2. A grandmother was telling her little granddaughter what her own childhood was like: “We used to skate outside on a pond I had a swing made from a tire; it hung from a tree in our front yard. We rode our pony. We picked wild raspberries in the woods.” The little girl was wide-eyed, taking this all in. At last she said, “I sure wish I’d gotten to know you sooner!”

3. When my grandson asked me how old I was, I teasingly replied, “I’m not sure.” “Look in your underwear, Grandpa,” he advised, “mine says I’m 4 to 6.”

4. A grandfather was delivering his grandchildren to their home one day when a fire truck zoomed past. Sitting in the front seat of the fire truck was a Dalmatian dog. The children started discussing the dog’s duties. “They use him to keep crowds back,” said one child. “No,” said another. “He’s just for good luck.” A third child brought the argument to a close. “They use the dogs,” she said firmly, “to find
the fire hydrants.”

5. My Grandparents are funny, when they bend over; you hear gas leaks, and they blame their dog.

I gave Guido the standard greeting in Italian, “Como sta?” I sat down in his chair and I told him in plain English… after he finished his expert shearing, I wanted to look 10 years younger. He gave me his standard answer in broken English, “You a better go in da back, we gotta new plastic surgery department there; or you can lie aboud it, whichever makes you happy.”

Then we started to talk about things most men talk about… sex, what else? Guido told me he was having some erectile dysfunction and Viagra wasn’t helping much. He refers to his male member as “my friend,” and he said in Italian (to keep it confidential), “Il mio amico sta morendo” (my friend is dying). I asked him how he feels about that, and he thought for a couple of seconds and said, “Hey! Better him than me.”

If he’s in a real good mood he will even sing some light opera. Of course, Figaro, from the Barber of Seville is one of his favorites.

Let me tell you that Guido is self-educated, clever, witty, entertaining and a very talented guy. I always enjoy our conversation. He told me all about his birthplace, Torino, where the winter Olympics were held. Then he expounded on Italian history and how Hannibal crossed the Alps in 218 B.C., scaring hell out of the Romans by using elephants, similar to tanks we use in modern warfare.

Most barbers are a little sensitive about receiving specific hair-cutting instructions from a customer, and Franco is no exception, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated as the Romans were, so I told him I want him to do a very light trim. I thought I made it very clear by explaining if somebody were to notice my hair, I would not want them to think I got a haircut recently. I want them to think it was just naturally neat and well groomed.

So Guido pulled a face and in his best attempt at disguising his rich Italian accent (which I love) he said, “Ey! Tonight when you go home, you gonna tella yo wife how to cooka da pasta? She gonna do what she wants in da kitchen, so you betta keepa quiet and tell her itsa delishes.”

I got the message and after I stopped laughing, I responded trying to imitate a gravelly, Godfather accent, “Ey Franco, you cut too much hair you gonna sleep with the fishes.” He got the message and gave me a perfect cut. I was so pleased; I asked him if he could take a picture to be able to duplicate his fine styling for next time.

He mumbled something in Italian and it wasn’t, “Arrivederci.”

Although I feel sorry for non-users, I do not feel superior; I just think they are missing out.

Perhaps it’s owing to fear, fear of failure, fear of ridicule, fear of becoming addicted. I don’t know the answer, but I know that fear can paralyze you physically and mentally. Think of someone who is afraid of heights and would never consider a flight in an airplane.

My brother-in-law Murray owned a factory located in Pittman, a small town in New Jersey, just off the Cherry Hill exit of the Jersey Turnpike. He was, I assure you, a very enterprising guy, always hustling and trying to make a buck. In those days he was a contractor in knit goods, and was doing quite well manufacturing sweaters for a well-known company located in Manhattan.

He had a family station wagon and he would drive, helter skelter to New York and back to Jersey, delivering the completed orders for his sweaters.

I had a used car operation in the Bronx, and my daily routine took me to Jerome Avenue (a wholesale mecca for used car dealers) and I would shop, looking for bargains, almost on a daily basis.

One fine day, I came across a pristine Cadillac hearse offered for sale at a ridiculously low price. I saw an opportunity and bought it, and after thinking who would be a customer for such a vehicle…Bingo!

I thought about Murray. It was perfect. Much more interior space than any station wagon — more power, reliability, and durability. A Cadillac…King of the road (in those days). Best of all, it was “ticket-proof.” Once he was stopped by the Highway Patrol who clocked him at 90 mph. Murray put on a worried face and said, “Sorry officer, I’m late for a funeral.” The officer sympathized, “Go ahead, but take it a little easier or you’ll be riding in the back of that thing instead of driving.”

Murray loved the hearse. He loved it so much; he stopped driving the station wagon and gave that to my sister Doris.

Ugh Oh!!! Here it comes — One Sunday morning, Murray went to the supermarket to buy some bread and milk, and as he was driving home, he glanced in the rear-view mirror of his Cadillac hearse, and he did a double take, as he saw what was obviously a funeral procession of cars in back of him with their lights turned on.. just following…the hearse.

As I said, Murray was an enterprising fellow and what he did was to change course and drive to the one and only cemetery in Pittman…checking every 20 seconds to see if the cars were following…he did not want them to get lost, as they probably had already done so once that morning.

Success! He stopped at the gate and explained the situation to the guard who was not the least perplexed. He told Murray that the original hearse was already at the grave site. So Murray drove right through quickly, and kept going until he got home.