Daily Dose

Daily Dose
By John R.Greenwood

After a five-month writing drought, it felt good to hit the “Publish” button. The writing hiatus was a result of general neglect and lack of interest. Although I continued contributing to Simply Saratoga Magazine and an occasional piece to the Town of Greenfield Historical Society Newsletter, those events were scant and scattered. My recent writing has been reduced to emails, letters, and Facebook posts. A short face-to-face with my original writing mentor was a kick in the shin. It forced me to revisit my retirement dream of having more time to flex my creative writing.

After a short but important visit to Bedlam Farm (see previous post), I was reminded of the “use it or lose it” phrase related to writing. In the same way, the non-use of a weakened body part can render specific muscles useless, failure to exercise your writing skills can leave you lost and uninspired. That’s precisely where I wandered off to.

Jon Katz, who has spent his life paying bills with the help of a keyboard, suggested I re-engage my writing routine by jotting down and sharing short journal entries much like the post you’re reading here. It’s another toe-dipping way to re-enter the world of sharing via pad and pen(cil).

The posts may not flow like junk mail, they may drip in at a pace more in tune with the weekly supermarket promo, but they will come.

Maybe…

Hopalong Katzidy

Hopalong Katzidy

By John R. Greenwood

Bedlam Farm 

Author Clarence E. Mulford’s 1904 fictional cowboy hero Hopalong Cassidy was rude, dangerous, and rough-talking. My real-life writer hero Hopalong Katzidy is polite and gentle as a lamb. He’s more like the 1940s television version portrayed by actor William Boyd. That Hopalong drank sarsaparilla and never shot first. Cassidy’s one-legged hop was the result of being shot in the leg during a gunfight. My Katzidy’s hop was a scripted attempt to improve his quality of life by removing a disagreeable big toe. 

When I read that my friend and writing mentor, author Jon Katz had made the difficult decision to have the big toe on his left foot amputated, I reached out to him. I knew he would not make a life altering decision without weighing all options and risks. My opinion would not be necessary but my support would be a given. 

A day or two after Jon wrote about his plans publicly, I offered my help on the day of his surgery. My only role was to meet Jon and his wife Maria at his home and assist in getting him out of the car, in the house, and into his overstuffed chair. Rather than a well choreographed ballet-like maneuver our version was more “Weekend At Bernie’s.” Still groggy from the anesthesia our patient was surprisingly giddy and even chatty. As I write this several hours later I’m quite certain the pain and seriousness has now sunk in. 

So why after months of blog silence did I choose my friends traumatic surgery as an impetus to put pen to paper? 

Its like a 5th Grade teacher pointing her finger at a ten-year-old boy and asking the question, “Why would you do that?” 

“Because Jon told me to!” 

My mentor, my nagging writing-group leader, my friend, my hero, my Hopalong Katzidy is a persuasive nudge. He hadn’t been in his big-boy chair more than 30 seconds before he was asking why I wasn’t writing more? Excuses only provoke him to hurl them back at you like a true friend should. Jon smothers excuses like a wet blanket on a trash fire. Jonnie Nine-Toes was not going to allow Johnnie Nine-Fingers to head back to Saratoga County without promising to hit the keyboard when he gets there. 

Jon’s support for my writing began with our Hubbard Hall Writing Group over a decade ago. His influence and that experience will last me a lifetime. As a connoisseur of larger than life characters that have crossed my path, Jon Katz is King of the Hill. 

This piece was written about him, for him with nothing but sincere admiration and respect. I wish him a speedy recovery so we can fulfill our mutual promise to spend an afternoon sitting in the backyard at Bedlam Farm, swapping stories about the good old days when we had all of our pieces and parts. 

This one’s for you Hopalong. 

Peace,

John (with an H) 

Click here to visit Bedlam Farm

Simple?

Simple? 

By John R. Greenwood 

It sounded simple enough. Retire from the daily grind of being a transportation manager and enjoy the easy life. No more sick drivers, broken trucks, or damaged products to cover, fix, or replace. I'd have 24 hours a day to sit at my desk and write. Well, things haven't worked out as planned. Yes, I enjoy life and all the benefits retirement has afforded me, but the easy part was a myth. The one thing I wasn't prepared for was the world deciding to turn upside down. Anger and discord between my fellow citizens have replaced the stress and strain of accident prevention and timely product deliveries. Nothing quells the desire to write about a simple home improvement project or anecdote about a rambunctious grandchild quicker than reading about a crazed lunatic bombing innocent people just for the hell of it.

What I've come to realize over the last three years is that life is only as good as you perceive it to be. You can choose doom and gloom or embrace dry feet and a cool breeze. Letting the daily news soak into your skin is unhealthy and will give you a headache. Mulching maple leaves or changing the oil in my truck have become my new happy places.

I still get up before the sun does. Enjoying that first cup of coffee has remained my favorite chunk of the day. I sip it slowly while watching Youtube videos of "Mustie1" reviving an old Volkswagon Bug, Jimmy "Diresta" forging a bowie knife from a leaf spring, or Jim Baird on an eleven-day adventure running the Bonnet Plume River through the Yukon wilderness. Living vicariously through the lives of others sometimes dampens the excitement of my own self-anointed achievements, like installing a new motion light on the garage. The point is we all have our own ladder-height successes.

The "simple" fact is decisions on what to do and when, what to do and for who, and what to do and how have muddled my once perceived life of leisure into a daily sorting of priorities and head-scratches. Writing has taken a backseat to almost everything in my field of vision. As I write this, my mind is in a dozen different places. I'm trying to decide whether to keep tapping keys or snap close the laptop, throw my jeans on and snatch up that leaf that just floated by the window. Years of living by the hands of a clock are hard to shake. Mrs. G. is struggling with the same dilemma. When you spend your entire adult life with guardrails and wake-up alarms, it's hard to adjust to having choices on which road to take.

I'm not complaining; I'm blessed to have options. Retirement automatically places you in direct contact with people experiencing the same emotions and facing the same weighted concerns. Grandparents subbing as occasional daycare or transportation providers is a common theme, as well as being a qualified volunteer for any number of competing organizations. Choosing who and how often you can avail yourself can be more difficult than sorting through sixty years of memorabilia trying to decide what to keep and what to send packing.

One activity has brought my wife and me some unexpected satisfaction after retiring. We both purchased Ancestry subscriptions and immediately began researching our family histories. We've found ourselves spending a lot of time in cemeteries. Because we've remained within a six-mile radius of where we were both born and raised, we are fortunate to have most of our previous generations interred close by. Along with locating the sites of long-forgotten relatives, we began the process of cleaning, restoring, and maintaining the gravestones of several of them. This pastime led us to dozens of unexpected discoveries within both families. It also became a therapeutic and rewarding way to honor our past. We follow the National Cemetery Administration protocol for cleaning government-furnished headstones and markers. You'd think spending time in cemeteries as you enter your AARP years would be unhealthy or depressing, but it has morphed into the opposite. Along with paying homage to family and friends no longer with us, it helps strengthen your appreciation for being alive to do it. The calm and quiet are just an added bonus.

I think it's time to end this long overdue post and go snatch up those few leaves that fell during the days it took to finish it. The temperature has dropped, and Thanksgiving is fast approaching. Soon the roar of snowblowers will replace the whining of leaf blowers, and there will be more time for writing.

Then again...

Before 

After 

Gifting Art

Gifting Art 

By John R. Greenwood 

Art savoring his gift, brings a wide smile to the artist 

In my last post, I wrote about a painting I received as a gift from artist Chris Leske. It was a painting of my past life delivering dairy products in the city of Saratoga Springs. It was a ten-year span that made me rich. Not monetarily rich, but rich in the friends, stories, and experiences I amassed in the decade of the 80s. I now enjoy looking at that painting every day and seeing those years through a beautiful 8x10 window. 

That gift was doubled today when I witnessed another friend receive his own painting from Chris. Along with my milk deliveries, Chris had equally fond memories of a coffee truck that pulled up in front of the Manle Auto Parts store every weekday morning. Manle's (now Scallions) was located on the corner next to The Parting Glass, where Chris worked. Art Bullet and his red truck with the stainless cap would circle the city, stopping wherever a group of workers could be found. Manle Auto Parts was locally owned and predated all the auto part chains of today. It was a daily ritual to see a large group gathered around Art's truck, getting their morning coffee and donuts. Chris recently captured that image in a beautiful watercolor painting. From the minute he rediscovered Art via Facebook, he had a vision of that truck parked on the corner.

You got more than something to eat and drink when Art showed up. He was a stand-up act that came right to your door Monday through Friday. In a pre-politically correct era, you were sure to be entertained by the coffee-truck comedian with a devilish grin and a dirty joke or three. It was his signature and his success. You didn't have to be hungry to look forward to hearing that unmistakable horn coming up Lake Avenue. You'd show up for the raucous laughter surrounding the truck for the next ten minutes. With money to make, a schedule to keep, and another twenty stops to get to, Art would pull down the hinged sides and take off down the road. 

Art bought dairy products from me throughout those ten years, so I was speechless when Chris showed me the painting he'd done of the coffee truck. When he said he wanted to surprise Art with it, I knew I had to be there.  

We all texted back and forth about getting together for some laughs and a cup of coffee. It took a week to coordinate a time and place to meet. We decided on a nearby Stewart's. Chris and I rode together while Art showed up on time as expected. Within minutes laughs were flying out of the corner booth like fireworks. There were almost forty years between those laughs, but they hadn't changed one iota. What followed was a three-way ping-pong of stories, jokes, and do-you-remembers. We roared when someone mentioned we'd become those same old men we used to kid about sitting in the Stewart's booth for hours.

Eventually, we ran out of steam, and Chris pulled out the painting. He'd posted a photo of the artwork on Facebook previously, so Art had seen it, but he had no idea he was about to be its owner. When Chris handed it to him, he froze like I did the week before. You could see those 80s running through his head like a runaway train. The three of us sat there in silence, soaking up the moment. The picture of the three of us wouldn't have made a great cover for a Hallmark Card, but the emotions associated with it could have sold millions. 

This piece attempted to put into words the impact an act of kindness can have on someone. It was a gesture that couldn't be measured with any machine or gauge. It was an act straight from a generous heart brought to life with a paintbrush and fond memories. A perfect example of life being better through the gift of "Art."

Art's Coffee Truck 

Caught Off Guard

Caught Off Guard 

By John R. Greenwood 

“Hey Johnny, I got something I want you to have.” 

That was the text message I received on a random Tuesday afternoon. It was from my friend Chris Leske. 

Minutes later, we sit down for a quick cup of coffee in the maroon booth at the corner Stewart’s. Chris and I had been collaborating on a magazine article that would be a snapshot of his life as a musician, cook, and artist. It came out days earlier in the Simply Saratoga Spring 2022 Edition. I wanted others to see what makes Chris and his story worth reviving and sharing. Read it, and you’ll better understand the connection we shared and the time lapse between then and now. 

With two fresh coffees and another ten minutes of story swapping, neither of us could wait another minute. I’d been staring at the parcel wrapped in brown paper lying on the table between us. I’m far from Sherlock Holmes, I’m more of a Get Smart tripping on the clues type, but even I knew the package in front of me was a painting. 

“Well, go ahead, open it!” 

As I peeled off the masking tape and pulled back the paper, I had the same look as Ralphie Parker opening his Red Ryder carbine-action, 200-shot, range model, air rifle with a compass in the stock. 

“Wow” 

I was overwhelmed and speechless. 

I was looking at ten years of my life rolled into one not-so-simple watercolor, all of it passing before my eyes like a Rolodex of scenes. Instantly, I envisioned those early morning milk deliveries to Lou’s/Comptons, Shirley’s, and the Spa City Diner; the long dark hall leading into the cellar of Lillians, and the steep decrepit stairs under the Tin & Lint; my Friday afternoon finale at the Parting Glass, Madame Jumel’s, Hatties, Mother Goldsmith, and Caffe Lena. It was a flood of warmth and nostalgia, a flash of joy, and a tinge of regret that it didn’t last longer. 

This was more than the gift of a painting; it was an artist’s look into my heart and soul. Our conversations and recollections over the last few months had manifested themselves into Chris's paintbrush and creative eye. It was his way of thanking me for my writing, while all I wanted was to convey how grateful I was for him opening up his artistic mind to me. 

For me and many, these are the snippets of life that make the dark days worth muscling through. It can be hard to wrestle away the negatives, but when that sun comes out, boy it feels good. It takes a unique eye to decipher the needs of others and then place them on a piece of canvas or in a musical note, and many of the people in my life have that skill-set. 

Banjo Man Chris “Lee” Leske is one of them, and I want to thank him for the gift that will keep on giving. 

My "Clem" painted Price's Dairy truck loading at the
dock of the now extinct Saratoga Dairy on Excelsior Ave. 

Photo is from Bill Barton's 
Facts and Tidbits of Saratoga's Dairy Industry From 
Early 1800's To 1988 

_________________________

The Painting  

By John R. Greenwood 

colors are secondary 

to the story shared

the gift, a painting 

wrapped in brown paper

years stacked neatly 

in a old red milk crate 

revived in an instant

the hours, the work, the friends

an artist’s gratitude 

overwhelms the receiver

memories framed and hung 

in reverence