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I remember when I was a third grade student at Berkeley School in Bloomfield, New Jersey, our teacher, Mrs. Megibow, asked us to write down on a sheet of lined paper our favorite season of the year. I wrote down “Spring” because I had always enjoyed (and still do enjoy) the return of warmth after Winter, and it was the beginning of the winding down of the school year.

However, when Mrs. Megibow asked us to raise our hands for our favorite season when she said the name, equal amounts of hands were raised for Summer and Winter, none ascended for Fall, and when she said, “How about Spring?” my arm stayed glued to my side. I didn’t want any classmate to think I was “wussy” enough to like a season where flowers bud anew, new fragrances fill the air, and love often finds a way into your heart — again.

Funny it is how things change when we get older. Now I’m not ashamed to say I long for the escape from winter, quiet of nature (in any season, really), a garden with nothing but flowers and green grass.

In fact, the other day, during a writing workshop at the Bloomfield Public Library, moderator Quinita Good asked us to write for 10 minutes on our favorite spot. I selected the quiet of a sand dune and, although the following is a first draft, I think it conveys my feelings perfectly:

I like quiet.

I like dead branches, maybe a little growth on them.

I always seek to go where others won’t.

I could stare at and listen to waves, could allow my sneakers to sink into sand. But instead, I walk the back bay dune trails, where monarchs flutter and land, bumblebees feed on parts of flowers, where my footing is more sturdy, my path a series of my body going up and down according to dune elevation.

You see, I enjoy freedom. The freedom of seeing a mouse scurrying, a bird jumping from bush to bush, weeds — some burnt by sun and age — side by side with cactus and prickly pear.

I love it in sunshine, snowstorms and rainfall. I love knowing that it’s in my “backyard” and it can never be taken from me.

It’s my freedom.

I think it’s the combination of beauty as well as the serene and silence that “grabs” me and encourages me to do it more often. For example, a Monday back injury has forced me this week to curtail somewhat my normally strenuous workout regimen. This being said, yesterdays planned cardio workout instead became a 20-minute stroll, where I made sure to see sights on my journey, taking in nature’s beauty.

When my now 21-year-old daughter Stefanie was growing up, many of our day trips were spent visiting nature spots, and my wife Lucille and I always seemed to notice the little flower or tiny bud “over  there” while our daughter ran around.

And many of these trips were taken as spring sprung once again.

So Mrs. Megibow, wherever you are, we need to talk. I kinda fibbed 41 years ago. Spring truly is my favorite time of the year.

Steve

Last summer, when I was covering the reopening of a popular local eatery, long time customers were invited to the ribbon-cutting ceremony. The new owners introduced me to one of these customers and his elderly mom, who pointed to my wedding band.

“Oh,” she said, “you have your (wedding) band on.”

“Yes, I wear it all day long except when I go to bed,” I returned.

She looked at me seriously. “My husband used to wear his to bed, too.”

Every night since that interview, I think of that tiny woman when I take my band off and place it on my end table, often considering if I should adopt a decree to wear mine to bed as well. I’d “become” my father, who wore his wedding band to bed every night because it was stuck — that’s right, it was so tight he could never remove it — on his finger.

Last night, I decided to keep my wedding band on as I turned in, and I kept it on the entire evening. And then, this morning, as I woke up late at 8:30 a.m. and put on my workout clothes, I was oblivious to the band’s presence on my left hand.

I then, through tired eyes, completed my lower body workout and, as I sat down with a glass of chocolate protein and prepared to map out my cardio regimen for tomorrow, I saw the band on my hand. It had survived my strength training workout, and I had done likewise with it on my finger.

A friend of mine tells me his parents have been married over 60 years and, when they were planning to marry, his father felt bad because he couldn’t afford a ring for his soon-to-be-wife. She told him, “I don’t need a ring. I know how much you love me. You don’t need a ring to prove it.”

Perhaps I should have asked my friend if and when the husband ever got his wife a ring, but I didn’t. But it kind of harkens to something: my ring.  When my wife and I were dating, we didn’t have a lot of money, so I can tell you the gold on my finger was barely affordable. And the same applies to my wife’s ring.

I’m thinking now, after wearing it to bed last night and during my workout today as well, that my wedding band and I should be inseparable. Well, honestly, we are inseparable, but what I mean is the ring should always be on my finger. I used to every day wear a gold bracelet with “Steve” etched into it, but I’ve since stopped wearing it regularly, hoping my character and demeanor defines me more than any jewelry.

But my wedding band is different — very different. It defines a pledge of love I made almost 25 years.

Steve

Whenever I feel depressed and downtrodden, overwhelmed with my writing business or other aspects of life, I seek out simple things that, hopefully, will ease the stress and instead brighten at least a portion of my day.

One of my favorite things to do is to seek silence, and no place is better for this than an empty church. When I was a 23-year computer operator, my lunch time ritual was to head to Saint Thomas More Roman Catholic Church in Fairfield, New Jersey, eat my lunch in the car, and then head in and sit in any empty pew (and they were all empty), and just relax. I didn’t think about what I was heading back to — my job — but instead lived in the moment, the moment sometimes being 10 – 20 minutes, and being serene and still.

Yesterday, as part of Good Friday observances, my wife Lucille and I attended a special service called “The Seven Last Words,” a presentation by our Holy Family Parish in Nutley, New Jersey Pastor, Msgr. Paul Bochicchio, and parish priests Fr. John Gordon and Fr. Mauro Primavera, and Deacon Ryan Tabale. Each gave his reflection of Jesus’ last words as he hung on the cross. In his welcome, Msgr. Paul addressed the sparse crowd by saving, “You’ve come to this quiet church…”

His words were a hammer, their meaning the nail. We sat for 1 hour and 45 minutes and, in between each word as hymns were sung, I read from my bible passages which I have highlighted through the years.

Through it all, I felt a peace around me and inside of me. No bills in front of me, no computer on with email to answer…need I continue? And maybe God and faith aren’t “simple” things. However, sometimes just sitting, listening, reading are so necessary.

Another thing I do when seeking an escape is find nature, even in its simplest (there’s that word again) forms. Consider this. When we head to the beach, I don’t swim like I used to. I might walk along where the waves crash and let the surf soak my feet as they sink in the sand, but that isn’t the biggest thrill for me. I instead am fascinated by the grasses which are sticking out of the dunes, and I wonder about their depth, and how they got there. I’ll often take nature walks, enjoying the sight of prickly pear and cactus.

For me, inspiration is also nearby. In fact, it reigns in my (and most likely any) backyard. A few weeks back, when spring officially began (come to think of it, it began in December — where did New Jersey’s winter go to?), I was out in our backyard with our 16-year-old dachshund Jeffrey and noticed, under a bush in the side of the yard, the signs of beauty and rebirth. I headed back down from whence I came, my basement office, and grabbed my camera, then did my best to do the scene justice:

Not being a horticulturist or plant expert, I have no idea the name of the flower or weed, but it rose out of the dry earth with fall’s dead leaves nearby. The contrast of color, and old death and new life, in the photo I love.

This photo wasn’t easy to take. On the ground and on my chest, my elbows felt the cold earth, but it certainly was different, and worth it.

I often find it sad that we have to be on the move, constantly, to feel like we are validating our existence. More like, “The more I do and get done, the better I am.” I don’t argue with progress and accomplishment; we shouldn’t live our lives (I don’t think) in a comfort zone.

But shouldn’t we also set aside time for the things we often take for granted?

Happy Easter!

Steve

I have for some time now considered gearing my both my Wednesday and Saturday blog toward topics family-related and spiritual.

This change will occur the week of April 16, 2012.

While I’ll still remain loyal to the dining and restaurant and business writing I do outside the blog, my relationship with my wife and daughter, and my relationship with God, have grown significantly in love, and that is what is most important in my life right now.

Therefore, my Wednesday blog will be more like the “Saturday Thoughts” entries that I’ve enjoyed writing and many have enjoyed reading. I’ve not yet selected a name for the new blog.

I’m no expert in parenting, spirituality, or life. What I seek to do is write from my heart and, perhaps, some of my feelings and thoughts you can and may relate to.

There is nothing better than digging deep inside and letting your true self come out.

Steve

This past week, my daughter started working her first restaurant job. She is a server at Taqueira Autentica (1035 Broad Street, Bloomfield, 973-320-4157, www.taqueiraautentica.com) and, after a rough first night, had a better second one and seems to be enjoying it…thus far.

You know, when I graduated high school back in 1980, I started my first job as a restaurant dishwasher. Ironically enough, the eatery was located just doors from where Stefanie works now. I eventually graduated to “Dishwasher Supervisor” (and gave myself weekends off — hah hah) and food prep and line cook before I gladly tossed aside the apron in disgust and instead went to work as a file clerk at an insurance company.

I mention all of this because this is the second time Stef’s career paths have resembled mine. She is also a freelance writer like me, has contributed to local Patch sites and writes her own blog as well (http://onestefatatime.blogspot.com), and has reviewed both theater and dining. Many times she and I have sat down and discussed “our field,” its perils and possibilities, its fun and frustration.

And now we are doing the same with her restaurant job, me reliving the “horrors” of my culinary past, she (and I) thanking God that she is NOT working at a busy pancake house like I had, but a smaller albeit still busy but enjoyable Mexican restaurant.

When I retuned home after dropping Stef on her first night, I went upstairs and found my wife, Lucille, crying in her bedroom. I sat down on my daughter’s bed and asked Lu what was up.

“I don’t know,” she said through tears. “I just feel so sad. I just remember when she was a baby…and now she’s almost out of college.”

At that moment, I recalled how, when my daughter was about 1, when I’d lean into her crib, and she’d pull on my beard. And then I thought of how I always played with her when she was a child (*Note to new and not-so-new parents: NOW is the time to spend time with your children. DON’T wait until it is too late) and felt like crying a bit, too, but for some reason I didn’t. “Yeah, sometimes I wish she were back in the crib, too.”

We both looked around her room. There was a cute figurine I had given her when she was about 10, a gold commemorative coin from Washington Irving’s Sunnyside, Beanie Babies, books on various topics, her last gift from my late mother-in-law (a pink teddy bear named, appropriately, Pinky), and so much more.

But most of all in that room were two parents who had watched time fly by and, looking at it in its entirety, hadn’t missed anything while she was growing up. We felt sad, as if we had missed something, but we hadn’t. School plays and Masses, “Special Persons Day” at school, library story hours, playwriting workshops — everything. We were there for it all. Heck, we’ve even driven to the Montclair State University campus and had coffee with her.

When I was 18 and starting the restaurant job, I had no idea really what life had in store for me. And here I am 32 years later, and a majority of my life has “happened.”

Following her second evening, Stefanie entered the car when I went to pick her up and said, “Well, it went better tonight.” She was silent for a second, and then said, “Maybe you and Mom can come for dinner when I’m there one night.”

Maybe?

Steve

This past Thursday evening, about an hour into the 25th anniversary Phantom of the Opera DVD, I stood in the living room of 86-year-old Fred Branch, unofficial Bloomfield, New Jersey historian, and said, “Sorry Fred, I have to go.”

“Oh you do?”

“Yes. I guess we’re about halfway through? We’ll look at the next half next Thursday?”

He grinned. “Oh Steve, it’s not close to being halfway. There’s much more to go.” And he then went on to describe some of the remainder of the famed Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.

Fred Branch and I have known each other for years, since I was a 16-year-old book lover and visited the Bloomfield Public Library every day, where he was an arts specialist. We kept in touch on and off through those years, especially after my 1996 heart attack when I sought more placid music to soothe my soul. Shortly thereafter, Fred, who was then working at the Newark Museum, offered to further educate me about the “new” type of music I was listening to.

For a while, we met at his home and listened to a variety of older music forms — classical, yes, but also opera and some musicals — and then something interrupted our get-togethers.

Last January, when on assignment for Bloomfield Patch to write about an  event (http://bloomfield.patch.com/articles/take-a-trip-to-bloomfields-past, I saw Fred for the first time in a while, and we chatted for a few minutes.

“Hey, Fred, remember when we used to meet and listen to music. Maybe we should do that again.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” he responded.

And we have, getting together in Fred’s older home — little statues of famous composers in various spots in the living room, books, CDS and DVDs abounding –  for about 1 1/2 hours a week unless poor health and schedule conflict prevent it. When you write and market all week like I do, you need the reprieve, no matter how brief. So far, we’ve listened and\or viewed Wagner’s The Valkyrie, Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony, some Bach and Brahms and more.

And this past Thursday, it was Phantom.

“Hey Fred,” I said to him on the phone in the a.m., “what are we listening to tonight?”

He laughed a bit. “I really have nothing planned. Wait a minute — would you like something with some nice music?”

“Sure.”

“I just got in the mail the 25th anniversary Phantom of the Opera DVD. Would you like to listen to and watch that?”

“Sure.”

“Great! I’ve already watched it once. I’d love to see it again.”

Okay, I have to admit something. To a major extent, I have NO idea what this musical, play, whatever it is, is about. But I love the music, the look of love in Christina’s eyes, the beautiful voices. I guess I’m a romantic at heart.

As I was leaving, I said, “Thanks Fred. That was beautiful.”

“Did you really like it?”

“I loved it.”

And I did. Yeah, I’m a romantic. What can I say?

Steve

If there were some sort of career for a “freelance reader” instead of a “freelance writer,” I’d by far be on my way to my goal earnings for 2012.

I’ve always enjoyed reading, and that in turn means that I’ve a love affair with bookstores and libraries. In fact, as many well know, I even have an always-blossoming basement library in my home.

The first shelf in my basement library -- the Biography section

I soon hope to add to my collection, as my daughter Stefanie — she who may have even more books than me — may be generously donating some of her books to me. Also, if I’m visting a thrift shop, I’ll ignore the inexpensive trinkets and clothing, and instead sniff out the tiny shelf area where random titles are kept, hoping to find a gem.

And my reading habits (I guess) may be kind of weird. Rarely will I read just one book at a time, opting instead to ”dive into” two (or, like right now, three) simultaneously, and maybe even a magazine.

Consider the following. In addition to the current issue of The New Yorker, where I’m enjoying Donald Antrim’s “Ever Since” fiction piece, my “nose is in” the following:

– Believe You Can: The Power Of a Positive Attitude” by spiritual and motivational writer, John Mason. I can never get enough of this type of literature, and this paperback (and Mason) delivers. For just $6.00, it’s a trove of wisdom.

– Days With Bernard Shaw (Stephen Winsten) I purchased last May at a local school book sale for only $1.00. That weekend, I bought a number of great books:

The book I refer to is at the top of the pile pictured above. The book deals with Shaw as a neighbor to the author and his wife, and their many discussions. Written during World War II, conversation centers around battles, literature, as well as many other subjects.

– Plants of the Bible is just 71 pages. Written by A.W. Anderson, it details (of course) the many flowers, fruits, plants and vines growing today that had their origin well over 2,000 years ago. In a way, this book is my “small break” reading from my other books; my switch when I just want a wee bit of info.

I said to my wife Lucille last night, “You know, starting tonight, I just want to read — read — all weekend.” And last night, crazy as it may sound, I did read…all four of the previously mentioned. It filled my Friday evening, coaxed me to shuteye.

And with taxes to do and other things to update business-wise, I can’t entirely embrace my reading today. But do know that this afternoon and evening, and tomorrow, my current literature lineup will be a prime activity.

Steve