The Magic of Madam Marie's

Show a little faith, there's magic in the night... (found in New Jersey).

Last night a palm reader divined my daughter’s profession, very specifically and seemingly by #magic, upon meeting her. Then she foretold an encouraging future. When I told my wife that we had been to #madammarie, she said that’s the name of a character from a favorite childhood TV movie based on “Madeline's Christmas” by Ludwig Bemelmans. I said, “No, this is Bruce Springsteen’s Madam Marie” — when he sang to Sandy, “Did you hear the cops finally busted Madam Marie for telling fortunes better than they do?” Madam Marie died in 2008 at age 93, and her family continues to give readings from the same booth on the #AsburyPark #boardwalk. On his website, #Springsteen once wrote,“Back in the day, I'd often stop and talk to Madam Marie as she sat on her folding chair outside the Temple of Knowledge. I watched as she led the day trippers into the small back room where she would unlock a few of the mysteries of their future. She always told me mine looked pretty good — she was right. The world has lost enough #mystery as it is — we need our #fortunetellers." Thank you to the spirit of Madam Marie. What great kindness you showed to my daughter. I can never repay you for unlocking a few mysteries of her bright future and for restoring some magic to our lives.

A photo posted by Bob Varettoni (@bvarnj) on Aug 28, 2016 at 10:37am PDT

For Dorothy

Another Thursday, another throwback reposted from another social media site.

This time it's a poem inspired by listening to a little-known Don McClean song in my Pangborn Hall dorm room. ("Magdalene Lane," with the lyric, "MGM Studios can't make the nut, they're auctioning Dorothy's shoes...")

It was, by far, the easiest poetry assignment I ever completed, taking all of 10 minutes to write and type out... fully formed, without any edits... a welcome change from all the other assignments I struggled with. Perhaps it was the perfectly formed outlet for a bout of homesickness.

Whatever. I even submitted it to The Juggler, Notre Dame's literary journal, but it was never published.

Until now.

77 years ago today The #WizardofOz was pre-released at the Cape Cinema in Dennis. About 40 years later I wrote this #poem for Sonia Genres' #Poetry #Writing class at Notre Dame. I found the original last week, For #Dorothy...

A photo posted by Bob Varettoni (@bvarnj) on Aug 11, 2016 at 10:52am PDT

Olympic Throwback

Where Have You Gone, Horace Clarke?

barrycode.com reports not a single HOF vote for Horace Clarke.

The only sin modern society does not forgive is mediocrity.

Yet – as we grow more connected on the internet, learning more about each other collectively and appreciating how much we don’t know individually – it seems there’s a wide range to the norm… accomplishment is often illusory and its context is never fully understood.

Put it this way: Hardly anyone’s more special than anyone else.

I was thinking about this today, while Mike Piazza and Ken Griffey Jr. were being inducted into baseball’s Hall of Fame. I was thinking of my boyhood New York Yankee heroes after the end of the Mickey Mantle era, when one of my favorite players was Horace Clarke.

Years ago I might have written a nostalgic piece titled, “Where Have You Gone, Horace Clarke?” But, these days, it’s pretty easy to find out that he’s alive and well, having lived a full life, and that he has been popularly vilified as the very definition of baseball mediocrity – even including comments in a recent book (see my review below) by his former teammate Fritz Peterson.

Peterson was a career .500 pitcher known for throwing a variety of legal and illegal pitches. He shouldn’t be one to throw stones at teammates, however, since I remember him as a literal control-freak, giving up more than his share of 0-2 home runs. I also remember Horace one year hitting .285 and coming to bat one night with the bases loaded, two out and the Yankees losing by a run in the ninth.

Horace worked the count to 3-1 that night. The opposing pitcher slipped delivering the next pitch, which arrived at the plate as a mini-Steve-Hamilton-Folly-Floater – perhaps a half-foot higher than the top of the strike zone and perhaps 60 mph.

Rather than take ball four and tie the game, Horace sent a meek pop fly to centerfield to seal another loss.

Afterward, he explained to reporters that the pitch looked “as big as a balloon” and that he “couldn’t resist it.”

I think we all know why he swung at that pitch, though. Horace hit only 27 home runs during his career, and his first two were grand slams. That night, he was taking a mighty swing against mediocrity – not knowing that he was destined to never hit a third grand slam in his career.

Well done, Ken Griffey Jr.

So congratulations, Mike and Ken. As a baseball fan, I say, “Well done.”

As one of the 7.4 billion human beings alive today who, like Horace Clarke, have never received a single Hall of Fame vote, I’ll simply – as if standing beside a conquering general parading into ancient Rome – whisper this reminder:

“All glory is fleeting."

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When the Yankees Were on the Fritz: Revisiting the Horace Clarke Years. by Fritz Peterson
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This is one of the oddest books I've ever read, so I give it an extra star for quirkiness.

Odd editing... riddled with typos, exclamation points, poor grammar, bad exposition (mentioning something as if it had already been explained, then explaining it later), and repeated phrases, anecdotes and even whole sections.

Odd theology... the moral I gleaned is that you can apparently be as big a jerk as you want in life because God forgives everything.

Odd racist overtones... considering that the three teammates called out for lack of hustle were the three black position players during most of Peterson's time with the Yankees; at the same time, almost all the white players are uniformly described as "good guys" with "great wives."

Odd life advice... don't buy life insurance or root for the Mets, but be sure invest in real estate (unless it falls into the hands of your first wife during the divorce settlement, then you can obsess about real estate values for 40 years).

Oh, parenthetically, about that divorce: Odd that this book glossed over the one thing Peterson is most known for... that he swapped wives and children and family dogs with a teammate in 1973. Oh, but that will be the subject of another book, it's explained.

Mr. Peterson, you were a splendid pitcher for the Yankees many years ago. I rooted for you as a boy. Thank you for bringing back those memories. I admire your professional career and if you ever do draft another book, please contact me before self-publishing again.

Odd, but I think I may be able to help you. I'd edit it for free.


View all my Goodreads reviews

42 Ways of Looking at the Garden State

I make no excuses for being proud of my home state. It's a favorite subject of my Instagram account, and even a Tumblr blog.

I feel proud that not only did I grow up here, but I also created a new idea of "home" in New Jersey for my own children. After all -- as the character Andrew Largeman touchingly articulated in the 2004 movie "Garden State" -- "maybe that's all family really is: a group of people that miss the same imaginary place."

So far, in 2016, I've found New Jersey to be particularly real... and various and beautiful and new. Following are 42 of my favorite images (26 slides) in a 3-minute show.

 

We're All Immigrants Here

In praise of Christopher De Vinck.

Here We Are Now, Entertain Us...

End of Watch by Stephen King
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The completion of this trilogy has cemented my admiration for Stephen King as a storyteller. That's a truly wonderful thing -- so, thank you, Mr. King for the many hours of entertainment. My only hesitation in reviewing all this is about what it all means. The story here, for example, exploits paranormally assisted teen suicide as the vehicle for yet another story about yet another serial killer. In lesser hands, this might be a bad episode of "Criminal Minds." But, in greater hands -- like Stephen King's -- well, let me put it this way: I once read him describe writing as "magic" and say its purpose was to enrich the lives of readers. As good as it is to be entertained, I wonder if it's not too much to expect greater things from those who have the ability to create great magic.


View all my book reviews

Why Isn't Real Life Good Enough?

From my Instagram feed today.

I was trying to show my wife how the camera works on my phone (it’s a mixed marriage… she’s #iPhone; I’m #Android). “You only have to tap the screen,” I explained. But that didn’t seem to work for her. “I must have dead fingers,” she teased, thus terrifying me for the rest of the evening. “Like so,” I replied, taking this photo of the flowers on our dining room table. “Oh, no, you’re probably going to Instagram that,” she sighed.

That was almost a dare, and I almost didn’t accept. It’s a casual photo, and I thought about how I’d need to adjust the focus and the lighting, and about all the other ways I could manipulate the image to leave my mark.

But then I took another look, and decided to post this after all because these #flowers are otherwise impermanent. They need #nofilter, and there’s magic in their casual beauty.

Lessons From Rare Photos of Dad

In the '60s

Dad was usually behind the camera in family photos, so I have few photos of him by himself. That's...

Lesson one: Above all, be of service to others.

It led to a better life for Dad, who – when photographed – was happily upstaged by his dark-haired, fashionable wife, blond and always-smiling daughter, and moody and chubby son.

Because he devoted his life to his family, I can tell you that even though this weekend will be the 10th Father’s Day since he died, he has been remembered every day since by his wife and children and grandchildren. His life will have impact on his grandchildren’s future children.

Lesson two: Work hard.

Overlooking Bryant Park

Here’s a photo of Dad behind his desk at New York Telephone at 1095 Ave. of the Americas near Bryant Park, at a time in New York’s history when Bryant Park wasn’t very clean or safe.

You may think, by his Don Draper good looks and jacket, that Dad was an advertising executive. He was creative enough to be one. But no, he was head of the customer service department… the executive appeals branch… in charge of handling all the especially tough complaints.

Dad was, for all his great qualities, possibly the most impatient man in the world. So you’d think this would be a horrible job for him. The last thing any sane person, his son included, would ever want to do would be complain to my father.

But instead of channeling his impatience at customers, he channeled it at silly processes and ineffective management… and he had a long and successful career.

I work for a successor company to Dad’s, and we share the same first name. For many years after he retired I’d get calls where as soon as I’d identify myself, I’d hear a pause on the other line. Then the person would exclaim, “You’re not Bob Varettoni”-- a constant reminder of my existential failings.

Lesson three: Love is made manifest by self-discipline and loyalty.

Captain Varettoni

No one was ever a more loyal friend than my father. When he died, I heard this from many of his friends dating back to high school and, especially, from his service in the Navy.

After active duty, Dad served in the reserves, eventually attaining the rank of Captain in the Intelligence division. Dad valued the discipline he found in the Navy – which probably accounts for why he was so good at his day job at the phone company.

In his whole life, just like Superman, there was only one thing he was defenseless against.

Dad’s kryptonite was a pack of Kent cigarettes. Until his 60s, he could never give up his three-pack-a-day smoking habit. I saw him try to quit, and fail, several times while I was growing up. Never did he look so defeated than when he’d relapse and start smoking again.

Yet after a second heart attack, after his doctor warned him that he would never live to see my youngest daughter grow up unless he stopped smoking, Dad quit that very day and never smoked again. I can’t begin to imagine how hard that must have been.

Today, my youngest daughter has years of great memories of my Dad. The two of them were thick as thieves, and no matter where my daughter has lived there are always cherished photos on her nightstand of my Dad and her together.

His loyalty to me was incredible.

One day early in my career, I thought I had made a mistake that would get me fired. I knew how proud he was that I worked at the same company, so I let him know right away. He listened and said, “Son, that wasn’t your fault.” Believe me, he would have let me know if it was. “They’d be fools to fire you,” he added. “Your bosses hung you out to dry.” And I believe that, behind the scenes, my bosses were made aware of this too.

As a teen, after I wrecked the family car (my dad loved cars as much as I love electronic gadgets), my first call was to Dad at his office. I’ll never forget that his only concern was whether I had been injured in any way. When I initially decided to attend a college other than Notre Dame (Dad’s lifelong dream for me), his reply was simply, “Whatever you think is best for you.” And then I decided to go to Notre Dame anyway. It was one of the best decisions of my life.

Dad didn’t know everything, though...

On Father’s Day in 2000, he spent the afternoon at my house. After I had come in from playing in the backyard with my young daughters, he said, “I like to watch you with your kids. You’re always laughing. You’re a better father than me. We never laughed together like that.”

True, I have had a different relationship with my children than Dad had with me. I’ve found fatherhood to be immensely joyous, though sometimes heart-breaking. But I haven’t been a better father than Dad. In the grand scheme, I merely tried to follow in his footsteps. It was never important to me to be a friend to my children; it has always more important to me to try to be as selfless and devoted to my family as Dad was.

Father and son

Just moments after Dad and I spoke on the back porch, my wife took this blurry, unguarded photo of us.

It was just a split second, more than 15 years ago, but I treasure this photo most of all. It proves, unquestionably, that Dad wasn’t always right:

We did too laugh together, and those moments were all the more precious because they were indeed so rare.

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Here's something I previously posted about my Dad.