Marriage # 2 - Vicki and David give it a try.

My earlier post entitled "Marriage # 1 -The Texan and the New Yorker " generated a myriad of requests (3 people, as I recall) for similar stories on Marriages 2 and 3.

The song "Breaking up is hard to do" pretty well describes the time between the end of marriage #1 and the beginning of Marriage #2.

During this time, The Fairfax Unitarian Church was a godsend (no pun intended). I had many friends there and my work on the Board of Trustees kept me busy and provided a great support group. It was in this setting that I met Vicki.

As with earlier posts, I issue this disclaimer: Although I'll try to keep the chronology straight and the facts accurate, let the reader beware. Or as Kurt Vonnegut would say, "So it goes".

My first memory of Vicki was at a church Pot Luck dinner. We arrived with other people, but quickly decided we were more interested in each other. Everyone was very civilized about it, and by the time dinner was over, we had realigned ourselves and the rest is history. I'd like to report that the other couple also got married, and they did. But not to each other.

A lot of early memories are too sketchy to record, but I recall vividly the night I met Vicki's children. When I arrived at her apartment, she went into their bedroom to retrieve them. I can still see, in my mind's eye, Vicki surrounded by her four beautiful children. They looked like a giant amorphous creature - five heads, ten arms (eight of them holding their mother very tightly) and ten feet taking tiny steps toward me. As this mass of humanity untangled, I was introduced to John, Laura, Carey and Melisa (they will henceforth be referred to as the kids), none of whom looked like any of the others. In later years, it was fun to show their picture to people have them guess which ones were twins. You can play the game,too! Click here to see the kids "all growed up". Could you pick out the twins? See answer at end of post.

Many people have asked, then and since, how I could have taken on such a large responsibility. I honestly never thought about it in those terms. I've had regrets in my life, but this wasn't one of them. At the same time, I must acknowledge the support of their father David, step-mother Kitty, and all the grandparents. Every one involved always made me feel welcome (Nan, do you still make those wonderful coconut cakes? hint, hint!)

Life was pretty hectic at times. There were sporting events to attend, participate in, and coach. Vicki got her Masters degree (mostly at night) while holding down a job and parenting. I logged about a million miles of chauffeuring, and became coach of a girl softball team for seven years. My co-coach Bill and I took full advantage of the rule which allowed coaches to pick all their own children first when team rosters were drafted. Several years our kids made up half of our roster, and they were all good players. The other coaches hated us.

Swimming was also a major activity in our lives. We were all involved in one way or another, even a landlubber like me (I tried avoid the water). Vicki and I were timers, ribbon dispensers, record keepers, and other roles too numerous to mention.

Another important aspect of our lives in those days was the activities of the Fairfax Unitarian Church. We especially enjoyed the concept of "extended family". Each family was composed of around 30 - 40 men, women and children, ranging from babies to grandparents. We had lots of social activities, including a week at the beach each summer. Each extended family rented their own beach house(s), divided up the cooking, housekeeping and laundry work. As I recall, these trips were pretty peaceful (except for a couple murders resulting from dish washing disputes).

As the kids grew older, Vicki and I seemed to grow apart. We tried the usual things: counseling, separations, reconciliations, etc. I'm not sure either of us could explain, with any degree of certainty, why our marriage failed. On the other hand, Vicki is a smart person, and perhaps she has figured it out during a few spare moments in the last 20 or so years. So, Vicki, on the off chance you are reading this and wish to say a few words to our vast listening audience, feel free to use the comments feature at the bottom of this post.

Note: It's very important that I acknowledge the support for my son Claude exhibited by Vicki and the kids. This was always true no matter what the state of our marriage. I'd like to think I provided similar help for John, Laura, Carey and Melisa. I love you all.

Note2: A later post will fill some of the gaps in this one. Space limitations often prohibit the full exposure a topic deserves (this one could use a lot more), but I'm 75 and have PD, remember?

Answer to the photo quiz, above: top row - John and Carey; bottom row - Laura and Melisa. The twins are .... Carey and Melisa!!

A Night to Remember (ugh!)

Nancy and I decided to see the musical, 'Meet John Doe", at Ford's Theatre in Washington, D. C. to celebrate the mid-point of Nancy's Spring Break. The tickets were purchased on a beautiful spring day during Cherry Blossom Festival time. Unfortunately, as the day to see the musical approached, so did a frigid mass of cold air from Canada.

Undaunted by this news, and lacking even a modicum of common sense, I chose fashion over warmth in my attire for the evening. It was as if, by the power of will alone, I could force the weather to be nice because I so much wanted it to be. As usual, there was a price to pay for such stupidity. Another curious notion I hold is that I can look at a map and instantly commit it to memory. The fallacy of this notion was exposed when I parked the car and started walking toward the theater in a direction off by precisely 180 degrees.

Well, let's summarize the situation. We are cold. We are lost. We are racing the clock. One of us has Parkinson's Disease and shouldn't be outside freezing in the middle of the night. Nancy, correctly sensing that I would die before asking for directions, got them from a stranger and we resumed our quest. We arrived at exactly 8 O'Clock Unfortunately, the play had started at 7:30.

This news was delivered by a woman in the box office in a tone usually reserved for addressing those of extremely low intelligence. I wanted very much to smack her. Instead, I grabbed our tickets and entered the theater. We rushed up the circular staircase to the balcony area (Puff, puff!). Oh, look! The show had indeed started and looked like fun.

Unfortunately, it was very dark and there was no usher to show us to our seats. I studied the ticket stubs by the light of a small lamp at the back of the theater and decided to go for broke. I started very slowly down the pitch dark aisle toward the front of the balcony. This is exactly the kind of dangerous situation that we of the Parkinson persuasion are told to avoid like the plague. Miraculously, arms appeared from the darkness to lend support (who says there's no God?). We finally reached our seats, noting that they would have been great except for the post which stood between us and the stage. But by leaning away from each other, we were each able to see one half of the stage.

For some reason, I was finding it difficult to get in the mood. Not only was I exhausted, it was time for my medications. Using the Braille system, I managed to find the appropriate pills in my pill box and swallowed them. During the intermission, I realized I would be unable to make it through the entire play without a trip to the men's room. My heart sank as I remembered it was on the first floor. As I looked down that quaint little circular staircase, it appeared to be about the same height as the Grand Canyon. I looked at Nancy and said, desperately, "Please let me go home".

We found our car and started home. I began to have visions of climbing into my nice warm bed and sleeping forever (or until time for my next pill, whichever came first). Unfortunately, some local traffic official had decided it would be a great time to close the portion of roadway which I normally use to cross the Potomac river into Virginia. The detour provided was confusing to me and most of the other drivers trying to get to Virginia. We all ended up following each other in circles until we finally got back on track. When we finally got home, I thought to myself, "the guy who first said, "Home, Sweet Home" really knew what he was talking about. Indeed, I have vowed never to leave home again (except maybe to see the part of the play we missed).

KING TUT - Up Close and Personal

Our intrepid travelers were last seen straggling back from the White House Tour (see last post). As you may recall, the tour was fantastic but very tiring, especially for a certain 75 year old who shall remain nameless to protect the infirmed.

Never ones to let moss grow under our feet, we decided to visit Philadelphia the following day; the better to see Tutankhamun, otherwise known as King Tut. The Texas contingent of our group decided to skip the exhibit when they learned that King Tut was dead. Instead, they planned to spend a full day sight seeing in the historical area.

But first we had to get there. We began hearing ominous news of an impending snow storm, but since we had spent a king's ransom on tickets, we decided to try, anyway. The usual three hour trip took almost eight hours. The aforementioned 75 year old, an obstinate control freak, insisted on being the designated driver, and refused all appeals to turn back. As the snow continued to fall and driving conditions worsened, he appeared to spent most of his time looking for "potty break" opportunities.

Our plan was to have dinner with Claude's family in Philadelphia. We were a little embarrassed when we missed our arrival time by 3 hours and even more embarrassed when we learned that 10-15 of Monica's relatives were among those waiting for us to arrive. Mindful that we still had to reach our downtown hotel, we finished dinner, said our goodbyes and departed. The stress of driving through the snow, combined with the weariness engendered by the White House tour a day earlier, left me exhausted. We finally made it to the hotel, registered, and fell into bed, wondering if we would be able to climb out again the next morning.

As the new day dawned, our spirits brightened. Nancy, Asher and I took a taxi to the Franklin Museum to check out King Tut while Bob, Sue and Luke did their own thing. The museum steps were very interesting (only the front of the steps were painted, revealing King Tut's image there). I then made what can only be described as a brilliant move; I asked for, and received, a motorized wheelchair. The combination of riding instead of walking and standing around, and Asher's skillful navigating saved the day. I was especially impressed with his assured and confident manner as he maneuvered the wheelchair from one great vantage point to the next. I saw all the exhibits, up close and personal. Later, we had lunch and spent more time in the museum

Thrilled to have accomplished our goals without a heart attack or a stroke, I again sought the comfort and security of the hotel bed for a nice long nap. I left orders to be notified when food was available. We had dinner in a fine tavern and retired for the evening.

The next morning featured breakfast in bed, ordered by that quintessential gourmet, Asher Thomson-Jones. I don't remember him picking up the tab, but I'm sure he did. We spent a little more time with Bob, Sue and Luke before they left for the Airport. Nancy, Asher and I had a much easier trip home than expected. All in all, a very pleasant ending to an memorable week.

The White House is "our house."

My brother Bob, his wife Sue, and grandson Luke are visiting us from Texas. As part of their trip, Bob had arranged for my wife Nancy, grandson Asher and me to join them for a tour of the White House. I had little in the way of expectations, except a vague feeling of apprehension. Truth be told, I expected to be herded, along with 20 or 30 other people, through a few nondescript rooms, and shown the door. The reality was quite different.

The day had started with me depositing Bob, Sue and Luke to the local Metro Station where they were wisped away for a day of sightseeing in our nation's capital. Nancy, a 6th grade teacher, continued her relentless attack on ignorance in the public schools. I remained at home, hoping to justify my self proclaimed title of trip coordinator. Surprisingly, I managed to get myself, Nancy and Asher to the parking lot of the agreed upon meeting place (ESPN Zone), without a single accident. We turned out attention to the tour.

Mindful of my condition (75 year old PWP -Person with Parkinson's), we took a taxi to the NW gate of the White House. Not so fast, Tourist. I should have said we told the driver to take us to the NW gate. We soon discovered he had dropped us off at the opposite side of the White House, instead. We walked, and walked and walked. I began wishing I was somewhere else. Eventually, we found the proper gate, met our guide and entered the White House Grounds. Although very happy to have made it, I noticed that my backside was dragging.

Thus began one of the most wonderful and, at the same time, draining experiences of my life. Our group consisted of the tour guide and the 6 of us. He was extremely knowledgeable with respect to the White House and the Presidents, as well. He was very personable and made us feel right at home. Indeed, we were constantly telling our two grandsons not to touch anything, and he simply reminded us that this was "our house". And despite the current environment of heightened cynicism and sarcasm, we found ourselves actually believing it.

My only regret was centered around the limitations imposed on me by Parkinson's, and to a lesser extent, my age. Although I wouldn't have missed the tour for the world, the walking and standing required made the tour extremely difficult. I should have brought or rented a wheel chair, and will do so when taking other tours. Another low point was when the batteries in my camera died and I hadn't remembered to bring spares. I like to think that wouldn't have happened a few short years ago. But all things considered, and after a day of rest, I'm ready for my next challenge. Tomorrow we go to Philadelphia to see the King Tut Exhibit at the Franklin Museum.

My Friend, Sylvan.

Sylvan was the last in a series of cats who have owned me during my lifetime. When he died, a decade or so ago, at the grand old age of nineteen, I didn't have the heart to look for another cat who'd have me. It simply became too hard to keep saying, "Goodbye, old friend!" Of course, it's entirely possible that I might have preceded the new cat into the great unknown, but let's not dwell on that.

Sylvan, as you can see in this photo, is dead serious with respect to his duties as watchcat.

This story first appeared in the Montgomery Journal, Rockville, Md., and later on the Trumbull and Core radio show, WMAL-TV, Washington, D.C.

Note to readers: I realize most of you will be unable to read the small print. If you click on the picture, it's likely you'll be rewarded with print that is readable to the naked eye. If this doesn't work for you, let me know (leave a comment or email me). Otherwise, enjoy!

Marriage # 1: the Texan and the New Yorker

While in the army, I attended an eight week course in Fort Slocum, N.Y. My army buddy Howie, native New Yorker and lawyer in real life, took leave to coincide with my arrival in the Big Apple. He and his wife invited me to stay with them and gave me a tour of the city shorty before I reported for duty. For one born and raised in a small town, this was heady stuff, indeed.

Since the course only met on weekdays, I vowed to spend the rest of my time in the City. This was made possible by the Times Square USO, which provided inexpensive hotel rooms and free entertainment to servicemen. Ever the sophisticate, my first Friday night's choice was a movie.

The next day I was back at the USO hoping to land another free movie. This time, however, a young lady volunteer named Claudette responded to my request by asking if I liked plays. Since I had never even seen a play, I muttered, "Oh, they're OK." or something equally dumb. She persuaded me to see my first Broadway Musical, gratis. I was mightily impressed and decided this was how I was going spend the rest of my time in NYC.

The next weekend I was back at the USO, hoping to enjoy another play and perhaps another chat with Claudette. Well, she was there and had a plan. If I was agreeable, she would slip me an extra ticket. I would hang around until she could leave, we'd grab a bite to eat, and see a play. I remember thinking, "These New Yorkers really know how to get things done!"

The next day we did the "get two tickets, grab a bite and see a play" thing again. This time I added a new wrinkle. I asked where she lived. New Jersey, she replied. Mr. Cool offhandedly inquired, "How far is New Jersey from here?" She replied, "Oh, about 12 minutes on the bus." I could hardly contain my glee at learning I would not have to spend hours taking her home, in case we ever had a real date. So we did the "get two tickets, grab a bite and see a play" thing, with the "Then I'll take you home" thing thrown in for good measure.

Weekend followed weekend as I racked up ten (yes, 10) Broadway plays in eight weeks. I also met Claudette's folks. I remember they were amazed at how much milk I could put away at one setting. I, in turn, was fascinated by the way they enhanced their communication by varying the volume of their voices and using their hands for emphasis.

By the time I returned to Texas, we were planning a future together. Claudette and her mom flew down to meet my folks. This was a bit of culture shock for all concerned. As you may have guessed, this small town was not exactly a hotbed of modern ideas and current fashion. So when Claudette appeared in town one day wearing short shorts, it caused a minor uproar (did I mention the shorts were short?) But overall, the trip went well and included a drive to a Florida beach. I remember thinking that our little group represented quite a diversity of mores and manners. The highlight of the trip was the marriage proposal and the presentation of the ring which my old army buddy Bill had helped me pick it out at the PX.

Our wedding was scheduled for the following February, a few weeks after my scheduled discharge. Unfortunately, I ended up in the hospital with an ailment (never diagnosed) and the wedding was postponed. Howie the lawyer not only sprung me from the hospital and the army, he was my Best Man. The honeymoon, if memory serves, consisted of a seeing a few plays and looking for a job (Claudette already had one).

We ended up with jobs we weren't thrilled with, so when a position involving a series of moves around the country presented itself, we were ready to go. I remember telling Claudette I'd be working with computers. "What's that?" she asked. "I think they're some kinda big, smart, fast adding machines," I opined.

It was a fun job in many ways. Although we were transferred every year or so, we always had friends because we moved as a team. We lived in Massachusetts, New Jersey (Claude was born there), Michigan and Alabama. But this lifestyle got old and I ended up with IBM in the Virginia suburbs. Claudette began a career in retailing, and managed a number of shops in the Washington area.

But somehow, someway, our marriage developed serious problems. It's hard to pinpoint what went wrong; unmet expectations, growing apart, who knows? The last few years were especially rough, leaving scars on us all. We tried hard, and we probably broke the record for reconciliation attempts. But although no one should end a marriage frivolously, it's imperative to know when to fold. We started strong but couldn't finish. We came close, but no cigar.

Velasco, Texas - My Home Town

When I arrived on the scene, July 30, 1931, the population of Velasco, Texas stood at 499. I made it an even 500. OK, that's probably not true in terms of verifiable fact. On the other hand, I've found that a slavish adherence to absolute truth has ruined many a good story.
Indeed, much of this account will rely on the memory of a 75 year old who often has trouble remembering what happened yesterday. So, cut me (and yourself) a little slack. I'll try to stay in the same ballpark as The Truth, and you enjoy yourself. If the spirit moves you, leave a comment. On the off chance someone reads this who has actually lived in, or even heard of, Velasco, I'd especially like to hear from you (and yes, I do tend to use a lot of commas and parenthesis).

As it turns out, Velasco was founded in 1831 on the Texas Gulf Coast, some 35 miles southwest of Galveston. click on map. In 1836, it became the temporary capital of the Republic of Texas. WOW! The Treaty of Velasco was signed there the same year, with General Santa Anna representing Mexico. Rumor has it the Texans got the best of that deal. At this point, pause, take a deep breath, and plow ahead for even more thrills.

During the next half century, Velasco's fortunes rose and fell. The Hurricane of 1875 destroyed most of the town. Indeed, by 1884, there was only a general store and a boat builder's shop left; its residents numbered only fifty. But by 1892, it had 136 business establishments and 137 residences, an electric light plant and a planing mill. By the end of the century, it had added a deep water port, railway service, schools, a bank, several churches, and two weekly newspapers. The population had risen to 3000. Go, Velascans? Velascoites? Velastonians!

At this point, stuff really started hitting hitting the fan. The 1900 hurricane destroyed the town. But Velasco slowly rebuilt itself and experienced economic peaks and valleys during the next four decades. Its population had grown to 5000 by 1950 and it was incorporated into that thriving metropolis Freeport in 1957. By that time I had finished college and my military obligation. No one consulted me about the incorporation, and I'm not sure how I would have voted if they had.

Last night as I was finishing this post, I googled a map of the part of Freeport which used to be Velasco. Although the satellite pictures were impressive, I was unable to positively identify the house I grew up in. A real downer! Especially since it was still there several years ago when I attended my 50th high school graduation celebration. Perhaps it is smaller than I remember or my eyes weaker than I will admit. In any event, I have this almost irresistible urge to go back one last time and walk the streets of my old home town. Hopefully, I won't have graduated to a wheelchair by that time.

Coming soon: My Home Town, Part 2 (growing up there)

My Son Claude, the Christmas Baby.

My son Claude was born on Christmas Day, in 1957. His expectant mother and father went outside on Christmas Eve hoping to see a bright new shining star in the heavens. Unfortunately, it was cloudy.
All kidding aside, Claude has been an enduring gift. He has also been an inspiration because of his courage and tenacity in the face of adversity, often against long odds. He and Monica have produced two beautiful children. And, finally, he has a great sense of humor (it's genetic!). Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday and a Happy New Year, Claude. I love you!

Savannah checks out new home, will stay!

Miss Savannah Lucille Thompson-Jones, after checking out her new living arrangements, decided to share the Rockville home of her parents, Caroline and Darryl. She especially likes her two big brothers, Asher and Kai. Savannah recently passed the eight pound mark and, judging from her eating habits, she seems intent on gaining more.
Savannah's grandfather, Pop Pop Siltman, when interviewed, said he only regrets he was unable to provide similar blog coverage for the births of all his children and grandchildren.
Blog management has announced plans to provide additional coverage of other family members whose names have, thus far, been mentioned only in passing. An attempt will be made to locate and secure rights to photos which will be used to illustrate past blessed events. Stay tuned for future news of this and other breaking news!

My friend Phil.

I met Phil in 1961; my first day on a new job in Arlington, Virginia. I was assigned a desk next to his; we've been friends ever since. I don't recall much of our early friendship, but he seemed reminiscent of other colorful characters I had encountered since leaving a small Texas college nearly a decade earlier. I was married to my first wife Claudette at the time; our son Claude was 2 years old. Phil was single and when Judy, his future wife, arrived on the scene, we became good friends.

I recall Phil seeking my advice when mulling over the prospect of marriage. Ever ready to dispense pop psychology, I opined that, because of their different religious backgrounds, marriage might be problematic. It is humbling to reflex back over the past 50 years and note that they are still together while I am in my third (and last) marriage. Just to show what good sports they are, I was best man at their wedding. The ceremony was memorable in many ways, not the least of which was the amusing gaffe by the priest who performed the ceremony. Meaning to say, "Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for a friend" (a noble sentiment), he inexplicably said, "Greater love hath no man than he lay down his wife for a friend."
Unsure that I had heard correctly, I was afraid to look at Phil, fearing that we might collapse into gales of laughter as we did so often on the golf course.

We remained close as Phil and Judy started their family. They had a girl (Carol), a boy (Charles), and another girl (Barbara). Later, they spent seven years in Europe. While they were gone, Claudette and I separated and divorced. By the time Phil and Judy returned, I had met Vicki, my second wife, and they were back in time to attend the ceremony. Some years later, after Vicki and I divorced, I met and married my third wife, Nancy. Gracious as ever, and obviously immune to shock, Phil and Judy immediately welcomed her into our lives.

I can hear Phil as he reads this. “Hey I thought this was supposed to be about me!” Never one to soft pedal his opinion, Phil gets right to the heart of the matter and lets you know exactly how he feels. Fair enough! Let’s move on.

Note to reader: Phil will probably dispute much of these recollections; that is his nature. Although he has mellowed considerably since the early days, he is still disinclined to suffer fools gladly. Click here to see an early example.


Describing Phil is difficult. He falls into no discernible type or classification. He is as much at ease watching an Opera or a Broadway musical as he is touting a horse race or analyzing a baseball game. He loves a good joke, but rarely admits it. He is quick to spot pretense or sham and even quicker to point it out. He can be counted on to give an honest answer whether you want to hear it or not. He is there when needed most. He has been very supportive during my many trials and tribulations.

Finally, it is not unusual to answer the phone and hear the voice on the other end say, “Hey, sh*thead! What's up?” That would be my friend Phil, of course.

News Flash! Future Miss America and Rhodes Scholar arrives in Rockville.

Savannah Lucille Thompson-Jones arrived just after 5PM on Monday, December 4, 2006. She weighed in at 7 pounds, 3 ounces, and measured 19 and 1/4th inches in length. Savanna's mom, Caroline, praised her daughter for making a quick, although not pain free, entry into the world. Savannah's dad, Darryl, rose to the occasion, losing nary a son in Caroline's absence.
Your reporter will continue to find and correct errors in this story, if any do exist, and to provide additional information, if it becomes available. For example, click here.
Someone famous once said that newspapers are the first rough draft of history. So, cut this poor scribe some slack.

A Brief history, Nancy and her Progeny

One Sunday morning, in the spring of 1985, I visited the Seneca Valley Unitarian Fellowship in Montgomery Village, Maryland. As I surveyed the scene, my eyes focused on the attractive woman asking visitors to sign the guest book. I made a mental note to learn more about her (Nancy Vaughn Thompson, as it turns out).
During the following week, we met again (not entirely by chance) at a fellowship newcomers party. As we chatted it up a bit, I learned that my step-children were on the same local swim team as her daughters (Malinda and Caroline).
Well, one thing led to another; we went to Kentucky to meet her folks, and to Texas to meet mine. The reception at both places was positive and, shortly thereafter, we decided to get married. It was a home wedding, with the Rev. Rudy Nemser, long time friend of the groom, presiding. Aware of my history, Rudy guaranteed a lasting marriage because, "You finally got someone to do the ceremony correctly!"
When I first arrived on the scene, Caroline and Malinda were in high school. They were, and still are, beautiful and smart. They have families of their own, now. We'll learn more about these exemplary people in this space in the very near future.

Please get your car out of our dining room!

Some years ago, when returning home, I saw a group of police cars and emergency vehicles at the edge of my development. I was turned away and told to find another route. As I neared our townhouse from the opposite direction, an officer approached and asked for my street address. When I responded, he said, "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, sir."
Yes, someone had crashed into the rear of our home. I remember being relieved that I wasn't home when it happened. I went inside to survey the damage. The driver, thankfully, was not critically injured and was on his way to the hospital. Most of the car, however, was in our dining room; the front bumper perched on my desk, and the rear one hovering over our patio.
The car had been on an unlikely journey. When the driver passed out, his car swerved across a grassy island and two lanes going in the opposite direction. It then started up a hill, knocked down a couple of small trees in the process. The car then started downhill, between two large trees, and ployed into our townhouse. During this little jaunt, the driver's foot remained, as they say, with "the metal to the pedal". After crashing through the back wall, the car pushed the dining room table against the opposite wall, took out most of the wall between the kitchen and the living room, bounced the piano a few feet from its original position, and came to a halt with its bumper resting on my desk.
Coincidentally, one of our neighbors heard the commotion, rushed over, sized up the situation, crawled into dining room, opened the car door and turned off the ignition. If there was a hero in this little scenario, it was surely this gentleman. An eye witness reported he scarcely believed his eyes as the car crossed two lanes of traffic, become airborne and narrowly missed him on the sidewalk. Still another neighbor heard the crash, thought it was a bomb, and rushed her kids to the basement.
Eventually, our little drama attracted the attention of the media. As I stood at the center of this turmoil, besieged by emergency responders, lawyers, contractors and other interested parties, a lady TV reporter approached me. She asked for an interview. I replied that since this was obviously an "open house", fire away! Nancy arrived just in time to share the limelight. Our interview was shown on local TV later that evening. For a newspaper account of the accident, click here.

But here's the rest of the story. Several days later, we learned that the driver was Bob, a person Nancy and I had known before our marriage. In a further twist, my second wife Vicki and I had lived on the same block as Bob's family, a couple of decades earlier. It was like a re-union!
Looking back, it wasn't so bad. We actually had some good fortune as a result of the crash, e.g., a new hardwood floor, and a sliding glass door (where the car had left a large hole ). A few short years later, Nancy was lamenting the condition of our kitchen. I suggested that we find someone to drive into the side of our townhouse, and hope for the best.

Rumsfeld loses support, leaves cabinet

Donald Rumsfeld, in a wide ranging interview, said he realized his time in office was coming to an end when he began losing the support of prominent American Icons. A prime example is the case of Brendan Siltman, a well respected moderate in the Arts world, who was willing to give Rumsfeld the benefit of the doubt until quite recently. Mr. Siltman, shown here to the right of the Defense Secretary, looks as if he was already having serious doubts about his support of Rumsfeld.

Note: The above is pure fabrication. A couple of years ago, Brendan (my grandson) visited the Pentagon as part of school field trip to Washington, D.C. By pure happenstance, Runsfeld posed with the students, and the rest is history. Quite an elaborate coincidence, wouldn't you say?

A brief history - Vicki and the kids

Some of the more perceptive among you may be saying: First David talks about his wife Nancy and then Claude's mother Claudette, and now someone named Vicki. What's going on here? It's simple, I was working undercover for the FBI and had three different identities. Actually, I've been married three times; Vicki became my second wife in the 1970's. When we met, she already had four adorable kids, ages 4 through 7, if memory serves (It's the ages I'm unsure of, not the number of kids).
Although the marriage ended, I think we agree that the kids benefited from our earnest and heartfelt efforts in their behalf for almost a decade. I have tried to remain a part of their lives and their children's lives. When asked how many grandchildren I have, I usually include the kid's kids in the total. All things considered, I think I earned at least a share of them. I'm sure Claude and his family feels the same way about Vicki.
Describing Claude's family was child's play compared to John, Laura, Melisa and Carey's. Indeed, I'll need another blog entry to describe the whole bunch. For now, I only note that the grandchildren are not only attractive, they seem well grounded and smart. I break into a smile when I think of them. I wish I had the energy for treks to see them more often. And my fondest hope is to get everyone together to produce "Pop Pop's family picture".

Coming attraction : A brief history - Nancy and her progeny

A brief history: Claude and his family

The marriage of Claudette and David yielded one son, Claude. Not surprisingly, he was born on Christmas Day (I had been outside the night before, looking for a bright star). Well, that particular scenario didn't work out, but we think he's wonderful, anyway. Claude met and married Monica, a Philadelphia beauty. They produced a boy, Brendan, and a girl, Mary. They are perfect. See if you can tell who is who in the picture on your left. A prize goes to the person who has the highest number of correct guesses.
Lest anyone think I am frivolous in my assessment of Claude and his family - well, "I calls 'em like I sees 'em!" I love them all and I don't care who knows it. Claude pretty much runs the City of Philadelphia, and Monica owns and operates the private school that Brendan and Mary attend. I could go on and on about this wonderful family but I don't want to embarrass them.
Some people claim I go overboard in my admiration of, and fondness for, these marvelous individuals. I have only one thing to say to these negative know nothings, "you're just jealous!"

Parkinson's Disease: Take it away, please!

Five years ago, I knew almost nothing about Parkinson's. Since my son Claude was diabetic, I began to look for similarities. Both conditions are chronic. Diabetes results from a lack of insulin, and Parkinson's from a diminishing supply of dopamine. Diabetics must carefully balance the amount of food consumed, the amount of insulin taken, and the expected activity between medication intervals. A PWP (person with Parkinson's) must attempt to ascertain the amount and types of medication required to provide symptomatic relief without incurring devastating side effects. What a daunting prospect for the rest of one's life! But fear not! Help is on the way.

The symptoms most commonly associated with PD are tremors (often in the hands) and a slow, stiff walk. Other telltale signs include balance problems, masking (face appears immobile), and cognitive loss (what were we talking about?). The one that bothers me the most is an almost complete lack of balance. I have to be constantly aware of the implications of this problem , especially when standing or walking. I feel I will fall if I let down my guard, even for an instant.

These days, when one thinks of PD, Michael J. Fox comes to mind. His condition is much worse than mine. But with all his money, he can't simply buy relief. Brave man, fighting the good fight. I'm reminded of the saying, "If you don't fight PD, it will run right over you."

Note: Let's get real, here. I'm not an expert, in PD, or anything else. So, although I probably know more about PD than the average person, and I try very hard not to spread bad information, I'm not infallible. If you see something in this post, or any other in my blog, use the comments section to set me straight. Thanks in advance.

She's the one!

I originally decided not to use real names in this blog. But I found this to be burdensome and probably unnecessary. So, henceforth, I will move toward full disclosure by using first names. This decision was made as I began to post a photo of my wife, Nancy. There, I've said it! Her name is Nancy and I love her! Emboldened by this show of courage I will now introduce myself. "Hi, I'm David and I belong to Nancy."
Well, enough of this serious stuff. Yes, this is Nancy, my bride of some 20+years. We met in Church, of course. I was visiting this little fellowship in Gaithersburg, Md. and decided to sign the guest book. As luck would have it, there was Nancy. So I asked her to marry me and we lived happily ever after.
OK, I oversimplified a bit. But, as I said before, this blog is written in an episodic manner (which I take to mean I can skip around chronologically, starting and stopping as I damn well please). I will try to regain a more sedate tone in my next post. Remember, I said "try".

A brief history, very abridged.

Assuming that anyone is actually reading these posts, I suppose I should give you a brief synopses of my life thus far. I was born in a small town in East Texas. My brother and I were raised by our folks according to their understanding of Southern Baptist tenets. Although my brother might disagree, I feel this had both good and bad effects on our lives. Economically, we were perhaps lower middle class, but we both ended up with college degrees (OK, he got a Master's). He stayed in Texas and I roamed. He got married and I got married, and married, and married. We're both retired now. He's still in Texas and I live in the Washington Metropolitan Area. We have lots of grandchildren. OK, so there are a few gaps in this little life history, but I intend to fill them all.

Indeed, by its nature, this kind of storytelling tends to be episodic. I will post entries as they occur to me. If they turn out to be chronological, so be it. This is true regardless of subject i.e., life experiences, thoughts, relationships, Parkinson's, whatever.

Let's sprinkle some photos into the mix.

This is a reasonable facsimile of the author. It will be replaced by a more recent one soon. Those in the know (Pro-Footballwise) may have spotted the Washington Redskins logo on my windbreaker. Obviously, I have learned to live with disappointment. The beard has been my constant companion for some 40-50 years - neither my wife nor children have seen me beardless; accounts vary as to what I’m trying to hide. Photography, by the way, is one of my favorite hobbies. I have a couple thousand images from digital cameras and hope to add to that number by scanning images recovered on film. I hope to integrate Blogger with Picasa, where I edit, organize and save my images.