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April 1994 - I Want To Hold Your Hand
Being blessed with two wonderful and healthy daughters helped me to appreciate how fragile and precious life is. Being blessed with two daughters that actually listened to what I had to say is where the second miracle occurred. They were growing up with no problems (well, few anyway) and were always respectful of adults. It was hard to hear stories of how many issues occurred between other parents and their children. Sometimes, a bit of love and understanding can make a world of difference in the child's future. This is my simple story of how I found that to be true.
To The Museum
When my youngest daughter was about six years old, she and I went on a trip to the Museum of Natural History with a few of the classes from her school. Myself and the other parents were the extra staffs who were watching over the little darlings. The bus ride to the museum was happy and conversational and I felt like the world's greatest dad being able to participate in this part of my child's life. Little did I know that the party would be a bit different than expected.
Soon after we arrived at the museum, we broke up into groups of five kids, a parent and a teacher. In addition to my lovely daughter and three other adorable children, I had been selected to watch over a five-year old boy who had more energy than all the other children combined. For the sake of clarity, let’s call the little guy Charlie.
As my group walked pass the bull elephants of North America, Charlie made it clear that his curiosity was more important to him than his safety. I was helping my daughter to read the nearby plague when I realized that he was trying to see if the pachyderms were real. I lifted him back over to our side of the guardrail and explained to him why his actions were not appropriate. He looked up at me with a huge grin, shook his head and gave me a big "Okay." It was obvious that he was not taking me seriously. I was glad that he was safe and we walked on. 
The well-informed teacher in our group recited amazing details about the 94-foot long, 21,000 lb. female blue whale, as we walked underneath. All of the kids were attentively listening, that is, except for Charlie who thought it would be more entertaining to run around in circles, as he made airplane noises. I found myself chasing him instead of assisting with the other kids. This time, I let him know that ice cream would be waiting for him if he settled down. The thought of it did calm him for a short while but my reminding him soon made little difference. 
We made our way up to the second floor, to the South African section. My attempts to slow him down by holding his hand only made him quickly pull away in order to get loose. My smooth talking and bribery were not working. Frustration was rising. I'd hardly said two words to my own daughter. She seemed to be having fun with the other kids but this was not how I had planned to spend the day.
As we grew closer to the assortment of antelopes that seemed to raise their heads as we approached, the devil's spawn (sorry, Charlie) announced that he was going back downstairs to see the whale. I was by now fed up and I resorted to a tactic that I never had to use with my kids. I told him that I was going to hold his hand and that he was going to stay with me, like it or not. He laughed as I took his hand but stopped laughing when he realized that I wasn't letting go. For the first five minutes, he squirmed and complained but I would not release my grip. As we continued to walk with group, he slowly calmed.
After a half-hour of peace and quiet, I was feeling stunned but tried not to show it. I even let his hand go as a test and he actually took it back. This shocked the crap out of me but I was happy that my reasoning had worked. Seemed like he just needed someone to do what they said they would, meaning stricter rules, promises being kept and all that. For the rest of the afternoon, he stayed at my side and followed my directions. Charlie turned out to be a nice kid (at least, as long as he was with me, anyway).
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11-22-63 by Stephen King is an amazing book. In spite of its length (866 pages), King’s diverse plot is maintained by the strength of the main character, Jake.
The book is a time-travel story about Kyle being persuaded to find his way back to the year 1958. Once there, his goal is to establish himself, collect information and then do everything in his power to prevent John F. Kennedy from being assassinated on November 22, 1963. Of course, all instances of time-travel must be subject to things changing. The number of “strings” involved could either cause differences by a “residue” effect or cause things to be recognized as familiar because of a sense of “harmony.” This may sound a bit confusing but King has set up a world where the reader is comfortable slipping in and out of time where these terms and many others are commonplace. As years roll by, there will always be the possibility of falling in love. When a tender and very real interaction develops between Kyle and a teacher he meets named Sadie, I will only say that because of my own personal experiences, I was eventually brought to tears. To me, this love story deeply added to the mix and also places the book under the romance novel category. Because the book was so very long, I was immensely curious about how King would bring the story to a close. The conclusion was so immensely satisfying that as soon as I finished, I began to make phone calls to recommend that friends give the book a read as soon as possible. I definitely give 11-22-63 five out of five stars. 11 22 63
October 1984 - The Pain Isn't Over 'Til It's Over
After my minor (major) surgery, I was very happy to be lazing around in bed. The insidious bump had been cut away. All that was left was a one-inch scar, which hopefully would not be visible, once my pubic hair grew back in. 
The warm quilt gently grabbed my side and helped me to sleep through the afternoon. My wife took the evening shift, watching over my recovery and my dear mother-in-law made certain that I was comfortable through the daytime. But as the days of my one-week convalescence rolled by, there began to be a problem. I was feeling better and I wanted to get up and move around. Peeing sideways into a bowl was getting old and I was beginning to feel helpless. I craved for the adventure of fully using the bathroom on my own.
It was about the fourth day and my mother-in-law was away in the kitchen making me lunch. I had made the decision that I was going to take my first baby steps. I removed the blanket from my left side and slowly slid my leg towards the edge of the bed. Everything went well until my left leg was hovering off the side of the bed. The Pain
The pain began at the point of the bandaged incision and then hit me like forked lightning, making a path throughout my torso. I used my left arm to push my leg back to the mattress and I finally had relief. It was now obvious. I could not do this by myself. I decided to wait for the evening shift so my wife could lift my leg, lower it to the floor and then assist me in hobbling to the warm, awaiting bowl, which actually, was only a few steps down the hall.
About two weeks later, I felt totally healed and things seemed to be returning to normal. I was finally able to get around the apartment on my own. I had learned to be cautious with my movements because slight pangs of pain would bring me back to reality. I had come to terms with not moving my mid-section more than I had to. The thought of going back to doing my regular exercise routine, which included sit-ups, made me nervous, so at this point, slow was good for now.
My brother was having a birthday party and we all piled into the car that glorious Sunday morning. Getting in and out of the passenger seat was still a chore for me but as long as I balanced my weight away from the delicate area, it seemed workable. Once we reached our destination, my wife got out and was unbuckling our one-year old from the car seat. I had just opened my door to get out, when the unspeakable happened. 
The cool air that rushed in as the door opened had tickled the hairs of my nose. I gave out a really hard sneeze and suddenly my world felt like it was coming to an end. The only way I can describe it was that the doctor was again making the first cut and he was ripping his way up to my brain. Another sneeze was coming which I was trying desperately to muffle. My feigned attempt to stop this action only caused a second jolt of pain.
As I sat there seeing stars, I cried out loud:
"I've done it now! I've busted the stitches wide open! I've got to go back to the hospital!" My wife walked over to my side of the car with our sleeping daughter in hand and leaned into the open door. Strangely enough, she had more perspective in these matters than I did. She had spent the past few weeks listening to me trying not to complain about my condition. "Want me to call your brother out here to give you a hand?" she patiently asked.
The thought of my brother and who knows how many curious onlookers coming to the car, helped to calm me a bit. I realized that I was sore but the pain was going away. I guess my post-hernial incision had reacted to the sneeze, the same as if I had tried to do a sit-up. It was too soon for that type of pressure. Apparently, the muscles down there wanted to work together but they weren't finished healing yet.
It's been many years since that day and I've learned my lesson in terms of not straining myself. I love to exercise and I've learned how to pace myself. Even Superman has his limits.
October 1984 - I arrived at the doctor's office in pain but with an ever-increasing hope that soon I'd be on the course to feeling better. Little did I know that I'd have to first face some primal embarrassments.
It was when a nurse led me to Doctor Urologist's examination room that I saw it. I truly believed that only the female gender used those spread-em-wide stirrups that were connected to the foot of the table. As I changed into a hospital gown, I slowly realized this not to be the case. Dr. U instructed me to lie down and put my legs up in the holsters. I understood that this was necessary so that a thorough examination could be performed but I was also pretty sure it was also to convenience the doctor. As he worked, the Doc let me know that there were many different types of hernias and that they could also occur in newborns or the elderly, be they male or female. I zoned out on the details of other kinds of hernia. I just wanted to know what was next in store for me and not a baby. I wonder if the mention of baby hernia was some kind of snide joke on his part? Naa. Couldn't be.
The Hernia
After the doctor was finished (thank God), I finally sat in his other office. Dr. U confirmed that I had an inguinal hernia and that a simple surgery would be necessary in order to repair it. He said, with a smile, that the bowel that was pushing through the membrane was reducible (or could be pushed back in place). In any case, surgery would be repaired. But if the hernia had been irreducible and couldn't be pushed back in place, then say a prayer. This could have turned into a medical emergency since the blood supply would have been choked off to that area. The development of dead or gangrenous bowel is possible in as little as six hours. In other words, there was the possibility that had I waited a much longer time, before getting it taken care of, it might have killed me. That would have made for a bad day, so I agreed to the procedure.
About two days later, I'm sitting in a hospital bed, waiting to see what happens next. A pretty nurse told me that I would have to be shaved down there as a precaution against infection. I was about to jokingly say that I was a happily married man when the male nurse entered the room with the foam and blade. Isn't there some kind of rule that a female nurse is supposed to be handling the equipment? I guess not. At least the guy was professional and after a few uncomfortable minutes, I was now as bald as the day I was born. After being given some pre-op medication, I was placed on a gurney. Someone wheeled me out of my room and I looked up as the lights overhead crawled along the ceiling. I was describing this to the nurse who was rolling next to me, but I was mostly hoping that I was making some kind of sense. 
Once in the operating room, I was told by Doc U that I would be given gas and to please count backwards from one hundred. I think I got to ninety-eight. I soon wished that that were all I could remember. Even though the merry-go-round was spinning, with me on it, I felt what could only be described as a dull tugging in the surgical area. I moaned a bit, hoping that the volunteer worker that administered the anesthesia understood that I was trying to say, "Hey numb-nut, I'm awake. I can feel that!" It seemed that he understood because a needle was soon placed in my IV and suddenly my trip to the circus became happy again.
When I finally woke, I found myself bandaged up. I was curious about the incision but I was pretty sore so I decided not to move much. My hope was that after the surgery, I would be a much happier camper but I was not aware that a brand new kind of pain was on the way. To be continued...
Trying to deny the hernia is difficult when it's staring you in the face.
Back at the turn of the century (that’s what I call early 1980's), this young writer was at the pinnacle of his physical condition. During that time, I had a job moving furniture and other large objects. To some, I might have looked like an ant moving five times my weight but unbeknownst to anyone I had a secret. I learned how to maneuver objects around (with a little help from my work partner, of course) and I soon understood that even with the heaviest pieces, there was always a way to get them into and out of buildings without hurting myself.
About a few months later, I was asked by my supervisor if I could make certain that a container of laundry detergent was taken up to the second floor. After all of my previous training, my ego quickly said yes and I rolled the somewhat heavy cylindrical container to the edge of the stairway. I peered up the twenty towering steps before me and reviewed my options. Without assistance, the best way to get this thing upstairs would have been to flip it over from one end to the other, that way, the bulk of the weight stayed on the steps and not me. Not wanting to damage the cardboard container, I opted to pick the thing up and carry it up the laborious incline. To this day, I can remember the stress and strain to my entire body, as I made the quest towards the far away landing at the top. Of all of the herculean stunts I had performed, none stands out more than the stupidity of that day. I mean, what was the problem? The container only weighed 100 lbs.! It might have been the accumulation of all the past exertions but I truly feel that this was the antic that pushed me towards the dreaded consequence called the HERNIA.
By the latter part of 1984, I was happily married. My wife and I had a bouncy baby girl who was a joy to keep up with. Along with the joys of fatherhood, there was another addition to my life. I began to feel a slight bump-type swelling between the lower left side of my abdomen and my upper thigh. It would come and go and I tried to not give it much thought. Isn't it grand how the male ego works when you feel that you are indestructible? What could possibly go wrong?
The Price
What was going wrong was that the swelling was becoming more regular and it seemed to occur mostly when I was standing.
My theory was that while in that position, the blood would rush to that area and not recede unless I lied down or used my finger to push the little lump back into it's little home. Odd as it sounds, I became a master at doing this unique maneuver through my pants pocket. I had decided not to share this embarrassment with anyone, hoping that this particular swelling in my groin area would just go away. This self-denial seemed to be working fine until that dreaded day in October when the hernia demons finally caught up with me.
I had gotten a job as a manager of a group home and I was determined to make a good impression even though I had to take three trains, a city bus and then walk ten blocks to get there. I'd just gotten off the D train at 59th Street and was standing on the subway platform waiting to take the #7 train to Queens. My left hand was in my trusty pocket, pressing the little bump but it didn't seem to make a difference. There was no denying it. I was beginning to be in a lot of pain. The windy rush of the arriving train cooled me as it pulled into the station and I said a silent prayer. This particular prayer was answered when I was able to quickly get a seat. I thought this would relieve some of the stress but as I sat there with my hand in pocket, sweat began to roll down my forehead. The biting agony would not recede. The pain was determined to follow me to the next train, the bumpy bus ride and then the long agonizing walk to my job. I suddenly had no choice. I got off the train at the next stop and began the excruciating trek to take the two trains necessary to get me back home. This was in the days before the convenience of cell phones, so when my wife heard me come through the door she was more than a little curious about what I was doing home. I bypassed her and her questions and made a beeline for the bedroom. For the first time in a few hours, I lied in a supine position on the bed, with my knees up. It was only then that I finally felt some relief as the swelling slowly went away. Mr. Macho had no choice but to spill his guts about what I had been going through for the last few months. She called our family doctor who gave her the number of a specialist. 
The doc said what I described sounded like an inguinal hernia. It was probably caused by strain on the groin. It seems that fat or a piece of small intestine pushes downward through a weakened space into the groin area. Inguinal hernias are often painful and could become strangulated (this is when blood flow to the affected area is compromised). That could be life threatening, so whether I liked it or not, surgery was in order. So much for the, “Don’t ask, I won’t tell," slogan of Mr. Macho.
To be continued..........
The Jazz of Physics - The Secret Link Between Music and the Structure of the Universe.
Author: Stephon Alexander, Publisher: Basic Books More than fifty years ago, John Coltrane drew the twelve musical notes in a circle and connected them by straight lines, forming a five-pointed star. Inspired by Einstein, Coltrane had put physics and geometry at the core of his music. Physicist and jazz musician Stephon Alexander returns the favor, using jazz to answer physics’ most vexing questions about the past and future of the universe. The Jazz of Physics
Following the great minds that first drew the links between music and physics—a list including Pythagoras, Kepler, Newton, Einstein, and Rakim--The Jazz of Physics revisits the ancient realm where music, physics, and the cosmos were one. This cosmological journey accompanies Alexander’s own tale of struggling to reconcile his passion for music and physics, from taking music lessons as a boy in the Bronx to studying theoretical physics at Imperial College, London’s inner sanctum of string theory. Playing the saxophone and improvising with equations, Alexander uncovered the connection between the fundamental waves that make up sound and the fundamental waves that make up everything else. As he reveals, the ancient poetic idea of the “music of the spheres,” taken seriously, clarifies confounding issues in physics.
Whether you are more familiar with Brian Greene or Brian Eno, John Coltrane or John Wheeler, the Five Percent Nation or why the universe is less than five percent visible, there is a new discovery on every page. Covering the entire history of the universe from its birth to its fate, its structure on the smallest and largest scales, The Jazz of Physics will fascinate and inspire anyone interested in the mysteries of our universe, music, and life itself. See more at: Amazon.com, Youtube.com, Perseusacademic.com
Dawn of Justice
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October 1996 - Skating is Fun
It was not until 1996 that the wifey and I made the decision that the children needed to learn to skate in a real rink. The kids were young enough to run around and have a limitless amount of energy to burn (between eight and twelve years old) but not too old that they didn't want to be seen with their parents. Parents, I might add, who were acting just as crazy as the kids and enjoying every minute of it.
Rollerskating
Luckily for me, the skates that the family all wore had four wheels, unlike the first skates invented in France during the beginning of the eighteenth century by M. Petitbled. I've never tried in-line skates before but the similarity to ice skates makes me feel uncomfortable just looking at them. Since these types of skates hurt my ankles, I will stick to my quad-skates no matter what the style or how fashionable they look.
By 1876, Williams Brown and Joseph Henry patented what continues to be known as the adjustable four-wheel skates that I roll and love. 
Fast forward to 1996. The place was called Skate Key and it used to be located on 2424 White Plains Road, near Allerton Avenue in the Bronx. The Saturday 9:30 am - 12 Noon crowd was filled with a mixture of excited children and their patient parents. The hardcore skaters usually didn't arrive until the evenings. I guess it was too early in the morning for them to show off their unique moves. Even without the experts rushing by, it was hard for the less experienced crowd not to move to the beat of Donna Summer's Love To Love You Baby, KC & The Sunshine Band's Get Down Tonight, Vaughn Mason & Crew's Bounce, Rock, Skate, Roll or the ever-famous Rock With You by Michael Jackson.
The big kid in me quickly got tired of rental skates and made certain that we all purchased a pair of our own skates. After many Saturdays and much practice, I finally approached something that looked like speed skating. I found that skating in a crowd was similar to driving a car. Right after I weaved between others, I would check to my left or right. I learned to check my blind spots the hard way after the number of times that I smashed into others. The ego tells you that you're the fastest until you make that unchecked swift move and find that someone else is already where you wanted to be and then, “POW,” you both fall to the floor.
At times, the DJ asked that everyone clear the floor so that only certain people got a chance to show their stuff (boys only, girls only and even fast skaters). It felt great sprinting around the rink and not worrying about the kids. Much to my own amazement, I even learned to skate backwards, which of course tickled my ego to no end.
Unfortunately, the Saturday morning fun ended as the kids got older and we all got different interests. It was time to hang up the old balled-bearing platforms.
Within a year or two the Skate Key Rink then moved to 138th Street in the South Bronx and became known for skating fun and fights. But that particular outlet closed March 2006 because there seemed to be more fighting there skating.
It's sad to see what the original Skate Key building has become on White Plains Road. It looks like a cut-rate clothing store has opened in its place. 
Regardless, I'll always remember the family fun and the pounding beat of the music.
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