The Luna Park Gazette

I usually don't care for practical jokes, unless, of course, I'm the one pulling the joke. I find what many people call practical jokes are often acts of cruelty and humiliation designed to make someone look bad and feel stupid. The "jokers" who do these things are really looking to do damage, not spread mirth. But if you don't smile and go along with it, you're told that you have no sense of humor. There was one time, though, back when I was a teen-ager that my father and the rest of us pulled a pratical joke on our mother that actually turned out to be fun for the whole family. First, a little background: my brother had a habit of leaving his guitar case in the living room, much to my father's displeasure. He'd tell my brother a thousand times to take that goddamn thing into your room when you're done with it and every time my brother would ignore him. Now my sister had gone to some kind of carnival or church event and wound up winning...

You know for a guy who can't swim, I'm spending an awful lot of time on the water. My latest adventure took place on Saturday, when I went whitewater rafting near Jim Thorpe, Pa. This was also a strange kind of homecoming for me, as I worked as a reporter in the Poconos for five years, oh, God, nearly two decades ago. I kind of proud of myself for even going on the trip because I was seriously considering bagging the thing entirely right up until I got on the bus. I was certain I was going to drown, or I was going to tumble out of the raft and be dashed against the rocks, or be kidnapped by perverted banjo-playing hillbillys. But none of these things actually happened. I'm starting to think that panic for me is similar to opera singer doing scales. Instead of singing "me-me-me," I shriek "we're all gonna die!" And then I calm down and get on with my life. I went on this trip with a singles group that by now has become an extension of my family. Back ...

“ Give her a reward of her labors, and let her works praise her at the city gates .” --Proverbs 31 We found our mother’s wedding dress yesterday. My sister and I are just into our second week of cleaning out the family house and we stumbled across the personal equivalent of the Holy Grail. It was in my sister’s old bedroom, in the pile of boxes, books, clothes, tools, and snow shovels and God alone knows what else my father crammed in there over the years after my sister moved out. I was helping her take some of this stuff out of the room when I saw a large cardboard box that crumbled at the touch. "Marlene's Dress Shoppe" was printed in the middle and the address appeared in the lower right hand corner: 247 Grand Street. I googled the name and street and while I found stores with similar names, the business that made my mother's dress is long gone. I knew it was a wedding dress the second I pulled up the dusty flap, but for some reason I wondered whose d...

I saw this little Hispanic boy on the 6 train the other week and I can't get him out of my mind. He was sitting between his parents and they were playing this game where the mom and dad would lean in on him at the same time and pretend to crush him. Each time they did it, he would laugh so loudly you could hear him throughout the entire car. And then they'd do it again. As I watched this little bit of family entertainment, I had this feeling of sadness. At first I thought it was regret at not having children of my own. But while there is some of that going on, I think the truth is that I envied the kid. My parents are gone and that chapter of my life is long over. But when I saw that little boy, I wanted to be a child again, having fun with my mom and dad. I know the drill: Time marches on. You can't go turn back the clock. Don't live in the past. I've got all that, and you know something? It still hurts. That was quite an emotional day. Earlier in the afternoon, I ...

I thought we'd never get here. Today is the Fourth of July, the official kick-off of summer. It seems like just last week we were all freezing our butts off in what seemed like an endless winter. Now the cold weather is a distant memory. Today Nathan's will hold its annual hotdog eating contest on Coney Island and they have an electronic sign counting down the days to the big event. Back in November my father was being treated at a nursing home just off the boardwalk and I'd always go by Nathan's on my way to the train station. It was dark then--literally and otherwise. I felt so depressed, so unhappy, I thought the warm days of summer would never come. But the time passed and here we are. My father didn't make it, though. He died in January and didn't get to enjoy one last Independence Day. I remember the Fourth being a very big deal when we were kids, almost as big as Christmas. Our block would turn into a war zone as people set off all kinds of fireworks. I c...

My sister was cleaning out her old room the other day when she found copies of a poem we believe had been written by our father, who died in January. There were two copies of the single-page document, mostly likely the last survivors of a stack of photocopies. I had no idea my father had ever written poetry. I recall he had a desire to write, but that was usually in the form of angry letters to newspapers or corporations that had irritated him in some way. This is something different. A veteran of World War II, my father wrote about what it feels like to kill somebody. It's strange to imagine my father writing something like this. He could be a tough customer, so it's a little jarring seeing this more sensitive side. Children have one impression of their parents and are so surprised when they come across something that doesn't fit the profile. I suspect we will find other items as we clear out the house and learn things about our parents that we never knew. We're going ...