THE FOOTNOTES

This group meets at the Senior Center. There is an assignment for each meeting, and it is interesting to note that when we share our work, each writer produces a
an interpretation of the topic which is different from the others.
In this picture, three members were not present.
We were there to honor one of our members who is hospitalized.

is to transmit lore, and learning to younger generations in order that youth are not condemned to repeat history, and do not appear to to be as dumb as stereotypers often portray them......often for good reason:
Today's lesson was hard learned, and you are hereby advised to put
your slippers on opposite feet. See illustration. Begin at once! The neck you save may be your own!

This tree has turned early-lots more to come.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN RED?

They tell me that Winston Churchill never used the word red. He knew enough about the English language to choose precisely the most accurate representation of a particular tone. Apparently, nothing was really red, but a variation. To illustrate the point, something might be cerise , canna,, claret, damask , or perhaps, henna, and Churchill would describe it thusly.

Lacking Churchill’s command of the language , however, when my toe has the gout , I don’t know whether to say it is salmon, titian or raddle in color so in the interest of clarity and accuracy, I simply call it sore

Now , because of those drapes hanging in front of my face when I am composing what could turn out to be the best essay to have ever been written on this subject on our street this week, except for what my wife turns out, I find myself grappling with that age old question of what color are those drapes, a distraction which seriously impedes, and frequently blocks my creative impulses to the point where I throw up my hands and implore the good lord to lead me to an acceptable solution of my perplexity. From what I can figure from the response or lack thereof, from on high, I get the impression that good lord will not dignify my request by giving a sign or otherwise taking a position, and really doesn’t care much, one way or the other having more worthy prayers to consider. In my futility I think I will call the drapes red , be happy with that and get back to my skillful word-smithing.

Have you had the privilege of viewing me wearing my new bright

form- fitting red t-shirt which does so much to set off my finely sculpted torso with bulges hauntingly begging the question “ what wonders hath god wrought? “ Perhaps you did and simply were unimpressed because you’ve seen better. Whatever. This latest supplement to my wardrobe is emblazoned with a small, round emblem on the front, and boldly lettered Manchester United on the back. Seeing me wearing this, It would not be difficult to envision me on the soccer pitch at Old Trafford leading MANU to victory over a stubborn but out manned opponent, dashing boldly, some might say daringly, even provocatively , from one end of the field to the other at high speed, a daring and heroic figure , the darling , might I say of the 80,000 fans of this English Premier League Championship team, cheering wildly, yes, unrestrainedly my every move, and more than likely to bestow upon me the loving appellation “Our favorite Yank!”

First there was Jackie, then Rita, and, finally, Bobby. I am Bobby, and I was the baby. Six years separated Jackie from Bobby while Rita was four years older. The age differences dictated that our relationships would not be buddy-like. We simply lived in the same deprived circumstances.

One might expect, because of my standing in the hierarchy to find that I was a dilling. Not so. No dilling was our Bob. In fact there was some question as to his acceptance in the world in the first place, never mind a privileged one.

Just because I was cute as a button, smart as whip and so cuddly, it didn’t make me a dilling in that household.

What’s that, you ask? Never heard of a dilling? It’s what I should have been!

I guess I would characterize my early years as a time of loneliness. I was often alone in the house. Both parents worked and were gone all day. My siblings had their own interests which did not include me. My parents seemed to be out of the house after supper, too, as did Jackie and Rita. When I

was about 10 years old, or so, being alone in the house was especially stressful at night. Sometimes no one would be home with me

and I would be terrified of what was going to get me. The kitchen had 7 doors entering upon it, and as I lay on the kitchen couch observing each in turn, my

only defense lay in my watching each door, one to the next, so whatever lurked behind each closed door could not sneak up on me. The remnants of loneliness lingered into adulthood where I found the “empty nest” a real factor, and sometimes after a visitor to our home leaves, I experience a similar feeling.

Sometime around my Junior High School days, my mother moved out---and I didn’t blame her. Then I was really on my own.

My experience was not that of a pampered youngest child, as alluded to above. I learned if I wanted to sew on a button, for example, I had better do it myself. I learned to prepare food for myself, as well, and laid out my own wardrobe, such as it was , for the day. That kind of experience turned out to be a plus for me as I discovered a few years later when I went into the Navy, and was astounded to discover that lots of guys who no longer had mommy to look after them didn’t know much about taking care of themselves.

In learning to take care of myself, however, I learned not to depend on others. I learned to be cynical, and not to expect the best of people. If that sounds Freudian to you, it sounds that way to me, too. I found that if I assumed the worst of everybody, I was often right. I routinely sought ulterior motives in others, and when I expressed the possibilities, as I was wont to do, it was abrasive to those who took a more Pollyanna view of things. It wasn’t until my wife came along that I learned that maybe I was a trifle too judgmental, and maybe I had failings of my own. She’s been straightening me out for the last 59 years.

Summarizing my role as the youngest child in that family, I turn to the parlance of my New Britain contemporaries when I say, “It wasn’t no fun.”