“If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write things worth reading or do things worth the writing.”               Benjamin Franklin 

     Benjamin Franklin’s quote did not elaborate as to how well of a writer one must be. However, if I dare to claim status as a writer my style would be a combination of Micky Spillane^[1] and Woody Allen^[2]. But then again, I am not a writer, I am an eavesdropper, salesman, flag waver, and a drinking buddy at a bar.  People have deemed me to be an opportunist, student, teacher, counselor, caretaker, and a volume of trivial data. 

     Foremost, I am an active participant in the world I love.  I’ve survived monsoons, mortars, the KKK, nuclear radiation, heartbreak, blizzards, body recoveries, murder mountain, and now, older age. I’ve also thrived on, puppies’ breath, a child’s love, friendly gathering, the taste of snowflakes, the distinct smell JP-4 jet exhaust at 5:00 am and walking on the sunny side of the street.  I believe I’ve “done things worth writing.”  Now, as Mr. Franklin directs, I am compelled to jot down recollections of the experiences I’ve gained before they fade from this dwindling mind. These writing are my recollections, my interpretations, of conversations at coffee tables, bar stools, now outdated classified briefings, and with wonderful old folks, sitting on couches or stoops.  Some interpretations may be doubted, denied, or considered good, fair, or bad. The reader can decide. I am but the writer. 

     The writing depicts the journey of a boy from the Bronx, starting more then three quarters of a century ago.  A life inspiring trip, in emerald fields of clover watching a puppy and young rabbit frolic, under magnificent northern lights, kissed by the sunshine of beautiful sunrises, and washed by cold rapid waters.  Life cycles equate to water; it may be a stagnant pond, or it might flow like a pure, clear, bubbling stream. At some point these streams ofttimes become tranquil, then turn to rapids. Eventually becoming fast-moving muddy rivers, flowing around or over impediments with currents strong enough to carve rock away. My odyssey, more like the river than the stream, persisted through it all. A little damp, a little shrunken, but happily intact. Hopefully for a few more years to come.  

     I do not live or dwell in the past, but vividly remember much of it. Sometimes more than I care too.  I’ve used these memories to compare the history of yesterday to our world of today.  In the past, it was a time when youngsters laughed openly. Boys donned ties and girls wore dresses and had bows on their shoes. No one dared fight in their school clothes or heaven forbid, curse within earshot of a girl. When Mrs. Polanski spanked my butt for picking a Petunia in her garden no one called a cop or attorney. I just hoped she didn’t tell my mom or I’d get another lower motivational adjustment.

^[1] Frank Michael Spillane, American Crime Novelist, 1918-2006

^[2] Heywood “Woody” Allen, Writer, director, actor, and comedian, 1935 to present