From Opalski's Quill

Peace is a beautiful word, quintessential in every respect; meaning is complete contentment but will not tolerate injustice.

Our medical corps in Iraq feel paralyzed to witness an 8 year old girl carry her 4 year old brother too late for a life saying operation due to a truck mishap. Heat reaches 138 degrees ‘F’ and sand storms fill every nook and cranny on everyone and everything. Civilians also take refuge in our feeble hospital facilities; pitiful cases involve children whose innocence implores compassion and peace.  In place of starting a wonderful day, human suffering and horrible circumstances with a smell of fear and death decree the start of an UGLY WORLD. A civilized existence is impossible with our bombs and their scuds shaking the earth as if it were a ragged doll.

Is their God the same as ours or of another divinity?  Ironically, both sides believe God's benevolence is exclusively theirs.  However, we fail to realize this "MESS" is our own design, Not God's. Our cultures are very diverse in all aspects of life, but the word PEACE has the same soothing sound in every culture.  Pax- Pacein- Pokoj- Shalom- ETC.

Peace

Ever since man first appeared on earth, peace never existed. In theory, we dreamed of this euphoria but in reality, IT only remained a dream- nothing more. Too many factors impede existence of this sacred status. An imbalance of wealth is one of the culprits; diverse cultures cut like a knife through butter; and false pride does not admit truth. Religion, a moral stabilizer presents questions and science probing is infinite, never taking time to rest.

Personally, I have no idea what needs to be done or undone; however, maybe, just maybe, a solution can be found- which I doubt. Perhaps, we are destined NEVER to attain lasting PEACE ON EARTH.

Socks

I am a sock named Sam and my brother's name is Jed; we are the same color- black. We assimilate with every color of trousers; we go together like peas in a pod, experiencing same sensations, smelly feet, tight shoes and a cushion for our master's steps.

At times we are separated with socks that are dark gray or blue which makes me uncomfortable. I feel like a lost soul but the next time we are washed, we usually are stored properly- feeling like brothers again. I prefer to be worn on the left foot and Jed prefers the right; occasionally, we are switched, creating a difficult adjustment.  We are never lost in the washer but the dryer is another matter. It seems one of us is lost between cycles or hidden in the crevice of a larger garment.

If either of us has a hole in our toe, we know it is our end unless someone in the household can darn. If no one can repair the damage, we trust the remaining brother will be adopted by another orphan no matter the color.

The Job

 The milk man was exposed seven days a week to every whim of mother nature fighting sleet, deep snow, high winds, and vacillating temperatures from 0 to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Summer weather ideas tolerated but, winter was another matter. Vacating a cozy warm bed at 1 A.M. and be hit with an icy blast of vengeance chilled my blood but the eyes sparkled. More than once I questioned my sanity-why?  Handling frosty cold glass bottles of milk and equally cold empty bottles in bitter weather immobilized my hands. Occasionally, I would count my fingers hoping to reach a total of ten.

Usually, milk was placed near a front door step, allowing the customer reaching distance, without leaving the house.  During an onslaught of sleet, porches were as slippery as a banana on a waxed floor. I hate recall the many, mishaps under these conditions avoiding flying glass and absorbing braises. Some fussy customers demanded delivery on the back porch but at times Johnny forgot to store his bike in a safety zone or the damn dog was not properly chained, causing serious tribulations.

A sense of humor was a paramount requisite with this occupation. One morning in early spring, notes in the returned empty bottles requested extra milk butter, cottage cheese, etc. I must be doing something right, my entire inventory was sold. As I was eating my breakfast the phone was ringing off the hook to pick up the extras. I suddenly realized my competitor was enjoying April 1st more than me.

Bumpers ?

Can you imagine a baseball catcher without a mask, our poor cars are as vulnerable without bumpers. I wonder what happened to car bumpers; designers have deceived us with models appearing to have bumpers but provide no more protection than a bikini bather in the Arctic. Headlights are part of the so called bumper; a bump at 5 miles per hour can cost a small fortune in repairs.

However, I do congratulate the automobile industry for safety belts and air bags; these innovations protect us from harm but protection of the car is neglected.  I feel sorry for the car.

Tough For Seniors

 Stooping:  To retrieve a dropped object off  the floor, requires the body to bend, allowing hands to reach the floor. If the object is flat and small, necessitating a little time to get a handle on the item, we are faced with trouble -deep trouble. A familiar pain hits our back or an imbalance finds us  on the floor next the fallen object. However, as long as we are down on our 'fours', why not scour the area for missing items.

Climbing Stairs: A railing is the first requisite before advancing. I used to climb two steps at a time.  Now, one step at time is an accomplishment. Since my balance and confidence are at low ebb, any assistance is welcomed.

Clipping Toe Nails:   This special nemesis occurs within 4 to 6 weeks. A maneuvering skill is required to position the clipper on the nail rather than a toe. The big toe is relatively easy to reach but extra strength is needed to cut the nail. If my muscles were as tough, I would apply as a line backer in the N.F.L. Very vividly I remember nipping Nos. 3 and 4 in the previous encounter- more patience was mandated.

Initially, I attempted to raise my foot on the lap; hampered with an extended mid-section and a shaky hand this idea was too risky.  I finally decided a commode fits my needs, it's not too high or low creating a solid balance between foot and hand. However, a two minute operation was stretched to ten minutes of apprehension- then success- WHEW?

Communication

I have nothing against progress; particularly, the methods of communication, until my way of  life is disturbed.  Junk mail is very offensive: offering free gifts and money but the rewards are nullified with a paragraph in small print. The requests from charitable organizations multiply each year; 80% of my mail if never delivered would be of no consequence, since it is thrown into a waste basket- besides, a tree could be spared.

Television has 40% ads and 60% substance; even the news programs are sprinkled with an abundance of ads; fortunately we have a remote to mute the commercials. The telephone is the MEANEST form of communication; the climax of a mystery is at hand, I have just began my shower, or I'm enjoying a festive dinner, then a ringing telephone intrudes upon my privacy. I don't have a computer hence I'm not qualified to comment on this venue.

 In conclusion, I think the daily newspaper is the form best suited for information, local and world events are digested within a few pages and I can  choose whatever is of interest to me.

Telephone Communication

When an answering machine acknowledges my call but have to wait until an operator is available, I become skeptical, nervous, impatient and angry. To soothe my nerves, music is incorporated and a voice tells me that I am important.

“Please hold". After two encores of music, I am again told to hold, meanwhile my am is fatigued holding the phone, but I remain important. Then, I’m asked to punch my telephone number, for whatever reason, I do not know.

I don't mind talking to myself but conversing with a smart aleck machine is a blow to my dignity. Finally a voice offers a selection of departments,  one of which I had been trying to contact the past 15 minutes. "Holy Cow”, a real live voice is heard: “Can I help you ?” but in my exasperation, I’ve forgotten why I called in the first place.  I think I will write a letter.

Uncle Frank

Our neighborhood had a good number of heavy drinkers; most were blue collar workers who relished a shot of whiskey with a beer chaser. However, one of the boys 'was literally a sponge, inebriated on a daily schedule. Our "HERO" was known as "UNCLR FRANK"- He had an uncanny sense of timing with my dad's grocery store on Saturday.

The store closed at 9 P.M. and at 9:05 Frank was at the door for his drink and my dad would comply. This ritual became very disturbing; my father was determined to end the ritual. The following Saturday Frank was served VINEGAR in his special glass; he gulped it down, eyes sparkled and he said "Adam it's about time you served me the better booze”.  Needless to say, Saturday night belonged to "UNCLE FRANK".

Pampered Athletes

The salaries of baseball players stagger the imagination and are impossible to rationalize.  In 1932, Babe Ruth commanded $80,000; equivalent to the President’s salary.  When questioned on the validity of his demand, his answer was “How many home runs did the president hit?”  Now, A. Rodrigues’s salary of $25,000,000 exceeds the combined wages of the President, Vice-president, his entire cabinet plus a general or two by a large margin.

After World War II, Williams, DiMaggio, and Musial were paid $100,000 which was considered astronomical; today I believe the minimal pay is close to $200,000.  I’m afraid to learn the salary of the bat boy.  Mr. “A. Rod” earns more in on day ($70,000) than most of earn in 365 days.  If I were his boss I would have him work between innings, selling pop corn and hot dogs.  I envy but do not blame them for their demands; remember, if owners could afford these salaries, they must also pocket a lot of cash.

I can’t imagine that Babe, Splinter, Clipper, Stan the Man, Clamente, Mantle,  Arron, Mays and Robinson would command.