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 LIVING HAPPY     
UPLIFTING, THOUGHT-PROVOKING NEWS FOR OUR MIND, BODY,AND SPIRIT   

From Carole Kane


  Vol. 4  No. 5                                                        June 15, 2014  

Special Fathers Day Issue  

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in this issue
To My Son - By Larry Howland
The Genius and Me - By Carole Kane
As Fathers Day Approaches - By Dr. Brad Holway
Memories in the Rain - By Dave Kane
Oystering on the James - by Rev. Victor Langhorne
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                     Dear Friends,

carole jan 13 13
Carole Kane, MA, NCC 

 

Welcome to Living Happy,  a little ray of sunshine for our mind, body, and spirit.  Our aim is to share good, interesting, enjoyable articles that make you feel good when you finish reading them.

This is a special issue - dedicated to our fathers.  Several of the articles appeared in previous issues, and deserve a second look.  Other articles are brand new.  All of them shine!

  If you'd like to comment , just click here:
You could see your words in our next issue!

 

Happy reading!

 

Love, Carole XXX OOO

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To My Son

  by Larry Howland

 

I sometimes wish you were still small, Not yet so big and strong and tall

For when I think of yesterday I close my eyes and see you play

 

I often miss that little boy Who pestered me to buy a toy

Who filled my days with pure delight From early morn to late at night

 

We watch our children change and grow As seasons come, then quickly go

But our God has a perfect plan To shape a boy into a man

 

Today, my son, I'm proud of you For all the thoughtful things you do

I'll love you till my days are done- And I'm so grateful you're my son.

 

Contributed by Robert Calabrese, 
father of three amazing sons and two incredible daughters

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The Genius and Me                              By Carole Kane 

 

My father had a profound influence on me.  He was truly a genius, who seemed to want to learn every single thing in the world.

 

He was an electrical engineer at AT&T when they were developing so many new inventions - the transistor, the microwave oven, tape recorders, transcontinental communication, telephone equipment, television, on and on.  In our cellar in Brooklyn, he had a workroom strewn with wires, electronic components, a ham radio, books and a telescope.  Often he would recreate or improve upon projects he had seen at work.  And he taught me as much as I could absorb about these things. 

 

He went rock hunting and found special stones.  He gave lectures at the Brooklyn Museum, as president of the Brooklyn Mineralogical Society, then made jewelry from those rocks, which he polished and cut.

   daughter and father holding hands

 He taught me to recognize every bird and rabbit and hole in the ground when we took walks, counted the TV antennas on roofs when they first came out, left classic books for us children to read, as if by accident, and demanded the highest grades from me and all of my siblings.   

 

He built a TV set in his cellar workshop around Christmas time in 1949, using a  five-inch cathode ray tube for the screen.  I invited all my friends to watch it, but there was a problem... if the set was right-side up, you could see the picture.  If it was upside-down, you could hear it.  But not both.  None of the kids cared.  No one had a TV set but us!

  telescope, father and daughter

My father was a Boy Scout leader, and an astronomer.  He played Santa Claus at the AT&T Christmas parties.  He taught himself Chinese, Italian, and Yiddish, so he could speak to storekeepers in their own language.  He loved to teach everything he knew to anyone who would listen, and lots of people ran away screaming "No!  No more!  Please!" when he'd say, "Wait, before you leave, I have a few new rocks to show you."

 

It was lots of fun, and quite an education, having a genius for a father.  He was 97 when he died.  I will forever miss him.  

 adapted from The Dolphin, July 2013 

 

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As Fathers' Day Approaches...                    By Dr. Brad Holway   

 

...I naturally think of my own father, who died almost twenty years ago.  I would like to  share some  memories...

 

My father grew up in a suburb of Buffalo.  Despite his many years in New York City, he never lost his Buffalonian accent.  He was a big fan of Jack Kennedy and would do JFK imitations that weren't very good.  Ever hear a Buffalonian imitating a Bostonian?  I can only describe it as a unique experience.   

 

Bronx Zoo Reptile House
Reptile House - Bronx Zoo
ny1.com 

I enjoyed our trips to The Bronx Zoo, particularly our visits to the Reptile House.  He used to call the snakes "sops".  I guess that was a Buffalonian expression.  He also called burgers "blowout patches".

I got in trouble in kindergarten for calling the teacher an "old toad".  That trouble was so deep that the teacher demanded to see him.  When he returned he lectured me about not giving lip to the teachers, but he added that this one really WAS an old toad. 

I had a collection of those hard rubber dinos they used to sell at the "five-and-tens".  He'd call my dinosaurs "prehistorics".

 

boy eating bagel
mmm.. fresh hot bagels! 

On Friday and Saturday nights, I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted.  My mother and I would watch horror and science fiction movies together.  My dad, who was a transit worker, would come home at around 2:00 A.M. with a bagful of hot bagels.  We'd slice them, slather them with butter and eat them while they were still practically steaming.  I still remember that smell! 


I could go on, but I won't.  I just wanted to share a few fragments of memory as Fathers' Day approaches. 

 

Adapted from original article in Living Happy Vol. 2, Number 15 June 17, 2012 

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Memories in the Rain                                            By Dave Kane

 

Today I was sitting outside watching the rain just as I always do.  And as usual, I was comfortably surrounded with many memories of time spent with my father.  I spend a lot of time taking care of him now, but the memories I was having were from years past.

 

George is not your typical man or father.  He is much better.  He is much stronger.   He has overcome some very serious mental issues by himself.  He is, to me, the best there could be.  When I was growing up, I never knew of the issues he had.  It was way later in life that I got to know him deeply and came to understand everything about him.  My oldest son has very similar issues and that has helped me understand him better as well.

 

My father will not lie.  He is extremely intelligent.  My father is an artist.  He is a sculptor.  He is a painter. My father is a musician.  He plays the guitar.  He does his best at singing.  My father loves animals. He loves the outdoors.  He loves the city.  He loves the wilderness.

 

My father worked two full time jobs.  He took care of his children and did everything for them. My father could never hurt anyone deliberately.  He is gentle.  He could defend himself when necessary.  My father took in strays.  He took care of baby birds, dogs, snakes, etc.  He took in people who had fallen on hard times, had brain damage, or just asked.  My father is inside my soul.

 

My father cannot love like most can.  He does not understand why people are the way they are.  He has trouble with emotions.  He is always very depressed.  He alienates himself from the ones who love him.  He has tried to understand himself for countless hours.  He is happiest when he is taking care of someone or some pet. 

 

My father drank a lot of alcohol.  By the time he quit, because of health reasons, he drank more than would kill a horse.  A psychiatrist told me that he was self-medicating and that it probably helped him get through his life.  It was what he needed.  No other psychiatric medications work for him.  He has tried plenty.

 

Memories in the rain include watching the rain together, running by his side holding his index finger as he walked, walking along the boardwalk to see what the fishermen were catching, catching clams with our feet in the bay, nature walks, vacations to the Poconos, trips to the lake, maintenance on the car, sitting on his shoulders, caring for animals, and so much more.  I could go on forever, but the strongest memory I have is the content feeling of being totally safe and loved when I am with him.

     

 

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Oystering on the James   
by Rev. Victor Langhorne    

The James River that is.

 

My dad, Willis Booker T. Washington Langhorne, was an oysterman who captained his own boat, weather permitting, during "Oyster" season, every weekday from October through May.  Rising early, he would be at the Rescue Basin where he docked his boat, launching at about five o'clock each morning.

 

His boat contained several pairs of wooden oyster tongs from twelve to twenty feet in length.The tongs looked like long scissors with the claws of the rake-like ends facing each other.  The other memorable items on the boat for me, at nine years old, were the heavy rubber gloves and the culling board.

 

The ideal crew for my dad's boat consisted of two persons who lowered the tongs all the way down to the river bottom where the oyster beds were, and a third person - called the culler - who separated the oysters caught, to be sold daily to the market boat.  Use of the tongs required working the pole ends in a scissoring motion to separate oysters from the underwater surfaces to which they were attached, and bring them up in the rake like ends, which filled with mud, empty shells, rocks and an occasional crab, as well as oysters.   These catches were deposited upon the culling board for the culler.

 

Oystering Boats on the James River 

Every workday was payday.  Once the captain believed that the catch was adequate for the day, they would stop tonging and head the boat towards the market boat to sell the catch.   When the boat was not fully manned with three crewmen, the  pay for my dad and the other crewman would inevitably be less.

 

The daily pay was split three ways:  one-third for the gasoline, upkeep of the boat and the culler, who was usually a kid like my brother or me; and one-third each to my father and the other person who worked the tongs.

 

I recall the first time it was my turn to go out with Dad, to cull oysters and to make that crazy money that my dad paid to the cullers. In the 1950's it was indeed "crazy" for a colored kid my age to make the money my dad paid his culler.  He paid based on performance without regard to the culler's age.  

 

Long, tall, dark and debonair LT was helping my dad that day.  It was in December, the first day of our winter recess from school.  I would be the culler.  Awakening was no problem;I had hardly slept.  I would be working for and with my Dad in an oyster bed in the James River for the first time!  Of course, I wondered about how much money I would have when school reopened.  From my older brother's experience, I knew it would be crazy money.

 

I drew on a pair of long rubber gloves that reached past my elbows.  I donned galoshes with metal clasps, and a "too big" apron.  My dad was not much on words so his instructions to me were so brief that I do not remember him giving me any.  Besides, my older brother had told me how to cull oysters.

 

With motor whirring, the boat whisked us out to the oyster grounds.  Time sped by.  LT would periodically stop tonging for oysters, step down from the foot-wide edge of the boat where he perched while putting down and pulling up the long tongs, and stand beside me at the culling board.  He showed me how to separate the oysters from the other debris and to throw them into the bottom of the boat, and how to return the remaining debris on the culling board to the river.  No doubt he had observed me sweeping oysters overboard with the debris in my attempt to keep up with my work.  He also expressed concern when he observed me throwing oyster shells into the boat with the oysters.

 

It was a challenge for me to keep up with my culling with the two of them tonging. What to do?  I kept trying but my eyeglasses  were splattered with river water that  quickly dried on the lenses in the bright morning sun.  The market boat confirmed LT's fear.  When they settled up with my dad, the day's work was rewarded with less than what LT and my dad expected, needed.

 

So my dad gave me a talk when we got home.  He told me to stay in school and get my learning so I could make a living, because I would not be able to earn one working with my hands.  He paid me what was still crazy money, to me, but fired me that day.

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THANK YOU! to Brad Holway, Dave Kane,and Victor Langhorne for sharing your beautiful and touching tributes to your fathers.   A special thank-you to Robert Calabrese for contributing the poem "To My Son".  And one more thank you to my own, late father, for his 97 years of inspiration and guidance.

 

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I look forward to  hearing from you and to reading your work!   

  - - Carole - - 

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