This site is about Father Time and Mother Nature.
They’re old lovers.
It’s about time they hooked up.
No one taught me how to age.
I did it on my own.
With some patience
You can do the same.
When I was a street kid
They called me, Obie
In school, the nuns said, James––
Too many times.
At home, it was always, JIMMY?
Old buddies gone ahead.
At eighty two
I’ve gone full circle
Now, it’s Old OBie.
A piece of life
That opened doors.
Always, someone’s there.
Come on in.
I’m glad to be able to share this web site with you. As my daughter, Missy, would say, I feel blessed. You see, a man and a woman go into the rearing business, and produce life’s most valuable product––life. That’s what Rene, my bride, and I did fifty five years ago. Our products, nurtured and protected, during each of their four seasons, turned out pretty darn good. Now we’re the best of friends. And, yes, they too have had successful business––our beautiful dividends. All six of them. It’s been a journey of bright hills and dark valleys. Here’s my first secret, love can grow stronger with conflict. It’s why the fifty five years. It goes something like this: Wow. I do. Your pregnant? College. Grandkids. 911. I need you.
It wasn’t until after my first 911, that I started writing. A form of self therapy like this web. A sort of spider’s web that caught a lot of stuff I needed to digest. As a result, I got infected by the writing bug. I suffer with it day and night. There’s no cure … thank you. I’ve saved a lot of things in my attic that I’m giving away. A sort of freebee garage sale. Stop by and fill up your trunk. I’ve got some little kid’s things, big kid’s, and loads for us old kids. I’ll post as often as my mind and bones will allow me. Not to be morbid, but what better than a website, a kind of digital tombstone instead of marble. (Don’t have to chisel all these words.)
Your shaking your head? Ok, let me explain. Here’s my first mini story, a true one:
When I was a young union carpenter in Philly, local 1073, I got teamed up with old Saul, age 78. We were an odd pair. Young and old. A wood butcher and an artisan. An Irishman and a Jew. Muscle and brains. At lunch he always liked to tell stories––family, politics, street stuff. Since I liked to hear stories, it made for the perfect partnership. A little ribbing went a long way. I’d say, something like, “I thought all you guys had business. And he’d say, I thought all you guys came out of a bottle, and we’d laugh.” He was well read, genetically gifted, and fervent about the directions of the country at the time. A real liberal during the McCarthy era.
At lunch, on our last day at the job, Saul told me he was building his own casket. That it was almost finished. He laughed, and said he enjoyed cheating the Digger, and went into prideful detail about the whole thing. How he had stained the oak wood, padded the insides with velvet and so on. I mean, he was cheerful about it as if death was just another job to go to. Back then, I thought it was kind of morbid. Now, I think it’s poetic. I could picture him rubbing each grain until they stood out one from the other. Then he’d smile, climb into his length of artwork, lay down in its soft comfort, and close his eyes at peace with the hereafter.
It’s why this website. Thanks, Saul.
A word about our family, Rene and I.
Three kids—Jim, Missy, and Joe.
Six grandkids—Kristina, Keghan, Kelsey, Kalyn, Kamie, and Katie.
Two granddogs: Mitsy and Molly.
We love them all.