INFERNO VACATION PARADISO

My wife Barbara and I decided to celebrate my 75^th birthday by taking a five-day vacation on Lake Garda near Verona, Italy.  We selected the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci in Limone sul Garda, an area famous for its lemon trees and its inhabitants who live to ripe old ages, thanks to a genetic protein that dissolves their bad cholesterol.   “The perfect place,” I said, “for an old guy who doesn’t expect to see 76.”

How wrong I was.  This almost turned out to be “The Vacation from Hell”.

Normally, the drive from Vicenza to Limone would have taken about an-hour- and-a-half.  We figured two hours because it was a Sunday; so we expected heavy traffic with tourists scouting out their favorite Lake Garda sights.  And that was the case.  Traffic was very heavy until we passed the beautiful town of Salò.  But, as we looked for signs for the next major town, Gardone, we saw only signs reading Trento and “Tutti I Direzioni” (all other directions).  Figuring that meant “keep going this way”, we headed north to Trento – which is way north  -- and ended up half-way there (to Trento, that is, not Limone).  Realizing our mistake (but not very quickly), we turned around and headed back to Salò, where we finally saw signs for Gardone and we got back on the right road to Limone.  We got there after about a three hour drive, and we should have guessed that we were arriving at the gates of Hell.

The hint that this was hell came from two teenage boys who greeted us outside the hotel entrance.  They checked our names on the guest list, then offered us a drink.  And while we downed our glasses of water, they strapped blue plastic bands around our wrists, telling us the wristbands would identify us as hotel guests eligible to use all the facilities.  We commented that we felt more like we were hospital patients, but the boys just smiled and nodded their heads – probably saying, in their minds, “That ain’t even close to the truth, you poor souls.”

From there we went to the front desk to check in.  The clerk was helpfully polite and terribly confusing – the latter beginning with her description of   dining operations in the hotel’s three different restaurants: buffet-style here, sit-down service over there, and long-pants for the evening meal (but, of course, women didn’t have to wear long pants; mini-skirts up to their hoo-hahs was okay for them).  Then, the clerk drew us a map showing how we could get from the entrance parking lot to our room; she might just as well have told us to take six laps around the complex and call her in the morning .  Reading hotel clerks’ maps is not my specialty.

We didn’t go right to our room.  Very hungry after our  long drive to Limone, we decided to eat lunch first  (it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon).  The clerk said the outdoor poolside restaurant was still open.  So, we climbed two or three sets of stairs to get there and lined up at the buffet to get our pasta and mystery meat.  No problem .  Oh, except that the hotel seemed to have decided that most people like to stand up and eat off paper plates with plastic knives and forks; so they put only about three , maybe four,  dining tables around the pool.  With nowhere to sit, we threw away the knives and forks and tipped the food from the plates directly into our mouths.

Fully sated now and without the hotel clerk’s confusing map, we easily found where our room was situated, inspected it,  and drove from the parking lot to where we could park to unload our car.  We put our bags in Room-2118 in Blocco 2000 (pronounced BLOH-koh  doo-eh-MIL-leh) or Block-TwoThousand.  It turned out to be something like one of the levels of Dante’s Inferno. 

No problem getting the bags to the room;  but, when we got there, we couldn’t find the room key.  I thought  it might have dropped out of my pocket onto the car floor, but it wasn’t there.  Then, I remembered that, as we finished inspecting the room, I saw a place where the key must be hung to turn on the room’s electricity.  I had hung the key there and left it there as we walked out the door, which locked automatically when closed.

Now, I had to go back to the front desk and ask for another key.  But, before I did, I decided to put the car in its permanent parking place up the hill of the Leonardo complex.  I mean: WAY UP the hill.  I thought the car might not make it, but it did.  And as I walked back down to the hotel front desk, I thought, “Yeah, the car made it up that hill – WAY UP – but I’ll never make it when we have to get the car to drive back home; I’ll have to ask one of Limone’s long-living citizens to walk up there and get it for me.”

We hoped to put all these problems behind us by taking an afternoon swim.  No chance to do that in the outdoor pool; too many kids and other people there to allow us to do the lap-swimming we enjoy.   No problem – or so we thought  -- we’ll just go to the indoor pool.  Well, it was empty and just waiting for us to swim our laps…at least for ten minutes.  Then some teenagers came in to use the Jacuzzi.  No problem – or so we thought – we’re in the pool over here; there in the Jacuzzi over there.  At least for five minutes.  Then they decided to jump in the pool.  End of our lap-swimming .

Okay, so let’s do something else.  I brought my laptop computer along as a way for family and friends to send me Internet  birthday greetings, since we were out of their telephone range.  But I couldn’t bring up the Internet in our room.  So, before we went (almost) swimming , I asked the front desk for help, and the clerk said to bring my computer there and they’d see what they could do.  However, I also needed to bring the slip of paper they’d given me earlier with the “User Name and Password”.  No problem; I’d put that paper in the pocket of my swimsuit before we went swim….oops.  I checked the pocket, and the paper was still there, but it was soaked and in unreadable condition. 

Forget about it, I thought, and we went back to the room and got dressed for dinner.  What we found, then,  in the hotel’s indoor, buffet-style restaurant was another level of Dante’s Inferno:  complete chaos as the hungry diners rushed and bounced  from one serving site to another, spilling most of the food on the floor as they dodged and bumped and crashed into one another (and tripped over little children).  All because someone thought it would be fun to eliminate any orderliness from this process by setting up lines for each serving site.  It was sort of fun to watch it from a distance; but it was “HELL” trying to get through it all and finish our meal.

We were totally exhausted from that ordeal, but we still decided to see more of what the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci complex had to offer.  We crossed the road –a main highway, actually, where we had to be careful not to get run over by speeding cars or motorcycles – to see the hotel’s Villa Lucia beach restaurant, right on the lake.  Well, we saw it…sort of.  We had to walk down several sets of stairs, each about ten steps long, to get within sight of Villa Lucia.  What we could see was that there were several more flights of stairs to the restaurant and beach.  And what we thought was that we’d eventually have to walk up all those stairs and cross the highway again to get back to the hotel.  So, that was the end of that level of the Inferno.  Thank you, Mr. Alighieri (and you, too, Mr. Da Vinci).

Our first non-Inferno experience came with a good night’s sleep on Sunday.  And Monday breakfast in the buffet-style restaurant – they called it the Sala Leonardo – wasn’t as helter-skelter as the night before.   We even sat at a table with a nice view of Lake Garda.  “What’s happened here, “ I wondered, “have we passed from Hell to Purgatory?”

Nope.  We were back in the Inferno when we finished breakfast and went to the hotel lobby.  We stopped at a stand offering book and magazine exchanges: leave a book and take one away.  We had nothing to leave, so we took a Newsweek  magazine back to our room.  With the magazine in hand I went to the bathroom to do my business, expecting to read Newsweek’s feature article entitled “Psycho Polack”.  I thought it might be interesting, but I’ll never know.  The article – the entire magazine – was in Polish.  “Now there’s a level of Hell I’ll bet Dante never imagined, “  I thought, “a hotel with leisure reading material all in Polish.”   

Rather than take Polish lessons we tried another swim in the hotel’s indoor pool.  No teenagers there that morning and none that afternoon either.  And lunch at the outdoor pool’s buffet was relatively harmless.  We found a table, waited until the buffet line shortened, got our food, and ate.  The food was nothing great, but it sated our hunger.   The only Inferno-like experience here was the constant, loud music being pumped and bumped through loudspeakers and the instructions shouted through microphones by the youthful entertainment guides.  They were also in action in the evening , taking the children hotel guests through a series of dances on a small outdoor stage; but that was rather enjoying to watch.

There was special enjoyment Monday evening, however, when we sat down for dinner and were served in the hotel’s Sala Gioconda.  The headwaiter Johnny – not Gianni; he said his mother named him after the Olympic swimmer and movie Tarzan Johnny Weismuller – was an absolute gem.  Dante would never have put him in the Inferno.  The food was delicious, too, and it was a true joy to sit and be served rather than fight the buffet-style crowd (we could call them the buffeters).

Another surprise – two surprises, actually – at Tuesday morning breakfast.  We saw Johnny there and asked him if there were any brioche at the buffet.  He said there were none (hard to believe in Italy), but that he would get us some. Johnny jumped in his car, drove off to a local pasticceria, and returned with two brioche.  We had to eat them in the hotel bar, so the other “buffeters” couldn’t see we got something special.

The rest of Tuesday was pretty much like that: things approaching  Inferno levels, then changing direction for the good.  We were all alone in the indoor pool for both our morning and afternoon laps.  We had no trouble negotiating the buffet feeding troughs (actually, we cheated at lunchtime and brought our food from the outdoor pool back to our room).  All in all, it was a disappointing day for someone looking for a return to the Vacation Inferno.

Wednesday morning , my 75^th birthday, dawned dark and dreary, as clouds filled the sky and rain fell.  But the threat of Inferno quickly disappeared when  the hotel’s room service appeared with a surprise breakfast Barbara ordered the night before.  It started with champagne and just got better, as the sun appeared and we ate on our room’s terrace.  There were brioche, bread rolls, butter and jelly, scrambled eggs, ham, cheese, and caffe latte.  And Barbara topped it off with a birthday note that read in par:

Dearest Mike,

       Happy 75^th birthday!  Hope your day will be a very special one –

       as special as you have been to me all these years. . .We are so

       lucky to have celebrated half a century of your birthdays together. . .

       You enriched my life in many special ways and I thank you very 

       much for it and I love you very much. . .

                                                                  Barbara

I realized, then, that my wife had kept me from the Inferno for all these years and that neither Dante nor the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci could deny me a life in heaven with Saint Barbara.

      The rest of the day was perfect, including our first visit to Limone.  We walked along the lake with beautiful views to the mountains on the other side.

We bought some of the towns famous lemons and some fruit jellies, then  sat down at a local bar for a Spritz (Aperol and Prosecco over ice with a slice of – you guessed it – orange; oh, you guessed lemon?).  That evening we ate a sit-down dinner again in the Sala Gioconda (drinking the hotel’s complementary Spumante). 

Then we went outside to listen to a one-man band play some of our favorite old songs on the saxophone, clarinet, and guitar, accompanied by a computerized orchestra.  We asked if he could play the Eagles’ “Hotel California”.  “Hey,” he said, “this is the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci; we don’t play songs from other hotels.  Besides,” he added, “that song is about the Hotel from Hell: ‘. . .You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.’”

We checked out of the Hotel Leonardo da Vinci Friday morning, leaving behind us all the bad thoughts about an Inferno.  We remembered only the good things about our vacation there (including a hotel clerk’s driving me WAY UP that hill to our car’s parking space).  We had spent five days in a virtual Paradiso and had spent a heavenly $1,400 for full board -- including all drinks, only the room service breakfast was extra -- for two persons. 

As we drove out of the parking lot, I looked up at the hotel façade and noticed that the sign read “H. Leonardo da Vinci”.  I thought to myself, “That’s almost like the lyrics of ‘Hotel California’: ‘…it could be H(eaven) or it could be H(ell).’”  I knew, of course, that the H. Leonardo da Vinci was pure Paradiso, not Inferno. 

RANDOM RHYMES & OTHER STUFF

            I think I’ll call this section of my blog “Random Rhymes and Other Stuff”.  Why?  Uh…well…because that’s what you’ll find here.  And I’ll start with something I stole from a children’s book, which I thought would make a good game to play with my grandsons on a rainy day.  I start the rhyme, and then each of us takes a turn with a spur-of-the-moment stanza.   Like this:

GRAMPA:    There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.                                                                    I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            JOEY:             Neither do I.

                                    Maybe she heaved a really big sigh

                                    Just as the fly was flying on by.

                                    I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            DAVID:          Neither do I.

                                    Maybe she just looked up at the sky

                                    And opened her mouth ‘cause the sky was so high.

                                    I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            RORDAN:     Neither do I.

                                    Maybe she walked in a field of cow pies.

                                    I would surmise that cow pies draw flies.

                                    I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            JASON:          Neither do I.

                                    But I bet if she stepped on a cow pie with flies,

                                    When she swallowed that fly it was quite a surprise.

                                    I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            OLIVER:         Neither do I.

                                    Maybe she had a sty in her eye.

                                    Sties are well known to attract a few flies.

                                    I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            BENJAMIN: Neither do I.

                                    Maybe the fly had a sty in its  eye

                                    And just couldn’t see the mouth standing by.

                                    I don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            GRAMPA:    Neither do I.

                                    But what I do know about this lady and fly

                                    Is that neither one is like you and I.

                                    We just don’t know why she swallowed the fly.

            That was fun, wasn’t it?  Well, I enjoyed it, and I bet the boys would, too.  Boys seem to like crazy rhymes.  Like this next one, the first part of which appeared on a towel our daughter-in-law Gillian sent to Barbara for Mother’s Day; the second part is, of course, my idea.

            Grandmothers are a special part

            Of all that’s cherished in the heart.

            Grandfathers must be set apart

            ‘Cause all they do is burp and fart.

            That’s sort of an old guy’s thing that leads me to this next rhyme about taking Ginkgo Biloba as you get older to help protect against memory loss.  You can sing it to the tune of “Roll Out the Barrel”, if you’d like to (and why wouldn’t you?).

            Ginkgo Biloba!  I’ll never forget What’s-Her-Name.

            Ginkgo Biloba!  Her name and mine are the same.

            Ginkgo Biloba!  I hope I remember next year

            That my Ginkgo needs a new Biloba

            When the gang’s all here.

            And that leads to a rhyme I’ve entitled “Where Are My Car Keys”, dedicated to people who misplace other people’s things.  They misplace their own things, too, because they never put anything back where they found it or where it belongs.

            I like to find things where I put them.

            Please, don’t move them around.

            I always leave the car keys in my in-box.

            If they’re not there, they'll never be found.

                                               

            That letter I wrote to the doctor?

            It’s not there on the stairs anymore.

            Did you move it to a new location?

          Or did it get up and walk out the door?

            I have to find things where I put them,

            Not randomly scattered about.

            ‘Cause if there not there when I want them,

            I can’t help it, I just start to shout.

            So, please, leave those things where I put them.

            Please, don’t move them I-don’t-know-where.

            I put them in that place for a purpose:

            So, I’d find them when I look around there.                                    

 

            Okay, a little sports rhyme now.  I wrote this while I was watching Italy play in the World Cup Soccer Championships.  I forget the year; but that’s not important because the rhyme is forgettable, too.  You can also sing this rhyme, to the tune of “Frere Jacque”, even though the key words in it are Italian: Fuori Gioco (Offside);  Gambattesa (Kicking an Opponent’s Leg).  A player who gets a red card  is banished from the game.   Bobo Vieri, Totti, Del Piero, and Montella are names of Italian players.

            Fuori Gioco!  Fuori Gioco!

            Offside too!  Offside too!

            Your team is in a hole now.

            They nullified your goal now.

            ‘Nil for you.  ‘Nil for you.

            Gambattesa!  Gambattesa!

            Who kicked who?  Who kicked who?

            You kicked a little too hard.

            You’re gonna get a red card.

            Shame on you.  Shame on you.

            Bobo Vieri!  Bobo Vieri!

            Totti too!  Totti too!

            Del Piero’s a nice fella,

            But I really like Montella.

            How ‘bout you?  How ‘bout you?

            Let’s take a break from rhymes for a while and switch to one of my major unpoetic efforts.  I think it’s pretty much self-explanatory, so let me present to you what I call the OFFICIAL POST-CHRISTMAS FORM LETTER

            The Mullens of Vicenza, Italy, have long disdained the graceless American

tradition of writing form letters to send their annual Yuletide greetings to family, friends,colleagues, acquaintances, and passersby.  It occurred to us, however, that the medium is ideally suited to graceless acknowledgement of Christmas gifts we’ve received from some of those same people, and that one such letter can be used for several years.  To that purpose we request that you maintain this letter in your files for at least five years, annually reviewing and updating it as to the specific gifts you’ve sent and your relationship to us (e.g., friendship changed to occupancy, name change, sex change, etc.).  If, during that time, you decide you no longer wish to send us Christmas gifts, please inform us of that decision, so we can update our files and delete your name from our Panettone list.  You may still want to maintain this letter as a way of cheating on your income tax or something.

Our records, carelessly compiled from the remains of wrapping paper and gift tags still strewn on our living room floor, indicate that you contributed (circle one) significantly/marginally/haphazardly/mistakenly to our celebration of Yuletide greed.  We were delighted/distressed/bored/mystified by your thoughtful/random/ careless/erroneous selection and have found the perfect place for it in/on/over/under our living room/dining room/kitchen/bathroom/bedroom/fireplace/attic/garage /dog/cat/gerbil/t-shirt/blue jeans/socks/underwear/(name of body part).

Many thanks, then, for the beautiful/ugly/bland/nondescript gifts) identified below:

Porcelain Coffee Cups                        Broken Ceramic Dish

Boxes of Tea                                       Tangerine Peels

Christmas Towels                                Santa Claus Toilet Seat Cover

Bird Feeder                                         Pigeon Poop Scooper

Angel                                                   Glow-in-the-Dark Rosary

Petrified Wood                                    Frightened Stone

Night Light                                          4,000-Watt Spotlight

Retirement T-Shirt                              Disposable Underwear

Opera Cards                                        Waycross, GA Postcards

Linen Towel                                         Used Paper Napkins

“Merry Christmas” Sign                     “Happy Groundhog’s Day” FAX

Panorama Puzzle                                Puzzling Panorama

Medieval Woman Calendar               Girlie Pictures

            Christmas Music CD                           Tissue Paper & Comb

Microwave Dishes                              Year’s Supply of Paper Plates

Panettone                                            Ton of Pane

Loaf of Stollen                                     Stolen Loafers 

10 Drummers Drumming                   9 Lords-A-Leaping

8 Poopers Scooping                             7 Scoopers Pooping

6 Beepers Peeping                              5 Bathtub Rings

4 Calling Cards                                                3 Answering Machine Messages

2 E-Mail Letters                                  A Participle from a Noun Dangling

If our records are incorrect and you did not send us any of the above Christmas gifts (or any gifts at all), the error is probably attributable to our penchant for re-using wrapping paper from previous Christmases for the gifts we give ourselves.  Then, too, it could be the fact that many of our contributors are doctors whose handwriting is impossible to read; it certainly looked like (your name here).

If we failed to thank you for your gifts from previous Christmases, we assume that’s why you didn’t send any this year.  If you’ve never sent us any Christmas gifts, we understand; but, now that you have this letter in your files, you might want to think about contributing in future Yuletides and using it as a tax write-off.  If you’re a doctor, read this twice and call me in the morning. Thank you again for remembering/forgetting/ignoring us during this past holiday season, whether that was by way of gift, card, Christmas Form Letter or all (or none) of the above.  We’d also like to correct some errors which appeared in the Unofficial Pre-Christmas Form Letter mistakenly mailed to some of you by a computer which apparently had topped too many laps:  1) Marty is selling (not “soiling”) leather;  2) Patrick is playing the French Horn (not “playing with the horny French”);  3) Barbara did sit down (once) last year; 4) Mike will soon be retired  (not “retarded”).

                                                                        Sincerely/Facetiously/Regretfully Yours,

                                                                        Mike/Barbara/Patrick/Marty

                                                                        All/Most/Some of the Above

Well, that wore me out.  I need some more rhymes to get me relaxed again.  Not sure I need to explain this one; it sort of defies explanation.  Just something that popped into my mind one day.

Happy Holly Hasenpfeffer

Had to go to school.

Unhappily, poor Holly didn’t know that rule.

            So Happy Holly Hasenpfeffer

            Stayed home and played the fool.

            Jolly Jimbo Uhlenhockey

            Liked to pick his nose.

            Jolly Jimbo also liked to pick between his toes.

            Where Jolly Jimbo put that stuff

            Nobody really knows.

            Pretty Patty Branamockey

            Had very curly hair.

            But Pretty Patty told us she that didn’t really care.

            So, Pretty Patty cut it off

            And now she’s bare up there.

            Messy Michael Mullenhoofer

            Messed around with mice.

            How Messy Michael messed with them wasn’t very nice.

Messy Michael mashed their heads

And put their brains on ice.

Bubbly Babette Koelblefoos

Just lies in bed and snores.

Bubbly Babette snores so loud we have to close the doors.

We hope Bubbly Babette wakes up soon

And goes shopping at the stores.

I call this next one the “Shine on Rhyme” because it’s about a lamp shining on my uncontrollable rhyming. 

We put a new lamp near my desk

To brighten my world as I write.

I hope it does not cause a mess

Or ruin my 20-20 hindsight.

The lamp is certainly very bright,

Like being real close to the sun.

I might catch fire when I try to write,

But, hey, that could be fun.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

I’ll turn this lamp off pretty soon

Or it’ll get too damn hot.

And the heat could cause me to swoon

Or – Who knows? – maybe not.

My head is just too full of rhymes,       

As you’ve probably gathered by now.

I think it’s just a sign of the times.

I’d stop, but I don’t know how.

That new lamp’s just gonna shine

On rhythmicky drivel like this.

‘Til we end this rhyming time of mine

With a simple goodbye kiss.

Unfortunately (for you), the rhyming does not stop there.  Here’s another one that was inspired by an actual incident of “Creepy- Crawly Creatures” in our bathroom one night recently.

A creepy-crawly creature crawled across the floor

While I was in the bathroom late last night.

            A many-legged, hairy beast crawled under the door

            And left me at the toilet full of fright.

                       

            I don’t like creepy-crawly things crawling in my house.

            It’s dumb, I know, but I’m afraid they’ll bite.

            Neither centipede nor cockroach and surely not a mouse;

            If they show up, I’m quickly in full flight.

            I tried to catch and kill the beast that frightened me last night,

            But it creep-crawled into a dark place.

            It’s still there – I know it is – just hiding out of sight,

            Just waiting to jump out onto my face.

            So, I’m thinking about leaving here and living somewhere new,

            Some place where creepy creatures never crawl.

            The problem is such places are so relatively few.

            In fact, there may be no such place at all.

            Guess I’ll just learn to live with them crawling in my way

            Or try to keep them mostly out of sight.

            I’ll only make my bathroom trips in the middle of the day

            And never go to wee-wee late at night.

If you were hoping for a respite from this rhyming mania of mine, you’ll have to wait another page or two.  Then, that terrible weight will be off your shoulders, as in this rhyme I call “Weight Loss”.

I lost another pound today.

I lost a little weight.

Yesterday:  one-ninety-nine

Today:  one-ninety-eight

If I keep losing pounds like this

I’ll be slim in nothing-flat.

And I’m sure that I’ll be happy

After losing all that fat.

I’d lose the weight much faster

If I’d work-out at the gym.

It’d only take me half the time

To get looking slim and trim.

But working-out is work, you know,

And that makes me hesitate.

I retired from work many years ago

And began to hibernate.

I sleep all day and eat all night

And that’s pretty much my life.

Occasionally, I sit down to tea

And cookies with my wife.

So, how the hell, I’m sure you ask,

Have I managed to lose weight?

I guess it’s time to tell the truth:

I sort of prevaricate.

And here it is: the final rhyme (at least until the next one).  Fittingly, I think, this rhyme is about “My Computer” (but I don’t know why I think that’s fitting).

I got a computer today, oh boy!

I got a computer today.

Something new with which I can play, oh boy!

I got a computer today.

You’ll see my in cyberspace real soon, oh yes!

You’ll see me in cyberspace soon.

I’ll feel like I’m into the human race

When you see me in cyberspace.

I’ll put all my stuff on Facebook, oh yeah!

I’ll put all my stuff on Facebook.

And then everyone gets a look, oh yeah,

At what faces are in my book.

And Barbara’s photos can go there, too.

Yes, Barbara’s photos, too.

And some of them there will be of you,

Some photos of me and you.

Double-u, double-u, and double-u

And maybe a dot-com or two.

That’s W, W, and W,

I’m part of the Internet zoo.

As I said, that was my final rhyme “until the next one.”  And here’s the…uh…next one.

 A BLOGGER NAMED ROJO GOT LOST

IN THAT TERRIBLE BLOGOSPHERE FROST.

HE WAS THERE FOR A WEEK

WITH THE MANIC AND MEEK

AND TWO GUYS IN SHIRTS FROM LACOSTE.

WHEN ROJO EMERGED FROM THE SPHERE

HE ASKED THAT WE LEND HIM AN EAR,

SO HE COULD RETELL

‘BOUT THE BLOGGER FROM HELL

WHO RAN OFF WITH HIS ADIDAS GEAR.

            WE LISTENED, BUT DID NOT BELIEVE.

            WE THOUGHT ROJO WOULD TRY TO DECEIVE,

            LIKE THE TRUE CELLAR DWELLERS –

            THOSE CYBERSPACE SELLERS –

            WHO INSTRUCTED HIM NOT TO RECEIVE.

            WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN, ANYWAY?

            I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU SAY.

            ARE YOU TALKIN’ TO ME?

            OR IS HE TALKIN’ TO SHE?

            OR ARE THEY JUST BLABBING AWAY.

            YA’LL TALKIN’ SOME TRASH NOW, YA HEAR?

            AND IT’S GETTIN’ SO I CANNOT HEAR

            ANYTHING THAT YOU SAY

            FROM THE START OF THE DAY

            TO THE END OF IT WAY OVER HERE.

            LET’S FORGET ‘BOUT THIS CYBERSPACE CRAP.

            WE KNOW IT’S A BLOGOSPHERE TRAP.

            LET’S COOL DOWN TO THE MAX

            AND TRY TO RELAX

            BY HAVING OURSELVES A GOOD NAP.

            And I know you were hoping that was going to be the last of this stuff, but I just have this one more “next one”.

            I FINISHED OFF THE MEAT LOAF.

            NOW, I GOT MY EYES ON PIE.

            I NEED TO FATTEN UP MYSELF

            AND BE READY WHEN I DIE.

            ‘CAUSE THEY DON’T HAVE A FRIGIDAIRE

            WITHIN THE AFTERLIFE.

            AND NO ONE THERE TO COOK FOR ME,

            AT LEAST NOT LIKE MY WIFE.

            THAT ICE CREAM OVER THERE LOOKS GOOD.

            THINK I’LL EAT IT JUST FOR FUN.

            PERHAPS I’LL HAVE IT IN A CONE

            ‘CAUSE I JUST MIGHT HAVE TO RUN.

            IS THAT A BOWL OF CARAMEL CORN

            RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES?

            I THINK I’M SOMETIMES SEEING THINGS,

            SOME GOODIES IN DISGUISE.

            GUESS  I’LL CONTINUE  EATING NOW.

            NOTHING ELSE THAT I CAN DO.

            A BOWL OF POPCORN SOUNDS REAL GOOD

            AND MAYBE SOME COOKIES, TOO.

            And that, indeed is the last of the “Random Rhymes and Other Stuff” (the post-Christmas letter being the “other stuff”).  In fact, that’s probably the last thing I’ll put on Rojo’s Blog (until the next one?).  Time to take a vacation from this stuff.  Hope you enjoyed some of it.  Thanks for taking the time to read it.

FAMILY RHYMES

            Some more rhymes coming up.  Now, it’s the rest of our family’s turn to be   introduced in rhyme.  We’ll start with our older son, Patrick, who managed to escape my poetical penchant until he showed up here in Vicenza just as I was leaving the hospital last December.  I think there may be other rhymes about him somewhere “out  there” – maybe he has some in his possession – but this is the only one I have.  It’s fitting, however, because it tells the tale of the help he gave Barbara and me when things looked pretty bleak.

His name is Patrick Bigfoot.                                                                  

He came riding into town                                                                 

When my lungs were full of dirty soot                                              

And I was really down.

His computer and a cell-phone                                                            

In a bag across  his back,                                                                            

He came flying back to our home                                                 

When the “C” made its attack.

Patrick helped us really understand                                                  

What the doctors had to say.                                                       

And then he offered us his hand                                                           

To guide us through the day.

With his help we made it through that week                             

Of worrying and wonder.                                                            

We saw that things were not so bleak;                                         

 I wasn’t going under.

So then, Bigfoot rode back out of town,                                        

Another job well done,                                                               

Another sign of his renown                                                       

From Patrick, our dear son.

Two months after Patrick’s stay with us my brothers, Bob and Tom, came over from Florida.  They were with us for five days, and it was a marvelous reunion full of storytelling, laughing, and crying. I wrote the following rhyme a few days after they left. The “boom-a-lay” I refer to here was inspired by the scene in the movie “Ali”, when the great boxer, played by Will Smith, is in Zaire for his “Rumble in the Jungle” fight with George Foreman.  Ali/Smith, running in the streets, is greeted by cheers of “Ali…Boom Ah Ay” and, when he asks someone what that means, he’s told it roughly translates to “Ali…Knock him out.”  Well, “boom-a-lay” is my knockout punch, which I felt I had lost until Bob and Tom came and assured me I still had it.

My brothers came a-visiting                                                                                   

Like they’d never been away.                                                                                          

They came to see me dithering                                                      

With a broken boom-a-lay.

I don’t know what that means.  Do you?                                               

I guess I don’t want to know.                                                                   

I’m hoping that it doesn’t mean

That it’s time for me to go.

But if it’s really meant to mean                                                     

That I’ll fall apart real soon,                                                                    

I’ll just pick up my boom-a-lay                                                      

And move to a different room.

I ain’t gonna let them run me off                                                      

With my broken boom-a-lay                                                                 

‘Cause my brothers came a-visiting                                              

And I’d like for them to stay.

Okay, I see they’re done visiting;                                                             

No more laughing, no more crying.                                                  

But I still need time to figure out                                                               

Why I don’t feel like I’m dying.                                                                       

I think I’ll use my boom-a-lay                                                             

To keep on, keep on trying.

            Time now for a couple of rhymes for our other son, Marty.  The true Italian in our family – born in Vicenza and, except for four college years in the U.S. at Notre Dame, always living here – we call him Martino as much as Marty.  He’s a salesman representing several leather companies; but his true calling, I think, is as a singer-songwriter, as I allude to in the first rhyme. 

When you’re only forty-four,                                                                                          

You still have time to explore                                                              

Dreams that often seem afar,                                                              

Like recording hits with your guitar                                                                                                                                                                                                          So, don’t give up those dreams too fast;                               .

They’ll help to make your life last                                          

Longer than it might otherwise.                                                       

And – who knows? – maybe you’ll surprise                                    

Yourself with that guitar                                                                        

And wind up as a real Rock Star.

            This next rhyme, for Marty’s 46^th birthday, was simply a note on a card, attached to a bottle of wine and accompanied by his favorite dessert (baked by his mother, of course):

Some cheesecake and a bottle of Vino                                                       

For our 46-year-old Bambino.                                                       

Seems like just yesterday                                                                  

That you bounced our way                                                                      

And became our beloved Martino.

            We have six grandsons. Patrick and Gillian gave us Joey, Rordan,  and Oliver.  Marty and Giovanna produced David, Jason, and Benjamin.   

            Joey, the first of our grandsons, got the first rhyme on his first birthday while he and his parents still lived in Qatar.  I can’t remember what the “diploma” was that we sent along with our birthday/Christmas greetings, but it’s not that important; probably not a diploma at all, but just my way of making things rhyme.

There’s a dear boy in Qatar named Joey,                                                       

Whose grandparents would like him to know he                      

Gets this diploma                                                                           

From his Grampa and Oma                                                                

‘Cause he’s sweet from his head to his toey.

           

Joey’s now eleven-years-old, living in Florida, and just graduated from Weston’s Indian Trace Elementary School as the president of the student council. 

            Our first Italian grandson, David (sometimes called D-J because his second name is Jonathan), is nine-years-old and a star on the Vicenza suburb of Creazzo’s Under-Ten soccer team.  But his first rhyme from Grampa came when he was eight and very fluent in English, as well as Italian; so he did pretty much understand that the encyclopedia we gave him would help him in the future.

David’s just another guy                                                            

Who has a birthday in July.                                                            

But wait a minute! We’ve been told                                                  

This birthday makes him eight-years-old,                                

And that’s a most important age                                                           

To start becoming a wise old sage.                                            

So, to help him reach that knowledge nook                                           

We offer D-J this big book,                                                                

And hope for him in every way                                                                               

A very happy eighth birthday.

           

Next in line, Rordan, a Gaelic name meaning “poet of the king” (as a salute to his mother Gillian’s family name, King).  Rordan’s also nine-years-old, born in Qatar about seven months after David was born in Italy.  And he is, indeed, a poet, writing lots of crazy and creative poems in the style of Shel Silverstein and others whose poetry features made-up words and imaginary creatures.  Rordan could now do a much better job than his Grampa did in marking his seventh birthday.

Roses are red. 

Violets are blue.                                                               

You’re seven-years-old.                                                                        

Now, what can you do?

You can do all your homework                                                                   

And get way ahead.                                                                            

Then spend the next year                                                                                         

Just lying in bed.

You can jump in a boat                                                                

And go fish in a lake                                                                                   

Or just stay at home                                                                              

And eat nothing but cake.

You can hop on your bike                                                                                  

And ride to the park;

Just play there and stay there                                                           

Until it gets dark.           

Whatever you do,                                                                           

We just want to say                                                                                           

That we love you                                                                                  

And wish you Happy Birthday!

           

I wrote this next rhyme just this year for five-year-old Jason, who has strongly resisted all our efforts to get him to understand and speak English.  His father, Marty, speaks to him mostly in English; but his brother, David, translates for him and he responds to Marty in Italian.  When his grandmother, Barbara, once asked him in Italian why he doesn’t speak English he replied, “Sono Italiano; parlo solo in Italiano” (I’m Italian; so I speak only Italian).  I’m sure he’ll speak English as well as his brother one day.  I’m just a little anxious he won’t speak it in time for me to hear it, but he did listen closely to me as I read the rhyme at the dinner table to the whole family; so I’m hoping he’ll start talking English by his sixth birthday (sesto compleanno; you probably noticed I speak a little Italian myself) in August 2013.

Talk to me in English ‘fore I die.                                                                                   

C’mon, speak English with me, please, Little Guy.                                       

I know that you’re Italian,                                                                         

But you’ll win Grampa’s  medallion                                                          

If you talk to me in English ‘fore I die.

Please, speak my language soon, Jason Dear.                                     

Let’s palaver in American this year.                                            

By your sesto compleanno                                                                           

Let’s begin pian piano                                                                                       

To speak the language I can truly hear.

I know it’s hard for you to understand                                    

Why I want you to follow this demand.                                          

I just hope that you’ll capito                                                                 

That, before I go finito,                                                                                

I would like to see your language skills expand.

So, Jason, let’s start talking, you and I,                                           

In the language where we’re really “guy to guy”.                                   

Like your father and your mother                                                              

And especially your big brother                                                          

Talk to me in English ‘fore I die.

           

And the grandson rhymes now bring us to Oliver, who’s five-years-old and in the final lap of his pre-school race.  It’s into kindergarten for him next fall (2013); but his size and his smarts make you believe he’s much more advanced.  Well, he is.  He’s just playing it cool, so he can pretty much run the show in school as time goes on (the way his brother Joey has been running it for several years and the way his brother Rordan excels by steering clear of that kind of stuff).  Oliver displayed the ability to combine his brothers’ talents into one, BIG boy when he was only three-years-old.  You’ll probably notice I stole my nickname for him from a Dr. Seuss poem.

Here’s Oliver Boliver Butt,                                                                                                

A truly sweet little nut:                                                                          

He pretends he’s a fool,                                                                                  

But he’s really Joe Cool                                                                          

And also…uhm…I don’t know what.

Now, he’s been around for three years,                                       

Bringing lots of smiles and some tears.                                                     

But most of the time                                                                                  

He’s been quite sublime.                                                                              

And, for that, we give him three cheers.

            That brings us to Benjamin.  Before Giovanna and Marty found out he’d be a boy, he was his grandmother’s last hope to have a grand-daughter.  (I sort of liked the idea of six grandsons: a hockey or volleyball team; better yet, a basketball team with a substitute.)  As you’d expect, however, Oma (her grandsons have all learned to speak that German word) loves Benjamin just as much as she would a little girl, and he sure loves her.  At two-years-old now, Benjamin has earned the following:

Now, here’s a rhyme about Benjamin,                                                                            

The last of Oma’s six boys,                                                                     

The one who thinks that our telephone’s                                               

Just another one of his toys.                                                              

And, when we ask him to put it down,                                                          

He makes a hell of a noise.

Oma knows how to quiet Ben                                                       

With a cookie or two, maybe three.                                                  

Then he sneaks back into the kitchen                                                             

And, just between you and me,                                                            

He eats several more of the cookies                                                         

Hoping Oma’s too busy to see.

But Benny’s not just up to mischief;                                                   

He can keep us entertained for a while                                                    

By dancing around to some music                                                        

And prancing around “Gangnam Style”.                                     

He applauds himself in approval                                                  

And rewards all of us with his smile.

We can’t have “Family Rhymes” without saluting our wonderful daughters-in-law.  Not only have they provided us with six sweetheart grandsons, but they’ve also supported and sustained our beloved sons (in whom we are well pleased).

We find it really quite thrilly-in’,

When we think of our lovely Gillian,

That she takes care of her guys

While she does Jazzercise.

She’s really one in a million.

And here’s a rhyme for Giovanna,

Who gets a resounding Hosanna

For letting her boys

Make all that noise

And do whatever they wanna.

Finally, here’s a rhyme for Christmas with the family as we were quite a few years ago: Barbara and I, Marty and Giovanna, and Patrick when he was still working out of Paris for a civil engineering firm that sent him all over Africa and Europe (including Cyprus, where he finally left them, started his own consultant company, and met and married Gilllian).  My apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, who wrote the original “’Twas the Night Before Christmas”.

‘Tis the night before Christmas at Mimose 13,                                     

And we’ve gathered together for our yearly routine.                                  

There’s Barbara and Patrick, Marty, Giovanna,                                    

And I in a state approaching Nirvana.                                                        

We’ve completed the task of tree decoration                                                  

And lighted some candles for illumination.                                             

We’ve munched a few cookies and sipped some fine wine;                          

It’s clear to the world we’re all feeling fine.                                                        

Next comes the moment of anticipation,                                                              

When we honor each other with gift presentation.                    

Forgive me, my dears, for delaying that time                                    

With my presentation of the year’s final rhyme.                                  

It’s my gift to you, dear wife, sons, and daughter,                                

Despite making you feel like lambs led to slaughter.                             

Just give me some more undivided attention                                              

(It’s the least you can do for a guy on a pension),                                                       

And I’ll get to my point without further delay,                                                  

So we can get on with the plan of the day.                                                         

I just want to say – and I know it sounds trite –                                

That I love you all.  Merry Christmas.  Good night.