Eulogy for John P

 John P was one of the funniest guys I ever knew. And he was cool because of that. When you were with John, you were having a good time; you were where the fun was.

We lost regular contact over the years, I am sorry to say, but our friend Bob B kept me updated. Bob introduced me to John in our Clementon days, when we were about 11 or 12, old enough to venture into the next neighborhood over, in this case, to play football behind Trio Tire.

I remember John buying whole boxes of baseball cards at Bee Gee Candy on the Pike in Clementon. Whole boxes! Boggled my young mind. He always thought bigger than the rest of us. Later, of course, he made a business out of selling collectible trading cards, comic books and such. I recently learned he ran the business for over 40 years, and he had named it Thunderball Books, which figures, because he was a big James Bond fan from very early on.

John's grandparents handed down their 1955 Pontiac Star Chief sedan to John's mom. She and John drove it for a while, but at some point, the hood flew open and got bent up, so they replaced the hood with one from a junkyard, a salmon-colored hood on the black car. It really stood out. When the family was getting ready to move to Barclay Farms in Cherry Hill (to Winston Way, as John said it, We're moving to Winston Way), John's dad said they were not taking that odd-looking car to the new upscale neighborhood, so John asked if I wanted to buy it. It was my first car, and it cost me all of $20. Of course, back then $20 could buy you 20 six-packs - if you didn't mind drinking Schmidts...

One of my favorite JP stories was when John and some guys were playing poker near Rutgers-Camden and two guys came thru the door with a shotgun. It was obvious the card players all were going to lose their money just then, so John pulled some bills off his pile and threw them on Bob H's pile and said, "Here's that money I owe you!" Quick thinking.

I am sure John made most people's list of Unforgettable Characters I Have Known.

I went to sleep thinking about John shortly after learning of his passing, and sure enough, he showed up in my dream. I was again having a good time just hanging out with John. As we parted, he said, "I'll be in touch."

So long, John. I'm glad I knew you. It was always fun. May you rest in peace.

Dog Days

From the Prologue of Natalie Babbitt's book "Tuck Everlasting"

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.

Condolences, second-hand?

 I was talking with an acquaintance about the death of a mutual acquaintance. "Please give the family my condolences," he told me. I thought, what a shallow thing to say. If you have condolences to offer, offer them yourself, dammit. If you need contact info, I can provide it.

Rant off.

"Tommy and Me" and Me

Recently The Philadelphia Inquirer has run several articles about retired sportswriter Ray Didinger's stage play, Tommy and Me, centered on Philadelphia Eagles player Tommy McDonald, a wide receiver on the 1960 team that won the NFL championship.

As a ten-year-old fan at the team's training camp, Didinger used to carry McDonald's helmet for him after practice. Many years later, the writer was instrumental in finally getting the player into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio.

I had my own history with Tommy McDonald, a brief but memorable brush with the man.

Grant City, about a half-mile from my South Jersey home (billed when construction was announced as "the largest W. T. Grant store in the world!") was anchored by the sprawling "Grants" mass-merchandise store. It was a busy place where I often would go to hang out, check out the books and records for sale, maybe get a soft pretzel, or, if I had the forty cents, a hot-fudge sundae at the lunch counter The Skillet. One day in 1962, twelve-year-old me went there as usual, and was encouraged by some adults to walk up to where Tommy McDonald was sitting at a table for a signing of his soft-cover book, They Pay Me to Catch Footballs. An Eagles fan, I knew who he was. Tommy gave me a big hello, signed his book and, with a broad smile, handed it to me, no charge. I was the only customer I saw who was part of the proceedings, so the extremely light attendance might have been embarrassing for him. But the sunny demeanor and enthusiasm with which he gifted me the book were appreciated. Thanks, Tommy. 

Carstruck

I once got hit by a car while crossing the street with the Walk signal at a crosswalk.

It was a gloomy, wet 5pm when I left the office on a January Friday (one-one-nine-nine-six) and started my walk home. I waited at the light, and when the Don't Walk signal went out, I started across Kings Highway. After the halfway point, I heard an engine revving, coming up behind me, and closing on me so obviously that I turned around in time to see a Jeep Wrangler less than 6 feet away with no sign of slowing, let alone stopping. It caught me square, my chin went down onto the hood of the vehicle, and I went airborne. Next thing I was aware of was something black flying past my face; took a moment to realize I was seeing the asphalt surface of the road and that I was scraping along on my hands and knees. Once I knew that, my old sandlot sports training kicked in and I tucked my shoulder down and rolled myself right up onto my feet. It must have looked pretty cool, but there was a small child on the sidewalk looking on in horror, holding onto his mother's hand. She asked me to let the child know I was okay, so I assured them both that I was, in fact, okay. But my heart was racing.

The Jeep's driver, a guy maybe twenty years old, had pulled over and was saying to me, "Sorry. I didn't see you until I hit you." This was consistent with my recollection. He said, "Should I call somebody?" I suggested he call 9-1-1.

The local ambulance came, and I requested to be taken to Our Lady of Lourdes hospital emergency room, as my left forearm was swollen and I thought that meant it might have been broken. I chose that hospital because it was closest to the Westmont Theater (even on the same road, Haddon Avenue), where I was to do my walk-on part in the opening nite performance of The Philadelphia Story. 

The ER doctor ordered an X-Ray. After reviewing it, he told me with a straight face, "We are going to have to amputate your arm." Remembering a line Homer Simpson once said in a similar situation, I replied to the doc, "It'll grow back, right?" The nurse standing behind the doc laughed.

Turns out I was only bruised, so I was released, and a short cab ride later I was at the theater with a pretty good story to tell. 

Here's an Idea!

 Back in the late 50s or early 60s, a feature called Here's an Idea ran on the funny pages in the daily newspaper. It showed an illustration and explanation of an idea submitted by a reader, who was supposedly paid $2 by HaI's author.

I needed Christmas money one year, so along about October I sent in my idea, thinking it would be accepted and I'd be paid by mid-December, in time for gift-shopping. Obviously, I was an optimist.
 

Well, December came and went; no luck.
Imagine my surprise when, maybe a year or two later, my idea did show up in the feature. But it was attributed to someone else! Dang. Had I been hornswoggled, or had two minds submitted the same idea? I'll never know.

My idea, in retrospect, was pretty lame: It was a clothesline running from the front door to the curb, with a carrier basket which accepted the delivered newspaper and traveled back and forth on the line. What a step-saver!

Snappy comeback

 My one-time buddy was waiting tables at the Marriott when his manager said to him, "Jack, your mustache is crooked."
Jack, thinking the guy was kidding (he wasn't, as it turned out), replied, "That's a nice suit you're wearing. Too bad they didn't have it in your size."