell doll, but please, I just ate lunch. This is an arrangement done especially for me by swingin’ Nelson Riddle.”
“Who may I ask is Nelson Riddle? Simon asks.
Frank smiles but his eyes are icy blue. He glances at Alonzo who takes a step forward. Simon averts his eyes and mumbles, “Can we just get on with it?”
♫ “I’ve got you under my skin, I’ve got you deep in the heart of me…”♫
“Thanks Frank, very interesting but you know Dawg, it was a little pitchy.”
“Oh, I loved it,” Kara gushes, “His voice has a quality that is hard to define. I felt like he was singing just to me.”
“I was singing to you Kara -with the long and melodious Italian last name. I’ll be thinking about you until the wee small hours of the morning learnin’ the blues tonight. You could fly me to the moon, doll.”
“Alright Frank. Your voice does have an interesting quality but I think you need lots of practice. I simply don’t see you as the next American Idol. A saloon singer perhaps,” It was Simon, suddenly remembering that the show had its own security staff.
“I am a saloon singer Simon and a good one. I’m the best there is. Listen to this:
♫ It’s a quarter to three, there’s no one in the place but you and me so set-em up Joe…” ♫
“Hey I liked that one Dawg,” Randy jumps in. “Let’s hear something a little more current Frank.”
“Sure I can do that. This one’s called New York New York.”
“Hold on a minute Frank. You were just beginning to change my mind a little about letting you move forward, but no one has ever been able to sing that song but that guy who sings it after every New York Yankee baseball game. Karaoke bars have removed that song from their play list because too many drunks shattered the eardrums of onlookers trying to sing it. It can’t be done Frank. Don’t you have something else?”
“Simon baby I can sing New York, New York and knock your black socks off, but I’ll save it for when I get to the finals in a few months.”
Simon and Randy look at each other. Kara is putting more makeup on. “What’s it going to be then Frank?” Simon asks.
“I’m going to do a Rolling Stones number, Sympathy for the Devil…Just kidding guys and dolls, here’s one you’ll like…”
♫ “Strangers in the night exchanging glances, wondering in the night what were the chances we’d be sharing love…♫
“Let’s vote!” Kara screams.
Randy smiles. “You got something man. Still a little pitchy but I think you should go to Hollywood. Simon?”
“What can I say?” Simon answers, casting a wary eye on Vinny and Alonzo. “You’ll never make it in this business with that voice Frank. You’re not really a singer but Kara is already bewitched bothered and bewildered so it’s a yes.”
Copyright 2010 Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The Perkins Christmas Miracle
Mike Perkins woke up with a start. He was cold. His fingers looked blue in the dim light of his bedroom. He was about to curse but thought better of it. It was the day before Christmas. He shook his head which, now that he thought about it, ached from a cold. Already his nose was running again. No wonder, he thought. “It must be forty-something degrees in here,” he murmured aloud to himself.
The furnace must have died during the night. Shoveling coal was a chore he hated but this was worse. He would have to light a new fire and wait till the wood was burning good and hot before he could add some coal to it.
He forced himself out of bed. He looked over and saw that his wife Melanie was still sleeping. How could she sleep when winter had invaded their bedroom? He wondered. Maybe being pregnant kept a woman warm somehow. He grabbed an extra blanket and gently placed over her body. Then he headed to the cellar and got to work lighting a fire.
As he added heavier pieces of lumber to the paper and light kindling sticks, his head began to clear. He hadn’t even checked on the twins yet. His 8 year old sons were his pride and joy. Secretly he hoped the new baby due in a couple of weeks would be a girl. Of course he told all the guys at the mill he wanted another boy. Melanie was praying for a girl though, so he wanted one too.
Now the fire was roaring. The wood crackled as the red, yellow and blue flame devoured it. He could add the coal soon.
“Daddy? Is it Christmas yet?”
That would be Randy. Although the boys were spitting images of each other he could always tell the difference between the two by the timbre of their young voices.
“Not yet Randy, tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait for it to come,” Randy said.
“Why is that?”
“Well tomorrow Santa is bringing me a new train set, just like I asked for.” Mike’s heart sank. The fire had warmed his bones but suddenly he felt cold again. He forgot all about what the boys had been asking for all these weeks, ever since Thanksgiving. He had priced train sets at Mitchell’s department store again, just like last year. Nothing had changed. No way could he afford something like that. The set the boys asked for, Santa Fe Railway diesel engines with a line of box cars, oil tankers and a shiny red caboose, was priced right at $100, about $70 more than he had to spend. He couldn’t understand why Mitchell’s would display something so expensive when most of the kids in the neighborhood had at least one parent that worked in the mill. Money problems were routine. He even wrote Mr. Mitchell a letter to complain about it. Melanie thought he was crazy. “What good will that do?” she asked. Mike had to admit he didn’t know but he was always writing letters anyway. Some went to politicians, others to the editor of the County Times. It was just something he did.
He turned to face his son. Ronnie was standing next to Randy now. The boys didn’t agree on much but they were united in their desire for that train set. “Now boys, Santa has to take care of a lot of other kids this year. It might have to wait until next year.”
“No Daddy.” It was Ronnie who spoke this time. “He didn’t give us a train last year. You said he ran out of them but we would be first in line this year, remember?”
Mike nodded. “I remember,” he said. He wished he could crawl back into bed and wake up in the middle of January. He started shoveling coal. He and Melanie had talked about it a few days ago. She felt the boys would be disappointed but they would soon get over it. Anyway, they were each getting a new baseball mitt. She pointed out that neither of the boys had mentioned the trains for nearly a week. “They understand Mike, really. They can see we’re struggling. And, with another mouth to feed, well we just can’t do it.”
Randy and Ronnie stood there, neither of them moving a muscle. They watched their father shovel coal into the furnace, waiting for some sign from him that they needn’t worry: Their Christmas dream would come true. “Go on upstairs boys. I’ll fix you some breakfast before I go to work.”
“Santa’s not bringing the trains,” Randy said to Ronnie, disappointment in his voice. The twins turned in unison to climb the stairs to the kitchen.
“Maybe he will,” Mike said. What possessed him to give the boys hope he couldn’t really say. He was broke. But something inside, was it anger at life’s cruelty, that well to do men would make such fine things and keep them out of reach of underprivileged kids? Was it his childlike belief, however fleeting, that miracles can happen at Christmas? Miracles, he thought. He sure had never seen one. And now he would need one. That was not something he was known for.
He put the shovel down, banked the fire and headed up the stairs. Melanie was in the kitchen making breakfast. He gave her a peck on the cheek and went to get ready for work. She followed him into the bathroom. He was putting shaving cream on his face. She walked over to him, fire in her eyes. “Michael, did you just tell your sons they were getting that stupid train set for Christmas?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean? Did you or didn’t you tell them that? They are just humming out there, talking about how the train’s gonna be around the tree when they get up in the morning. Have you lost your mind?”
“All I said Mel, was maybe.”
“You might as well have guaranteed it Mike. What are we going to do? We’re behind on the rent as it is. Don’t you know they’re going to tell their friends all about it today? Then tomorrow they are going to wish they could crawl under a rock. As far as I’m concerned you can join them.”
Twenty minutes later Mike walked down the street toward the bus stop. It was an extremely cold and windy day. Snow flurries decorated the streets. Not that Mike noticed. He wasn’t cold like he was earlier. No, he was numb, inside and out. The bus came right on schedule. A lot of people took the day off so the bus wasn’t crowded. Usually he had to stand all the way to his stop which was two blocks from the mill. Today he got a seat. The bus ran through its route, making stops along the way. An old gentleman got on just two stops before Mike’s and sat down next to him.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “Looks like it’s going to be a cold one.”
Mike just nodded. He sat staring at the ads on the bus’s wall not reading them, just staring as if one of them might have the answer.
“Say, if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like a man carrying a heavy load,” the man said.
Mike turned and looked the guy over. He could be taciturn when things weren’t going well. Melanie had spoken to him about that more than once. This was one of those times. Recognizing that Mike wasn’t going to respond the old man turned away and started to read his newspaper. The bus stopped to pick up another passenger. As it pulled way from the curb Mike reached up and pulled the cord for his stop. He checked his watch and saw he was going to be late for work. He shrugged as if to say, “What else could go wrong today?”
The old man let out a sigh. He folded up his newspaper and offered it to Mike. “Go ahead and take it. There might be something in the news today that will cheer you up.”
“I doubt that.”
“Just the same, take the paper. Nothing is as bad as it seems my boy.” The bus was coming to a stop; the door opened. Mike got up to go. The man shoved the newspaper toward him. He grabbed it, mumbled a thank you and bounded off the bus. He was going to toss it in the wastebasket but he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to be a moment later than he already was.
He stood over his machine all morning as if he was in a trance. His mind raced as he considered all the possibilities. A bank loan was out of the question. But Melanie’s parents might be willing to lend him the money, a promising thought until it dawned on him that he would soon be asking them to help with the hospital bill when the new baby arrived. Another possibility was Shaughnessy an old school chum from the neighborhood. He could definitely get the money from him but Shaughnessy was a loan shark. He would be paying him for the rest of his life and unlike the electric company, missing a payment wasn’t an option. He had to face reality. The boys would be disappointed but it wasn’t fatal. Feeling sorry for himself Mike thought, “get used to the idea kids because it will happen a lot in life.” The thought shamed him.
The whistle blew signaling lunch time. He went to his locker and reached for his lunch pail. Sitting underneath it was the newspaper the old man gave him. Thinking about the old man he smiled, if only for a moment. The guy actually bore a slight resemblance to Santa Claus. Nobody would have confused him with the Santa from the Coca Cola ads, but the guy was overweight and sported a scruffy white beard. He had a red sweater under his coat and he wore heavy black boots.
Mike took the paper over to one of the picnic tables where he usually ate lunch. On most days the tables would be crowded but a lot of the guys took vacation this time of year. He sat in silence and ate his peanut butter and banana sandwich. He picked up the paper and started to turn the pages. On page 25 he saw something that brought him up short. It was a Mitchell’s Department store ad with a picture of the exact train set the boys asked for. He could not believe his eyes when he read the ad; this week only, Mitchell’s was offering to give the entire train set away to the customer that could write a limerick describing the scene in the ad which showed an enraptured little boy at the controls of the train. Mike grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper. He always enjoyed writing poems but he never showed anyone, not even Melanie, a single word he wrote. In hardy any time at all he had what he thought was the perfect limerick.
The Santa Fe Railway a red and white honey
Running the trains makes a boy’s day sunny
Lights and whistles so much to see
He’s hoping Santa puts one under his tree
It’ll happen for sure if daddy has money
The ad said the limerick had to be entered by 2:00 p.m. that day. He checked his watch. It was 12:30. He would have to ask for the afternoon off. Certainly a part of him understood how foolish he was being. What were his chances of winning? But the more he thought about it the more he believed that what he wrote was a winner. He just might deliver on his promise after all. He went looking for his boss to see if he could get leave early.
“Mike, I don’t think we can spare you,” his boss said. “We got too many people out today and we have an order that has to ship by five o’clock. Sorry buddy but you have to stay.”
Mike was crushed. He thought about telling his boss what he was up to but he was sure they guy would think he was crazy or worse, lying.
“I really have something important I need to do,” was all he could manage to say.
His boss shook his head and “Sorry.”
Mike stuffed the limerick in his shirt pocket and went back to work. At 1:30 his boss stopped by. He looked at Mike and said, “Don’t say a word. Not now. Not ever. To anyone.” With that he gently pushed Mike aside and said, “Get out of here.”
Mike practically ran out of the building, stopping only to punch his time card. He walked and ran all the way to Mitchell’s. He arrived just three minutes before the deadline. There was a long table near the train display where people could place their entries. Two judges, a man and a woman, sat at the table impeccably dressed with bored looks on their faces. They were surprised as much by Mike’s appearance in soiled work clothes, as by the lateness of his entry, coming in just under the wire.
He handed it to the woman. She read it quickly and passed it on to the man. He took his time going over it carefully. Then he looked at the woman whose eyes confirmed that they were in perfect agreement. “I’m sorry Mr. Perkins,” the man said, “This is good but we have several others that are even better.”
Mike was genuinely surprised. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
The woman averted her eyes. The man cleared his throat and said, “Well for one thing, your closing line refers to money. In fact it implies that the trains are too expensive.”
Mike could feel the blood rushing to his head. “Well they are too expensive. If they weren’t, why would you run a contest?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Perkins but you are not the winner today. Better luck next time.”
“Sure. I’ll tell my boys that tomorrow morning I guess. Better luck next time.” With that he turned to go. Just then another man who had been standing nearby walked over.
“My name is Robert J. Mitchell. Can I help you?” he said.
The next morning Randy and Ronnie woke up very early. It wasn’t even light out yet. Mike had given them strict instructions not to leave the bedroom they shared until they were told. He was up early too because he wanted to be sure they would have enough heat when it came time to open presents. He stoked the fire and got Melanie up. Then they all went into the tiny living room to see what was under the tree. Santa Claus came through at the Perkins house that year. The boys were ecstatic.
Upon seeing the shiny new train set, Melanie looked at Mike with a combined sense of fear and wonder. “Mike, I know you would never do something really crazy so I must be witnessing a Christmas miracle.”
Mike put his finger to his lips, smiled and whispered, “It’s a miracle alright. I’ll be working part time at Mitchell’s for a while.”
Melanie smiled and took Mike’s hand, her eyes glistening. “Merry Christmas Michael.”
They watched the boys as they took turns running the train. It was the best Christmas ever.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
The furnace must have died during the night. Shoveling coal was a chore he hated but this was worse. He would have to light a new fire and wait till the wood was burning good and hot before he could add some coal to it.
He forced himself out of bed. He looked over and saw that his wife Melanie was still sleeping. How could she sleep when winter had invaded their bedroom? He wondered. Maybe being pregnant kept a woman warm somehow. He grabbed an extra blanket and gently placed over her body. Then he headed to the cellar and got to work lighting a fire.
As he added heavier pieces of lumber to the paper and light kindling sticks, his head began to clear. He hadn’t even checked on the twins yet. His 8 year old sons were his pride and joy. Secretly he hoped the new baby due in a couple of weeks would be a girl. Of course he told all the guys at the mill he wanted another boy. Melanie was praying for a girl though, so he wanted one too.
Now the fire was roaring. The wood crackled as the red, yellow and blue flame devoured it. He could add the coal soon.
“Daddy? Is it Christmas yet?”
That would be Randy. Although the boys were spitting images of each other he could always tell the difference between the two by the timbre of their young voices.
“Not yet Randy, tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait for it to come,” Randy said.
“Why is that?”
“Well tomorrow Santa is bringing me a new train set, just like I asked for.” Mike’s heart sank. The fire had warmed his bones but suddenly he felt cold again. He forgot all about what the boys had been asking for all these weeks, ever since Thanksgiving. He had priced train sets at Mitchell’s department store again, just like last year. Nothing had changed. No way could he afford something like that. The set the boys asked for, Santa Fe Railway diesel engines with a line of box cars, oil tankers and a shiny red caboose, was priced right at $100, about $70 more than he had to spend. He couldn’t understand why Mitchell’s would display something so expensive when most of the kids in the neighborhood had at least one parent that worked in the mill. Money problems were routine. He even wrote Mr. Mitchell a letter to complain about it. Melanie thought he was crazy. “What good will that do?” she asked. Mike had to admit he didn’t know but he was always writing letters anyway. Some went to politicians, others to the editor of the County Times. It was just something he did.
He turned to face his son. Ronnie was standing next to Randy now. The boys didn’t agree on much but they were united in their desire for that train set. “Now boys, Santa has to take care of a lot of other kids this year. It might have to wait until next year.”
“No Daddy.” It was Ronnie who spoke this time. “He didn’t give us a train last year. You said he ran out of them but we would be first in line this year, remember?”
Mike nodded. “I remember,” he said. He wished he could crawl back into bed and wake up in the middle of January. He started shoveling coal. He and Melanie had talked about it a few days ago. She felt the boys would be disappointed but they would soon get over it. Anyway, they were each getting a new baseball mitt. She pointed out that neither of the boys had mentioned the trains for nearly a week. “They understand Mike, really. They can see we’re struggling. And, with another mouth to feed, well we just can’t do it.”
Randy and Ronnie stood there, neither of them moving a muscle. They watched their father shovel coal into the furnace, waiting for some sign from him that they needn’t worry: Their Christmas dream would come true. “Go on upstairs boys. I’ll fix you some breakfast before I go to work.”
“Santa’s not bringing the trains,” Randy said to Ronnie, disappointment in his voice. The twins turned in unison to climb the stairs to the kitchen.
“Maybe he will,” Mike said. What possessed him to give the boys hope he couldn’t really say. He was broke. But something inside, was it anger at life’s cruelty, that well to do men would make such fine things and keep them out of reach of underprivileged kids? Was it his childlike belief, however fleeting, that miracles can happen at Christmas? Miracles, he thought. He sure had never seen one. And now he would need one. That was not something he was known for.
He put the shovel down, banked the fire and headed up the stairs. Melanie was in the kitchen making breakfast. He gave her a peck on the cheek and went to get ready for work. She followed him into the bathroom. He was putting shaving cream on his face. She walked over to him, fire in her eyes. “Michael, did you just tell your sons they were getting that stupid train set for Christmas?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean? Did you or didn’t you tell them that? They are just humming out there, talking about how the train’s gonna be around the tree when they get up in the morning. Have you lost your mind?”
“All I said Mel, was maybe.”
“You might as well have guaranteed it Mike. What are we going to do? We’re behind on the rent as it is. Don’t you know they’re going to tell their friends all about it today? Then tomorrow they are going to wish they could crawl under a rock. As far as I’m concerned you can join them.”
Twenty minutes later Mike walked down the street toward the bus stop. It was an extremely cold and windy day. Snow flurries decorated the streets. Not that Mike noticed. He wasn’t cold like he was earlier. No, he was numb, inside and out. The bus came right on schedule. A lot of people took the day off so the bus wasn’t crowded. Usually he had to stand all the way to his stop which was two blocks from the mill. Today he got a seat. The bus ran through its route, making stops along the way. An old gentleman got on just two stops before Mike’s and sat down next to him.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. “Looks like it’s going to be a cold one.”
Mike just nodded. He sat staring at the ads on the bus’s wall not reading them, just staring as if one of them might have the answer.
“Say, if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like a man carrying a heavy load,” the man said.
Mike turned and looked the guy over. He could be taciturn when things weren’t going well. Melanie had spoken to him about that more than once. This was one of those times. Recognizing that Mike wasn’t going to respond the old man turned away and started to read his newspaper. The bus stopped to pick up another passenger. As it pulled way from the curb Mike reached up and pulled the cord for his stop. He checked his watch and saw he was going to be late for work. He shrugged as if to say, “What else could go wrong today?”
The old man let out a sigh. He folded up his newspaper and offered it to Mike. “Go ahead and take it. There might be something in the news today that will cheer you up.”
“I doubt that.”
“Just the same, take the paper. Nothing is as bad as it seems my boy.” The bus was coming to a stop; the door opened. Mike got up to go. The man shoved the newspaper toward him. He grabbed it, mumbled a thank you and bounded off the bus. He was going to toss it in the wastebasket but he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to be a moment later than he already was.
He stood over his machine all morning as if he was in a trance. His mind raced as he considered all the possibilities. A bank loan was out of the question. But Melanie’s parents might be willing to lend him the money, a promising thought until it dawned on him that he would soon be asking them to help with the hospital bill when the new baby arrived. Another possibility was Shaughnessy an old school chum from the neighborhood. He could definitely get the money from him but Shaughnessy was a loan shark. He would be paying him for the rest of his life and unlike the electric company, missing a payment wasn’t an option. He had to face reality. The boys would be disappointed but it wasn’t fatal. Feeling sorry for himself Mike thought, “get used to the idea kids because it will happen a lot in life.” The thought shamed him.
The whistle blew signaling lunch time. He went to his locker and reached for his lunch pail. Sitting underneath it was the newspaper the old man gave him. Thinking about the old man he smiled, if only for a moment. The guy actually bore a slight resemblance to Santa Claus. Nobody would have confused him with the Santa from the Coca Cola ads, but the guy was overweight and sported a scruffy white beard. He had a red sweater under his coat and he wore heavy black boots.
Mike took the paper over to one of the picnic tables where he usually ate lunch. On most days the tables would be crowded but a lot of the guys took vacation this time of year. He sat in silence and ate his peanut butter and banana sandwich. He picked up the paper and started to turn the pages. On page 25 he saw something that brought him up short. It was a Mitchell’s Department store ad with a picture of the exact train set the boys asked for. He could not believe his eyes when he read the ad; this week only, Mitchell’s was offering to give the entire train set away to the customer that could write a limerick describing the scene in the ad which showed an enraptured little boy at the controls of the train. Mike grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper. He always enjoyed writing poems but he never showed anyone, not even Melanie, a single word he wrote. In hardy any time at all he had what he thought was the perfect limerick.
The Santa Fe Railway a red and white honey
Running the trains makes a boy’s day sunny
Lights and whistles so much to see
He’s hoping Santa puts one under his tree
It’ll happen for sure if daddy has money
The ad said the limerick had to be entered by 2:00 p.m. that day. He checked his watch. It was 12:30. He would have to ask for the afternoon off. Certainly a part of him understood how foolish he was being. What were his chances of winning? But the more he thought about it the more he believed that what he wrote was a winner. He just might deliver on his promise after all. He went looking for his boss to see if he could get leave early.
“Mike, I don’t think we can spare you,” his boss said. “We got too many people out today and we have an order that has to ship by five o’clock. Sorry buddy but you have to stay.”
Mike was crushed. He thought about telling his boss what he was up to but he was sure they guy would think he was crazy or worse, lying.
“I really have something important I need to do,” was all he could manage to say.
His boss shook his head and “Sorry.”
Mike stuffed the limerick in his shirt pocket and went back to work. At 1:30 his boss stopped by. He looked at Mike and said, “Don’t say a word. Not now. Not ever. To anyone.” With that he gently pushed Mike aside and said, “Get out of here.”
Mike practically ran out of the building, stopping only to punch his time card. He walked and ran all the way to Mitchell’s. He arrived just three minutes before the deadline. There was a long table near the train display where people could place their entries. Two judges, a man and a woman, sat at the table impeccably dressed with bored looks on their faces. They were surprised as much by Mike’s appearance in soiled work clothes, as by the lateness of his entry, coming in just under the wire.
He handed it to the woman. She read it quickly and passed it on to the man. He took his time going over it carefully. Then he looked at the woman whose eyes confirmed that they were in perfect agreement. “I’m sorry Mr. Perkins,” the man said, “This is good but we have several others that are even better.”
Mike was genuinely surprised. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
The woman averted her eyes. The man cleared his throat and said, “Well for one thing, your closing line refers to money. In fact it implies that the trains are too expensive.”
Mike could feel the blood rushing to his head. “Well they are too expensive. If they weren’t, why would you run a contest?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Perkins but you are not the winner today. Better luck next time.”
“Sure. I’ll tell my boys that tomorrow morning I guess. Better luck next time.” With that he turned to go. Just then another man who had been standing nearby walked over.
“My name is Robert J. Mitchell. Can I help you?” he said.
The next morning Randy and Ronnie woke up very early. It wasn’t even light out yet. Mike had given them strict instructions not to leave the bedroom they shared until they were told. He was up early too because he wanted to be sure they would have enough heat when it came time to open presents. He stoked the fire and got Melanie up. Then they all went into the tiny living room to see what was under the tree. Santa Claus came through at the Perkins house that year. The boys were ecstatic.
Upon seeing the shiny new train set, Melanie looked at Mike with a combined sense of fear and wonder. “Mike, I know you would never do something really crazy so I must be witnessing a Christmas miracle.”
Mike put his finger to his lips, smiled and whispered, “It’s a miracle alright. I’ll be working part time at Mitchell’s for a while.”
Melanie smiled and took Mike’s hand, her eyes glistening. “Merry Christmas Michael.”
They watched the boys as they took turns running the train. It was the best Christmas ever.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving! Pass the Fish?
It’s turkey day already. We’ll follow a lot of holiday traditions, perhaps without knowing exactly why. Consider this: The Pilgrims never strayed very far from the ocean. Have you ever wondered why turkey was the meal of choice on that first Thanksgiving? Why not tilapia? Surely tilapia could be found in the estuaries in the Plymouth vicinity. The idea that fish could have been the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving Day feast isn’t all that far fetched. According to a spokesperson for the living-history museum Plimoth Plantation, that first Thanksgiving the natives and the Pilgrims feasted on fish, lobster and clams, in addition to venison, birds and nuts. They had peas and carrots too. I’ll bet the Pilgrim kids fed that to the squirrels.
Of course, had they chosen tilapia, cornbread stuffing probably wouldn’t have been an option. Nor would gravy be a popular item. A lot of restaurants serve tilapia these days but I have never seen, let alone tasted, tilapia gravy. A creative chef could no doubt make one, but would it go well with mashed potatoes? No wonder turkey was the surviving tradition. Let’s face it; a tilapia sandwich Thanksgiving night, with or without cranberry sauce, is about as appealing as a Detroit Lions – Cleveland Browns football game.
Regardless, pumpkin pie would still be an important part of the holiday. But, then again, that might be by default. Did the first settlers try cranberry pie the first few years? Maybe they got tired of scrubbing the red stains out of the special tablecloth. Tide wasn’t around then to help. And beating that tablecloth on a few rocks in cold water is no match for cranberry stains, that’s for sure. They probably decided that the cranberry didn’t mix well with Cool Whip either. Yes, pumpkin pie was a safer bet.
I suppose turkey is the quintessential American meal. People from all cultures have immigrated to America, especially over the last 150 years. Regardless of their origins, most have adopted turkey on Thanksgiving wholeheartedly. But, had another culture settled America first, would turkey have become the Thanksgiving table superstar it is today? My parents were first generation Italian Americans, born in the USA. My mother dutifully prepared a traditional Thanksgiving dinner but there were a few items that I don’t think the Pilgrims ever tried. Mushrooms sautéed in olive oil and garlic come to mind. At least she never stuffed the turkey with meatballs and sausage. Listen: had the Italians arrived first (right after Christophoro Columbo) there’s a distinct possibility that the Thanksgiving menu would look more like what one can get any night of the week at Buca De Beppo. They’re open Thanksgiving if you’re so inclined.
A lot of people say they really look forward to enjoying leftovers for a couple of days. Turkey sandwiches for lunch, pie for a midnight snack and so on. Of course, if you’re having company you must cook a turkey that’s big enough to send guests home with provisions too. Advance planning is critical. There is nothing worse than having to turn over the drumsticks to your brother-in-law, leaving you with turkey gizzard and the wishbone. The Pilgrims and the natives probably didn’t have that problem. For starters, the closest thing they had to a Frigidaire was a stream filled with cold water. Without Tupperware to hold the leftovers, the tilapia still swimming would have taken revenge and eaten them.
Regardless of what’s on the menu, the purpose of the holiday hasn’t changed all that much over the centuries. Originally what is now known as thanksgiving was meant to celebrate the harvest season. Europeans, American Indians and other cultures held feasts to offer thanks to the good Lord for their sustenance and survival. Of course the vast majority of Americans were farmers in the early years. Today, not many of us are connected to farm work.
Except for the wizards of Wall Street who have the privilege of collecting huge annual bonuses, most of us don’t actually celebrate a harvest on Thanksgiving. But we are thankful for what we have.
Like Old Glory and raucous town hall meetings, Turkey on Thanksgiving is truly an American touchstone. President Obama should be grateful for that. If tradition holds, he will pardon a turkey today. He should be grateful tilapia isn’t the centerpiece of dining room tables. Dropping a gasping fish into a river would have been a lousy photo-op.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Of course, had they chosen tilapia, cornbread stuffing probably wouldn’t have been an option. Nor would gravy be a popular item. A lot of restaurants serve tilapia these days but I have never seen, let alone tasted, tilapia gravy. A creative chef could no doubt make one, but would it go well with mashed potatoes? No wonder turkey was the surviving tradition. Let’s face it; a tilapia sandwich Thanksgiving night, with or without cranberry sauce, is about as appealing as a Detroit Lions – Cleveland Browns football game.
Regardless, pumpkin pie would still be an important part of the holiday. But, then again, that might be by default. Did the first settlers try cranberry pie the first few years? Maybe they got tired of scrubbing the red stains out of the special tablecloth. Tide wasn’t around then to help. And beating that tablecloth on a few rocks in cold water is no match for cranberry stains, that’s for sure. They probably decided that the cranberry didn’t mix well with Cool Whip either. Yes, pumpkin pie was a safer bet.
I suppose turkey is the quintessential American meal. People from all cultures have immigrated to America, especially over the last 150 years. Regardless of their origins, most have adopted turkey on Thanksgiving wholeheartedly. But, had another culture settled America first, would turkey have become the Thanksgiving table superstar it is today? My parents were first generation Italian Americans, born in the USA. My mother dutifully prepared a traditional Thanksgiving dinner but there were a few items that I don’t think the Pilgrims ever tried. Mushrooms sautéed in olive oil and garlic come to mind. At least she never stuffed the turkey with meatballs and sausage. Listen: had the Italians arrived first (right after Christophoro Columbo) there’s a distinct possibility that the Thanksgiving menu would look more like what one can get any night of the week at Buca De Beppo. They’re open Thanksgiving if you’re so inclined.
A lot of people say they really look forward to enjoying leftovers for a couple of days. Turkey sandwiches for lunch, pie for a midnight snack and so on. Of course, if you’re having company you must cook a turkey that’s big enough to send guests home with provisions too. Advance planning is critical. There is nothing worse than having to turn over the drumsticks to your brother-in-law, leaving you with turkey gizzard and the wishbone. The Pilgrims and the natives probably didn’t have that problem. For starters, the closest thing they had to a Frigidaire was a stream filled with cold water. Without Tupperware to hold the leftovers, the tilapia still swimming would have taken revenge and eaten them.
Regardless of what’s on the menu, the purpose of the holiday hasn’t changed all that much over the centuries. Originally what is now known as thanksgiving was meant to celebrate the harvest season. Europeans, American Indians and other cultures held feasts to offer thanks to the good Lord for their sustenance and survival. Of course the vast majority of Americans were farmers in the early years. Today, not many of us are connected to farm work.
Except for the wizards of Wall Street who have the privilege of collecting huge annual bonuses, most of us don’t actually celebrate a harvest on Thanksgiving. But we are thankful for what we have.
Like Old Glory and raucous town hall meetings, Turkey on Thanksgiving is truly an American touchstone. President Obama should be grateful for that. If tradition holds, he will pardon a turkey today. He should be grateful tilapia isn’t the centerpiece of dining room tables. Dropping a gasping fish into a river would have been a lousy photo-op.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. All rights reserved.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
A Couple of Historic Moments
I got an email from President Obama just before midnight (11:56 p.m.) Saturday night. Yes, he wanted to tell me as soon as he could that at 11:15 p.m. the House of Representatives passed a health insurance reform bill. His email ran 8 short paragraphs. I found myself wondering about that. I mean the President is surely a good writer but to crank out such a long message and send it in just 41 minutes is amazing. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one he sent it to. It was addressed to me personally but we’ve never actually met.
The President said it was a historic moment and he praised the bravery of those in Congress that voted yes. The he cautioned me that it was “a night to celebrate but not to rest.” Next, the President expressed worries about the Senate bill’s prospects. Insurance companies are sure to do whatever they can to derail the bill. I have to say I was with the President all the way up to this point in his message. Regardless of how I feel about health care reform, I think it’s wonderful that the President is living up to his campaign promise to change the way things are done in Washington. Barack Obama is a busy man. Yet he thinks enough of me to write and so late on a Saturday night! I mean I never heard a word from George Bush.
But then the President said something that brought me up shorter than the period at the end of this sentence. He asked me for money. He wanted to know if I would donate $25 to the cause. Here was the President of the United States, our 44th President, asking for money to help him push his agenda.
Presidents have asked citizens to contribute to worthy causes like helping the people that suffered so much from Hurricane Katrina. But a sitting President asking working stiffs for money to help win an ongoing political battle marks another historic moment. I guess it was inevitable really. Vested interests, big corporations and rich people with more money than they need, have been engaged in a titanic struggle to hold onto their particular pieces of the pie for years now. Reforming big spending by well heeled lobbies is probably impossible given the advantages of the current system that accrue to lawmakers. Instead the answer seems to be, “Let’s get the little guy in on the action.” I’m not sure it will work though. Right now middle class America puts up with an enormous amount of electronic dueling during Presidential elections. How many of us are willing to spend our hard earned money for media ads with their laser like focus on dividing us further apart?
Still, it seems to me that the President’s asking for donations to fight for his agenda is an unprecedented step. If it works can we expect more of this type of behavior? Will we get Christmas cards praising artificial trees along with a request for a donation to get the administration’s version of global warming legislation passed?
Maybe when the President speaks to school children again he can ask them to donate 50% of their lunch money to get his education program done.
Will the President and his successors wind up hosting telethons, staying up all night a la Jerry Lewis mixing issues talk with entertainers that support the President’s views? (Note to Barack: Labor Day is taken and Jerry’s cause is worthy.)
As the most powerful man in the world, the President of the United States certainly has the right to use Teddy Roosevelt’s bully pulpit to advocate his agenda. But making a direct appeal for money is unseemly. It’s as if being President isn’t enough. He wants to be the president of a PAC as well.
We are living in a time when well reasoned argument isn’t enough anymore. The idea that together we will ultimately do what’s right based on good thoughtful ideas, has been replaced by money plays. I understand the President’s dilemma, but in the long term his strategy is not a winner for him or us.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. Al rights reserved.
The President said it was a historic moment and he praised the bravery of those in Congress that voted yes. The he cautioned me that it was “a night to celebrate but not to rest.” Next, the President expressed worries about the Senate bill’s prospects. Insurance companies are sure to do whatever they can to derail the bill. I have to say I was with the President all the way up to this point in his message. Regardless of how I feel about health care reform, I think it’s wonderful that the President is living up to his campaign promise to change the way things are done in Washington. Barack Obama is a busy man. Yet he thinks enough of me to write and so late on a Saturday night! I mean I never heard a word from George Bush.
But then the President said something that brought me up shorter than the period at the end of this sentence. He asked me for money. He wanted to know if I would donate $25 to the cause. Here was the President of the United States, our 44th President, asking for money to help him push his agenda.
Presidents have asked citizens to contribute to worthy causes like helping the people that suffered so much from Hurricane Katrina. But a sitting President asking working stiffs for money to help win an ongoing political battle marks another historic moment. I guess it was inevitable really. Vested interests, big corporations and rich people with more money than they need, have been engaged in a titanic struggle to hold onto their particular pieces of the pie for years now. Reforming big spending by well heeled lobbies is probably impossible given the advantages of the current system that accrue to lawmakers. Instead the answer seems to be, “Let’s get the little guy in on the action.” I’m not sure it will work though. Right now middle class America puts up with an enormous amount of electronic dueling during Presidential elections. How many of us are willing to spend our hard earned money for media ads with their laser like focus on dividing us further apart?
Still, it seems to me that the President’s asking for donations to fight for his agenda is an unprecedented step. If it works can we expect more of this type of behavior? Will we get Christmas cards praising artificial trees along with a request for a donation to get the administration’s version of global warming legislation passed?
Maybe when the President speaks to school children again he can ask them to donate 50% of their lunch money to get his education program done.
Will the President and his successors wind up hosting telethons, staying up all night a la Jerry Lewis mixing issues talk with entertainers that support the President’s views? (Note to Barack: Labor Day is taken and Jerry’s cause is worthy.)
As the most powerful man in the world, the President of the United States certainly has the right to use Teddy Roosevelt’s bully pulpit to advocate his agenda. But making a direct appeal for money is unseemly. It’s as if being President isn’t enough. He wants to be the president of a PAC as well.
We are living in a time when well reasoned argument isn’t enough anymore. The idea that together we will ultimately do what’s right based on good thoughtful ideas, has been replaced by money plays. I understand the President’s dilemma, but in the long term his strategy is not a winner for him or us.
Copyright 2009, Len Serafino. Al rights reserved.
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