Hi, thanks for dropping by my web-sight. My life as I knew it came to a screeching halt with a 911 call I placed while having a massive heart attack back in April of 2001. Loaded with morphine I was placed in an ambulance and shuttled to Kaiser. Much to my dismay, I heard the driver ask how to get to the hospital as he was turning left, the opposite direction from Kaiser. I wanted to have another heart attack but I was already in the process of one. Fortunately, I arrived in one piece and had excellent care from that point. Having months to recuperate at home gave me plenty of time to reminisce about my life. Unable to do anything physical, I ended up sitting in front of the computer writing several vignettes about my life. Before long, it became the size of a small book I titled, "Stony Island." The book starts in Chicago, 1938 when my dad passed away. I was three. My mother was close to thirty and she had a group meeting after the funeral with my seven sisters and myself. She was having several offers from good intentioned friends that were willing to split us up and take us individually into their homes. Mom vowed never to allow this to happen--and we stuck together as a family. The book covers most of my life and into my first marriage when I was twenty. Presently, I am working on a second book that covers the fifties and sixties, titled, "Painted Cave."

STONY ISLAND
(Forward)

      Reflections can kill. The gentle and slow process of aging would be a lot easier if the world was void of mirrors-glass storefronts and highly polished automobiles. And I say, "gentle and slow" with "tongue in cheek" because reality is the fact that it happens overnight. One morning-like most men-I approached the bathroom mirror to shave like I had for the last fifty years and accidentally-focused. My knees buckled as I grabbed the edge of the sink to keep from falling. The sight of an old man reflecting my image was a bit more than I had bargained for. Trying to steady myself I moved in a little closer to my reflection. " I would be a rich man today," I thought "if I had a dime for every woman that told my mother when I was a child-what great long eyelashes I had." And now-with my eyes wide open-I discovered for the first time that my eyelashes had no length at all and have disappeared completely beneath a small roll of fat dropping across the top of my eyelid-but wait-if I begin to close my eyes-well glory to be-I do have some small stubbles I can declare as eyelashes. And what is this? Skin tags are growing on my face-and for what reason other than ugly? And the one time assumption that I have freckles-are actually liver spots! And I'm reminded again-as I stare at myself-that the only two organs on the human body that continue to grow is the nose and the ears.

      While still in shock I begin to lift my right hand a few inches above my head. The static electricity from my palm immediately lifted the dry white fluff attached to the top of my skull-causing it to bounce about and dance. My hair stood up to reach and follow my hand-first to the right and then to the left and even in circles if I cared to-like an invisible force of magic. I played for a moment-then stood at attention. I checked my posture and sucked my gut in until I felt and looked a little better-only to realize that I could not continue the day without breathing and reluctantly exhaled with an explosion and a "puff." My belt disappeared below my waistline like my eyelashes. At this moment I recall how foolish I am beginning to feel now-as my eye vision along with my looks-is slipping away also. Now I lift my foot high above cracks in the sidewalk because I think they are steps-and then I found myself rolling around on the carpet in the center of the Bank of America because I didn't realize the floor dropped-or see the giant step that warned me.

      Now that this chapter of my life had opened its pages I'm beginning to understand why forty miles an hour on the freeway seems fast and the big white arrows in the parking lot at Sears are always pointing the wrong way-and the old men sipping senior coffee at McDonalds-trying to solve the world problems-are beginning to look a lot like me. Consequently-I have made a decision. As long as I can still recall so much of my life from three years of age and forward-I will expose myself on Microsoft Word-these last sixty years of mayhem and joy.

      It has occurred to me that no one has ever taken me seriously or even listened to me with anything less then a constipated look on their face. Even my own two daughters have a hard time taking me to heart. Sometimes I would try to take the upper hand with them when they were toddlers and prove to them that I could be as frightening as their mother was when she disciplined them. Unfortunately-they would only respond with laughter and giggles-topping it off with a hug while commenting- "Daddy-you're so funny!"