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

The console was furniture that fit neatly into the corner of the room, displacing everything around it.

The Emerson took some time to warm up after Dad turned it on, but once it did . . . “Boom.”

The sun’s light filtered through the glazed windows, and the yellow hues of the candle chandelier drifted onto his sleeping frame. Against a wall was a faux fireplace, and on it were some artificial flowers from the Calart Artificial Flower Company.

Tucked in a corner was his desk, the one with the swing-down top, the one with not enough books. The few that I remember were: Gone with the Wind, the Funk and Wagnalls Encyclopedia, How to Win Friends and Influence People, and some books on how to fix radios.

On the right side lay his Eversharp fountain pen that he gifted me when I entered junior high school.

There was his work area in a room off to the right, where Dad fixed radios in his spare time; another job to support his family.

I often stood in that room to peer at his workbench lit by the glare of a fluorescent light. On the bench were radios, some repaired, some expectant. Along the shelf was a row of replacement tubes. The fluorescent glow hit those tubes and lit them like dancing fireflies.

I never touched anything on that desk, a long piece of plywood resting on two horses.

The radios were off limits by my design. Dad never said not to touch anything. I simply did not.

I knew he worked late into the night over those radios. I knew he had to rise early for his twenty-seven-mile trip to Quonset Point.

My son once said to me, “Thanks for teaching us how to work hard to be successful, Dad.”

I gave it little thought until I remembered Dad sleeping on the floor, ear to his behemoth, exhausted by his own schedule. His example taught me, and it carried over to my children. Thankfully.

It’s what grandparents and parents did: work.

It’s what gave us our opportunities.

I expected Dad to say, “When I was a boy, I had none of this; no pen, no radio, no books, little schooling, just work,” but he never did. He never did. He never complained. He never complained of those days in a cold tenement flat with no mother and five siblings.

Were there secrets in that radio and his reason for tucking so closely, or were his Red Sox losing again? Did soporific fumes drift through the cloth covering the speakers?

Maybe resting in front of the radio was his symbol of survival; the place where he found solace, where he disappeared from the stress of raising a family, where the groaning bass cleared his head. And where he remembered how fortunate he was.

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Whatever became of that radio? Well, guess what.

Dad, in a fit of creative woodworking, ripped the guts from the behemoth and transformed it into a liquor cabinet. How ironic, because Dad and Mom never drank.

Where was Dad’s center?

• Was it lying in front of the radio, meditating?

• Since it didn’t need repair, is that why he destroyed it?

• Or had he fulfilled his goals, and he no longer needed Emerson’s comfort?

Maybe

Dad and his Emerson were repurposed.

© 2026

I had a restless night, waking and thinking. I watched the evening news and saw so-called leaders distort honesty, abandon objectivity, and forget what integrity means.

I observed the ensuing transgressions— a mass shooting, an unprovoked home invasion, more erosion of human and civil rights, detention, distortion, disagreement, diabolical deviations. What’s next? Another attack on the Capitol?

I thought of the working man’s philosopher, Eric Hoffer, who embraced an apolitical philosophy of common-sense values for everyday life. He emphasized fundamental truths that humans need to survive and thrive. My Dad loved Hoffer. I understood why.

Hoffer was a self-educated, working-class longshoreman who championed individual responsibility, disdained elitist intellectuals, and wrote in a direct, no-nonsense style about society, capturing the authentic voice and experiences of ordinary people.

Here’s a Hoffer quote: You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you.

I thought of a wizened patient of mine.

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“Doc, if someone tells the truth, they need never worry. But lie, do the wrong thing . . . worry.” The man exemplified honesty and integrity effortlessly. Why are we losing those admirable traits in our great country? What changed? What are we forgetting?

Honesty and integrity are attributes to live by, especially for our leaders during trying times. Honesty is more than just not lying. It speaks the truth. It shouldn’t be difficult. It means your actions, with an emphasis on your own, are honest, truthful, and transparent.

It means declaring how something happened, based on facts. Sure, at times, it can be considered a complex skill because one must cultivate the habit. But it can’t be that complex. Why is adhering to facts so difficult to understand?

Furthermore, honesty means you don’t say things about people that are not true, you don’t generate rumors, and you admit to your actions.

Integrity requires more thinking and effort. It is not only the need to be honest but also to adhere to moral and ethical guidelines despite personal interests or outside pressure. Ponder the power of integrity . . . upholding personal and professional standards while maintaining sound judgment and NOT yielding to pressure. Or imbuing personal gain.

“Integrity,” said author C.S. Lewis, “is doing the right thing, even when no one is looking.” Integrity is the bedrock upon which good character is built. And where there is integrity, humility follows.

It is difficult for me to watch the news and the politicians, without the words honesty and integrity popping into my mind. They either avoid the question, make up an answer, or flat-out lie.

I was never taught those warped values and, if I showed any lack thereof, I paid the consequences.

The once gradual erosion of integrity now seems to be on a fast track.

Today, there is no consequence for dishonesty. No repercussions.

I guess these traits are no longer necessary for success.

No, no, I don’t believe that!

Do the right thing. Be honest. Adhere to the facts. We need our leaders to do so, especially now when we are so divided as a nation. Rather than the negative energy involved in pointing fingers, would it not be so much better to direct our energies to the truth?

“We lie loudest when we lie to ourselves,” said Hoffer.

Hoffer argued that leaders who lose their grip on simple truths often do so because they have become “true believers” in their own power or ideology, which allows them to justify the erosion of rights.

Embrace honesty. Embrace integrity. If so, you need not worry.

A decent culture demands it.

What would you add?

© 2026

It’s been years of giving blood. To date, I have donated over 100 pints, approaching thirteen gallons. It’s just something I do; something necessary.

As a medical student, I learned the value of stored blood, the value of having a reserve, not only for emergencies but for “routine” conditions: anemia from a blood disorder, hemophilia, blood loss during surgery, childbirth, etc.

I started working in the Albany Medical Center blood bank when I was a medical student. In 1964, all a donor needed to do was mosey in off the street, sign, and if the blood count was normal, Bingo, I drew a pint into a large glass vacuum-sealed jar, which we stored in a giant refrigerator.

Some years later, Dr. Carl Walter, a surgeon (His son was in my medical school class), invented a plastic bag to hold blood and make storage much easier. He made the bags on The Fenway in Boston, which is how they got the name Fenwal. Those bags are still in use today, and whenever I give blood, I always tell the phlebotomist my stories.

To give blood is a rewarding experience.

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After arrival at The Rhode Island Blood Center, I fill out an extensive history. Quite different from the days when I drew blood, when no history was taken. The only criteria were a normal blood count and a vein. Many donors came in off the street in the late evening. They needed the $25.

Fortunately, it’s much different today. A form with a lengthy list of questions must be answered.

The friendly phlebotomist does a physical assessment, checks the hemoglobin, and then moves me to the table where I watch television while my blood is collected, labeled, and sent to a center for processing. The blood pours from the needle resting in a vein in the crook of my arm through the tubing into a Fenwal plastic bag (vide supra).

A few small tubes of blood are also collected and sent to a testing laboratory, where a dozen tests are performed to establish the blood type and test for infectious diseases.

It takes little more than an hour from start to finish, longer if you sit to drink complimentary juice and munch on Oreos or Fig Newtons. “Can I take some of these Fig Newtons home?”

“You bet. Go ahead. It’s your reward.”

One day, I was sitting next to a lady who had also just given blood. She was enjoying her snacks of cranberry juice and Oreo cookies. Her husband strolled in. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.” At that point, he loaded his capacious coat pockets with packages of Oreo, Fig Newtons, and even found room for a juice in each pocket. I asked him if he had given blood earlier.

“Nah. Jes takin’ stuff. They want you to have it.”

“Really, even if you have not donated?”

“Oh. Yeah.” His wife rolled her eyes. I rolled back and smiled.

Hmmm . . .another senior citizen on the take. No matter. It was good that he drove his wife to donate. The snack heist didn’t matter.

Take time to give blood. The rewards are far greater than Oreos and juice.

It’s a good feeling to know that your donation may have saved a life. It’s satisfying. It’s personal. It can build confidence.

There is even a badge of honor that lasts a few days: the little subdermal, purple blood stain where the needle was inserted. It’s easy. It helps.

If you really need attention, keep the red bandage at the blood site in place for an extra day and show it around. It’s a promotion.

Donate. You will feel good.

Go to the RI Blood Centers site and read their mission statement.

***The American Red Cross makes a plea for donations as it teeters on a blood shortage

© 2026

Thoughts of love and friendship engender so many good feelings; reflections that will serve us well as we continue to manage in such difficult times.

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The holiday is Diane’s favorite. For years, she has directed her energy to hosting Valentine’s Day dinner parties with warmth and live music. This year, she will forgo her efforts for a quieter time, but the spirit of the day will not be forgotten.

Know more. Love more.

Saint Valentine, a Roman priest and physician, suffered martyrdom during the persecution of Christians by the emperor Claudius II Gothicus in 270 CE. Praying for the sick, Valentine is said to have restored the sight of his jailer’s young daughter, Julia. He became smitten, writing a love letter and signing it, Your Valentine.

And thus, the story begins, albeit some years after his canonization.

From the high middle ages, this Saint’s Day has been associated with a tradition of the noble affection of lovers, engaged couples, and joyful marriages. His simple love letter and his many good works have engendered a host of expressions of love over and above those of roses and chocolates.

And thus, I am so reminded because I am reading for the second time Iris Origo’s classic, “War in Val d’Orcia.” Origo was an intriguing, perceptive and brilliant historian whose works remain widely admired. She grew up in Italy with her Irish mother after the death of her wealthy American father. They settled in the Villa Medici in Florence, where they became part of the colorful and privileged Anglo-Florentine set that included the authors Edith Wharton and Harold Acton, and the Berensons, well known historians.

When Iris married Antonio Origo, they bought and revived La Foce, a derelict stretch in the beautiful Val d’Orcia Valley in Tuscany. They created an estate that thrives to this day. During World War II, they sided with the Allies, taking considerable risks in protecting children and sheltering partisans. Iris’s diary from that time is a modern classic.

Valentine and Origo practiced love as an act of courage and good works during times of conflict (the Roman Empire vs. WWII).

Her story leads me to this wonderful quote of St. Catherine of Siena, rooted in love, on Iris Orego’s tombstone:

Chi piu conosce più, più amando più giusta.

The more you know, the more you love, and by loving more, the more you enjoy.

While many of us enjoy chocolates, roses, and romance in celebration of the patron Saint Valentine, I suggest you sit back and reflect; know more, love more, enjoy more.

Beyond the romance, there is a vast, courageous love waiting to be shared.

My son, Chris, wrote about it.

One never knows when an unrequited love may return.

I’ve written something like it before

I hope you can fit that kind of love into your day and share it with many.

© 2026

Simone Signoret wrote a book, “Nostalgia Isn’t What It Used to Be.” Well, it is for me. I live in the world of nostalgia, my emotional resource that connects me to the past.

By re-creating the experiences, I feel a sense of belonging, as I was absorbed in a support network of no equal.

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Days of my youth

The Kodak Brownie camera

Postcards.

I wish someone would send me one.

Our four-party phone line

Busy signals

Paying the electric bill at the drugstore

Pay phones…

what would Marconi think?

what do we think of Marconi?

Two newspapers every day

My paper route

collections every week

The Olivetti-Underwood Typewriter

Walking to school

Taping a baseball

Walter says, “Let’s play ball. I have two new baseballs.

I just taped them today!”

Did God make a baseball?

Narragansett beer commercials

A unique Christmas tree ornament

My Flexible Flyer

Watching snow fall,

traipsing to every window in the house.

A Rocket Royal Bike

Jelly donuts

Bread and oil, Italian bread

Rubber boots

too many buckles

Tucking pants

Banks of snow

Lots of snow

fights

ice houses

ice skating.

Chapped lips

A stuck tongue

on the metal of the cold sled.

The cold that dried

my nose and lips

ice skates

Chapstick or something like it.

maybe Vaseline

I find peace in solace

I find solace in nostalgia

I find nostalgia every day

I am solace.

What poem can you share with me today?

© 2026

The game was memorable:

· Patriots’ receiver and MVP Deion Branch recorded 11 catches for 133 yards

· Mike Vrabel scored on a Brady pass and proceeded to mock the Eagles fans with a Dirty Bird dance

· Vrabel’s parents may have been sitting in front of us

· Paul McCartney appeared at halftime.

· There were 100,000 fans, the most I have ever seen

· Each fan was given a transistor radio to hear the broadcast

· Ticket prices were in the $350 to $500 range for us, a pittance compared to what I saw for this year’s game. And our seats were close.

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This was interesting. Although it did not affect us, there was a hotel shortage, so the city arranged for five cruise ships to be docked on the Jacksonville River to serve as floating hotels, accommodating over 3,000 guests.

The day before the Super Bowl is almost as spectacular. I remember going to a large field where all kinds of stuff were going on, from souvenir sales to skill games of football, basketball, and carnival rides, and drinking kiosks, and lots of drinking, lots, especially by the young crowd.

Souvenirs? You want souvenirs? The building was as big as a football field.

The buyers were lined up at one of the twenty or so cash-out aisles laden with armloads of shirts, caps, towels, flags... You name it. I had to witness staggering sales figures. Or so it seemed.

In fact, I read recently that total consumer spending on Super Bowl-related retail (which includes food, apparel, and decorations) would reach $20.2 billion in 2026.

The most popular souvenirs purchased in the weeks leading up to the game include team jerseys, hoodies, T-shirts, official caps and hats, and special-edition gear like scarves, jackets, and blankets.

What did I buy? Well, something I didn’t need: a Patriots blanket. But I have a souvenir. And we had our lanyards with our tickets.

Some things about attending THE GAME were not so good. First off, it was cold for this old-timer, even though it was not for the young lady with the bikini or the young lad with a hairy eagle painted on his bare chest. It looked to me like the eagle was shivering.

Some intoxicated fans were aggressive, especially for us Pats fans sitting in the Philly section. A few thousand hearty beers will make a football fan aggressive.

On game day, a major water pipe broke in the stadium, causing some bathrooms to overflow. Of course, one of them was in our section. It was a long walk for relief.

The concessions ran out of food midway through the second half. Chicken fingers just didn’t do it for me. Neither did my friend’s joke, “Cmon, the fingers are the best part of the chicken.”

Transportation was a bear when we left the stadium. Poor crowd flow. We waited for the shuttle buses to pick us up. It took over an hour to get to the car.

As we walked along, several people offered to buy our lanyards and tickets. For a future investment, I guess.

Once we arrived at our cars, we had to drive to Orlando, hours away, only to spend the remainder of the evening and early morning crouched in the airport.

Yes, Yes, I know . . . it was our choice, a bad one for sure.

The big game was not a letdown. It was a great professional football game, and our team won. And we were traveling with our dear friends who invited us. And today I still appreciate the invitation and consider myself lucky for the experience.

The in-person experience is second to none.

But oh my, I’m done. One Super Bowl is enough. I’ll be home sitting back in my easy chair for this one. Again.

© 2026

These bracers were fortifying the home and mind against wind, snow, and cold. A snowy tradition that was part of my lifetime, and I imagine everyone else’s.

When I played sandlot football, I braced for something unpleasant, like being hit. But you know, since I was a kid, I never found storms unpleasant; difficult, yes, but not unpleasant, and not a hit.

In Mary Oliver’s poem, First Snow she writes,

. . . .

its white

rhetoric everywhere

calling us back to why,
how,

whence such beauty and what

the meaning; such

an oracular fever! Flowing

past windows, an energy it seemed

would never ebb,
never settle

less than lovely! and only now,

deep into night,

it has finally
ended.

Yes, a mysterious, prophetic fever
flowing past . . .

I’ve always liked the excitement of this fleeting fever.

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The storm came, and as I slippered from window to window to
admire the deep, high white mounds, I felt a brief urge to take the old Flexible
Flyer off the hook. Yes, it is still there, waiting, beckoning, but to no
avail. There it will stay. I will never part with it. There are too many
memories in its blades.

I imagined the neighborhood kids outside, building snowmen and getting their sleds ready, maybe waxing the runners.

The first sled I had was a Speedway, which I hated because
it was difficult to maneuver the rigid handlebars. To experience the excitement
of sledding, a quick turn was necessary, and it was in
The Flexible’s handlebars that excitement lived. The Speedway demanded too many
weight shifts. I was thrilled the year I saw The Flyer under the Christmas
tree.

“It’s snowing!” On went the snow pants, jacket, and the clumsy,
too-many-buckles boots. On went the toque. “Don’t forget your mittens.” Ugh. I
hated those.

These days, I have an aversion to cold and a fear of injury,
but those days were different. Sledding was vital and, save for the risk of
sticking your tongue on the sled’s metal, mostly carefree. The only question to
answer was where to sled, and the only hesitation we had was cold feet. Yes,
those cold feet; the ones where your toes itch like crazy when you take off the
boots and wet socks to hold your feet against the hissing radiator.

The sandbank was a favorite after-school haunt, while Roger
Williams Park was for a Sunday morning.

It was cold. With snow snapping at my face. I stood at the
top of the hill and looked at the inviting trails drenched with the splendor of
white that led to Valley Street below. Which trail to take and how fast I could
zig-zag now that I had The Flyer were the most important decisions. Initially,
the powder was too fluffy, so it would take some runs to pack it for speed. It
may have become an icy deathtrap, but we never gave it a thought. It was about
speed and winning.

Each race ended at the plowed street below with a
screeching stop and sparks flying from the runners. Breathless at the bottom;
now to trundle back to the top. We did it, repeatedly. The cold was creeping
through to my feet, the most vulnerable target that defined time.

In a few hours (maybe less), I was worn out, cold, and
hungry. It was my last run. The hill seemed more vertical on this final trudge.

Home.

I pushed the bulky door to the entry, shook off the snow,
turned, sat, unbuckled the frozen boots, and squeezed them off. I dropped
the coat and mittens on the way to our third floor, opened the door to our cozy
tenement, headed for the hissing radiator, sat on the floor, unfurled the socks,
and toasted my feet under its warmth.

“Edward, would you like a hot chocolate?”

Would I? It was a good old-fashioned sledding day, and I
was tired.

Oh, those innocent ‘50s with The Flyer.

© 2026

I was comforted by the first groans that quickly gave way to click, clank, knock, hiss, bang, and the exclamation, “Wow, the heat is coming.” On those frigid days, there was such a nice feeling to walk into the house, remove my jacket, and stand with my butt back to a steaming radiator. How comforting.

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At winter’s shadow, we burrowed under covers to sleep, waking to the hiss and bangs of furnaces that clutched the steam heat from deep in the bowels of the cellar and pushed it up through expectant pipes into compact, silver, cold steel radiators in our third-floor tenement.

Radiators were perfect places to dry our winter mittens, warm our pajamas, or keep our cup of hot chocolate hot. We snuggled our cold, wet feet and itchy toes under them after a day in the snow.

At night, Mom placed a pan of water on our radiator. “It will keep the room nice and moist.”

But more than that, those sounds promised security that lulled us to sleep and to dream with noses tucked under covers. Before drifting off, I noticed the curved rim of ice on the window. The radiator was doing its job, taking the steam from one pipe, curling it through the radiator, heating our room, and pushing it off to another pipe.

Frost formed on the windows despite the heat. More magic.

In the daytime, those windows became drawing boards.

On occasion, Dad came in to turn something at the bottom of the radiator. “Dad, what is all that noise?”

“Trapped air in the system. One of these days, I’m gonna bleed the radiator and change all the valves.” Bleed a radiator? Change valves? I guess he knew what he was doing. It was of no matter to us.

The steam heat was so efficient that sometimes, when it got too hot, Mom would raise our window just a tad, push out the wooden storm, and latch it in place.

In the power plants deep in the cellar, tenants shoveled coal from their bins into the boiler with a long-handled, extra-large shovel. Called a bunk or coal shovel, it had a deep scoop specially designed for moving heavy, loose stuff.

When I grew older, I shoveled on occasion, but only when Dad was not home or busy. I was frightened when I entered the mysterious depths of the power plant.

Today, our home is warmed by hot air. A silent guest, it does the job much more quickly than the steam struggling to make its way from the depths. But it ain’t the same.

Silence replaces cozy cacophony.

No bop, bleep, knock, click, clank, hiss, bang.

I miss the old radiators.

© 2026

As Diane and I strolled through the piazza in Todi, Italy, on a brisk October morning, I smelled the aroma of bread wafting from the bakery. I entered and was comforted. A bakery can do that. I spotted them: two large oval loaves; you know, the crusty Tuscan ones with the subtle aroma and sweet clouds of magnetism that snare you.

Traditional Tuscan bread, pane Toscano. is distinctive. It contains no salt - a tradition dating back to the Middle Ages, likely originating from either a salt tax dispute or a blockade that made salt scarce in the region.

“Prego,” said the baker.

“Due.” I pointed.

As we strolled into the square, the bread was huggable. We held the loaves closely. The warmth entered our bodies. “This feels so good.”

Now warmed by its company, it was time to rip un pezzo da mangiare. I ripped off a piece. Who could resist? The bread had a dense, chewy texture with a thick, crunchy crust. We were in bread heaven, experiencing the truth of Italy.

We took it further, one day stopping at the best local ‘deli’ for a freshly baked ciabatta infused with olive oil and layered with prosciutto, tomato, basil, and salt. Or maybe just a simple mortadella and bread combo with no extras.

When I was a kid, Italian bread was the staple of every Sunday dinner. It went with the salad, but some used it per fare una scarpetta; to scoop up the pasta sauce with the heel. Bread with pasta? C’mon. Well, OK.

Or make a small meatball sandwich.

Recently, when I was dipping the heel of my Italian bread in the gravy, I recalled the days when I stood by my grandmother’s side as she was making “her” gravy for the Sunday pasta. (Gravy makers are possessive). On tiptoes and shifting my weight, I looked up at her, then at the gravy when she said, “Itsa OK now to dunka you bread.” And that I did, with anticipation and haste.

I swiped my corner through the gravy, watched the steam swirl, blew on it, and finally bit in. Warm and tasty, it softened even more before I swallowed. I would later enjoy that same wholesome taste over pasta at our Sunday dinner. In later years, I remember dipping a corner of Italian bread into hot coffee. I loved bread.

My other memory was of coming home from school, entering Grandma’s tenement, pausing to smell her cooking, and asking, “Grandma, can we have some bread and oil?”

She cut a slice of Italian bread, poured olive oil, then a pinch of salt, a morsel of pepper, not much, and off we went, munching, oil spilling down our chins. I can taste it now. In fact, I’m going for some.

It wasn’t just Italian bread in my life. I also grew up on white bread, as in Tip Top and Wonder Bread, the one that “helped build strong bodies in eight ways.” That’s what Mom gave me for lunch: baloney jammed between two slices and loaded with French’s mustard. She was in a hurry, heading to work.

Bread and butter were a great after-school snack. And morning toast with butter and jam often supplanted the snap, crackle, and pop of those Rice Crispies guys. No wonder the phrase “It’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.” It’s the way to show enthusiasm and appreciation for something or someone.

Grilled cheese held an important childhood memory.

Bakers now make several varieties of shapes and tastes. In the grocery store alone, I can find Italian, French, Irish (love soda bread), sourdough, rye, wheat, cinnamon raisin, gluten-free (necessary, eh?), and multigrain loaves. Wonder Bread is still around.

But it is the simple Italian loaf that summons me. Nothing is as alluring as the bread in the lovely, southern town of Altamura, Italy.

There, the loaves, weighing about half a kilo, have the usual crisp dark crust. Aromas of hazelnut, coffee, and vanilla arise from its warmth. Doughy when chewed, a slice of toasted bread seasoned with sea salt, Apulian oil, and a hint of rubbed garlic is a step away from bread heaven.

In 37 B.C., the Roman lyric poet, Horace, called Altamura bread the best in the world.

Horace says . . . “hard work, simple food, and plain but unstinting living are best."

No matter the era, bread is that satisfying something that should be an integral part of every day. It is mine.

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I asked my Italian professor what bread she remembered from her youth in Naples, Italy.

“Sfilatino,” she was quick to respond. “It is a long, narrow bread with a crunchy crust, chewy inside, perfect for stuffing with prosciutto, cheeses, or other fillings to make a nice panino.”

Ah, bread. Bread seems like that common thing that everybody can agree on. It lights up memories. It gives meaning to the day.

Whether or not your company is good, if a basket of bread comes out, put down your devices, pick up a piece, make eye contact, and say, “Ain’t bread just the best?”

© 2026

Queen Elizabeth said, “A good face is the best letter of recommendation.” A person’s appearance and demeanor can be a powerful signal of their character, abilities, and qualities.

Good first impressions can lead to opportunities.

Here are a few things I experienced with students, along with a lesson I learned many years ago from my father and a proud uncle.

I quoted the Queen to a medical student who showed up one morning to make hospital rounds with me and continued, “If you want to be a doctor, you must look like one. Patients expect professionalism. And part of professionalism is appearance. Perhaps you would consider shaving and wearing decent, clean clothes and a tie tomorrow, and I will allow you on my service.”

Those were the days when students felt they needed independence, to be their own person, to look any way they wanted. Though I appreciated it, it wasn’t for me. Not on my medical service. Not with my patients. Not for this or any profession.

“If you feel I have intruded upon your rights, then you may complain to the Dean. I don’t care. These are my rules.”

He returned the following morning, looking professional, and off we went. I enjoyed his month with me.

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“What a fine-looking young man you are,” said one patient. “Are you going to be a doctor?” I wonder if my ‘rules’ teed him up to all the fine questions he challenged me with that month?

Another . . .

In my later years, I enrolled in a college class with undergraduates. Wearing khaki pants, a collared, button-up shirt, running shoes, socks, and a sweater, I was “overdressed.”

As the students strolled in, I was dumbfounded. They weren’t dressed for a professor’s class. They were hardly dressed at all.

Holes in jeans, skimpy shorts, midriffs out, some with rings in their navels. I wondered what happened to pride, once prominent in the way people dressed.

Dad and Uncle Jake

Dad never left the house without a tie or at least his shirt buttoned to the top. For him, being well-dressed was the way it should be. He knew no other. He personified self-respect and dignity. He respected himself and others. He honored shared space.

Uncle Jake. I wanted to dance in his shoes. He wore spats. Spats, short for "spatterdashes," were worn to protect shoes and ankles from mud, dirt, and water on unpaved streets.

Jake was my Uncle Louie’s nickname, a generic term for friend, good fellow. That he was. In his day, he was special.

The spats telegraphed his style. Sharp, neat, groomed and noticeable, he wore clothes bought at the finest clothiers; a Homburg hat (“My money hat”), a white shirt and a tie, a dark pin-striped suit with a vest, leather gloves, and a Chesterfield coat with a velvet collar.

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He had closely set, soft, penetrating eyes, a generous nose accentuated by his Adolph Menjou moustache, and black hair, not one out of place. Mom said he was a smooth dancer. She learned by standing on his feet. No surprise since the only other person I knew who wore spats was Fred Astaire. But Jake wore his spats all the time, even when he went for breakfast.

He had impeccable table etiquette. “People notice your table manners, Edward.”

Where did he learn? Perhaps anyone who wore spats knew.

Uncle Jake made people happy with a kind remark, a joke, and the banjo. When he played and sang, he made the party. He became an expert glassblower, but it was an occupation ill-suited to him. So, he moved into sales, first insurance and then cars. Who could resist? Generations bought from him. He first coined the phrase, “See Jake for a break.”

I was never a youngster in his presence, but rather a friend, one of the guys, a buddy, companion, chum, an adult, just as he somehow knew I wanted to be. He called me Edward, and when he asked how I was, I knew he meant it as he engaged me as no other adult did.

Unknown to me until later years, his world was small; that of the Italo-American Club, where he played cards until the early morning hours.

“Papa Jake; he was the best gin player around.”

Out late smoking cigars. That was his world. He drank the last bottle of Narragansett beer and smoked a never-ending supply of El Productos. Friends were his family; card games were their bond.

When his brother died at a young age, he said to me, “Doc, I have seen a lot, but this has hit me more than anything.” It was the most emotion I had seen from him, but it didn’t surprise me. I knew it was there, hidden, not far below his Chesterfield coat.

Years later, Uncle Jake became my patient through a long and draining final illness. He was still ever polite and engaging. He never complained, resigning himself to the journey.

Did I learn from him? Yes. He made how a self-made, rugged individual presented himself. Would that I had a little Jake in me. Would that he had a little of me in him. I wish that we had known each other better in those years in between. We had much more to learn from each other.

He lived with class and, along the way, left an unforgettable mark on me and many. Worldly. Soft spoken. Content. A Homburg hat and a Chesterfield coat.

And Spats.

Giorgio Armani said, “Elegance is not standing out, but being remembered.

Ó 2026

I remember a few traditions, one of which was lentils. Lentils were not my favorite, so the meal on New Year’s Eve was not memorable, even though lentils are a good source of fiber, protein, minerals, and vitamins, are low in calories, and contain virtually no fat. Who knew at ten?

It wasn’t until later in life that I began to enjoy those dishes I had avoided in my youth—lentils, polenta, and undercooked eggs.

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According to tradition, lentils are served on New Year’s Eve. With their coin-like shape, they represent luck and prosperity. Lentils are often served with cotechino, a spicy pork sausage that signified the fat or bounty of the land. For immigrants like our grandparents, America was now their land, one they appreciated, so I guess they continued this tradition in recognition that they were now living in good times and enjoying an abundance of things they never had. Maybe a bit of superstition crept in.

I understand that Italians ate pork to conjure the future because pigs root forward, whereas other animals, such as chickens or cows, move backward or stand still.

I remember the wonderful scene from the 1988 Italian film “Cinema Paradiso,” a film that summons my nostalgia and symbolizes how I came to treasure things I once took for granted. Toto awaits Elena while staring up at her window. At midnight, the revelers throw pots and pans out of windows. The act symbolizes casting away the old in favor of the new, letting go of past troubles for a more hopeful time.

Instead of a window toss, Grandma used a hammer to smash a plate covered with a mopine (dish towel). Now I understand why.

Today, I am having lentils. I am thinking of Grandma and Family and hoping for continued good fortune with confidence and peace.

As you move to a New Year, keep your eyes and hopes looking forward. Throw out the old and . . .

***from Fritz Vohr, author of Dr. Fritz Stories

. . . Pay attention. Be kind. Honor your family, have faith in humanity, help others and teach, Travel, and learn. If you err, get over it.

Don’t forget your lentils.

Happy 2026!

He did it alone, from the purchase to the last strand of tinsel. He tied it to the roof, drove it home, screwed it into the stand, straightened it, and planted it by the largest window. Dad strung the lights in a spiral, hung the ornaments and the balls, draped the tinsel, skirted the stand, stuck the star on the top, and stood back. Perfect. Dad repeated, “When I was a kid, we put real candles on our tree. We sat and watched them so the house wouldn’t burn down.”

My first memory is the blur of lights with a glow that filled the corners of my eyes with mist. His tree smelled of fresh evergreens. The sun’s rays released streams of winter light that bounced off the balls, the tinsel, and the ornaments.

The light continued its way through the branches, stippling its beams on the rug. The glows and aromas spread throughout our house. It meant Christmas.

Each ornament was hung delicately. Angels came alive, Santas brought gifts, balls reflected light, and bells rang with joy. In the middle of the tree was my picture, taken in front of the tree on my first birthday. And there was Dad’s favorite, a cloth Santa. “I bought that Santa when you were born. It’s as old as you.”

Santa’s throne was two-thirds of the way up the tree. Made of cloth, he was four inches high, wore a tall red hat with a white cotton rim, a long red jacket, light blue pants, black boots and toted a brown sack over his left shoulder.

Bursting with excitement on Christmas morning, the first thing I saw was the tree, and then the bounty; over the years appeared trains, a Red Flyer wagon, a football, shoulder pads, sneakers, a baseball glove, an erector set, a radio, a fire truck, ice skates, a hockey stick, and the bike, the Rocket Royal. The Santa watched from above.

Year after year Dad hung his Santa. The years went by, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty. Santa never failed. He took his place two-thirds the way up.

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I married and had children. Each Christmas Day, Dad anticipated our arrival and strolled to his tree. “That Santa is as old as your father.”

Over the years, Santa aged; his beard went from white to tan, he lost his left hand, his pants drooped, pine needles stuck to his boots, his sack shriveled, the piping on the front of his jacket needed stitching, the cotton withered.

My Dad died in 1996. We bought a small tree for Mom and decorated it, never failing to place the Santa. Mom died six years later. Disposing of their collection was difficult. As we discarded the old decorations, I panicked. Where was Santa? At the last moment, I found him, surrounded by hunks of tinsel, attached to Mom’s last tree, in a junk heap in the corner of the yard.

I captured him. Was he smiling? That year, he took his place on my tree. “See that Santa. Pop bought it when I was born.”

One year, I lost the Santa. I panicked, again, searched everywhere and still I could not find him. He did not grace the tree that year. “I know he’s here in this house.” Christmas passed. Santa missed it for the first time.

The following year, while unpacking ornaments, I found him, lying in the bottom of the box, packaged in a Ziplock bag, smiling up at me. I took a deep breath as memories surfaced, melting into tears in the corners of my eyes. “I found him, I found him.”

Santa took his place in the tree, two-thirds of the way up from the bottom. I anticipate our grandchildren’s arrival each Christmas and stroll to the tree. “See that Santa. He’s as old as I am. Pop bought him when I was born.”

Dad’s tree will ever remain one of a kind. Would that our grandchildren might see it.

2025

My father adjusted to the winter and the December solstice with his oft-repeated phrase, “Shortest day of the year. From now on, every day will be longer by one minute.” Peter and I glanced at each other and snickered when he said it. Now WE say it every year, particularly on those long winter days that seem to endure for more than ever.

I believe we do it not only to remember him, but more so to reflect on his optimism, his eager sprint, albeit slowly, to the first day of baseball’s spring training and his beloved Red Sox.

He and I watched many of my kids’ baseball games during what was supposed to be April weather good enough to play ball. So many times, while we watched, we retreated to the car, turned on the engine and the heater to warm.

Our winter coats, scarves, and gloves were not enough to ward off the cold from painful toes and frosted fingertips. A ‘crack of the bat’ was a crack indeed, batters shaking their gloved hands as they sprinted to first base.

As we sat in the car, you might predict what Dad said? You bet. Spreading his gloved hands, “Every day gets longer by a minute,” laughing at the joke of the kids playing a baseball game in forty-degree weather. Frost notwithstanding, the game continued as did he.

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The solstice marks the point at which the sun appears to stop its southward movement and begins moving northward again in the sky. The solstice — Latin for “sun still,” — is the moment when the sun rises and sets at its most southerly points on the horizon as seen from the Northern Hemisphere.

As I reflect on it, I realize there is a message in what he said. At the solstice, the sun is at its lowest angle in the sky, sending its shortest amount of daylight and warming energy. Nights are the longest. But the earth is tilting the other way, the sun will get higher, and longer days are approaching. Sure, it’s a slow process, but crocuses will soon stir in their winter beds.

The ancients celebrated the solstice as a turning point— the day that marks the return of the sun.

So too did my Dad. For him, the solstice was more than a long, cold, dark day with no end. It meant he was getting closer to spring, albeit slowly. It was an important milestone; the shortest day and the longest night signaling a transition, a change of season to be commemorated, as did the ancients.

For them, the winter solstice celebrated the longest hours of darkness, but more so, the continuing rebirth of the sun and its energy that meant regeneration, renewal, and reflection.

Make your transition from the shortest day to a longer moment of quiet energy wherein you focus on your intentions for the coming year. Examine and let go of your past distractions and poor decisions. Make changes. As the bats awaken, you too should feel their sting.

Celebrate. Resolve. Renew. As the light of the day gets longer, get outside, take a walk, even if it’s cold. Embrace it. Don’t complain.

And then get yourself to a warm space. Anticipate the crack of the bat. Spring is closer by a minute each day.