What is the absolute weirdest or most unexpected rabbit hole you’ve ever found yourself lost in while doing your research?

Well, match this.

I was licking a stamp, wondering how many calories there were in the lick. No, I don’t have an eating disorder. And yes, I was about to call my psychiatrist. Nah, forget it.

Though I may be a bit obsessed, I don’t think I’m irrational. Nonetheless, I was derailed when looking up the answer. This happens often, and here’s how.

When I do research at the library, the historical society or on the web, I need to be careful that I don’t get caught up drifting down the lane of something interesting, off target, in a rabbit hole, not necessarily related to my curiosity or my task. I do that too often.

And precious time passes.

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Most of the time, I can pry myself away, but not this time, not this topic.

While I was looking up the calorie content of stamp glue, insects sneaked onto the screen. Well, not a live, inquisitive insect, but creatures distracting enough to hook me on how many calories there are in insects. Eating insects is popular, even necessary in some cases, so calorie counters want to know.

Entomophagy, insect eating, is a widespread practice for over two billion Latin Americans, West Africans, and Southeast Asians. Though entomophagy may be worthy, practical, and perhaps necessary, it is not for me. I cannot tolerate the consistency of simple fat, so eating insects is out of the question. I harbor a mental resistance that elicits a deep feeling of revulsion

Another call to my psychiatrist.

The nutritional density of insects could prove to be an effective solution for feeding a growing global population. There are many to eat… locusts, crickets, grubs, grasshoppers and more.

How about guacamole seasoned with ants, or a plate of fried crickets smothered in onions? Or adding the combo to a frittata.

Insects are a useful source of protein and vitamins: 100 grams of crickets (½ cup) contains approximately 121 calories, 13 grams of protein, 5.5 grams of fat, 5 grams of carbohydrates and more iron than an equivalent serving of spinach.

OK, sorry for my distraction. Forget the insects for the moment if you can, and let’s get back to the stamps.

Licking the back of a postage stamp may seem a perfectly innocuous activity but lick enough of them and the calories may start to add up, especially if the stamps are large. Well, not quite.

You can rest easy and skip the extra flossing because that 14-calorie figure is a legend!

Since it takes a tiny bit of physical effort to lick, you may burn roughly the same amount of energy as the glue provides, making it a perfectly net-neutral activity.

The content in the adhesive of an average U.S. postage stamp is about 1/10th calorie, about the same amount you burn by licking it.

To compare, you can burn twelve calories when brushing your teeth. So, if you brush your teeth after you lick the stamp, you may be even, or maybe ahead, in calories burned, especially if you floss.

So here I am, someone who wanted to know something simple, calories in a stamp, spiraling down the web in the absorbing vortex of insect consumption.

I apologize for sidetracking you but, then again, maybe I gave you something to ‘chew-on,’ maybe even digest.

** Copyright 2026

Summer nights in the third-floor bedroom of the three-decker on Wealth Avenue were hot, very hot. We passed the days frying an egg on the sidewalk, cooling under sprinklers, or swimming at the Olneyville Boys Club pool. We scraped hot tar off the steaming streets to roll into sticky tar balls.

It was scorching enough for the sewing bees to stop their needles and for the lightning bugs to slow down on their evening soirees.

Some summers we were lucky enough to rent a cabin on the Narragansett shore.

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With neither fans nor air conditioners, our bedroom was a clammy oven. Sleep, even shirtless and sheetless, was impossible. The adjacent homes were built so close that no breeze, if one ever came along, could trickle in. Yet, those stifling nights were comforted by a distinct neighborhood soundtrack: the murmuring voices of the adults close by.

Hearing soft chatter from the first-floor porch below, Peter and I decided to explore, to follow the murmurs and soft laughter, ignoring our orders to go to bed. The heat drove the adults out of their beds and to their porches and sidewalks.

Attracted to the sound like bees to honey, we rolled out of bed and snuck down the stairs to sit on the porch floor, invisible just off to the side. Mom, Aunt Della, and Grandma glanced at us but continued talking. Dad, Uncle Carl, and Grandpa were absent, trying to sleep in anticipation of their early morning rise.

As I remember, Mom was in her pajamas, Aunt Della in a nightgown, and Grandma, though in a housedress, broke her formality by wearing backless black slippers and no stockings.

Layers of stars dotted the crystal night. From a nearby streetlight, bugs flickered to tap the light’s metal hat. Low, rumbling conversations drifted from neighbors sitting across the narrow street or next door, all doing the same thing: chatting away the heat.

Something else glowed, but not a firefly. Idle puffs of smoke drifted into the air.

People were making the best of a hot evening, knowing they were all in the same circumstances. The heat was tough, but not as tough as the workday, and certainly not as tough as making their way in a new country.

Nothing we heard was of real interest to us. Mom, Grandma, and Aunt Della seemed to be just repeating the same things they had already talked about during the day. However, just listening, being there, liberated, was enough.

The sounds were soothing and comforting. People made the best of the hot evening, understanding they were all in the same circumstances.

We sat perfectly still and listened, gently smushing the occasional mosquito and rubbing off the blood. We wanted to hang out, to be a part of the neighborhood’s family, and to endure the heat together. And in those moments, we were a part of it.

“Time for bed, kids.”

Ah, they noticed us. There was no squabble. Up the stairs and back to the oven we trudged. I got into bed and looked at the clock. It was eleven. My goodness, I had stayed up late, just like an adult.

At last, we dozed to the ambient song and susurrus sounds of speech below.

I loved those summer evenings almost as much as the days.

© 2026

Whaddya mean, no score? Who wins? Who brags? Who makes All-America?

That is, until I learned about soccer. I have my grandchildren to thank for that.

Early on, when they were young, their soccer was a participatory sport. It was a social event where we met parents, grandparents, and hugged our grandchildren. Everyone won, scores notwithstanding.

Then, as my soccer-loving grandchildren moved forward in their athletic journeys, I realized how emotional and exciting the sport truly was—even those matches ending scoreless. So, I promised myself I would learn the game.

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And little by little, I did. My education sped along as the competition grew, and they reached college level. Soon, I was jumping up and down. I was moaning, groaning, screaming, and raising a fist at a score, a brilliant block, or a precise pass.

Yet, I still didn’t know the difference between a red and a yellow card.

As the World Cup approached, I needed more. So, I became more than an observer; I became a student; now beginning to understand a red card, a yellow card, two yellows, a substitution, a time stop, a time expansion, goal kicks, penalty kicks, etc.

I subscribed to a soccer website. And to another that was dedicated to the World Cup.

Now, where am I?

Well, I’ve taped every World Cup match to date, and I have watched many of them.

Goal kicks, pass ins, strikers, midfielders, cross, set piece, corner kick, you bet. I know what an offside is. I know what it means when the lineman holds up the neon substitute sign.

I marvel at the players’ athleticism, speed, and strength. I marvel that I marvel. Do you marvel?

The word “fan” comes from the word fanatic. I’m not quite at the point of needing a psychiatrist, but I now happily consider myself a fan.

I’ll see you at the pitch.

© 2026

That’s where I, the student, was one day in the operating room with the Chief of Surgery, one of my favorite professors and a role model teacher. He was astute, erudite, tall and creative ---- like the day he asked me a memorable question (for me) in front of the rounding group.

I elected to spend a month on his service. He impressed me on many days when I attended his lectures or followed him on teaching rounds.

To be close to him for a month, his resident the only other, was a dream rotation. Of course he wore a three-piece suit. He rounded with a vigorous spring in his step and a cornucopia of information that spilled encyclopedia like.

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I was anxious and eager on that first day when I met him and his resident on the surgical floor at 7 AM. Come to think of it, that’s the way it was almost every day. They were days of being a “real” physician, out of the classroom and on the wards with actual patients.

As for that creative question? One morning, as he was examining a patient, he asked the group, “What is the best way to determine the difference between a partial and a complete rectal prolapse?”

I could not believe my luck. Just the evening before I was reading of the issue because I knew one of his patients had a rectal prolapse.

Silence. A resounding group quiet met his question. I knew the answer (medical details not important for this treatise). I inched forward from the back of the pack and raised my trembling, sweaty palm to my shoulder. He looked in my direction.

“You.” He twisted to see my name tag. “You, Iannuccilli, You. What do you think? You have your hand raised, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Well?”

I answered correctly, he shared a twit of a smile and preached, “Yes, Good. Good. Okay, Okay,” as he looked at his senior resident, who had his head down. I was in. Or so I thought at that moment.

The next day, he asked me to first-assist him in the operating room on a simple procedure, the ligation of a varicose vein. I was thrilled and anxious . . . again. My sweaty, med student palms made it difficult for the nurse to put on rubber gloves over my raised hands.

The procedure was done with spinal anesthesia, so the patient was awake. “Good morning, Mrs.___. Are you OK?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Come stand by me Dr. Iannuccilli.” He called me doctor! I inched close enough that our surgical gowns were touching.

After the patient was prepped and draped, He made the incisions and isolated the vein to be tied off. He asked me to cut the sutures. “Not too close to the knot, Dr.” I did it. Success.

Then the second tie slipped off and blood immediately poured into the wound. My inclination was to turn away but stupidly I uttered the dastardly word, “Oops.”

My professor quickly controlled the situation, stopped the bleeding and stood back.

He leaned to the awake patient and calmly uttered, ‘Everything is fine, Mrs.___.”

Then he turned to me. I was drifting away, my knees turning to agar jelly. I felt like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz after the water was poured on her, fully expecting to melt right into the floor.

He stood back, lowered his hands slowly to his midsection, took a deep confident breath, looked immense and tilted his head toward me. Peering over his glasses, he pontificated, “Doc-tor, there are two things we never say in the operating room, ‘Oops’ and ‘Uh-oh’. Okay with that?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The kind, understanding nurse wiped the sweat from my forehead.

“Okay, let’s move on.”

© 2026

During my evaluation, I recognized a kind, gentle, refined, and understated man of dignity ---- one who understood and accepted his fate. I was in and out of his room every day for a week before his discharge.

Each day, as I entered his room, I asked the usual questions. “How was the night, any pain today, any questions about your test results.” Then, after examining him, I told him what to expect for the day.

That was it, but in retrospect, it was not enough, for me. And I did not realize it soon enough.

Some months later, while having my coffee, I read his obituary. I paused, read it again and closed my eyes, thinking, “My goodness, I never really knew this man. What a gem of a person.”

I defaulted to the standard medical interview, the fast-track routine of history and physical. I did little more to get to know him. He was vulnerable in that bed, eyes cast downward, feet jerking, plucking at the top sheet when he spoke.

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Sure, I asked what he did for work, but his simple answer belied his professional and personal accomplishments in board work, philanthropy, special interests.

I knew his medical history, but I did not know him.

According to the paper, he had lived a remarkable life as a business person, a friend, and a collector of fine, near-priceless art that he later donated to a museum. I had enjoyed visiting the very works he donated, yet I never gave a thought to the individual behind them—least of all that he would one day be a patient in such proximity to me.

He was eager to chat despite his illness. I was in too much of a hurry to look beyond his medical issues. How was your night? How are you this morning, etc., etc.?

I should have made the time because I realize now that he would have enriched my life. We both would have felt much better.

I recently read David Brooks’ book, “How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen.” I read it twice; my highest recommendation. It’s his guide to a deeper human connection by seeing others through their lenses; and thus to be seen in return. His advice is deep, meaningful and practical.

It’s Bill Gates’ favorite Brooks Book.

I wonder how someone can assume anything about anyone without first getting to know that person. The best way is to talk.

The next time you open the paper, read the obituary pages closely. Think about the person you knew and wish you had known better.

In her exquisite manifesto for the power of real human communication, Ursula K. Le Guin writes: In most cases of people talking to one another, human communication cannot be reduced to information. The message not only involves, but is also, a relationship between speaker and hearer. The medium in which the message is embedded is immensely complex, infinitely more than a code: it is a language, a function of a society, a culture, in which the language, the speaker, and the hearer are all embedded.

Real communication shouldn’t be one-sided. Show a genuine interest. Ask questions, share a piece of yourself, and resist the urge to curtail the conversation. Take a moment to remind yourself that you are speaking to another human soul—and enjoy the surprise of what you hear.

How about simple questions to start a relationship:

Who is your hero?

If you could live anywhere, where would it be?

What’s your favorite movie?

. . . there are so many others.

Show interest.

© 2026

So many of you related to the peddlers who came to our neighborhood (the Waffle man a hit) and to my uncle the peddler (he went to other neighborhoods) that I decided to relate the story of our ice man.

He was not only our ice man but a neighbor and a raconteur.

“We need ice, Mr. Ice Man.”

Many of our neighbors still had a sign in the window but not us. Our icebox, replaced by a Kelvinator, was now in the cellar; a storage place for tools, Mason jars and odd stuff.

The iceman still patrolled the neighborhood for those who had not yet converted. In the window of those tenements were signs that read “ICE” with the number of pounds needed written in a corner.

Mr. Wallace, best friend Wally’s grandfather, was the man who delivered the ice. He and his wife lived one street over in a bungalow “just big enough for two.”

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Of average height, Mr. Wallace had round shoulders and wore professorial wire-rimmed glasses, his eyebrows long and drifting over the tops. Gray hairs sprouted from his ears and nose. His forehead was creased and his short teeth bore a hint of yellow from the tobacco he chewed, a large hunk ever in the side of his cheek.

Even on hot days, when not working, he wore a wool sweater and dark green pants. On workdays, he wore the same dark green pants, now creased, a matching shirt and high-topped boots buffed with an oily sheen. The brim of his green hat sported the stain of hard work.

On his days off he sat with us kids and some attentive adults on the stoop of the three-decker and told stories of old baseball players, he being one himself.

With a shadow of youth lighting his eyes, he smiled and drawled, “Wellll...a…spit, spit...I... ahh ra-memb-a Rabbit Ma-ran-ville, little guy, ya know.” As he spoke, he became infused with a surge of energy. His cheeks glowed, his eyes widened and his voice muffled a chuckle… “Heh, Heh” … as he gazed upward. His breath came in short whooshes. With a spit and splat there came a wad of juice hurdling toward the sidewalk.

“What a play-ya. Once I saw him hit 20 fow-ul balls, ya know, purposely fow-a-ling pitch afta pitch ‘til he’d git the one he wanted. He jes wore the pitcha down.” He paused a long moment and continued. “I ra-memb-a Nap Lajoie, L-A-J-O-I-E is how they spell it, but they say La-Joy-ee, ya know, the kid from Woonsocket, in the Hall a Fame, ya know. Yep... Rabbit, Nap...so many great pla-yas in them days. Let me see that bat.” Spit, splat.

I handed my 32 oz Williams bat. He took it, turned it around, read the label “Louisville Slugga, huh?” and cradled it softly as if he were holding a pigeon. He then tightened his hands around it, not quite white-knuckled but close, and waved it in short horizontal spurts, maybe like the guy Maranville.

We gathered and listened because he deserved respect, but my baseball thoughts were on the Red Sox of the day…Vern Stephens, Dom DiMaggio, Bobby Doerr, Pesky, Goodman and Ted, of course. Never heard of those other guys.

Mr. Wallace was more serious when he worked. His dark green, flatbed truck, smelling of oil and cold and with canvas sides cascading from metal hoops, rumbled up to the six-tenement house and stopped with a hiss.

He got out, slammed the door, spun on the thick sole of his boot, walked to the rear, turned his head, looked up and in one window was a sign. “OK, they need twenty pounds,” he mumbled, a chewed cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth. He flipped open the canvas, investigated the deep, dark end of the truck, placed his cigar on the edge of the bed, rubbed his palms on his trousers and pulled on his gloves.

Toward the front of the truck were huge blocks of ice covered with a heavy leather tarpaulin. He slid the tarp, spotted a huge cake that he wanted and with a long handled, hooked stick, nailed the glistening piece and slid it to him.

Looking over the top of his glasses, he surveyed the piece with the skill of a surgeon and, with a tip of his head and a calculated glance, cut a piece from the block using a sharp pick that sent a smooth, piercing shockwave of white peeling apart the layers.

The pick read his mind and followed the line; a phenomenon of nature, I guess, or more likely, Mr. Wallace, the ice diamond-cutter. He leaned back, peered over his glasses and surveyed the result.

“Yup. Good. 20. Jes right.”

He replaced the pick in the hip holster on his belt with the move of a gunslinger. I loved to watch him drive that pick through the ice… carving just the right size with small slivers left over for us. With wide eyes, I asked, “Can I try that, Mr. Wallace?” The pick looked like it might be fun and…easy.

“No, sorry son. Jes a bit too dangj-a-rus.” He flipped me a small piece of ice. It was like those in the milkman’s truck, refreshing on those summer days of shimmering heat and cicadas; but the milkman’s ice was different. His ice just lay there dripping idly while Mr. Wallace’s was dynamic, razor sharp and real.

Mr. Wallace draped a rubber cover over his right shoulder, grabbed the tongs hanging from the truck. He pierced the sides of the block and with a bolt of efficiency, picked up the ice, paused, grunted and swung it onto his right shoulder. Bent toward the ground, with beaded, melting ice water dripping down the rubber cover and hitting first the back of his pants at the calf and then the heel of his leather boot, he methodically climbed the stairs to the door and knocked.

“Who is it?”

“Ice man”

From behind the door, there was a clank of bottles and a barking dog. “Good. Come in.” Mr. Wallace melted into the house.

The house was a behemoth of six tenements each with its own porch. Shaded by huge maples, it was an uninviting, gray ship with a miniature front yard of damp, dark dirt enclosed by a rusted fence and an unhinged creaky gate.

Save for a place for the garbage buckets, there was no rear yard. I delivered papers there, running up the grainy, dimly lit, bare, worn stairs on one side of tenements, dropping the papers at each stop.

Mr. Wallace must have had to maneuver his way through that kitchen with the skill of a racecar driver, collect his money and get on down the stairs.

He had to have seen the puddles of melted ice on the kitchen floor; puddles which meant more business. Smiling, he returned to his truck, hooked the tongs, closed the canvas, took off his gloves, put them in his back pocket, wiped his hands on his pants, grabbed the cigar and replanted it in his mouth, turned to us and said, “See ya, kids.” He stepped up to the cab, sat, pushed in the clutch with his left foot, turned the key, tapped the gas with his right foot and off he went, his engine rumbling, splashes of water tumbling in its wake.

I think often about Mr. Wallace. And ice. And the tenement house.

Our ‘cool’ neighborhood iceman was soon to be out of a job when everyone went to the Kelvinator. I doubt that he was disappointed. He had more time for his Red Sox.

And his stories.

© 2026

Spring peepers (Pseudacris crucifer) are the more famous of all the chirping frogs. They belong to a group known as chorus frogs, and a chorus it is. These delightful creatures chant with a distinctive peeping refrain that, in large numbers, sounds like tingling bells carried on the wind. And this weekend there was an abundance.

The nights were a bit warmer, sort of, and with windows open, we fell asleep to the music.

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It’s mating season, the time when the males call out to the females who are drawn to their singing suitors. After they mate, the females lay their eggs underwater … beneath the surface of our clean, fresh pond. How interesting, even exciting, to think about the thousands of eggs dropping to the bottom of Yokum Pond. When the eggs hatch in approximately 12 days, the singing stops.

We love the sonorous sounds of the peepers; friendly visitors who lull us each evening. If we wake, in the night they are still here, serenading us under the moon and the constellations. Mixed with the peeps are other note; trills, hoots, quacks and the occasional honk. If we listen closely, we might hear a growl. It is our private symphony.

Far less charming are the mayflies, those aquatic insects sometimes called shadflies or lake flies. Well … we’re on a lake and it’s May so the mayflies appear in massive swarms and mate in mid-flight. After mating, each female lays up to eight thousand eggs in the fresh water. At that point, the adults die and fall back into the water, becoming food for fish, frogs, and other aquatic life. Adult mayflies live a very short time, so if you wondered, that’s where they go in June, they are dead-in-the-water.

Drawn to moisture, they love to alight on your ears, eyes, and skin. The sheer volume of these insects during their spring mating season can be a real trial. To make matters worse, they are highly attracted to light, gathering in thick, swirling clouds near our doorway at night.

It’s OK. It’s quite a phenomenon. It’s all about nature. We love the gleeps of the peeps and their pond friends. We tolerate the mayflies.

This morning, I looked out over the rippling water. A beaver dam stood in the distance, while a great blue heron posed rigidly at the water’s edge, waiting to pierce a fish. Barn swallows were diving and flitting through the air, catching bugs on the wing. The peepers were resting, and the mayflies were left spinning and twisting in the sun.

Our freshwater pond is a peaceful, pleasing delight.

© 2026

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My Uncle Tony was one of them. He was a fruit peddler --- not in my neighborhood but on the East Side of Providence where his clientele was trusting, loved him and basically adopted him.

On occasional Saturdays, I was his “striker” delivering goods to his customers at his experienced directions. I loved it.

By the time he picked me up, he had already been to the wholesale market where he procured what he needed for the day.

“Edward, I always get to the market early to get the best and freshest produce. It’s for my customers.”

Uncle Tony was possessive of them, and they were just as fond of him. They invited him to their children’s religious celebrations, to weddings and even funerals. He was part of their families.

“Tony, is that you?” they asked as he tapped on the back door.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Come in come in! Look In the refrigerator, see what I need. I’ll pay you next week.”

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What trust. Uncle traipsed to the refrigerator, opened the door, looked up, down and around and closed gently. Down we trundled to his truck where he‘d hand me a basket. Along the narrow aisle we sidestepped as he selected the produce.

The wooden crates of vegetables gave off a layered aroma ---- a combination of sweet, sugary and earthy notes Yes, that was it. It smelled of my grandfather’s garden. Sometimes, when he kept the truck running, those garden smells married the warm exhaust fumes of the engine.

“Edward, hold this basket carefully. It’s important.” As we squeezed along, he loaded it. “Here, Edward, bring this in and put it on the table.”

His love of his business and his customers showed in his care. They trusted him. No wonder they invited him to their kids’ weddings.

Decades later, I find myself thinking of those days during breakfast with a weekly klatch—a group of knowledgeable retired gentlemen of humor and wit. Waffles are a popular item for us, particularly because our mouthwatering maple syrup is unique, made especially for our group.

We like education. One morning, one of our members spoke of the different types of Belgian Waffles; a more complex, emotionally charged subject than I realized.

Technically, there is no such thing as a Belgian Waffle. There is the Brussels Waffle, a large crispy, light, crunchy rectangle often eaten with toppings.

Then there is the Liege Waffle; softer, doughier, denser, sweeter and flavorful enough to be eaten plain.

As I listened, my mind drifted from our breakfast table to the old neighborhood.

When I write about these peddlers, I usually receive an abundance of nostalgic responses, all sharing a common refrain: “I wish those neighborhood peddlers could return.” I believe it is because those men—the ice man, the milkman, the rag man, and my uncle—became extensions of our families. They were reliable, interesting, trusted fixtures who brought anticipation along with their products, bringing our streets to life every day.

We had a Waffle Man.

The Waffle Man wore a white apron and a tall white hat tipped to the side. He drove a polished, red truck with smooth round fenders and small wheels, brandishing a wooden sign, “Waffles.”

When he pulled up, we kids scooted ahead. After parking close to the curb, he arose from his squat bucket seat and stepped onto the raised rear platform behind his grille. As he slid open the service window, the aroma of hot oil and frying dough drifted out.

“Yes?” he’d ask.

We chirped like baby robins. “Two waffles!” “I’ll take three!” “Just one for me—extra powdered sugar, please!”

By tiptoeing and pulling myself up on the window frame, I could watch him crafting his waffles. He dipped a ladle into the creamy mix, poured it onto a ribbed machine, closed the lid and stood back.

A puff of steam hissed. In a moment that seemed an eternity, the golden-brown waffles, each a perfect rectangle with small, sunken squares, were done.

He placed them on waxed paper that wrinkled from the heat. Then, with a wave of a time-worn tin can, dressed each of them with snow-white powdered sugar.

The heat of the griddle wafted down to us. A maestro, he presented our waffles with care.

I reached into my pocket for ten cents, gathered my prize, sat against a nearby oak and bit into the soft warm treat, savoring the slight crunch of the waffle, eating slowly, licking the sugar off my fingers, brushing the powder from my shirt.

The Waffle Man was a key player in the orchestra of my neighborhood’s everyday life.

And my Uncle Tony, on the other side of town, held one of those very same keys.

Look . . .

Another way to subscribe.

© 2026

It doesn’t matter. Like hot dogs and beans, like a bologna sandwich, sardines are nostalgic for me, and I like them in a sandwich.

Years ago, I blogged about my love for them, and I could not believe how many fellow lovers there were out there ----- almost enough to form a club.

I grew to enjoy them during my first year of medical school. I rented a room from a psychiatrist (a good idea at the time) on the faculty at Albany Medical College. It was a simple setup ---- a bed, a window, a desk and a door outside leading to a communal bathroom. That’s all I thought I needed.

It was a grind, studying for hours; terrified of failing. I needed food. I was not one to cook. There was no place to cook anyway. Occasionally, I went to the nearby Greek Restaurant for “One cupsz cuffee, one rust beef samich and smush pudado.” Otherwise, I ate in the room or the hospital cafeteria that first year.

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The sardine sandwich was a staple. It was efficient: open the can with the key, wave off the initial scent, pour the olive oil on Italian bread, and layer the fish. No study time lost, and plenty of Omega-3s for the brain.

“What is that smell?” someone would invariably ask from outside my door.

“I’m eating brain food,” I’d reply.

I liked them then, and I like them today. Now, when I have them, Diane lights a candle—not as an offering to the food, but to mask the aroma.

So, my readers told me of how they not only loved sardines but also gefilte fish, one of whom chided me for not switching. And there were those who liked the large, freshly caught sardines packed in olive oil to which he added thinly sliced onions, or guacamole. And always in a sandwich. Or the one whose dad introduced her to mustard on sardines.

When I traveled to Portugal, the first dish I ordered was freshly grilled sardines with sea salt, never expecting how big they were. Mine were the little ones from the small tin, remember?

Why the difference? I’ve since learned that the nutrient-rich, cold Atlantic currents off Portugal promote ideal growth, while canneries specifically sort for “sardinillas” or “petingas” (small sardines) because they are prized for their tenderness.

My readers’ comments prove I’m not alone in this obsession.

Their memories have been jogged, and for a moment, we’re all part of the same “smelly” club. One reminded me of the sardine scene in Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, which makes me want to revisit my high school English assignments.

Others shared their own rituals:

Here’s a quote from a reader . . . Brain food, I shall remain at the bottom of the class. I’ll have another piece of apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Diane, you have my sympathy!

And another; I always ate them right out of the can. Sandy also used to light a candle or spray the house until I took out the garbage containing the empty can. I could not kiss her until I brushed my teeth or chewed on some mints.

Another . . .

Hi Ed, Love sardines especially cooked on the grill. Best I’ve had were at Portimo on the Algarve in Portugal. On the docks they have rows or 1/2 steel barrels used as grills and served at picnic tables with pitchers of beer or wine. Must be what heaven is like. If you go however, someone else must drive home.

Another

I ate sardines as a child, but as a grew older I had one word to say about them “disgusting.” Now I have a granddaughter who eats them as a snack and dips them into some sort of concoction. My son joins her in the snack. This coming from a guy who refuses to eat squash, peas, sweet potatoes and beans. Go figure.

And this . . .

I have liked sardines since I was a child, but my favorite is King Oscar or Brunswick Kipper Snacks. Kippers are herring fillets and are always in stock. I have them on Saltines or in a salad along with a few anchovies for a salty fishy taste.

I love it when readers comment. It means they have thought enough of what I have written that their memories are jogged.

Welcome to My Club.

© 2026

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What a nice setup. My parents, Peter and Anna lived with my brother Peter and me on the third floor. My grandparents held the second and my cousins ---- Bill, Steve Carolyn and their parents, Della and Carlo, on the first.

Our mutual love and understanding from those days have lasted for decades. We share a rare peace . . . no discord, no hostilities, no jealousies.

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Nowadays, we remain in close touch, meeting for lunch or at unique times to bridge the years. What do we discuss? We catch up on children, grandchildren or our health status, but really, it’s just about the good old days; nostalgically returning to bygone years as we laugh and sometimes cry; with emotion, with humor.

At a recent lunch, we wore hats, I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the symbolism of the hat, or maybe because hats protected our memories, or maybe just because we wanted to be a bit goofy. After all, isn’t “goofy love” the very foundation of our bond?

Or maybe we wore them because we remember a world where everyone did.

Up until the late forties, a hat was a necessity, but fine hats have fallen out of fashion for several reasons; jobs and lifestyles changes, shifting fashion and tastes, the upheaval of youth in the late 1950s and 1960s. Who knows for sure? But we still remember.

There were the days when men wore real hats. No, not baseball caps. No, not backward. No, not while dining.

They wore classy felt fedoras with brims tipped downward, or Panama hats curved modestly over the forehead. It might have been to keep the sun and the rain off their heads but, more likely, it was simply a fashionable part of their dress, part of a culture which lent style to the day; a badge of pride when they went to work, to a restaurant, to the theater, or to church.

For our lunch I tried a pork pie hat with a turned-up brim and a flat crown. It was popular with both men and women in the mid-19th century.

I turned the ridge down, shaping it like the fedora. It felt good to snap the brim. It felt right to tip my hat to a passerby, just as our fathers once tipped their hats to a lady.

Wearing hats served multiple purposes; protection from the weather; as a fashion accessory; to signify social, cultural, or professional status.

What can you do with a group like this? What can you do? Why, wear hats of course.

We didn’t wear them for status or protection that day. We wore them to be playful, to share another story, and to add one more memory to the list for next time. We sat there—collected, happy, and bound by something much stronger than the felt on our heads.

*** After our grandparents passed away, our parents sold the family home and built new houses side-by-side in Mt. Pleasant, ensuring the three-decker spirit lived on.

© 2026

Most of my friends went to the Catholic school while I attended public schools: Putnam, Academy and George J. West. I envied the Catholic kids because they had homework every night, which I did not; they were exempt from after school religious instructions, which I was not, and they were allowed to be altar or choir boys; roles closed to me.

I felt like an outsider: no homework, no choir, no altar service, and reduced playtime. It bothered me that I wasn’t a “Catholic school Catholic.” Instead, I felt somewhat blemished, someone who required remedial religious instruction every week.

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Nevertheless, I enjoyed it as it became part of me.

The Baltimore Catechism was my bible.

“Who made the world?” I knew.

“Why did God make you?” I knew.

“Why did God make me?” I had to pause on that one.

I knew that book, not just well enough to receive sacraments, but well enough, I believed, to go directly to heaven, skipping Limbo and Purgatory (Read Elizabeth Kaeton’s fun piece) where wayward souls were parked.

The classes could be frustrating. One nun called me Edward I-tool-ee-ay. “Where do you see a “t” in my name, Mother?”

“Oh, yes, right,” she replied. It didn’t matter to her.

During one class, the Pastor said a miracle occurred when water came through the glass on a hot day. I questioned him about condensation (I loved science). He was angry enough to smash his fist on my desk and exclaim, “It’s a miracle!”

OK, it’s a miracle

But those classes were worth it. On First Communion day, the day I reached the age of reason, I walked down the center aisle with pride in front of all the parents.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows and bounced off the dark marble. Yellows predominated. Bronzes, reds and blues were not far behind. I felt like a child saint waiting for the angels to sing.

I was dressed in a dark blue suit, black shoes, white shirt and tie, hands held chest high and tied together by black rosary beads. A new prayer book was tucked in my pocket. A scapula was tucked under my shirt.

After the ceremony, there was a party at our house, and I received gifts. I loved parties and gifts.

It was exciting when I was confirmed and became a “soldier of Christ,” personally anointed by a bishop who carried a tall, curved stick, sported a large ring which people kissed, and wore a towering mitre. He gave me a “blow” on the cheek to welcome me into the corps. When I looked down, I noticed he was wearing slippers. No matter. I had another new suit and a party with gifts, and I was getting closer to heaven by the minute.

I loved the Church’s high vaulted ceilings and long center aisle bracketed by polished and slippery mahogany pews. The floor plan was a Latin cross. The aisles steered us to a magnificent marble altar whose decorated dome of whites and blues, accented by flying doves, reached to God.

Massive, unadorned columns at the side aisles stretched to a roof supported by arches of might. Real candles adorned the racks at the side altars and aided by ethereal lights, glittered like stars.

Adjacent to and fronting the main altar was Jesus on the cross and above it a small inscription that read “INRI.” My eyes moved to it when I glanced up from the kneeler. I thought it meant “In Rhode Island.” Lucky us. He was present.

Most of the time church was fun, but it could bring out the worst in me. Scattered along the rear of the pews were buttons for hats and gloves; buttons strong enough to catch a finger. They emitted a smart snap when stretched out and let go and snap away we did.

I was never much for sitting stagnant through slow sermons. That’s when Dan and I started “the cough” to see how many in church would follow. He coughed, I coughed, and then we waited for the sequence from the congregation who never failed us, at which point we broke into uncontrollable, urge-to-urinate laughter.

And most often, we didn’t need a prank to break into hysterics. A simple look would do it. And there was always the pervasive fart to bring down the house. The fun stopped with the glare of a nun on patrol.

Church was important to us, so important that we visited seven of them on Holy Thursday, not knowing why but having fun.

Palms were important. We shopped the church that gave the most on Palm Sunday. Our Pastor was frugal.

The Church basement was our theater for the yearly minstrel show, and the headquarters where Father McGovern ran the CYO, and the room where the Boy Scouts met.

The Church was where I had my throat blessed, ashes pressed into my forehead though I wasn’t entirely sure why, and where I was once anointed with oil, again not sure why.

The Church was a meeting place. “I’ll meet you in front of the Church.”

The Church steps were where we found money thrown at the brides.

The Church was where my friend had a burial mass.

I never failed to bow my head and make the sign of the cross when I passed the Church.

The Church schoolyard was our arena for stickball, basketball and hopscotch.

It all was so important.

When unoccupied and absent the ceremonial incense, the church was cool and damp with a stale, mousy smell.

Incense meant a special ceremony like the annual weeknight retreats. Pomp and circumstance attracted me.

The Latin songs of Benediction were beautiful; Tantum Ergo my favorite. It didn’t matter that I did not comprehend. What mattered was that I memorized mesmerizing melodies whose lyrics fit so well.

Tantum ergo sacramentu

Veneremur cernui

Et antiquum documentum

Novo cedat ritui;

Praestet fides supplementum

Sensuum defectui

Genitori genitoque

Laus et jubilatio,

Salus, honor, virtus quoque,

Sit et benedictio;

Procedenti ab utroqu

Compar sit laudatio.

Tantum Ergo Translation

Lovely.

For confession, I sought out the lenient priests; those who dealt out light penances. I rarely knew what to confess and often had to think of “bad” stuff. What do I say when I had no mortal sins to declare?

“I glanced sideways at my grandmother when she sent me to the store for bread.” Oops.

“I stole a walnut from Mr. Francesconi’s.” Oops.

“I swore ten times, or was that twenty? Oops.

“I called a kid a jerk?” Oops.

“I had bad thoughts twice last week.” What exactly was a bad thought? Was it disliking the nun who called me Edward I-tool-ee-ay?

The priest sent me to the rail . . . “Five Our Fathers, five Hail Mary’s and one Act Of Contrition.” I didn’t know the Act of Contrition, so I made it up. Uh, oh, another sin.

What special memories. What luck.

Nuns, priests, education, games, worship, joy, laughter, pomp and circumstance. I loved them all.

Tantum ergo, Sacramentum

Veneremur cernui….

© April 2026

When I think of baseball, I think of my Dad. He wasn’t a Sox fan.

Oh no.

A New York Yankees fan tried and true. His transistor radio was always with him, listening to the games.

His radio was small, modern for the time, a cream-colored plastic honey with dials for knobs that clicked with on and off and rotated to select the station. It resided in a brown colored leather case with a little pouch attached to its strap. In the pouch was a small mono “earphone” which the wireless earbud kids of today would probably laugh at.

That radio was one of my Dads prized possessions. He was meticulous with it. We were not allowed to touch it, and if we did and nudged it the wrong way or, heaven forbid, drop it, there would be an immediate “Gosssh dammit! Be careful with that thing! That’s my transistor radio!”

I have fond memories of my Dad, sitting in the sun, listening to the ball game; especially if the Yankees were playing the Sox.

A narrow wire plugged into the side of the radio led to the mono earphone. Occasionally, we took the “portable TV” outside (weighed a ton!), set it in the shade, and watched the game in black and white.

My uncles were into baseball. I particularly remember uncle Ray, Dad’s brother, a diehard sports fan. At many family events . . . first communion, confirmation, graduation, if there was a game on, Uncle Ray was sitting there having a conversation, chatting, drinking coffee, etc., with that earphone leading down to a small radio in his pocket.

The game was always on.

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My Dad, my uncles, a cousin and I went to a particularly memorable game in 1963 or so. I was nine. Everyone except my Dad was a Red Sox fan. We were sitting along the first base line behind the dugout. My knees could touch the back of the dugout; my drink was sitting on the dugout roof.

Yogi Berra was coaching first base with his back to us, and when my Dad started yelling “Hey Yogi! Hey, Yogi!” and waving.

My uncles were alarmed. “Dominic! Be quiet. They’ll throw us out of here! ‘Hey Yogi’ is not a good thing to be yelling at Fenway Park on the first base line near the Red Sox dugout.” But here’s the thing, the real thing.

Yogi made Dad’s day. He turned and waved. “Did you see that? He waved right at me!” The uncles were silent.

Those days of listening to the radio, watching TV, or easily going to a game are long gone. Now, sports can be seen on network TV, streamed over paid channels, or watched on a screen, a phone, tablet, or computer.

I’ve been back to Fenway Park, but my knees don’t rest against the back wall of the dugout. Why?

The box office price of bleacher seats, yes bleachers, for a family of four would be over $1000!!

What would Dad say, sitting in the sun, in his beach chair, little earphone in place, listening on his transistor radio to the Red Sox play the Yankees?

“Hey, Yogi!”

© 2026

Miss C, my favorite teacher in junior high school loved poetry and never failed to read a poem at the start of every English class. One day, she read Casey at the Bat, and I was enthralled. Well, at baseline, I was enthralled with her. Casey was added value.

Rick Busciglio does a great reading here . . .

Rick . . .

I was captured by the poem and felt part of the Mudville crowd . . . ten thousand eyes and five thousand tongues . . . cheering The Man, Casey.

Like my favorite player, Ted Williams, Casey was a Goliath, and he had to succeed. There was nothing else but winning. My excitement turned to shock when Miss C read, But there is no joy in Mudville, mighty Casey has struck out. My gluteal muscles contracted as I jumped in my seat breathless, “He struck out?!

“Yes, Edward, he struck out. Calm down.” I loved her.

And so, now in late winter, though March madness is just underway, the Celtics and Bruins are still playing, and the Boston Marathon is a bit in the distance, thoughts of baseball creep into my head.

I have to add my recent piece, “A Piece of the Park” in RI News Today

I remember summers at the Rhode Island shore with my dad hunched over the radio, attached to his losing Red Sox. He was a lone Sox fan as most of hius friends loved the Yankees. So, Dad heard the Sox drown year after year.

Spring feels closer today. I’ve seen the early blooms of crocuses, and I’m anticipating the pop of blossoms.

In the springs of my youth, the mitts and bats stored in the cellar would awaken like sleeping bears, frogs and baby chicks.

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Away went the heavy coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. We spent hours outside, taped old balls, rubbed new ones, Neatsfoot oiled our gloves. We played catch and took some batting practice, toting an old bat with a nail driven into the sweet spot for the “pop.”

Not all baseball springs were easy. When my children were playing, my Dad and I watched many a game in frigid temperatures. Clad in winter coats and heavy gloves, we often hustled back to the car to turn on the engine and thaw. The cold aluminum stands had the same physical properties as the new aluminum bats; one stung hands, the other bums.

The knock of the wooden bat was now the ring of metal, and a high-pitched ping it was. Feeling bad for the players and a little guilty (not much) for warming ourselves, we eventually returned to sit on those cold stands or stand behind the home plate fence.

I can still see the players.

The first baseman was wearing a hooded sweatshirt under his uniform. The second baseman wore a toque and a windbreaker. The guy at third had a heavy sweater. The batters swung as if they needed grease. The pitcher blew into his hand. The outfielders were jumping up and down.

The coaches wore mittens and clapped a lot. “Hurry up, Kid! Throw the ball,” barked the shivering umpire. “We gotta get outta here. Strike! Close enough.”

So what if we sat on cold bleachers, swinging our arms to keep warm or running back to the warm car. No matter. Dad and I were back on a ball field watching the kids in the spring of our lives. Together.

Baseball seems to wake everything in nature … trees, grasses, flowers, animals, players, fans … from the long sleep of winter.

As Milton Bracker wrote in his poem,

Tomorrow!

And tossing the ball out
And yelling Play Ball!
(Who cares about fall-out-
At least, until fall?)

Let nothing sour
This sweetest hour;
The baseball season’s
Back in flower!

Get out those gloves and bats! Play ball! The right of spring means allegiance,

To the game

To the kids

To our memories

To Dad . . .

© 2026

The first is that not everyone survives. To dismiss vaccination because “only a few” will die from infections, when vaccination will significantly lower that number, seems heartless. A death that can be prevented should not happen and vaccines clearly reduce the number of deaths. They don’t prevent all deaths – neither do seatbelts – but that doesn’t mean that they don’t work.

The second point is that living through an infection doesn’t mean that one isn’t harmed by the infection. While a lot of the conversation has been about mortality, we should also consider the acute and long-term effects of infection, referred to as morbidity.

As immunization rates decrease due to the actions and inactions of Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.’s Department of Health and Human Services, not only will death rates increase, as we’re already seeing with measles and whooping cough, but the human and economic impact of more people getting sick will rise, affecting all of us.

We already know what viruses can do during winter cold seasons –

• missed school days,

• crowded doctors’ offices,

• overwhelmed emergency departments and hospitals,

• work absenteeism due to employee or employees’ children’s illness,

• cancelled trips –

but in addition to the flu, RSV, and COVID that accounts for most of these, let’s throw in children with measles, rubella, or mumps, and eventually polio, which we will see if the current trend continues. And let’s make it a year-round problem.

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The recent measles outbreak in Texas was costly. A study of school absenteeism by the conservative Hoover Institute reported a 41% increase in absences, which was even higher in pre-kindergarten and kindergarten students (71%). The American Action Forum, a center-right policy institute, looked at the cost of the outbreak resulting from increased use of the medical system, lost productivity from illness, quarantine, caregiving, and the public health response to the outbreak, and estimated a total cost of $35.4 million.

We should not minimize what “surviving” measles, mumps, rubella, polio, RSV, influenza, and COVID-19 mean. It’s more than missing a few days of school or work or having to reschedule a vacation. Recovery is not always complete.

Each of these viruses can cause permanent disability.

For example, measles can cause encephalitis resulting in permanent brain damage, and a brain disease called subacute sclerosing panencephalitis that appears years after the infection and can be fatal. Mumps can cause infertility and deafness.

Polio can cause paralysis. Have you met someone who survived polio but was left with a weakened leg requiring bracing and use of a cane? I’ve taken care of a couple in my career.

COVID-19 can cause heart inflammation (myocarditis), complications from abnormal blood clotting, and what is referred to as “long COVID,” a variety of persistent symptoms after the acute infection.

Rubella can cause a type of arthritis lasting weeks, but more significant are the complications of infection in a pregnant woman, such as deafness, heart defects, and intellectual disability (including autism) in the child.

And no matter how often the social media influencers and ignorant politicians repeat it, zinc capsules, apple cider vinegar, and ivermectin will not fix any of this.

The next line in the anti-vax anthem after “very few die, but most survive” is that “yes, there are complications of infection, but vaccination has an even higher rate of complications.” This has been studied extensively and is untrue.

Emphasis Note: Vaccination does NOT have a higher rate of complications

It’s ironic is that most of the people who are rejecting vaccines for themselves or their children are themselves the beneficiaries of vaccines. If they’re not old enough to remember, their parents and grandparents can tell them how it was before vaccines were available, when all one could do was quarantine and hope for the best.

That vaccines save lives and reduce the morbidity of vaccine-preventable infections is not a theory – over a century of study and implementation prove it. As much as some people may want to debate it, those facts are not debatable.

As physicians, Dr. Ejnes and I have experienced these issues and, trust me, they are REAL

© 2026

When my children were young, I decided to build them a rabbit hutch. Being “tool challenged,” I assumed a box would be OK.

“No, no, Buddy,” chirped the gentleman at the feed store. “The hutch, ya know the box, has ta be on stilts so raccoons don’t get ‘em. And ya need a wire cage attached that opens inta it . . .. where the poop and pee can drop down, ya know. Rabbit poop is good fer the garden, ya know. And ya need a door.”

“Ok, OK. Where are the cages?”

“And don’t ferget, make it easy fer the bunnies to get into the hutch. If they stand on the wire all day, they git hock trouble. They kin die from it.”

“Hock trouble?” Oh boy.

I soon learned that sore hocks or ulcerative pododermatitis, is a painful infection on the underside of a rabbit’s hind feet. It’s caused by prolonged pressure on the wire flooring, especially if the bedding is soiled.

To avoid it, the cage needs regular cleaning.

So, the cage needs to be cleaned often.

Spending too much time in confined spaces leads to sustained pressure on the same spot on the foot.

So, the rabbits need time out of the cage.

Overgrown nails alter the way a rabbit stands, forcing them to sit back on their hocks rather than on their toes.

So, their nails need to be trimmed.

I was in deep. Hock trouble, comfortable box, spaces to pee and poop, plumbing, manicures. Stilts? It had better be worth it.

When I was a kid, my grandfather built a hutch for my rabbit. After school, I’d feed Peter (of course), hold him and let him roam. He recognized me the moment I rounded the corner, and he thumped the floor of his den. He was a loyal friend.

I struggled but finally, Up went our hutch, A backyard palace bordering the woods.

We bought four rabbits, one for each kid.

“Kids, they’re your responsibility and you need to take care of them. There won’t be much to do except piling the poops for the garden, exercising them and trimming their nails.” Hmmm, not much response.

The rabbits weren’t that cooperative. When taken out of the cage, they bolted. And they did not return to a simple call.

And they peed and pooped in the hutch, their home. They treated their sleeping quarters as a latrine.

It became a mess. When they were out of the cage, I had to use a power hose to wash out the hutch and the cage.

“Did you feed the rabbits? Have you cleaned the cage and the hutch?”

Their responsibility ended at cuddling. “Homework, Dad. I gotta meet my friends, Dad. Baseball practice, Dad.”

The rabbits soon after became the property of a friendly farmer who took the rabbits and the palace.

I made a clean break from the rabbit business(es).

© 2026

Yes, you are correct. It is National Pencil Day.

First my love of pencils . . . .

I enjoyed sharpening pencils in elementary school.

No, it wasn’t because I liked cranking the hand-powered pencil sharpener.

No, it wasn’t because I wanted a break from the monotony of schoolwork.

No, it wasn’t because I was the teacher's pet, though I liked that part; emptying the shavings into the trash bucket at the teacher’s desk. She looked and smiled. That’s a good thing.

It’s because

I love a sharp pencil. I love the smell. When I break from my writing, I hold it to my nose. Its woody scent of cedar and varnish marries sweetly with the sooty smell of lead and paint.

You can move along the length of the pencil to the ferrule, that crimped metal ring that holds the eraser, to capture the familiar, clean smell of rubber.

I like the whirl of the automatic sharpener as I twirl the pencil to even the cut. My grandchildren were so fascinated with the automatic that they honed my pencils to the nib. “Stop that! It’s sharp enough. And be careful of the point.”

When I’m in a sharpening pinch, I use a miniature handheld device like the one in my old pencil box.

I love to hold a pencil. No matter how I grasp it, my fingers rest predictably in the perfect place on the hexagonally ribbed surfaces.

You can do stuff with a pencil; like tap it on the desk when you’re looking for the right word. Two are perfect drumsticks for tapping out rhythms Basie like . . . rattly tap, tap. You can use the eraser to scratch your head (it’s hard to stop). You can run it along the radiator, or chew on it.

And then there is always the writing. I love the number two pencil; its lead is just soft enough for carving clear, crisp, legible words.

The modern pencil was invented in 1795 by Nicholas-Jacques Conte, a scientist in Napoleon Bonaparte’s army. The material he used was a form of pure carbon called graphite, discovered in Bavaria at the start of the fifteenth century.

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Initially, the black lead was called plumbago (hence ‘plumbers’ who repair lead water pipes). The word graphite is from the Greek graphein, meaning to write. The word pencil is from the Latin pencillus, little tail, to describe the small ink brushes used for writing in the Middle Ages.

Check the pencil’s marking: H stands for hard; B stands for black; HB hard black. The hardness of the graphite core is marked with a number. The higher the number, the harder the core and the lighter the mark left on the paper. I love a dark mark when I write, so I use a # 2 pencil. I like soft lead.

And my pencils must have an eraser that does not dry out.

The Ticonderoga brand is the Dixon Ticonderoga Company, named after Joseph Dixon, who experimented with various uses for graphite. He mixed the mineral with clay and water, rolled it into strips, and baked it in his mother’s oven. He then pressed the mixture into grooved cedar wood, and the first Dixon pencil was created.

The call came out of the blue from Newsy, the newsgroup that describes itself as a popular source for “concise, unbiased video news and analysis covering the top stories from around the world.”

I was surprised to learn of its substantial number of subscribers. Well, it turns out that meaningful, uncontroversial, human-interest conversations are part of the mix. I liked that since I would be involved in something uncontroversial.

When the call came, I hesitated, suspecting that this might be another unwelcome, unsolicited crank-spammer.

Well, I was wrong. This was genuine. “We would like you to be on our news fun spot.”

“News spot? Really? Which and why?”

“Tomorrow is National Pencil Day, and we read your column about pencils.” That did it. I was hooked, but I needed more preparation, because it had been a while since I had written the piece and done the homework. I made an online tune-up, finding some stuff that I had not found earlier or did not have enough room for in the column.

For example:

Did you know that you can buy a pre-chewed pencil? Or that people use the eraser on the pencil to stick sewing needles? That the ‘lead’ is a mixture of graphite and clay, not lead?

And, on average, a pencil can be sharpened seventeen times, draw a line 35 miles long, and write approximately 45,000 words. Wow! No wonder Hemingway and Steinbeck used pencils to draft their novels.

Over fourteen billion pencils are manufactured worldwide annually, enough to circle the earth more than forty times.

Pencils can write in zero gravity and are used on space missions by astronauts. They can also write underwater!

Chatting with the newscasters was fun. We talked about how the “return-to-school energy” seemed to skyrocket at the end of summer when we had enough vacation. It was time to get our pencil box restocked. With what? Why pencils, a few crayons, erasers, a hand-held sharpener, a small ruler, all fitting neatly in a firm cardboard box that folded over twice and snapped shut with a pop.

And we laughed over the story of how, on occasion, we were the teacher’s pet and allowed to sharpen pencils for the class.

I recently bought ten boxes of pencils with twelve in each box. The newsies laughed. “Well, I use them every day to write in my journals. I keep them sharp. They feel good. They also make a great gift.

Here is my National TV Debut

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Ahhh, wooden pencils. Painted in gold, they look regal.

There are a few pencil songs and cartoons, none of which I will visit.

The biggest virtue of a wooden pencil is that, well, it's not made out of plastic. It takes less energy to produce the raw pencil material, and over time, it will become a pile of shavings that will, hopefully, be composted.

The best pencils are made from genuine Incense Cedar, while quality budget pencils are made of Basswood or Poplar. Cedar is the most used.

2,000,000,000 is the estimated number of pencils used in the U.S. each year. This represents about 82,000 trees.

Graphite is expensive, but pencils are inexpensive because the graphite core, called lead, though it contains no lead at all, is not high-grade pure graphite but a mixture of graphite powder with a clay binder. The wood encloses the graphite, and the yellow paint serves as the casing.

Pencils create marks by physical abrasion, leaving a trail of solid core material that adheres to a sheet of paper or another surface. Its grey or black marks, though easily erased, are resistant to moisture, most chemicals, ultraviolet radiation, and natural aging. Other types of pencil cores, such as charcoal, are primarily used for drawing and sketching.

The highest-priced pencil is the Limited Edition of the Graf von Faber-Castell Perfect Pencil, offered at $12,800. Only ten of these classic pencils were crafted with 240-year-old olive wood and 18-carat white gold and included a built-in eraser and sharpener. There are approximately five remaining in the world.

The Perfect Pencil Limited Edition White Gold Pencil, crafted of cedar and featuring diamonds and white gold, is the world’s most expensive today.

That’s quite enough, albeit only a modest amount of the considerable information about the pencil.

How about using the word pencil in some phrases?

For example . . . not the sharpest pencil in the box, pencil me in, pencil pusher, pencil whipped, pencil-necked. I’ll leave you to figure out the meanings of these phrases. I’ll also leave you to figure out the most commonly used pencil phrase not mentioned here.

Pencils are nearly perfect as they combine three essential functions in a single object, writing and correcting in a timeless design.

Ya gotta love ‘em.

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© 2026

You can read more of my days at the school in my book, My Story Continues: From Neighborhood to Junior High School.

The musty, steamy, stale smells hovering along the low ceilings conjured up recollections of lunch hour.

The cafeteria was in a basement that also housed the art metal and woodworking shops. The sounds of band saws mixed with the clatter of trays in that subterranean haven.

The “caf” housed rows of tables interspersed among metal poles. The low ceilings accommodated fluorescent lights that gave the crowd a waxy paste or a pasty wax; maybe both.

At the bell, we rushed from classrooms, raced to lockers, grabbed our lunches, scurried down the stairs and tumbled into place, boys to one side, girls to the other by nature, not design. It was noisy and hectic.

We tossed lunch bags on the tables and jockeyed into the food line for a carton of milk. Or on pizza day, a slice.

Those with trays stood in line along a steel rail that defined the kitchen where pinkish-clad ladies served lunch. At the beginning of the line was a stack of trays adjacent to the steaming bins of food.

Behind the bins were the busy, paper-hatted women. Behind the servers was the kitchen where the smells originated.

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At the end of the parade was another hatted-pinkie sitting at a cash register.

I carried my lunch except on pizza days.

Mom made me a baloney sandwich with French’s mustard on Tip-Top

or Wonder Bread,

wrapped in wax paper and nestled it in a huge Kraft brown bag. The tangy mustard gave the bland baloney a kick. The snack was the highlight. Hostess Twinkies or a Devil Dog.

As we ate, we chatted about the Red Sox, Yankees, pro football, Otto Graham, Y. A. Tittle, Dante Lavelle, Jim Brown, radio shows like Boston Blackie, The Phantom or The Shadow.

On Wednesdays, we repeated Milton Berle’s jokes from his Tuesday night show. On Fridays, it was Hopalong Cassidy.

We looked to the other side of the room to see if the girls were watching. They never were. There was Maryann flipping her ponytail as she chatted.

I played a kissing game with her once, but she had to teach me.

I imagined her walking over to say, “Hi” in front of the other boys, but that never happened. In fact, nothing like that ever happened.

“Do you think Maryann likes me?”

“How should we know?”

“She asked me to go to the movies.”

“Do ya think that’s a clue. Did you say yes?”

I opened my mouth. “I don’t know.” Milk from the straw snapped out and strafed Steve.

“How can you not know if you said yes or not?”

“I don’t know.”

After lunch we stampeded to the excitement of fist baseball in the schoolyard, a blacktopped area where we used our fists for a bat.

The rules were the same, except there was no pitcher and no one struck out. Why? Because we lobbed a Spaldeen and struck it with a closed fist, trying to hit the wall.

The bigger kids tossed the ball straight up and took a roundhouse overhand swing to launch the missile. Home runs were rare as a hard-hit ball off the wall might ricochet to the second baseman in the small yard.

A littleguy, I never hit the wall. I threw the ball sideways, swinging horizontally to sneak a grounder between the fielders. One day, I shuffled to the plate, tossed the Spaldeen, hit it and reach first base, a rarity.

My goof . . .

As the next batter came to the plate, I leaned for a lead, and the first baseman tagged me. I got picked off by the hidden ball trick. Stunned, I stood motionless, red-faced, as embarrassed as if my pants had fallen. “Damn it,” some big yelled.

With tears welling, I took off and headed to the cafeteria. It was now dark, empty. I sat in the corner and rested my elbows on the table with my head between my hands. A pinkie appeared. “Anything wrong, son?” I was surprised by her soft voice. “We’ll be closing the doors shortly.”

“I’m fine.” I was comforted by the solace of the cafeteria. From chaos to cool, dark and alone was good.

The day I took the tour, I noticed that neither the lighting nor the smells had changed, the food line was the same, and the tables were in place.

I pictured the teachers, heard the clang of dishes, the rings of the cash register, the tapping shoes, tumbling chairs and the din of kids talking, shouting, whistling and laughing. I wished I had a carton of milk, a Devil Dog and a gaze the girls.

There I was sitting in that corner.

It was the time when the sandwich and a hopeful “Hi” from a girl was the most important part of my life.

And maybe erasing the pickoff.

© 2026

That was the refrain of friends who, unlike me, seemed to know stuff. Sure, to ‘just do it’ would be fine. But I was the one doing the “just doing.”

I met her at the brook, the schoolyard, or in front of the Dairy Cream, but it was never official. Nothing was ever official.

I just ran into her. Now we were alone. Her ever present friends and my hangin’ buddies seemed to block any further progress.

She was tanned, had a round face, brown hair in a ponytail, big, unblinking brown eyes that sparkled like mirrors, a soft voice, straight shoulders, and a warm, confident smile, as if she knew something I did not. No surprise there.

I walked by the drugstore near her house, and there she was! I tottered up to her and blurted, “Hi, uhhh, err, wanna’ goferadateattheCastle?” The Castle Theatre** was safe. The movies did the talking.

“Hi, Eddie, how ya doin’? Sorry, what?”

“Uhhh, Ya know, go…fer-a-date to the movies on Satdy.”

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

Oh my god, she said yes. It was official. Now what? I had not considered the next step.

“Uhhh, should I meet you someplace, uhh, like in front of the library or the Castle?”

“No, just come by my house.” Stymied. Girls were cool. Boys tried to be cool.

--Yer house? -- Yeah. -- YOUR house? --Yes.

“Uhhh, OK, what time?” I pawed, making neat circles in the sidewalk with the toe of my Keds high top. I was drenched. A rim of sweat lined my lip, and two rivulets of reek trickled under my arms. I thought I might slide out of my Keds.

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On Saturday, she was sitting on her porch steps with friends, no parents. Whew, first hurdle cleared. I would be lost meeting parents.

She was wearing loafers, pink shorts, and a soft, white sweater that held my attention. Her ponytail flipped as she turned. I was wearing oversized khaki pants with my leather belt cinched to the last notch, a white tee shirt and my Red Sox cap. “Well, uhhh, wanna go?” Uhhh and shaved words anchored much of my vocabulary.

We walked along, me clipping a bit ahead and making half turns to chatter. We drifted by the junior high school. I glanced at friends playing ball. They stopped. I heard a whistle.

I feared I might break out into something that needed Clearasil. A carefree paper fluttered across the road.

“Do you like school?” I wasn’t sure what to answer. I loved school, but I wasn’t sure if it was cool.

“Uhhh, yeah, I guess.”

“Yeah, I do too. Should be a good movie, huh? What is it?”

“Not sure. When Worlds Collide, I think.” I was colliding.

I should have known what the movie was. Time to change the subject. “What are your friends doing today?”

“They went to the beach.” Oh my God, this date better be good. I kept her from the beach with her girlfriends.

“Do you like an action movie like Audie Murphy or Randolph Scott? I like Geronimo.”

“No, not really. I like romantic stuff like Duel in the Sun.”

“Really?” Romantic? Duel in the Sun? Sounds like action to me.”

“Yeah. There’s action too.” Her look was amused.

So, what did that mean? I spent the day trying to figure out what things meant. Girls always seemed to mean other stuff when they spoke.

We arrived. I held the door. Good. I went to the booth. Good. I bought two tickets for fifty cents. Good. We strolled to the candy counter. Good. “How about some popcorn?”

“Sure.”

“Want some gum” --- No, thanks. I unwrapped my Dubble-Bubble, popped the wad in my mouth and attacked it.

“Want to sit in the balcony?”

“I don’t care.”

“Nah, neither do I.”

“So, should we sit there?’

“I’m not sure.”

“OK.”

“Yeah. OK.”

We took seats on the right in an empty row, two-thirds away from the screen and under the cover of the back wall. I bumped against her shoulder as we sat. She smelled of Ivory Soap. I pulled the brim of my hat.

“Ya know,’ said the guys, “She knows the score, and expects it. Move yer arm when it gets dark.”

“Expects what?”

“Ta be kissed, dope.”

“So, what am I supposs to do?”

“Well, jes put yer arm round her. Then jes leen over ‘n kiss her.”

“Kiss her? Sure, easy for you guys.”

As the lights dimmed, her beauty rose. A silhouette in a ponytail.

We sat and watched some movie, and in a moment of heroism, I draped my arm around her seat, just the seat, the cold metal seat. “Get your arm off there!” barked the squeaky-shoed matron with the jingling keys. My arm swiftly retreated like a slingshot returning to its sling.

Her sweater was soft, touchable. I looked around. All clear. I snuck my arm again. My fingers crawled. She snuck closer.

I was sliding my other hand nervously under my seat. What I felt was a sick surprise. Land mines of fossilized gum! Ugh. Yes, my first feel at the reel was not what I planned. It was gum! Rows of hard bumps of all sizes and shapes. Ugh!

I rested my hand on her shoulder. I felt a strap under the soft sweater. I looked around, and as I turned to her, my hat brim hit her face.

I took a deep breath, sat up to enhance my reach, and then! A snort slapped the air, jolting me as the flashlight shone first in my face and then in my lap.

“Get that arm off her!!”

Squeaky shoes and keys again, just as my fingers were making their way further south. In a flash, I whisked my arm and folded my hands, spiritually, in my lap. I slid down in the seat. My scalp was itchy. I stopped breathing. I took a breath.

The next dark scene came. I let it pass.

OK, the next one, for sure. It came faster than I thought. I jumped and heaved my arm over her shoulder. There. Good. It was back on the sweater, and my fingers were across her collarbone again. Now what?

Should I tilt my head? Lips open or closed? How would I breathe? Eyes open or closed? I thought of a song. Unfortunately, it was Roy Rogers and the Sons of the Pioneers singing “Tumbling Tumbleweeds.” My heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings and as loud as a galloping horse.

Having never kissed a girl before except at a spin-the-bottle party when I completely botched it, I wondered. What would it taste like? Pistachio? Watermelon? A morning’s breath?

She held the popcorn box with her right hand. With her left hand, she reached into the box, took one piece, brought it to her lips, held it there a moment while looking straight ahead with those wide, expectant eyes, grabbed that piece with the tip of her tongue, and slowly pulled it back into her mouth. It melted away. She knew I was looking. Was that moan from the screen?

As my fingers drifted further, she reached across and put the popcorn box on the seat to my left. Her shoulder dug into my chest. She turned her head and faced me, a breath away. All I saw were lips and those beautiful, non-blinking eyes. I squirmed, shifted my weight, and crossed my legs at the ankles.

I leaned forward. As our lips touched, I felt a tingle and goose bumps not unlike the ones I got when I dove into the ocean. And the taste was like marmalade and cherry. I took short, fast, silent breaths.

I pulled back, turned, took the Dubble Bubble out of my mouth, and stuck it under the seat with the other mines. I went back to touching lips. It was new, different and exciting.

I never reached further down the sweater.

It was a long walk home.

She walked ahead.

Gum under the seat the first feel. Hmmm . . .

© 2026

I loved the lunch Devil Dog, an individually wrapped, yummy, creamy, mushy, white marshmallow center nestled between two pieces of elongated chocolatey, dark brown cakes.

The Devil Dog could be a smidge dry, so I swirled it with a swig of refreshing cold milk. That’s when the magic happened—the cake softened, the cream oozed, and suddenly it was the experience.

According to legend, they’re called Devil Dogs as during World War I, the German soldiers called the U.S. Marines “Devil Dogs” because of their tenacity, persistence, and determination under fire. Born for grit, the nickname endures today as part of the Marine Corps’ legacy.

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The phrase gained immense popularity, appearing on a U.S. recruiting poster, in poems,

His uniform is different,
The best you've ever seen.
The Germans call him Devil Dog,
His real name is Marine.

songs, movies, and team names. It was an easy name for the Drake Baking Company to adopt.

Save for the ‘Dog’, little compared with the Oreo . . . not a Twinkie, not a Napoleon, not a hermit cookie or a lemon square, not an éclair.

Wait, Wait, you’re telling me that you don’t know what a Napoleon is? You think it has something to do with a general?

Well . . .

A Napoleon (could it have something to do with Naples, Italy?) is a classic dessert. often called mille-feuille (French for “a thousand leaves”), it consists of alternating layers of crisp, flaky puff pastry and rich pastry cream and is typically topped with powdered sugar, icing, or a chocolate-feathered glaze.

Ok, back to The Dog and The Oreo

As much as I loved the Devil Dog, nothing really compared to the Oreo. Not a Twinkie, not a lemon square, not even a fancy éclair. Oreos were something else—two chocolate wafers stamped with their name, hugging a slab of creamy filling.

I could be creative with an Oreo

Some dunked, others split them apart and licked the middle first. One could, I suppose, separate the cookie, and lick the cream first. Not good enough. Oreos were made for milk, and they belonged in a tall glass, six at a time. I’d stack them in, pour the milk, and watch as the cookies soaked it up, bubbles rising between the layers.

I loved war movies when I was a kid, so I likened this to a military operation.

· Stack in a column.

· Deploy the amphibious . . . milk to cookie

· Bubbles signify occupation

· The victory chant after the slurp . . . Ooh-rah!

Ahhh . . . a chunk of cream sandwiched between branded discs of chocolate.

Patience was critical.

I waited until the sharp lines between the cookie and cream faded, and the Oreos were soft. Then, with my Hopalong Cassidy spoon, so as not to invite an explosion,

I’d gently work my way to the bottom of the glass. Move too fast, and you risked a chocolate milk eruption—something I learned the hard way more than once. If done too quickly, the milk and Oreos erupted, strafing me with an artillery of milk-laced chocolate. I became the expert.

As the milk trickled down the thin spaces between glass and cookies, then between the wafer and the cream, froths arose. The Oreos succumbed when they were softened, and gummy. When the distinction between white and brown blurred, they were ready.

With a careful, delicate twist, I penetrated the compote, filled the spoon, and slurped the slurry home. The soft mushy blend of cold milk, softened chocolate and cream was delightful, the perfect combination.

My tongue became maestro as I directed it through the creamy paste, squeezed it against my cheeks, pressed it from my hard to soft palate, waited in a moment of delight, then swallowed.

When I finished, I tipped the glass and drank the last of the milk, flecks of chocolate and creamy morsels sometimes dribbling over my chin to my neck.

Ooo-rah!

Every now and then, I’d split a Devil Dog or an Oreo and go straight for the filling, but that was rare. Real aficionados knew better.

The Devil Dog and the Oreo—those were the ultimate desserts.

Nothing else even came close.

So . . . what would you add as your favorite?

© 2026

. . . and here he writes again another homespun story

Darn ahh the word . . .

>> to sew in the manner of a weave

>> to mend a hole in a sock

Our neighbors—the five Tracy sisters—taught us kids to darn using a wood darning egg, sewing needle, and appropriate thread or yarn.

Magdalene, the only one who drove, taught 7th and 8th grade in Middle School.

Elizabeth, the oldest, stayed home managing the kitchen and big coal stove.

Mamie was a telephone operator over J T Owens clothing store

Grete (Margaret) worked at Lee Marble Quarry, while

Josephine helped at their church.

We loved the Tracy sisters.

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They were organized. As if they had a choreographer, their days had a rhythm, a pattern in step of breakfast, church, work, household chores, washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, rest.

Washed clothes were hung on the line to dry (some unmentionables covered so as not to be seen by neighbors), ironed, always folded and sometimes mended including worn sheets and towels.

Even Christmas wrapping paper was ironed, folded, and saved for next year.

Frugality was the operative word, and nothing was wasted . . .

There was little plastic to discard. Glass bottles were washed and saved or recycled. Why even tin cans were saved for the war efforts.

Clothing too worn to repair went in the rag bag. Every few weeks, Mr. Perrini came with his horse and wagon to pick up the minimal remaining trash. Climbing down from his wagon, he would place a small stone anchor on the ground to remind his horse that they were parked.

And sometimes he would let my brother Tom and I climb up and hold the reins and drive a few feet up the driveway. What a thrill!

Back to darning( from Professor Pincushion)

This was the drill: a wood egg-shaped ball (the darning egg), came in many sizes and styles, some quite artistic. It was inserted into the sock with the to-be-mended hole neatly stretched over the top. The darner started by weaving an interlacing cross-stitch. Anything that needed darning was piled on the table and attacked in order.

Imagine, we were kids, and we learned the art of darning. Moreso, we learned the art of prudence. And parsimony. It was a necessary skill engrained forever.

Frugality at its best. There was no waste in the Tracy house.

Nor ours.

Read more by Dr. Fritz.

Do you have a frugality story to share. We’d love to hear it.

© 2026