My friend, Brad, recently posted on Facebook some sentiments that took the words right out of my mouth. He was a team captain when playing for Syracuse awhile back, so he speaks with much more authority on the subject than I do.

What is the subject ? The juvenile antics that all viewers are subjected to on the college gridiron, whenever players score a touchdown.

It doesn’t seem to matter that the scoring team is still behind by two touchdowns at the end of the 3rd quarter. Hell no. There is fluent dancing in the end zone as though the prancers had just won the Super Bowl.

Is this well coached behavior on the part of players ? How about their coaches ? Is it even sportsmanlike ?

How about if these absurd antics were included in the definition of unsportsmanlike conduct ?

Enthusiasm is one thing. Ostentation is another. Please fellas. Just play football.

Actually the title on his business card simply reads: TRAPPER

Herb the Trapper paid a visit yesterday. He’s from Shunk, Pennsylvania , in Sullivan County. Herb answers to the howl of the coyote and, yes, we have too many of them.

Now before you bleeding hearts start tuning up on me, do consider this: Coyotes prey heavily on the very vulnerable, the newborn. Fawns, wild turkeys; anything out there in wildlife with limited capacity to self-defend.

In fairly short order their activity marks a noticeable slump in the population of other creatures, yes, deer and turkey included. Coyotes are invasive, even dangerous to young toddlers out playing in the back yard. Maybe that will change your predisposition to the wily, wild dogs ?

On a separate, but related item: Who lives in a town named Shunk ? According to Herb the Trapper, not many. Nonetheless, they all have to realize that their town rhymes with Skunk.

Upon naming the town, I suspect that someone was drunk ? Or is this just bunk ? I mean, whudda thunk, a town named Shunk. Lest my writing be shrunk to junk, allow me out of this before I am sunk ! OK, enough fun with Herb the Trapper’s whereabouts. Let me out this funk!

I am quite taken with the simplicity of Herb’s endeavor, primarily the routine check of his trap line ? Otherwise, Herb’s life is not frittered away by detail. A trapper’s life is simple and without pretense.

I’ll keep you posted as to the progress of his pursuit.

At least some of these coyotes gotta go.

My friend from Down Under, Greg Smith, relays to me some glum news this A.M.

I quote from his message: “The east Coast of Australia is getting its arse whipped by brush fires the likes of which we have never seen. Not to start a new decade we ever imagined, but it is now an awful fact.”

With indomitable Aussie spirit, Greg writes further, “Australia will recover and sparkle again – this time a little bit tougher.”

Though an ocean divides us, Brother Greg, we here in the states have no doubt that Australia will sparkle again. Do know that our prayers are with you.

I am reminded of a brush fire right here on our very farm in the recent past. It got ugly quicker than we knew ! I’m sure it paled in comparison to the conflagration down there, but that hardly seems to matter when one is surrounded by flame.

Keep up the good fight !

We’ve been here in Naples for what, two or three days now. Although this is our annual gig, it still takes a couple of days to re-orient. Where the heck is the silverware drawer, the towels … that sort of household minutiae.

What about New Year’s Eve in this place !! Fireworks anywhere are always a bit of a spectacle, but Naples takes them to a whole different level. It is fitting. This town is a whole different level.

Incidentally, we are talking Florida here, not Naples, Italy. The big pond isn’t the only thing that separates them. Believe me, when there’s a garbage collector’s strike in the namesake Naples, it is an olfactory event.

Here, if a blade of grass is cockeyed, it is an event.

Back to the fireworks. It is my kind fortune to have never had combat experience. Last night’s sound effects would suggest otherwise. What surely sounded like gunshots was wide spread throughout town from near 8:00 PM on. The war zone effect was full bore.

Our condo is on the beach. The beach hosted the fireworks. Hopefully, the fireworks were no portent of anything in 2020 even near this tumultuous! Perish forbid.

It is morning now. The sun shines brightly. Last night’s revelry is over the yardarm. A calm sea imbues its softly rhythms to anyone wise enough to listen. It’s gonna be a great year!

The shutter rattled vacantly.

‘Twas that, I guess, that awakened me.

No surety in my slumber.

What was it then that hearkened me?

Surely it was my preference

To continue my repose.

Something was out there, though

That occluded further doze.

What else would I be hearing ?

Recall when first I closed my eyes.

‘ ‘Twas the sea’s softly rumble.

” And now the waves I recognize.

My lids gladly open

To the ceaseless sounding sea.

The randomly raucous roiling

Of the yearning, churning sea.

Sometimes but a whisper,

Thunderous claps occasionally.

Her softly subtle sounds, though

Are wont to awaken me.

Pete Tucker — Dec. 2019

Yes, it is almost like waving a wand. The Jersey chill is palpable, the whisk of the wand (that is a plane ride) and, voila, it’s 80 degrees in Naples, Florida. Here, too, is the endless rolling whisper of the waves.

This lovely eighth floor condo has become our January haunt for many years now. If we could get it for February we would, but kind fortune is yet to thus bestow. In the meantime, if we were any closer to the gulf, we’d be in it.

Incidentally, our seating arrangement on the plane was notable. Daughter Sunshine with granddaughter Maria purchased tickets for the flight. On a different date in a different state Jude purchased tickets for her and me on the same flight.

As the flight of 200 plus people were seated yesterday, who sat directly across the aisle from Jude and I ? Of course, Sunshine and Maria. Is it me or is the happenstance in life increasingly intertwined? Is information more deftly positioned as to allow circumstance to play a greater roll ?

Then again, is mine but a suspicious mind adrift in a world of increasingly manipulated information? I’ll save that for another post.

noun- a festive family gathering held annually at Tuckaway Farm on the day after Christmas.

And what a HUBBUB it was, complete with the addition of new babies, copious victuals and vigorous visiting ’til the family faded into the night. The traditional joviality was in full measure.

Each year the HUBBUB serves us all to take stock . It is a deliberative pause reminding us of who we are and the good fortune that is family pulling together.

If families don’t do this at least with yearly repetition, it is quickly apparent how the vestiges of time fade the details of our commonality. The whole HUBBUB is a refurbishment of family and a review of who we are.

Happy New Year all. God, I hope we can manage to have a good time next year !

She’s the only one I got .

Not much of a girlfriend

I never seem to……..

Surely you remember those lyrics from back in 1979.

A wildly popular addition to rock n’ roll music was in the songs of the Grammy Award winning album BREAKFAST IN AMERICA from the English band SUPERTRAMP. (Perish the thought, that was 41 years ago !)

The album cover was alone unmistakable. Behind a brilliant mosaic of the Manhattan skyline crafted of egg cartons , ketchup bottles, cornflake boxes and the like, the iconic Kate Murtagh in waitress uniform struck a pose of the Statue of Liberty, her lifted lamp rather a plate with a glass of orange juice . It was beyond artful.

Harken back to some of the song titles that I am guessing, are veiled somewhere in the gossamered catacombs of your mind. You remember… Good Bye Stranger, The Logical Song and others.

On the flip side, Take the Long Way Home, Lord is it Mine, Casual Conversations and others.

Bottom line : Great writers made great songs. You’ve heard someone say that if they had a nickel for every time they listened to something, they’d be wealthy. That applies to me and BREAKFAST IN AMERICA, for sure.

Now, where was I going with this ? Oh, yeah. My son Jason called today suggesting that I write about the day’s of old when he and his sisters were a tad recalcitrant about getting their butts out of bed.

For that, Jude and I just injected the music. With BREAKFAST IN AMERICA at untold decibel level, the kids just had no choice but to heave out and trice up. Indeed it was time for breakfast in America, or at least Tuckaway.

How can we not be warmed by memories of Christmases past ? Recall 39 years ago. (Sorry, was hoping for a round number.)

T’was the year that Santa was determined to place a microwave oven under the tree, but no one had alerted him that such devices were in their infancy. They were a little “overbuilt” in 1980.

How was Santa to maneuver a 900 pound device down the chimney ?

Answer: With difficulty .

The weather outside was frightful. Cold, with heavy snow, Santa endeavored to convey the behemoth into the house. Still boxed, there awaited a tarp on the ground. With box on tarp, Santa rendered a mighty pull to slide his freight to the door.

(Somehow, Mrs. Judy Claus thought the reindeer did all the work.)

Remember later when Vanessa scribed a little note, “I had a very good Christmas in the year 1980.”

In further years, maintaining Santa’s clandestine approach was trickier. To thwart the kids’ premature attempts to enter the Christmas room, we tied the doors shut ! Ah, Christmas intrigue.

Surely I could recall more, but the most fun part has been the giving, the kids’ excitement, the thrill of the season.

Better than all, I did it with the love of my life. I did it with you. Nearly 40 years of memories are ours to keep. Imagine! We are so blessed.

Merry Christmas, my love .

Pete. 2019

12/23/2019. Be it duly noted: Two days before Christmas the sun shone brightly and a splendid afternoon was quite enjoyed on the writer’s perch. My Christmas present came early and all that you get, dear reader, are these few measly lines.

Thank you for the break.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Pete