Derby Week

This year the first Saturday in May is also May 1st. And this year, with Covid-19 lockdowns being lifted to a degree, The Kentucky Derby will be held on its traditional first Saturday in May, and not in September. There is a God.

There must be a dearth of soccer news because the mucky-mucks at the NYT have decided to give Joe Drape an assignment and feature a Derby-themed story and run it on the first page of today's sports section. Joe might even be allowed to go to the Derby, but let's not get too excited yet.

Today's story is about the jockey Kendrick Carmouche, a more than capable jockey on the NYRA circuit who is a fantastic "gate jockey," one who can break a horse out of the gate and take the lead if they want to. I don't know if there are statistics on front-running victories, but Kendrick would be up there with the leader, if not the leader.

I remember a jockey in the late '60s, early '70s who was also considered a great gate jockey, John Ruane. I think he'd ride for Hobeau Farm, Jack Dreyfus's stable whose horses were trained by the great Hall-of-Fame trainer Allen Jerkens. 

Jerkens usually had more sprinters than routers, and with Ruane getting a great jump on the field he established a advantage as soon as the flag was waved. In those days, there was a flagman at the starting gate who waved the flag just as the horses got a little past the gate. This was to indicate that the timing should start. Times were based on a running start. "The flag is up" was always the word that the gates were about to open. I spent many a Saturday at Aqueduct cursing Ruane when I didn't have him.

Joe's story today updates us on Kendrick's origins from the bush tracks in Louisiana, to being a meet-leading rider at Aqueduct. His journeyman father was also a jockey who taught him everything.

Apparently in 1990 Kendrick's father Sylvester pulled a stunt that vaguely sounds familiar. It fittingly cost him his jockey's license.  As Joe tells us:

"On January 11, 1990. a thick fog settled on Delta Downs in Vinton. La. and Sylvester Carmouche could barely see the nose of his horse, let alone the one competing alongside him in the 11th race. Sylvester aboard Landing Officer appeared to win easily.

Perhaps too easily.

Landing Officer , a 23-1 long shot. won by almost 25 lengths and nearly tied the track record for a mile race. Afterward, the track veterinarian noticed that neither horse nor jockey seemed winded or dirty. [This would be called a clue.]

Sylvester Carmouche was accused of slipping Landing Officer out of the race near the start, hiding in the fog until the other horses rounded the track and then charging back into the race, ahead of the pack near the final turn. The Louisiana Racing Commission found him guilty and suspended him for 10 years."

From one of the American Racing Manuals I keep I looked up the configuration of Delta Downs. It is a 6f (¾ mile) "bull ring" track, with a 1 1/16 chute on the grandstand side. Thus, a mile race would start in this chute, lead into the oval, and go once around to complete the mile distance.

Sylvester would have had to enter the starting gate with Landing Officer, leave it in no hurry, and then park himself at the top of this 6f track's stretch, wait for the field to get near enough to him that he thought if he just jumped into the race no one would see him. That's some fog.

Since the starting gate would likely stay in the chute, the crew would not have to move it for the horses to complete their circuit, thus they would have no chance to see Sylvester idling at the top of the stretch waiting to jump in. 

Basically, Sylvester did what Rosie Ruiz did in the 1980 Boston Marathon: start the race, leave the course, ride the subway to get off near the finish line, and then jump into the race and run to the finish line. She was declared the female winner, probably much to her surprise. She probably only really wanted to cut the course, but she was stuck with the consequences of her miscalculation of when to jump in.

Rosie was outed when Bill Rodgers, the male winner, didn't feel Rosie looked enough like a female marathoner. She didn't look tired. A review of the race stripped Rosie of the title eight days later. Rosie never competed again.

There can be thick fog, or even snow, that descends over a race course. I've watched these races and the announcer tries their best, but basically gives up trying to call the race until they have a better visual of the race. The official chart puts SNOW, or FOG at the call points.

Since Mr. Drape's story is about Kendrick, there is no further detail about the father's winner in he fog. Reading one of the news stories after the legal proceedings were completed against Sylvester, it would appear that the stewards disqualified Landing Officer 15 minutes after the race when a jockey complained that Landing Officer didn't really run the full race. Sylvester had done a Rosie.

If that's the case, then there was no payout on Landing Officer, and therefore no one cashed in winning tickets on the horse at 23-1, a payoff in the neighborhood of $48. What would have been a betting coup was a betting dud. Someone would have been really disappointed.

I'd love to read the chart on the race. Every race is charted, giving running positions, leads over the other horses at call points, times, fractions, breeding, ownership, trainer, odds and payouts. There is always a running commentary on how the race took shape, with brief blurbs provided on each horse's effort in the race.

The Keeneland Racing Library has helped me out in the past when I did a posting on Career Lady, a mare who won with Dr. Fager-like imposts in Starter Handicap races at Aqueduct.

How nice it was this morning to open the NYT sports section and not have to read about the troubles in the world of soccer. Hopefully, Joe will be allowed to actually go to Churchill this year, since they are allowing a limited-size crowd there, and file more Derby stories.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Read it in the Paper

By now you should know I consider obituaries and book reviews amongst the greatest journalistic sources for learning things. Consider how you can become très witty at the office, cocktail party, bar-be-que, even at a funeral parlor if the right moment presents itself and you remember you read in the latest book review about Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret the anecdote where Margaret, fairly under the influence of drugs and alcohol one lonely night calls a male she's been pining for who's at a party and tells him she's going to off herself by jumping out of her bedroom window.

The Viscount, Baron, or whomever who receives the call, becomes alarmed and calls Queen Elizabeth on behalf of Princess Margaret's welfare. The Queen in turn informs the caller not to worry one bit, Margaret's bedroom is on the first floor. Can't you see yourself working that one into a conversation about the Royals? You could be a talking head in no time.

A recent book review in the WSJ on 'Rebellion, Rascals and Revenue' by Michael Keen and Joel Slemrod seems to be an unlikely place for you to learn the origin of the term "guinea-pig."

I Tweeted Ben Zimmer who writes a word/expression origin column in the weekend edition of the WSJ like the inestimable William Safire used to do in the Sunday NYT Magazine, that I'd love to see him do an essay on "guinea-pig."  Of course he might, but I'm not waiting around. I'll do my own research, and if he does get around to it, we can compare notes. His will be better, but here goes.

Aside from the literal meaning of guniea-pig, one always associates the term with someone who is volunteering themselves for something that might be a bit experimental, or as yet unproven. You usually read this in the context of someone, or a cohort being the "guniea-pigs" to test say, the Covid vaccine before it gains general approval.

My own thought about that is that medical experiments are carried out on mice or guinea-pigs before trying things out on humans. I don't really know the guinea-pig part to be true, but the mice part is. Guinea pigs are therefore used first to see if things work as they are expected to. Things are tested on them.

The two volume print edition of the OED that I keep in front of me tells us that yes, guinea pigs are used in biological experiments. So what is an explanation of the origin of guniea-pig doing in a book review on taxation? Read on , McDuff.

The OED's third definition gets us a little closer to the book reviewer, Daniel Akst's, opening aside that tells us how guinea-pig fits in with taxation.

A recipient of a fee, esp. [especially] one of a guinea: spec [specifically] a director of a company appointed chiefly because of the prestige of his or her name or title, colloq, [colloquial] E19 [in use starting in the early 19th-century.] 

It is positively amazing what the OED can tell you in print you can barely read.

Mr. Akst  tells us:

In 1795, Britain imposed an annual tax of one guinea on the right to apply fragrant powders to smelly wigs. Since pigtails were common, these taxpayers became guinea-pigs.

Very much aside from giving us a highly entertaining explanation for the term "guinea-pig" we also get a clear indication that the British learned nothing about stupid taxes, even after losing the colonies in the American Revolution. It's amazing the island didn't empty out with everyone moving to Norway.

How the tax authorities in Great Britain enforced or collected this 21 shilling tax (a guinea is 21 shillings. Do your own research on that one.) is completely beyond me. It sounds like collecting a tax for applying aftershave.

As taxation happy as the administration of Mayor Lindsay in NYC was in the '60s, he never imposed a tax on Aqua Velva.

http://www.onofframp.blogpsot.com

Inoculated

I am now a newly minted G.I., someone who has now been two-ply vaccinated with the Pfizer Covid-19 vaccine. For the first time since 1967 when I carried a Selective Service card (draft card) in my wallet, I am now toting another Federally issued card from the CDC in my wallet that identifies me as having completed the two-shot regimen of Covid-19 vaccinations.

The graduation happened yesterday at Aqueduct racetrack, that reliable oval in South Ozone Park Queens where I've spent many Saturday afternoons in my life, but not so many lately. 

The whole process of getting the vaccinations has reminded of a movie production, or Matryoshka dolls, things within things. Like a movie that is produced by several people...in association with...in cooperation with...I received a government sponsored vaccine produced from an private pharmaceutical company (in my case Pfizer) distributed to New York State, administered by National Guardsman at Aqueduct racetrack in cooperation with the New York Racing Association, NYRA. I'm doing fine, thanks for asking.   

This time the racing has shifted to Belmont Park as of Thursday, April 22nd. I emailed Joe Drape of the NYT and implored him to use some journalistic influence on getting patrons admitted to Belmont, and eventually Saratoga.

Joe replied that NYRA is waiting for New York State to issue guidance. New York's governor, Andrew Cuomo is of course seeking cover ever since several women have publicly accused him of inappropriate sexual behavior, seen as harassment, and the state's Attorney General launching an investigation that staff members were asked to work on the governor's book, 'American Crisis: Lessons Learned from the Covid-19 Pandemic' that played a big part in his ego-fueled Covid news conferences and a subsequent Emmy Award. (The award might be recalled.)

A victory lap book issued on October 13, 2020, certainly before Covid is completely in the rear view mirror, can certain be seen as a rush to publish. It's like a pitcher holding a dugout news conference and discussing his no-hitter through seven innings, or a jockey standing up in the irons and doing a fist pump 50 feet before the wire just as another horse passes him. It ain't over till it's over.

The Guv is pre-occupied. Everyone is anxious for some guidance. The Queens Chronicle ran a story online that NYRA was going to allow 20% attendance at Belmont with proof of test negativity or full vaccination starting opening day, April 22nd. Twenty percent of 90,000 capacity would equate to 18,000 patrons, the size of a crowd that Belmont never gets or exceeds except on Belmont Stakes Day. The place is always socially distant. 

The problem with the Queens Chronicle story was it wasn't true, and they had to print a correction. My excitement was dashed. I was ready to assemble the Assembled, since I know all us geezers have been fully vaccinated. We have to wait for Prince Andrew to show up at the office and get some work done.

So yesterday, after my shot I got to spend some moments at track as I took the required 15 minute rest before leaving to make sure I wasn't having any immediate side effects. I got to sit in the front row of the seats that looked out at the track from ground level near the clubhouse turn. If they were running, it would be announced that weather was clear, the track was fast and the turf courses were firm.

I explained to my daughter about the two turf courses at Aqueduct and the restoration of the outer one after the all-weather inner track was abandoned and the main track was made suitable for all seasons. I told her the story of the tarp over the turf courses, a story the very capable ex-jockey turned broadcaster Richard Migliore talked about on the FS1/2 racing show when turf races were once again carded at Aqueduct this year. The Mig is a very competent broadcaster, sharing his knowledge of being jockey for decades on the NYRA circuit.

I'm going to say my daughter loved being at the track and hearing about its history, and mine with it. She took some pictures of me at the entrance to the clubhouse next to the jockey statues with different owners' silks that line the vestibule. I choose a few different jockeys. The one above is me standing next to Michael Dubb's silks. Dubb's stable is a perennial money leader on the circuit. He is also on the Board of Directors.

So Guv, how about it? Just because you missed the 2015 Belmont Triple Crown presentation because of a prison break, and the 2018 one because who knows why, doesn't mean you should forget about the racetrack. After all, doesn't it generate some tax revenue that the state is always in need of?

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

1-2-3-4-5

Like many New Yorkers in these pandemic days, the five friends meet and eat outdoors: Chad, Philip Aries, Flour, Sam and Evening. No, they are not 21st-century followers of Charles Manson, but rather four-legged lawn mowers in the form of sheep brought to Governors Island to help curb unwanted growth and pave the way for further forestation of the 172-acre plot of land that few New Yorkers have ever set foot on.

I had a clear view of Governors Island from my southern-facing window on the 29th floor of One World Trade Center when such a building existed prior to 9/11. I never knew it was 172-acres until I read the story in the WSJ, but I did know when it was used as an Army base and a Coast Guard base it had a 9-hole golf course for the military residents.

As a military installation, it of course didn't really allow the public on the grounds, unlike now where a non-profit private trust is running the place. There are picnics and music festivals there now.

The caption from the above photo doesn't uniquely identify which sheep is which, nor tell us why there is one with a first name and a surname, but there you have it. The sheep are rented from Tivoli Lake Preserve and Farm in Albany for $4,500. Their use is expected to last 4-5 months. The Trust for Governors Island is using the sheep to eat their way through some nasty growth that is fairly inaccessible to modern machinery and in the way of planting 1,200 trees. The sheep eat the common reed and mugwort so close to the earth that the plants do not recover and flower and spread. They go kaput. Natural defoliation. No chemicals needed.

I can remember decades ago there were tickets available for the public to take a ferry ride to the island one Sunday. We got the tickets, but when the date rolled around we couldn't use them. Thus, I have never been on Governors Island.

And using sheep as labor is nothing new. The Sheep Meadow's name in Central Park derives from the era when sheep were set out to graze on the Great Lawn and keep the grass short. Of course, there is the drawback of sheep poop, but in the early days of Central Park, and right though the time Robert Moses was Parks Commissioner, walking on the grass was sort of frowned on.

It wasn't until Mayor John Lindsay's Park's Commissioner Thomas Hoving came on board in the 1960s that Central Park sort of opened its expanses to the public to use more vigorously. Concerts in particular were held in the summer on the Great Lawn in Sheep Meadow. By then, sheep were no longer used to keep the place trim. Good thing. Where you spread a blanket would require some extra care.

Green-Wood Cemetery likewise used sheep to keep the grass down between the tombstones. Green-Wood was a favorite picnic spot, when it opened, even with the sheep chomping on the grass.

The Governors Island sheep are well taken care of. They get the natural diet from the plants they eat, as well as water, grain and hay. They of course leave their gastric system byproduct on the ground, but that is useful fertilizer that doesn't require a purchase order to be filled out.

And then there is this. I'm sure there is human staff that stays on the island to insure care for any number of things.

Imagine being on Governors Island and looking at Manhattan that is less than a mile away, reflecting the sun in daytime and twinkling in nighttime and you're on a 172 bucolic island that's getting more bucolic with every chomp from a quintet of sheep.

And if you have trouble sleeping, there's always counting the real thing that is probably just outside your door. Up to five. Whatta life.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Bernie, Bernie, Bernie

No, the chant is not for the once-upon-a-time Philadelphia Flyer goaltender Bernie Parent. It is for Bernie Sanders, who of course became an even more recognizable figure when the meme for his lookalike on a folding chair at the Inauguration went viral on the Internet.

Bernie lookalikes were everywhere. Riding the NYC subway and sitting on snowy park benches. Everyone loved Bernie, the Brooklyn-born Vermont senator with the thick, gruff New York accent who vied with other candidates for the Democratic nomination for president.

The not-so-large box came in the mail last week addressed to my youngest daughter. Although she's married and has her own place, we still get Susan's mail. Despite being over several times she kept forgetting to take, or open the box. She had forgotten what she ordered.

And she ordered two of them. Pictured above is the one she gave to me, Bernie on a Bench, accurately depicted in yarn how he looked at the Inauguration, right down to the face mask which is made of paper and rings his ears.

The famous brown, white trimmed mittens are there, as well as the brown shoes and green hoodie The bare, bald head is depicted using white yarn and the glasses are a plastic frame.

Everything about the Bernie figure is knitted. The bald skull made from white yarn additionally resembles the anatomy of the brain, the gyri. This is not lost on my speech pathologist daughter since one of her favorite areas of study is the brain. 

I don't know where on the Internet my daughter got the figure, and she didn't remember herself when she finally opened the box yesterday at our house.  

What's the appeal of Bernie in winter clothing? He's everyone's granddad bundled up at the frozen pond watching the grandkids try and ice skate. He's a metaphor for life.

If it's not you who got elected, just try and stay warm.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Bullets Over Bolognese

The above title was a riff on the movie and later Broadway musical "Bullets Over Broadway" run by one of the NYC tabloids following the December 22, 2003 fatal shooting of a 37 year-old mobster, Albert Circelli, a made man in the Lucchese crime family at Rao's who doth protesteth waaay too much at the singing of another patron, a Broadway star who can sing, by a 67 year-old mobster known way too alliteratively as Louis "Louie Lump Lump" Barone, who took extreme offense to the younger mobster's audible, profane displeasure at the acapella singing of "Don't Rain On My Parade" by the singer Rena Stroller who starred in "Les Miserables." There are critics everywhere in this town.

Rao's, for anyone who doesn't know, is an exclusive Italian eatery in East Harlem that is nearly impossible to get a table at. There are only 11 tables and the place is sort of on a time share basis with the city's celebrities, meaning those on either side of the law. Needless to say, the Monday night shooting just days before Christmas had all the trappings of a TV movie, only it wasn't.

The headline came to mind when I read the obituary of the deceased ballerina Mary Ellen Moylan. Ms. Moylan passed away a year ago, but just now came to the attention of the obituary desk at the NYT. She was 94, and was a famous ballerina, perhaps the ballerina in the 1940s and '50s, who was described by George Balanchine as his "first ballerina."

I almost didn't read her obituary. I've never seen a ballet, and really have no interest in it. I love the music to 'The Nutcracker,' but can enjoy it without all the dancing.

I don't know when my disinterest in ballet took place, but it might have been when I was with my mother watching the movie musical  'Oklahoma' and they're dancing around the haystacks and then set them on fire. The fire scared me as a little boy. I liked the rest of the dancing in the movie, but that ballet sequence that I later learned was quite famous for being choreographed by Agnes deMille did nothing for me.

Ms. Moylan's obituary attracted me because of the size, nearly a full page in the print edition, and the five photos. one of which shows the master, George Balanchine, teaching a class with Ms. Moylan in the front.

Her fame was widespread in the 1940s and '50s, as she starred in many productions by Balanchine and danced all over the world to high critical acclaim. Interesting in the obituary was to come across the name Maria Tallchief, another ballerina of the era who became Balanchine's second wife. I just referenced her in my posting about the two front page obituaries of Prince Philip and the rapper DMX. Ms. Tallchief was also on a twin front page obituary with the comedian Jonathan Winters.

Five of the six columns of Ms. Moylan's obituary are almost lyrical themselves. The progression of her career from childhood to adulthood to all the stages in the world reads like a fairy tale. It was most interesting that one of the stages she danced on in a Balanchine production was at Central High School for Needle Trades in Manhattan in 1946. The public school system at the time had numerous vocational high schools scattered cross the city and their auditoriums could seat several hundred.

The sixth column brings Ms. Moylan's life toward its near end, or at least her dancing life, when it slams into the statement that in 1955, after starring in a production at the Metropolitan Opera Ballet, she married a "longtime suitor Robert Stanley Bailes, whom she had met when both were in 'Song of Norway', he as an understudy. She then retired from the stage. They moved to Costa Mesa, Calif. where they bought a hamburger stand." Yup, that's what it said.

BALLET to BURGERS

Costa Mesa is adjacent to Newport Beach, so the retirement surroundings can be imagined to be bucolic. But a hamburger stand? If only they could have found a photo of that. Professional dancers of all types tend to remain thin and lithe later in life, so it must have been something to see this diva serving them up. Talk about being a "hash-slinger at Child's." Ballerina does a ballet behind the counter serving burgers. The Costa Mesa paper must have run a story.

Since she left the stage in 1955, and she was born in 1925, she was only 30 at the time. A lot of living afterward had her married twice more after Robert died in 1962. After her third marriage was annulled she moved back to New York in Pleasant Valley, Dutchess County teaching ballet at Bennett College in Millbrook.

From there she moved back to California, then to Washington State. Despite keeping in touch with Balanchine and her dancing contemporaries, living to 95 meant she outlived them all. It's little wonder that the dance world did not know of her passing on April 28, 2020 until her daughter-in-law, Carol Bailes, got the word out through social media.

In the past I've skipped, or skimmed the obituaries of ballet dancers. No more. You never know what those twirling types might get up to after taking off those shoes.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

The Inevitable Conversation

The above picture is one I love to make reference to. It shows my father on the left with his father in front of the family flower shop that then was at 202 Third Avenue, at 18th Street, southwest corner in NYC. The photo is not dated, but clearly it is from the 1940s considering the sign in the window to BUY WAR BONDS. My guess it's 1942 or so, taken before my father was either drafted or enlisted in the army. Funny, I never knew which, and it's way too late to ask.

I remember that shop. It was the third location the family shop was in, and my father and his three brothers were raised in an apartment above the store, 148 East 18th Street. That was maybe the second or third place they lived in, and the one I remember visiting my grandparents in.

I love to make reference to the photo whenever someone starts to express worry about the world we're leaving to our grandchildren. It's a common sentiment that people start to express when they feel the times we live in and the solutions we're adopting, or not adopting, are going to impair the lives of either the unborn or the current crop of youngsters when they get older. The grandkids. Everyone tells us they're worried about the grandkids.

Obviously, from a still photo I can't tell what my grandfather is thinking. Or what my father is thinking. He's not a father yet. He's not even married yet. My guess is that neither of them are thinking about a future generation that's probably going to keep experiencing war. And has.

My grandfather was born in 1882 and came from Greece in the early 1900s. That I know, he was never in the military, but certainly was around in 1898 when the U.S.S. Maine was blown up in Havana Harbor, Cuba and we entered into a brief war with Spain; was around when War I started; was around when the Turks invaded Greece in the 1920s and likely pissed off people he knew back home; and certainly, at the moment the shutter clicked, was around when the world was at war in the 1930s and 1940s. His entire life was framed by military conflict at that point.

I can't tell what he's thinking. I can't tell what my father's thinking. He's not even my father there. He's the man on right's third son. No one can tell what they're thinking when that shutter clicked, or what they were thinking in the days and weeks before and after the printed photo came back from the drug store.

My grandfather already had grandchildren by the time the photo was taken. My father's oldest brother married young and had two kids by the time we entered WW II. My first cousins, who are now older than I am. They were my grandfather and grandmother's first grandchildren. Were they worried about them? Maybe now and then when they had a cold or the measles, but they sure as hell didn't feel crushed by worrying about them. I remember them, and they never seemed wracked with worry. "Oobla dee, oobla dah, life goes on."

Saturday was the day I went back into Queens, Bayside, and dropped off the taxes with the accountant I've been dealing with, Al, for over 30 years. He's a fellow who I thought was about my age, but in our conversation on Saturday he said something that made me thing he's 82, ten years older than I am.

He's still working and runs his tax office alone these days. He used to have a partner, who I never met, but I suspect passed away. I know next to nothing about Al's family, but assume he's married, or been married, has kids, and likely has grandkids. There are no family photos in the office.

The annual drop-off conversation quickly hits on what you would expect a septuagenarian and an octogenarian in a tax office to discuss in 2021. Taxes, wild government spending and politics. It's a natural.

Al inevitably expresses worry about what we're leaving the grandchildren. The debt. The massive debt that occurs when trillion is the new billion. And we all know a trillion is a thousand billions, right? Ten to the 12th. There isn't a proposal made these days that doesn't have the word "trillion" following it and the dollar sign. Republicans. Democrats. the media. The usual suspects.

Cue the photo. I tell Al about the photo. "Al, I can't tell, but my thinking is my grandfather is not worrying about his current and yet to be born grandkids in that photo." He might be thinking about what's for supper, or he might be thinking about what flowers he has to order from the wholesaler soon, or making an arrangement and a delivery. Worried about the grandkids getting blown to kingdom come? We haven't even dropped the A-bomb by then.

In my 70s now, with my cousins near or over 70 as well, I can report back to my grandfather that we made it. We lived within the context of our times and got as old as he did. Even older. And for my father, in case he ever started to worry about his grandkids, my kids, I can report back that they've done well, are living in the context of their times, both at, or near 40, married with families. And those grandkids are doing well, plowing through Zoom instructions, masks, quarantine, school shootings and "active shooter" drills. Also TV, movies, ice cream and cupcakes. They are living within the context of their times. 

I never framed this question with anyone before talking with Al on Saturday, and I never read it anywhere, but I asked Al, "when would you like to have retroactively died? During the Reagan administration? Clinton? Either George Bush?" Probably not Carter, because you had to hope things were going to get better and you'd like to be around for it.

As soon as we're born, we're part of the next generation and the world as it is.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

Hardly Two of A Kind

They couldn't be more different than if they were the product of fiction. Prince Philip, royal consort and ardent defender of the Crown, and married to Queen Elizabeth for 73 years, passed away at 99. 

DMX, Hip-Hop's preacher of pain in the body of Earl Simmons passed away at 50. Together they shared the front page of this Saturday's NYT in side-by-side obituaries, below the fold.

The last time I can remember there were side-by-side obits on the front page of the NYT was when comedian Jonathan Winters and ballerina Maria Tallchief, were in side-by-side obits on April 12, 2013, below the fold.

Prince Philip was likely the better known of the two, being the Queen of England's husband for 73 years and of course living to just a year short of the century mark.

DMX certainly had his fame with three rap albums in 1998 and 1999 that went platinum several times over. At one point, he was the most famous rapper there was.

Like myself and my own ancestors, Prince Philip is of Greek origins, his uncle was King Constantine of Greece; myself of rural Greek peasants. However, King Constantine was descended from Danish royalty, placed on the Greek throne by other European countries in the 19th century.

Philip was smuggled out of Greece in a fruit crate when the going got tough in the country a year after his birth when the Turks took over Greece.

DMX's origins are of humble origins, the only child of an itinerant and indifferent father, and an often single mother who struggled to raise him and his half sister in a tough Yonkers, NY neighborhood.

Prince Philip, like his wife Queen Elizabeth, shared ancestors who historically could be classified as winners and losers. Philip was the great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria, and Queen Elizabeth is the great-great granddaughter of Queen Victoria.

And both are great-great-great-great-grandchildren of King George III, who famously lost the American colonies to independence  in 1776 and forever relegated Britain to second tier status for not being known for giving the world Coca-Cola. DMX's lineage beyond his parents is not in his obituary.

Both lives had their highs and lows, and you only have to look at he photos and read the captions in the obits to realize how different their lives were. Reading the full texts fills in all the details.  

Should a Black rapper's obit appear on the front page alongside a British Royal? DMX was a Black entertainer who was not known as Prince, but was featured next to one. There are no rules governing this, only editorial choices, which by subsequent editions changes.

Maybe my early edition will count as an inverted Jenny airplane stamp. I'll save the rarity.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

The Front

It was a one word response from the father to the question from his oldest daughter Nancy if the shrubs were going to be cut down and removed if the siding job was green-lighted.

"No," he explained.

You'd have to know the backstory to appreciate the question and the response when it comes to the size of the shrubs in front of our house. They are HUGE. They pretty much hide what I always claim is an ugly house. The house is pretty nice inside, but outside, it is camouflaged.

The shrubs were fairly large 28 years ago when he bought he house. So, imagine what 28 years of growth can do to the appearance. Plus, there a few I planted that have taken off. There are window boxes in the front that have pretty much not seen the light of direct sunlight for 28 years. They go unused, one section discreetly holding an FM radio antenna that is not all that needed.

The hidden appearance of the front of our house is a running joke in the family—and perhaps the neighborhood. I tell my wife the fate of the shrubs rests on who comes back from the funeral parlor first. If it's her, then go ahead, there are some things I'm probably not going to know. The phrase "over my dead body" has some meaning

If I'm first, then the status quo remains until the next set of owners decide what to do. It is unlikely to be any of the kids, but, you never know. Something else that I may not ever get to be aware of.

So, here we are, in need of a new roof and not really in need of siding since the asbestos shingles are in good shape, and might really only need a paint job, which would translate to a fraction of a siding job. Decisions, decisions.

There is no difference of opinion over the roof. It is over 20 years old, patched in places, and would not be missed when replaced. The same red color would be chosen, and the three-dimensional shingles in use today would look really nice. They simulate cedar roofs, no longer seen, but remembered by some. (You've really got to be old and breathing regularly on your own to remember those.)

I'm not in favor of siding, but a good part of the back is already sided due to some renovations, and I will admit it does look good. My wife, who has vacillated from being certain she wants to side the rest of the house, to thinking maybe it's not something septuagenarians need to do, has once again floated back to being emphatic that we should proceed.

Will that mean the removal of the shrubs—even a little bit?

"No," he explained.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

I've Done Something Nearly Just as Good

Reading tributes obits is not for those who are seriously lacking in self-esteem. Tribute obits, particularly those found in major newspapers, detail the lives of the notable who have passed away. Accent on the word notable. They've done things surely few, if any of us have. In short, they've made a difference.

There is no tougher comparison of your life than that to a deceased humanitarian nun. If after reading one of those you can still manage to hold your head at even a light elevation, then your self-esteem is made of granite and you could probably survive solitary confinement for decades.

Take the passing of Sister Janice McLaughlin, 79, who exposed abuse in Africa and was at times imprisoned for her efforts. 

Right from the lede you know you're not going to be reading about the nun you might have had in grammar school who was strict wit you. Sister McLaughlin was imprisoned by the white-majority government in war-torn Rhodesia for exposing atrocities against its Black citizens, then returned to help the new country of Zimbabwe establish an education system, died on March 7 in the motherhouse of the Maryknoll Sisters of St. Dominic, near Ossining, New York.

Right there, read no more, and you can be sure your life is not likely to have stacked up against that of Sister McLaughlin, who seems to have done every humanitarian thing there is to do and still not wind on the short-list for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Katherine Q. Seelye's informative NYT obituary of Sister McLaughlin stretches over six columns and is filled with so many notable efforts that any one of them would have likely earned Sister McLaughlin a tribute obituary.

Read the obit for the details, but absorb the summary that tells us:

"Sister McLaughlin spent nearly 40 years ministering in Africa. She lived much of that time in Zimbabwe, starting in 1977, when the country was known as Rhodesia."

"She helped expose human rights abuses across the country that included the systemic torture of Black people in rural areas, the shooting of innocent civilians, including the clergy."

Two years after being thrown out of the country, she returned and worked from the forests of Mozambique, "where she was able to help refugees and exiles from the war in Rhodesia."

After Rhodesia's white leaders ceded power to Black Zimbabweans in 1980, Sister McLaughlin returned to Harare, the capital, where at the urging of the new president Robert Mugabe she established nine schools for former refugees and war veterans.

After returning to the New York and serving a six-year term as president of Maryknoll and writing books, she returned to Zimbabwe in 2015 and devoted "herself to combating human trafficking, environmental destruction, and H.I.V./AIDS. She left Africa for the last time in 2020."

Compare Sister McLaughlin's life to mine, now in its seventh decade, and it is easy to see why I will never rate a tribute obituary. There is nowhere near enough time left in a natural life expectancy for me to catch up. I have however accomplished the following:

I have gotten up early on occasion without being asked to.

I have loaned some people money and not been repaid and didn't resort to physical means to try and collect.

I have changed diapers (not many).

I managed to get through teen-age puberty where it is reported an average male thinks of sex every 14 seconds and still graduate high school "with merit" and go onto college, where the thoughts seemed not to occur as frequently, but even now can still be measured.

I pay my taxes.

I have remained married after 45 years, even after helping to raise two daughters who are now full-fledged adults with husbands and families of their own.

I helped a blind person cross the street (Once. Maybe twice).

I bring the garbage cans in the same day they are emptied, and occasionally bring in the neighbor's. (More than twice.)

Obviously, I have miles to go before I sleep to catch up to Sister McLaughlin. But then again, if we were all like her, she wouldn't have been so special.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com

The Short Shot

The short shot travelled less than any other thing I've bet on at the race track. Perhaps less than two centimeters into my upper right arm. The bet was of course that the first dose of the Pfizer Covid-19 vaccine would be effective in keeping Covid-19 at the door and prove to be the perfect setup for the second shot three weeks from yesterday.

Because yesterday I went to Aqueduct race track in South Ozone Park Queens, walked out with as much money as I walked in with—pretty much a rare day at the track—having bet no money but still coming out ahead. There aren't many days like that at the track ever.

It all started when my oldest daughter Nancy secured a reservation several weeks ago for me to get my first Covid shot at Aqueduct yesterday at 11:00 a.m. The long-awaited day dawned; the weather was clear, the track was fast and the turf was firm, and the traffic was light on the way to the races.

Once inside I took one look at the place and told the National Guardsman that I loved what they did with the place. They actually got people to go there. The parking lot was somewhat full, there were backsides in the chairs, and everyone was looking at the flat panel TVs or reading the literature that was handed out. The only thing missing was John Imbriale announcing the changes for the day. But it was early. Just wait, if you can.

There would be racing at Aqueduct yesterday, and today, but not Easter Sunday. The porous tarps were  removed from the two turf courses and the grass was Augusta Masters green. At 1:30 the first race was due to go off in front of no patrons other than those who were there connected to racing ownership, riding, training and broadcasting, and those connected to administering Covid-19 shots. It might have been the first time at the races that injections were being given out in the open.

The odd thing about being there was that I wasn't going to stay. I had no set of marked up past performances with me. No program. After waiting 15 minutes to make sure I had no immediate negative reaction to the vaccine, my daughter and I left at 11:15. I told her I'd be watching the racing from Aqueduct later on FS1 or FS2, joining Maggie Wolfendale, Richard Migliore, Andy Serling and Greg Wolfe do a better than decent job at presenting the day's card at Aqueduct, and whatever tracks are in on the simulcasting.

They are a good broadcasting quartet, and even Andy Serling is tolerable when he's showing off his deep memory and not giving you some ridiculous horse to play because the "price is right." Listen to Andy long enough and you realize that no horse has the right price and that whatever odds are on the horse he might like he doesn't like the odds.

Richard Migliore, a former jockey mostly at NYRA tracks, is a fountain of inside information about the game. He is a gem. Discussing the unveiling of the two turf courses yesterday, The Mig informed us that grass grows when the temperature is above 51°. All the homes with all the lawns I ever moved I never knew this.

Maggie gets a little excited over a horse's conformation, looks, weight, muscle mass, blinkers, bridle, hoof size that I can never translate what she's saying into actionable betting advice. I just listen. She's knowledgeable, but I'm in the wrong classroom.

Greg Wolfe ties them all together as the anchor and keeps the divergent personalities polite and not antagonistic toward each other. They are a happy family.

Once home, and absorbing all the opinions, did I make any bets? No. I liked Paris Lights in the featured Distaff, but the straight odds were low, and I didn't know enough to make an informed exacta bet. I let it go.

Paris Lights won a nicely run race from a small, but highly competitive field, but only paid $4.60 to win; 13-10 odds. The price wasn't right for my small wager.

But, a day at the races was successful. I lost no money, picked a winner, and got vaccinated at no cost to myself or my health plan.

I should always be so lucky.

http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com