Eighty Years

Thirty-eight years ago, on today’s date,
I first met my husband, and he’s still my mate.
We’ll go out to dinner and surely we’ll toast,
For we’ve been together much longer than most.

But there are some couples who put us to shame
And one in particular’s found some acclaim;
For they have been married, through joy and through tears,
Much longer than anyone else – eighty years!

That’s surely a record and they take the prize.
They both must be loving and patient and wise;
Or else, as the cynic in me might just scoff,
They get through their days with their hearing aids off!

No Mail on Saturdays

There won’t be mail on Saturdays;
The P.O.’s cutting back.
Surprisingly, the news was met
With very little flack.

For fewer things come in the mail;
Most pay their bills online,
Although the mailmen still deliver
Whether rain or shine.

A very distant memory
Within my mind holds sway,
Of postal workers showing up
Two times in just one day.

Perhaps I just imagined that
But it’s not all that strange,
Another fine example of
The ways that things can change.

This new rule won’t affect me, though –
I’ve had a little peek,
And luckily, my birthday’s in
The middle of the week.

I’m sure that in the years to come
They’ll cut the mail again
And so we all should celebrate –
Five days of mail – amen!

Etch-A-Sketch

It would not be such a stretch
To think that every kid
Drew pictures on an Etch-A-Sketch,
Like all my peers once did.

It was a toy that everyone
Possessed in his collection,
For it provided hours of fun
With no need for perfection.

‘Cause if you goofed, with just one shake
The screen went back to blank,
With not a trace of your mistake;
So someone we must thank:

His name was Andre; he was French,
A factory technician.
While using powders and a wrench,
He had an intuition.

He noticed particles that stuck,
By means of static charge,
To decals – what a stroke of luck!
His future was writ large.

It took some years to make the toy
And show it at a fair.
It was a hit and oh, what joy
For children everywhere.

Now Andre Cassagnes is dead
But we owe him our praise,
For Etch-A-Sketch remains a thread
Attached to childhood days.

Eulogies

At funerals, we listen as
The anecdotes are shared.
Some speakers prattle off the cuff
While others are prepared.

The congregation laughs when tales
Embody the deceased.
Those chortles let the tears subside
As tension is released.

As relatives and friends reflect,
Each listener may wonder,
What stories will be told of me
When I’ll be six feet under?

A life that lasted decades
Leaves a void, to some, immense;
Yet just a few examples
And that essence we condense.

The mourners may be left with wisps
Defining the departed,
Such quick-drawn sketches meant to soothe
The not-so-broken-hearted.

Vignettes can only say so much,
Though comfort they provide.
To those who count, there’s much more left
Than words, when someone’s died.

The Worst Super Bowl Party

Many Super Bowls ago,
We went to someone’s house;
I know it isn’t very nice
For guests to go and grouse.

But having been invited by
My husband’s friend from work,
I went expecting lots of fun,
With tasty food a perk.

For Super Sunday, people serve
Huge sandwiches or wings;
But at this party, food was scarce,
With neither of those things.

A table held a bowl of chips,
Some liverwurst and bread.
I think I would prefer to eat
Most anything instead.

If liverwurst was not your thing,
Well, you were out of luck;
And for the hours of Super Bowl,
With hunger you were stuck.

We made it through the night, of course,
But memory’s preserved
That liverwurst, which had to be
The worst food ever served.

Matzoh Ball Soup

Eating in a New York diner?
Here’s a little scoop:
You don’t have to be Jewish
To have matzoh balls in soup.

For in this local area
(New Jersey is included),
When soup is on the menu,
Matzoh ball won’t be excluded.

The chicken broth which forms the base
Should have sufficient salt,
Although complaints most often place
The matzoh balls at fault.

In restaurants, they’re often huge.
Most times, just one’s afloat;
But it should have a fluffiness
To fill you, not to bloat.

Though matzoh balls are served in soup
Each day throughout the year,
The only time I eat them’s when
The holiday* is here.

But like that Levy’s rye ad said,
You needn’t be a Jew
To eat some soup with matzoh balls –
Go on, it’s good for you!

So if you’ve never had a taste,
It’s time to wet your whistle.
I guarantee you’ll love it,
Likely more than just a bissel**!

*Passover   **Yiddish for a little bit

Mayor Koch (12/12/24-2/1/13)

New York’s lost an icon
Who was in your face and brash.
He always spoke his mind and thus,
With many he did clash.

A three-term mayor with a bridge
That’s honored with his name,
His trademark “How’m I doin?”
Vaulted him to fame.

He never lived in Gracie Mansion,
Long a mayor’s goal,
Instead remaining in his village pad,
With rent control.

Koch rarely wore a hat, but once,
While in a winter storm,
His pate, uncharacteristically,
Was covered to be warm.

Reporters teased him and he laughed,
While pointing to his head,
“This schmatte*? Yeah, it was a gift;”
And that was just so Ed.

To many, me included,
He was New York quintessential.
Perhaps his strong appeal
Was rooted in the residential.

I think New Yorkers, all of us,
Will miss old Mayor Koch.
The city won’t be quite the same
Without him on his watch.

*Yiddish for a rag or cheap piece of material