My dad has been and done a lot of things, but at the core, he’s a psychologist. He knows everyone has a rich internal life, and he has a deep need to connect with whatever lies below the surface.
He likes trying to make store clerks laugh by telling them a joke. For him, it’s not just a way to have fun or kill boredom. He wants to eke out any genuine human connection he can get from their brief interaction. He wants to touch their soul, at least a tiny bit.
His natural foil is “customer service drone” types who speak in scripted platitudes, revealing nothing of themselves. I’m not sure he’s ever fully made peace with the fact that some people will never open up to him.
Once, when I was little, my dad and I were in a carpool with another kid and their mom. My dad tried to start a conversation with the kid’s mom: “Do you think there are people who are insane, but they still put their clothes on straight, go to work on time, and no one really notices?” I don’t remember what she said, but I don’t think she was impressed. I remember wondering: “Is he really talking about himself? Does he feel insane?”
Maybe you’ve got to be a little insane to have the kind of faith in humanity he does. But I’m grateful he’s my dad not just for his parenting skills, but also for the stories he has shared with me; unique experiences that could only have happened to someone like him.
Immortalizing some of his stories in writing, and allowing future generations to gaze into his soul, is exactly what my dad could be expected to do. And I truly believe it constitutes a public service.
How powerful is the written word?
Powerful enough to launch deadly Crusades.
The Bible, that iconic book, is the consolation of mourners (and the “justification” of atrocities). Much the same can be said of other Scripture: The Holy Koran, Bhagavad Gita, even the Sutras. And. . . what does history say about The Four Noble Truths?
During this age of deception in which we live, how powerful is the word. . . (for Blog88, The Written Word)? During these days when the bullshit abounds, can our words come out clean? Can our words be helpful? Do our words heal?
This October, 2021 Issue is Blog88‘s 3rd offering. A bi-monthly (every other month) this current offering follows the August 2021 Issue which featured the powerful words of CRAZY OR NOT, HERE I COME, by Phoebe Sparrow Wagner. That incredible first-person glimpse is not easy to follow.
Were each issue of Blog88.org a movement in a symphony, the August Issue might be Allegro Con Fuoco. If so, then let us think of this current, October, 2021 Edition as, Andante Dolce.
what i like johnny cash the beatles the stones the who 18 wheelers pickup trucks organic farming outlaw country world music bluegrass forwarders dinosaurs dr seuss shel silverstein and other childrens authors books novels gumby my job my friends my family disney disneyland and disney world swimming playing guitar and some piano tom waits lucinda williams sweet walter red wine(responsibly) fairs farms diana krall snakes and other reptiles amphibians to some degree college international foods cologne grain trucks tractors music and much more
Justin Cabral
When my partner and I relocated to Vermont from NYC 32 years ago, we found that we did not always “fit in.” People whose values we shared and with whom we had hoped to be friends, were often cliquish and unwelcoming.
Contrary to stereotypes, it was more often native-born Vermonters who seemed not to judge us by where we came from or how we talked, but would size you up and accept you if you had a good heart and a good character.
The person who did the most to get us connected to the community was a man in his seventies named Heubner Wellman. Heubner was born in Vermont the child of native-born Vermonters, but he said he was not a native Vermonter because he was conceived in Massachusetts.
His parents were Unitarians. Heubner called himself a “negative Pagan.” He explained that he did not buy any religious ideology including agnosticism or atheism, and since you have to be something, he was calling himself a Pagan. But he was a “negative” Pagan because he did not believe in any Pagan pantheon or any particular Pagan doctrines. In all things Heubner was unique.
Heubner faithfully came every week to a regular vigil at G.S. Precision, where a small group of pacifists were protesting the manufacturing of components for first-strike nuclear missiles. But he would stand a few feet from the rest of us explaining that he does not join in groups so he was not part of the vigil: He was just there as “an observer.”
Heubner Wellman was small, and with his long, silky white hair flowing down past his shoulders, and wearing a pointy, red cap, he looked like an elf. At times. Heubner warned people around him not to act in any way which might call attention, because he did not want to stand out, and you could tell that he was not joking.
Heubner put the highest value on friendship. Unlike many activists, who may put political issues first, Heubner would never jeopardize friendship for some political advantage. As a result of his good will, gentleness, and interest in other people, Heubner had friends of all persuasions and in all walks of life, including war contract workers.
Heubner introduced us to a lot of people. He would invite me to walk around town with him. He seemed to know half the people we ran into, and he introduced me to Wally and Emily White, who became genuine friends.
One day, Heubner brought me to Frost Place, where Wally & Emily, with the help of like-minded people, had turned a free-standing garage into a chapel. There was a hand-painted sign on a tree which read: “Jesus Can Change Your Life.” A sign on the mission displayed a graphic of a compass with the words: “Going in Circles? Let Jesus Be Your Compass.”
When I saw all that, I made some argumentative remark about fundamentalist Christianity. Heubner asked me not to be combative, because he said, these folks are good friends of his.
Sadly, Emily is now deceased. She was a very comforting friend. My wife and I had experienced a terrible tragedy which involved an unbelievable betrayal from someone whom we had counted on and who let us down and –such was her shock and denial — she could not talk honestly about it at the time. (Now, after 30+ years, she seems to finally be able to look my wife and me in the eye and talk with some sincerity).
This tragedy involved the death of our first baby after our midwife abandoned us.
How could we go on living? How could we not want to die? There was almost no one in the “alternative” community whom we could talk to, and we realized that quite a few people who have excellent ideas in the abstract can also lack depth when actual human beings need their love. Being able to talk with Emily and to put my agony into prayer, relieved the burden on my heart.
Emily was an incredible listener. I recall a conversation in which she interrupted me for a clarification because I mentioned a detail which seemed different from what I had said 6 months earlier. Wow… I knew she was listening!
Emily would often quote a Biblical phrase applicable to a situation which we were discussing. Unlike people who throw memorized passages at you, the Scriptures which Emily mentioned were always relevant and usually gave comforting wisdom to help understand the situation, and guidance to deal with it. The clarity of Emily’s counseling inspired confidence, just when I needed it. Wally has the gift of powerful, sincere prayer. When Wally prays, Heaven opens up and there is direct communication with the Divine. [This was written prior to Wally’s recent death.]
My encounter with Wally and Emily showed me a different Christ than the rigid icon of fear-based dogma which ranting preachers use to intimidate. When Emily talked about Jesus, I could understand and feel a completely different kind of presence.
Wally and I have had some disagreements but he has been an excellent friend through all these years. When I was hospitalized and barely survived, Wally visited me, and a prayer he offered clarified my understanding of what I was experiencing. And — significantly — when I left the hospital, Wally was the one who took me home.
It was a native born Pagan who introduced me to these “religious fanatics.” Another native born Vermonter, Marion Hooper, whose father, Howard C. Rice, started the Brattleboro Reformer and whose family owned the paper for a half century; also accepted us, gave me employment and an opportunity to participate in a literary project, and introduced me to a great many wonderful people.
Marion was the ultimate democratic person: She came from a notable family, but she was down to earth and treated everyone with impartial respect (or impartial disrespect if they ran afoul of her) regardless of their social standing, origin, or ethnicity.
When I first came to Vermont, I was concerned that if I opened my mouth and sounded like a New Yorker, I would be run out on a rail, or at least get the deep chill. It is difficult to describe exactly what “Vermont values” are, but I think they have to do with putting aside superficial differences, and appreciating authenticity and honesty.
Steven K-Brooks (written in 2016)
This story from my childhood, has been on the back pages since the May 29, 2021 Premier Edition. It is now on the front-page, where more readers will see it.
Soon after we moved from Apt. 2H, Building 27, 550 Ave. Z in Fred Trumps Beach Haven to our cookie-cutter semi-attached house at 46-05 216th Street, in Bayside, Queens, I began to spend time with kids whom my mother said were, “bad Influences.”
Unlike her sister, Fanny, who automatically objected to her son, Allie, having an Italian friend: My mother was not against gentiles. Nonetheless she would rather if I played with Gerson Sable than with Ronnie Pulchowski or — even worse — Pudgy Dutcher.
“Mom, Pudgy is not a bad influence.”
“Yes he is.”
“Why?”
“Whose idea was it to break that kid’s tricycle?” she asked.
“That was an accident!”
“But whose idea was it to take it?” she asked.
“We just took it for a ride. We were going to give it back.”
“With a bent wheel?”
“Mom, that was an accident.”
Ronald and Pudgy had been hot-rodding the trike while it’s 5 year old owner cried helplessly. When it was my turn — bad luck — I ran it full speed into a hidden stump in the overgrown corner lot and the wheel twisted. That night my father received a telephone call and I received a spanking and a stern talk.
“You are going to end up in jail,” he predicted. On other occasions he forecast that I would end up a ditch-digger. As it turned out, as an adult I fulfilled both prognostications. But unlike my father who complained endlessly about his job as an optician: I enjoyed jail, and felt proud of my accomplishments digging ditches.
Pudgy lived in one of the cookie-cutter homes down the street. Ronnie’s house — across from Pudgy’s — was a large, one-of-a kind, big yellow stucco: one of the few homes from before the farmer’s field became a newly-developed neighborhood, 3 years prior.
One Christmas Eve, I stopped by Pulchowski’s house not realizing that it was full of guests. Ronnie’s tall blond sister was almost 30 years old. His mother was plump, gray-haired and elderly. Ronald’s father looked ancient and desiccated. He wore a worn, tweed scally cap, not today’s fashionable variety, but rather the drab emblem of elderly immigrant men. The old man constantly made chewing motions with his toothless mouth.
Only years later did I realize that Ronald “parents” must have been his grandparents, covering for Ronald’s unwed mother.
Ronald opened the door and brought me to the living room, which was filled with relatives mostly orienting toward the long table stacked with eye-catching cold cuts. My family was not religious so I could eat this stuff with a clear conscience, yet the bounty of sausages, salami, liverwurst, and ham still held a salacious appeal for this Jewish boy.
There was a warmth in the room, other than from the steam radiator. Through the large open pocket doors, I saw Ronald’s “sister” talking with a tall guy in a military uniform.
When Ronald’s rotund old mother came near, I felt the comforting warmth. “Steve, how nice to see you!” she said as she reached for a plate and started to fill it with slices of ham, rolled up and skewered with toothpicks. Then she stopped, returned the ham to the serving plate, and on a clean, new plate started to place roast beef. “Your mother would not want you to eat ham? We have lots of roast beef… and cheese!”
Apparently Mrs. Pulchowski did not know about לא תבשל גדי בחלב אמו which according to Dr. Rabbi Zev Farver is “generally translated as ‘do not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.’” [Meaning, don’t mix meat and dairy.]
I had been eying the liverwurst, not to mention the salami and ham. Now thanks to Mrs. Pulchowski’s solicitude, my chances were slipping away.
“Oh, thank you Mrs. Pulschowski, but we are Reform. My mother makes bacon and eggs for breakfast, and sometimes for lunch bacon with melted cheese on English Muffins.” Actually we belonged to a Conservative Synagogue, but I was hoping not to have to explain the nuances of Judaism… it felt particularly awkward at this Christian gathering on Christmas Eve.
For an instant, confusion appeared on Mrs. Pulchowski’s face, quickly giving way to a happy smile. She handed me the plate and told me to help myself to as much of anything I want. As I thanked her, I noticed that in addition to the piles of cold cuts, there was bread of all kinds, potato salad and ‘slaw’; and there were small bowls filled with three kinds of mustard!
Ronald’s father hardly ever said anything, but when he did, I could never understand him. In fact, I never knew whether the wizened old man was speaking Polish or English. Nonetheless, I assumed that Ronald could understand his own dad. Because of a magic trick gone wrong, I realized that even Ronald could not comprehend his father’s speech.
I had taught myself a few magic tricks from library books. One day when Ronald was over my house, I showed him one. The trick involved a dime, a napkin, and a salt-shaker. You divert the audience by telling them that you are going to make the dime disappear, but instead it is the salt-shaker that vanishes.
A few days after I taught Ronald the trick, he told me that he had tried to show it to his father, but he screwed it up. The salt shaker opened and salt went all over the place.
“What did your father say?” I asked.
“He said: ‘Schmoogala!’”
“My specialty is primary homes,” I said, “and I do not normally practice in the sky area, so I would not know prices there like I know the back of my hands, although I do feel competent in my ability to get an accurate reading of the fair market value of a condo in that town, researching recent sales history.” (Of course condos are the closest thing possible to “a cookie-cutters-property,” which does make research easier.)
Then I made sure that they understood that I required an up-front retainer (non-refundable except if they became dissatisfied with my service) and that a Realtor® who regularly works in the ski area, not only would be more familiar with the local market there, but — unlike me — would not ask them for a retainer.
I concluded by suggesting that they might be better off not retaining my services, but in finding someone they like in the ski town.
“No,” said one of them without hesitation, “I like your style!” His partner agreed.
We looked in several condo developments, comparing the selections. In one of those developments, the prices seemed significantly lower than comparable condos in nearby developments. Researching sales history confirmed our impression that these prices were below market.
When a deal looks too good, you have to ask, “why.”
Through conversations with local agents I learned that this condo development had been in litigation for the past few years. A very large amount of money was involved; so the risk of an as-yet uncertain outcome, had driven prices down.
The litigation rumor was easy to confirm, by looking in court records. What turned out to be interesting, is that the lawsuit had just been resolved by an out-of-court settlement, but the resolution of the case was quite recent, and prices had not yet adjusted to the new reality.
My clients ended up owning a lovely condo, at the foot of a ski trail, purchased at a price about 25% below comparable units.
Here is the lesson:
In his book, Never Split The Difference: Negotiating as if your life depended on it, Chris Voss advises: “FIND THE BLACK SWAN.” (There are a lot of youtube videos featuring Chris Voss)
A Black Swan is something unusual, something which the average person may overlook, but which may signal opportunity. In this case, the Black Swan was the litigation, its effect on prices, and most especially the incredibly fortuitous timing. Once we understood and verified the meaning of this Black Swan, my clients could move forward decisively, feeling safe to snatch up the bargain.
Your Black Swan, no doubt, will be different. When the Black Swan does appear, will you notice it? Will you understand its nature, and be ready to act?
Steven K-Brooks is the Principal Broker of Brattleboro Buyer Brokerage Real Estate. He is a former two-term president of the Southeaster Board of Realtors® (now merged with the Southwestern Board as the Southern Board) and 2006 Realtor® of the Year.
