The Luna Park Gazette

Many years ago, I applied for a job as an obituary writer for the Chicago Tribune . I was sharing this news with my oldest brother, who was living in California at the time with his wife and daughter. (They have since moved to Colorado.) My niece, Victoria, who was about 8 years old at the time, and, who, of course, was listening to in on the speaker, was appalled at the idea of my potential gig. "Writing about people who died? " she said, leaning heavy on the melodrama. "How tragic! " Writing about people who died, as she put it, may sound morbid, but the obit section is the most-read section of any newspaper. As my editor at the Pocono Record once told me, “Most people only get their names in the newspaper twice in their lives: when they’re born and when they die.” I read the New York Times obit page every day--and not just for the famous names, but I also check out the lesser known individuals. A well-written obituary goes beyond one perso

My dentist was all set to start drilling when he paused inches away from my mouth. “I promised you a little more numbness, didn’t I?” I nodded my head vigorously, yes, you promised me more Novocain, so please don’t go back on your word. He picked up a massive syringe, zapped my gums and went to work moments later, while The Jarmels came over the sound system to say that a little bit of soap will never wash my tears. I will be 66 years old in a few days and all the soap in the world will never wash away those years. I need all the numbness I can get. My dentist and I are in the same age bracket, which explains his SiriusXM channel selection, so as he chipped away at my battered tooth, I got to hear Richard Harris singing about McArthur’s Park melting in the dark, and the Four Seasons telling me to walk like man. Luckily my dentist is a craftsman, and I didn’t feel any pain at all—no Marathon Man cracks, please—but I was uncomfortable as hell as he drilled and drilled.

“I can imagine no heroism greater than motherhood.” —Lance Conrad Back in the Seventies my mother had a parttime job teaching ceramics to learning disabled adults at a local facility. She loved all kinds of arts and crafts and really enjoyed working with these kids. Unfortunately, she butted heads with the buttheads who ran the operation and eventually she had to leave. I forget why the managers had such a problem with my mother’s teaching style, but one thing does stand out even all these years: they were idiots. Okay, obviously, I’m a little prejudiced here as she was my mother and I’m even more sensitive since today is Mother’s Day. It must have really hurt her to lose her class, but she did stay in touch with one of the kids, Willy, and she arranged for him to visit our house once a week to work on various pottery projects. And bear in mind that she wasn’t getting paid for what amounted to private tutoring sessions. Working with Willy was all the payment she needed

“Art is to console those who are broken by life.”—Vincent van Gogh I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I had planned a full day on Saturday that included writing, cleaning, and decluttering my apartment. Anxious to clear up my To Do list, I promised myself that I’d stick around the house and work on my various projects rather than take off with one of my Meetup groups. It was an ambitious plan and I really thought I could pull it off. But the hours went by, the sun came out and I ended up sitting on a bench in Shore Road Park watching three absolutely adorable children chasing after bubbles. In my defense, it was a beautiful day, and these kids were just so darn cute, running around every time one of their parents sent out another wave of bubbles. It didn’t occur to me until later that sitting on a park bench watching children play is a real senior citizen move. And even though I am one, I probably shouldn’t give in to the stereotype. I got such a lift watchin