In The Cigar Box

To restart posts I had planned to revisit the first post once again.   Ukraine gave me pause, and still does, but here we go now.   On March 18, 2012, I posted a story “ In The Cigar Box ” for the first time.  The post recounted a long ago memory that gave rise to this blog’s odd name.  Ten years have passed - seems longer; feels like yesterday.     The people and places in that first post are nearly all gone now.  Grandpa, Dad and Uncle Forest (we called him Dick) had passed before the post was published.  In 2012, 45 rpm vinyl records could be found in undisturbed attics, vintage music stores or on eBay.  The juke boxes that played those records were still around but most were converted to CDs and you sure couldn’t play a song for a nickel.   Saying that all the juke boxes are gone makes me want to add a new verse to the song from that era,  Where Have All The Flowers Gone .  It might start,...

I was wrong.  Frank Bruni reminded me, “We are only as good as the information we seek.”     When I wrote  Confronting Sophie’s Choice , I was reeling from the images being transmitted from the war in Ukraine.  I was not wrong to treat that travesty as a compelling call on the consciences of every human on the planet.  This week's images continue to portray crimes and tragedies greater than the ones that led me to write.  Now I think that I was wrong about the kind of retribution free societies should inflict on the invaders and their leader.   I encouraged considering a no-fly zone over Ukraine or some equivalent escalation as a way to protect children, the elderly and frail from indiscriminate devastation by the invading force.  I wanted the children who had serious health issues to get uninterrupted treatment.  I wanted old people or those with terminal illnesses who were living in assistance centers to be ab...

I watched CNN.  Anderson Cooper was interviewing patients and their parents at a hospital filled with seriously ill children.  I tried to imagine the worries that must torment a little girl whose chemotherapy treatment is suspended while air raid sirens wail their haunting alarm.  Fear on top of fear demanding more courage on top of bravery.  A parent must wonder where the love of God goes when a child fighting for breath is disconnected from oxygen so he can be moved to a basement because a manmade hell rains down outside? As I watched from my recliner, thousands of miles from the bombardment of Ukraine, the urge to help, to actually bear arms soaked my soul.  If one of those kids had been mine – but then, aren’t they all our children too?  Those thoughts addled my mind and squeezed my chest.  Every Ukrainian interviewed has begged NATO and the USA to establish a no-fly zone, an umbrella over their homeland to deter the b...

Nudged.  I’ve been nudged.  Sometimes the nudging is subtle; sometimes it’s plainly said, “I wish you’d start writing the blog again.”  I always enjoyed writing the posts that appeared in my blog ( www.inthecigarbox.blogspot.com ) but the time required bumped up against life's other demands and I had to cut way back on the blog.     The nudges worked and time demands have changed. I’ve decided to give the effort another go.     Originally, the blog was built mostly around memories or odd observations.  It included lots of family stories.  The stories grew out of my own memories regardless how flawed those memories may have been.  Some stories may have been fictional in the details but were always true to the feeling or the motivation that drove the writing.   In this restart there will be echoes of stories already told.  There will be new stories of real people and real events that cross ...

Every week begins on Friday.  Remember when Fridays were the cusp of the weekend, two days free of work, for time at home, for sleeping in, for social gatherings, for honey-do projects, for golf or tennis or swimming with the kids?  Now every week begins on Friday because it was a Friday some twenty-one weeks ago that COVID-19 began to inkle its demands about staying in, staying apart, and changing everything.  Bubbles used to be something kids created with a plastic ring and a bottle of soapy water.  Now bubbles are the safe spheres of each person’s world.   Confronted with life in a tiny bubble of two human beings, I did the obvious thing.  Decided to teach myself to play the saxophone.  I did fail, however, to consider the potential effects on the other beings living in our bubble – our two labradoodles.  Winnie, my wife, has ample capacity to bury her head between two pillows in the room furthest from my office bu...

Everyone gets asked to name their favorite books.  It is often believed that the books a person likes is a window into his core.  Doubtful. For me, a book is a vessel - it is more like a cigar box that holds momentos of epiphanies, medals from challenges met and stubs of paper that marked moments of soaring high or when grief brought me low. Each book I've kept has characters who understand me or whose pain and joy I can feel. They hold stories that taught me the difference between truth and fact.  In the most fundamental sense, I'm indebted to every book that opened my eyes, lit my path or simply made me laugh, cry, cheer or rue. They truly comprise the signposts that mark the route that led me here. So... Even though memory is rarely trustworthy, I believe it was during the time of convalescence after the final surgery on my leg that I began to read books, mostly novels. Not only did the stories transport me to times and places I couldn't go, rea...