Easter Sunday 1958 at 3142 Griffin Avenue

Stories My Father Told Me

     I have been working fewer hours recently.  I am officially retired now, so it's only natural.  However, I found out quickly that I was not temperamentally suited to puttering around the house all day in slippers, nor was it financially prudent to rely exclusively on my Social Security check.  Who can afford that?  Perhaps some of my friends who have done a better as money managers can do it.  I guess my question would be, why would you want to?  I am always asking my customers, "How many Hitler documentaries and cooking shows do you think I can watch before I am ready to strangle my wife"?  The point being, I need to get out of the house every day and go somewhere and do something to feel productive.  I know my time grows more limited every day, so the sense of urgency grows.  One outlet has been to increase my writing and cut back on my work load and historical research.  Since I have been enjoying different types of writing recently, I thought that it would be pragmatic to record for posterity and for my sons, stories that my father told me when I was growing up.  I also been compelled toward doing it because I have been enjoying travelling down that nostalgic highway to the 50's, 60's, and 70's, to a simpler time when the world made at least a little sense.

     This is an announcement, rather than one of those stories.  The practice of writing my memories down also serves to remind me of some of the great lessons I learned when I was growing up.  The stories my father told me are eerily similar to the growing up stories that I told my sons as they were growing up.  You know, the mischief making, juvenile delinquent, socially taboo and getting into trouble stuff, of which no mother would ever approve, but about which a dad loves to reminisce.  Moms are afraid that their sons will emulate and then proceed to imitate those bad boy behaviors.  Valid point.  My bottom line was that I loved my dad and wanted to be just like him.  And my dad, even though basically an introvert, would come out of his shell when he was around people with whom he was comfortable.  As a Yankee transplant from Brooklyn, NY, who grew up fatherless during the Great Depression, so many of his stories had an atmosphere of adventure and daring.  Although, I never experienced that kind of environment growing up, my dad's nostalgic stories always inspired me and were an endless source entertainment and excitement.  Thank God I was inquisitive because it helped me remember so many of them, crucial now that my dad is dead and gone.

     I think the most appropriate story to start with will focus on the 2018 World Series.  My dad was a huge Brooklyn Dodgers fan, and growing up in the 50's I learned to become one too, just like my dad.  Look for a post about Ebbet's Field in the not too distant future.  Needless to say, I am pulling for those traitors who moved from Brooklyn to L.A. because they still call themselves the Dodgers and they still wear the Dodger blue.  As of this writing, they are down 0-2 in the series to the Red Sox, nothing new to Dodger's fans everywhere.  Remember, it was the Dodger's fans who came up with the battle cry, "Wait 'til next year" every time we lost to the dreaded Yankees.  It's looking grim, but it's still a little premature for that battle cry.  At any rate, the stories are going to be coming more frequently now that I have a plan of action.  In the meantime, entertain yourself with other posts from my blog, Return of the Moops, and by this, I mean all four of you who have been enjoying my posts recently.  Tell a friend about them and help my audience grow.  I am hoping to double my reading audience by Christmas.  You can help me improve my writing also by pointing out spelling errors, bad grammar and syntax, as well as typos.  I won't be offended.  I think that I will be able to handle criticism on content as well, if you dare.