Sometimes you find things sifting through old papers and journals. Things that you kept because they moved you. I don’t know exactly when I acquired this story, but I know why I kept it:

A sweet lesson on patience. A NYC Taxi driver wrote: I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes, I honked again. I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.

‘Just a minute’, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940’s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

 ‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing’, I told her. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.’ ‘Oh, you’re such a good boy,’ she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, ‘Could you drive through downtown?’ ‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice. I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued in a soft voice. ‘The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. ‘What route would you like me to take?’ I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds .She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired. Let’s go now’.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. ‘How much do I owe you?’ She asked, reaching into her purse. ‘Nothing,’ I said ‘You have to make a living,’ she answered. ‘There are other passengers,’ I responded. Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. ‘You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life. We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one. Be nice to a stranger today.  

Ode To The Onion by Pablo Neruda

Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.

You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.

Ode to the Bloomin’ Onion by kongoboken

There are 687 Outback Steakhouses (as of October 2023). Only 4 states have NO Outback’s: North Dakota, Maine, Rhode Island and Vermont. Even Hawaii (5) and Alaska (1) have at least one. Florida has the most – makes sense since the FIRST Outback was opened in Tampa in 1988. There is one in Edgewater, NJ and I ate there when they first opened and yes, I had a Bloomin Onion, and yes it was GREAT.

Over the years, I’ve shied away from The Outback, not because of their steaks (which were decent enough), but because of that Bloomin Onion. I WANTED one but I’d remember reading things like it contained the caloric equivalent of 3 days of eating. And it had enough fat to kill Godzilla. It purportedly had turned 6 people in Australia into Salt Sticks. I’d be a FOOL to eat a Bloomin Onion. But still, something gnawed at me…. is it THAT bad.

Well let’s look:

1. Salt – 200% of a normal day’s intake. Effect – you piss it out.
2. Calories –  1950 No doubt about it, THAT’S a lot of calories. Best to be on a diet/lifestyle that doesn’t count calories, methinks.
3. Fat – 160grams, this is good on a Carnivore/Keto diet but terrible on the Standard American Diet (SAD).
4. Carbs – 117grams, surprisingly low until I read the onion is a low-carb vegetable.
5. Sugar – 28grams, a drop in the bucket on the SAD but terrible on Carnivore/Keto
6. Protein – 18grams, (who cares) you’re going to have a steak or a burger WITH this Bloomin Onion!! WTF

In Summary:

I just cannot get past that Sugar number Soooooo, I’m going to share my Bloomin Onion with my Lovely Wife. 14 grams of Sugar is not a problem with me.

Merry Christmas Eve to all.    

Nana Part 2 of 2

Nana’s family had a home in Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey that she would visit in the summer. One uncle, Rudy I think, would get everyone outside early each morning for exercises. It impressed Nana because she talked about summers in “the Highlands” often. My Mom even remembers going down there. One day in the mid-1980’s my Mom, her brother, my Uncle Joe (Simon) and Nana took a ride down to Atlantic Highlands to search for the ancestral summer home. After driving around aimlessly we discovered the home had burned down “years ogo” (bummer).

The term “no social filtering skills” was coined to describe my Grandmother. When my wife and I were newly married both my Mom and Nana would constantly ask, “When are you two going to give us a baby?” Nana in her high-pitched voice could be particularly annoying. One Holiday, I leaned into her after she asked the baby question and said, “Nana, J and I can’t have children, my penis is too big.” Without batting an eyelash, she waved her hand dismissively and said, “Oh posh, all girls love a big penis.” I had no retort. At another family party my cousin’s wife had gained a few pounds and came under Nana’s scrutiny; “My, you gained weight”, Nana said in greeting and everyone in the room tried to be invisible. Not to let things rest there, Nana added, “You gained A LOT of weight!” I closed my eyes and tried desperately to recall my last root canal. Everyone always cut Nana some slack. I don’t know why.

When I started traveling for my job, I would always send a postcard to Nana from whatever city I was. When my son was born, I added him and would send 2 postcards from wherever I was. I liked to send my son the postcard that had a map of the state. They are hard to come by these days. At Christmas, I’d always include a big bottle of Jean Nate (Na-Tay) body lotion in Nana’s gifts, just to hear her yell, “Oh, look it’s Jean Nate” (you had to be there!!).

My father was not a big talker. My Mom always felt that was the reason Nana thought Dad hated her (don’t try to analyze that – just accept it). This happened more than once: Nana was alone in the kitchen “cleaning up” everyone else was in the living room watching a ballgame (it was my father’s TV). Suddenly two sounds were  heard in rapid succession. First a glass shattering, then a high-pitched voice shouting “I didn’t do it!” We’d all exchange looks, my Mom would get up and go into the kitchen, my father would shake his head and take a drag of his Marlboro.

Nana got the last shot at my Dad. The day she died, that evening, while watching a basketball game Dad got a nosebleed that just wouldn’t stop. He wound up at the local emergency room getting his nose packed. No reason was ever given, But I know. It’s obvious that Nana gave my Dad a good punch in the nose on her way to Heaven. I don’t doubt it for an instant. A few weeks after Nana died my Mom presented me with a shoebox that contained a 3inch rubber-banded pile of my postcards. Nana had kept everyone and had room for many more. I wonder what happened to her sock monkey? I should have asked my Mom.

Nana  (Part 1 of 2)

We didn’t have Grandmas when I was growing up. We had Nanas. I had two: Nana Fontaine (Mom’s side) and Nana Kyle (Dad’s side). But there was REALLY only one Nana to little Kevin: Nana Fontaine.

Born Viola Louisa Brizzlara in 1905, my Nana was raised on a pig farm in Secaucus, New Jersey. She remembered feeding the chickens and the pigs and milking the cows. Nana quit school in sixth grade to help out on the farm. Her parents Ella and Tony Brizzlara sold the farm in the early 1920’s and bought a bar in Hoboken, New Jersey on 2^nd Street and Park Ave. Viola worked in the bar where she met and fell in love with Simon Villa. They married and Simon came to work in the bar. They had 2 children Edith (my Mom) and Simon (my Uncle). What happened next would be relayed in a hushed whisper: Nana would lean into me and whisper “in was the Drink what killed my first husband”. Eventually, I figured it out.

Nana lost the bar but managed to raise 2 healthy well adjusted kids through the depression and World War 2. She married Steve Fontaine in the late 1940’s. I called him Pa but he died in a boating accident in the late 50’s. Nana lived in a 5^th flood walk-up apartment in Union City. She worked at a Sweater Manufacturer walking distance away and was paid piece-rate to fold sweaters all day 5 days a week. After she retired, she moved into the same apartment complex as her sister – my Aunt Edda. They had the same apartment but on different floors. They were cute together.

Nana had a unique way of pronouncing certain words. If you left food out it might spurl she’d say. To make pasta, you first must burl water. A person who couldn’t hear is deef, and of course the always funny earl for oil. She also had this strange offer she made EVERY time I picked her up for the drive to my parent’s house for a Holiday dinner. She was so consistent, I sat with confidence the first time I picked her up with my then girl-friend J in the front seat. Nana is in the back seat. I start driving. Wait for it. Wait for it. Suddenly from the back seat we hear a high-pitched voice: “Kevin, can I blow you for gas?” Life’s funny moments don’t get much better than that.

Nana, to little Kevin was always old. I would say to her, “Nana, you were born old.” She would smile and agree. I cannot remember a time when Nana complained about anything. When I was cleaning my parents’ house to sell it, I found a picture of Nana’s first marriage. She was beautiful. A tiny pixie of a girl with her whole life ahead of her. Nana could have said: “hey, buddy, I was a looker in my day.” But she didn’t.

                             To be continued……

The Wagon and The Fight                          

I was maybe 10 when my Mom decided I needed to get a job. She pointed to the red wagon outside our door. It rested in the hallway which led to the stairs up to the 2^nd and 3^rd flood apartments. She said in her you-will-obey-what-follows tone: “Take the wagon to the 6^th street A & P and ask ladies if you can carry their bags for them. They will give you a coin tip at the end of your journey.” I don’t recall arguing. Mom had a way about her.

I took the wagon handle and banged that red wagon down each of 20 stairs on my way out the two doors of 802 Washington Street. Hoboken used a grid pattern for streets. Numbered blocks were 100 kid steps long and the side streets were 50. Washington Street, for some reason lost in obscurity, was called “the Avenue” as it “I’m going down (or up) the Avenue”. The A&P was 2 blocks “down” and across the street. Every block on Washington Street had a traffic light. The light lasted 30 seconds (city kids know these things)

The A & P on 6^th Street took up FOUR normal storefronts – that’s 40 feet of store. Enough room to put bins of vegetables and fruit outside. The guy adding up Customers’ stuff knew exactly why I was there and directed me to wait and HE took over asking the ladies if they needed “a boy” (that would me). My first customer was VERY forgiving as I had not figured the physics of keeping grocery bags upright while dragging a red wagon up and down curbs (note: curbs were curbs back then – no wheelchair ramp enabled curbing). I forget what she gave me for a tip but I was instantly hooked with the Entrepreneurial spirit.

I was never without money from that day on. I even cut back on stealing from my Mom’s coats and pocketbooks. It’s possible she gave me the job to save more of her change. Anyway, whenever little Kevin felt the need for coins, the neighbors and probably most of the neighborhood, heard that red wagon hit every one of the 20 stairs.

One day, on my way back to 6^th Street from a delivery on Bloomfield, just one 50 foot block away but with a big incline, Billy Peterson plopped into my red wagon and said “Give me a ride up to Washington, will ya Kev?” Billy Peterson was the neighborhood bully. He was a little older and a little bigger than most of the other kids and liked being the big bully.

“No, Billy,” I said “you can walk it.” He wasn’t moving. I was facing the upside and he was in my red wagon on the downhill side. I saw my only advantage and went for it. With one big effort I picked up the red wagon handle and using gravity to help, dumped Billy onto the sidewalk. He was down and I jumped on him trying to pin his arms to keep him down. If he got lose he’d hit me. My only goal was to hang on till he got tired or someone came to break this fight up.

Here’s where something happens that I have many times repeated in my mind as one of the most frustrating moments in my life. Billy and I are rolling in the street and people are noticing and I can distinctly here the following exchange:

Man one: “Hey, What do we have here?”

Man two; “ I saw it all, the skinny kid started it. He dumped the big guy out of the wagon”.

Meanwhile, this skinny guy is hanging on for dear life and so out of breath I could not shout at the top of my lungs: “NOOOOO, Billy started it by plopping into my red wagon!!” Finally, a Cop came by (yes there was a neighborhood cop) and broke us apart. He recognized both of us (because he was THE NEIGHBORHOOD COP!!!). Told me to get out, grabbed Billy by the collar and started walking him home. Mission Accomplished

My friend Bruce posted this on his Facebook page. I like it and it fits into the “old” theme I’m currently into. Enjoy:

“An 87 Year Old College Student Named Rose”
The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn’t already know. I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned round to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
She said, “Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I’m eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?”
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, “Of course you may!” and she gave me a giant squeeze.
“Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?” I asked.

She jokingly replied, “I’m here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids…”
“No seriously,” I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
“I always dreamed of having a college education and now I’m getting one!” she told me.
After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake. We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months, we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this “time machine” as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.

Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up. At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I’ll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, “I’m sorry I’m so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I’ll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know.”

As we laughed, she cleared her throat and began, “We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor every day. You’ve got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die.
We have so many people walking around who are dead and don’t even know it! There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don’t do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old. If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight. Anybody can grow older. That doesn’t take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change.

Have no regrets. The elderly usually don’t have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets. ”She concluded her speech by courageously singing “The Rose.” She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives. At the year’s end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died
peacefully in her sleep. Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it’s never too late to be all you can possibly be.   in loving memory of ROSE.

REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY. GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL.

Thomas Robert Kyle Jr. was born December 10, 1946 at St. Mary Hospital in Hoboken, New Jersey. His parents, Thomas Sr. and Edith had two more boys: Kevin in 1949 and Dennis in 1954. Tom attended Our Lady of Grace Grammar school and graduated from Hoboken Senior High School in June 1963.

Both Tom and his mother were avid Bowlers and played in the Hudson County ABC League for many years. He attended Fairleigh Dickinson University for one year and was working at Becton Dickinson & Co. when he received his Order to Report for Induction into the US Army at Hackensack, NJ on January 26, 1966. That morning, the US Marines were also looking for a few good men and Tom’s six years of weightlifting / body building paid off when he was taken out of the Army line and inducted into the US Marine Corps.

After basic training at Parris Island, NC, and additional training at Camp Pendleton, CA, Tom was assigned as Rifleman to the 3rd Marine Division, Major General W.B. Kyle (no relation) Commanding, stationed near Danang in the Republic of Vietnam. In a letter dated July 23, 1966, Tom noted he had arrived at M Company, Captain J.G. Cooper Commanding, to find the guys very friendly but the company strength was down to 80 men from 150. His platoon (1st platoon) had 21 men, only six with combat experience.

On August 20, while on patrol, 1st platoon was ordered to fix bayonets and assault a large number of Viet Cong insurgents well entrenched in a tree line. During the assault Tom Kyle was mortally wounded. He was 19 years old.

Thomas R Kyle Jr. was awarded the Purple Heart, the Vietnam Service Award and the Vietnam Campaign Ribbon bar from the US Government. The Republic of Vietnam awarded him the Military Merit Medal and Gallantry Cross with Palm.

Tom’s body was accompanied home by PFC Tim Jennings representing the United States Marine Corps. He was buried at Maryrest Cemetery in Mahwah, NJ on August 31, 1966. His parents, Tom and Edith never recovered.

The Big Reveal:                       

My name is Kevin Xavier Kyle. I never liked Kevin as my name. “Kevin” is an eight year old boy whose mother loves him. Lash or Steve would have been much better I thought in my MIND.

“Kongo” was the name I settled on; but I never told anyone. I even made up a little ditty melody. “There he goes, Kongo Kyle, riding down the Nile on a Crocodile.” I never told anyone that either. It was none of their business. But in my MIND, I was Kongo. I spent the first 14 years of my life in Hoboken, New Jersey. Kongo+Boken = kongoboken and there you go. I’ve grown to like the name and at least for a while will keep this site going.

kongoboken.com  was originally “cabinets and drawers and boxes and chests holding an almost random collection of dubious literary odds and ends, many biographical many opinionated many miss-spelled” but I’ve realized lately, the Blog IS the organizing. As I find things in the basement of my life they get Blogged in 500 word chunks and are thereafter forever digitally available as long as I pay the fee. So, in addition to being the irreverent and perhaps irrelevant observations of an old white man, this Blog will be that old white man’s life in pieces. Which is pretty close to how life happens anyway.

Every now and then some of the pieces will get organized into drawers and scattered around. Because one doesn’t want to be TOO organized. Maybe when I’m TOTALLY semi-organized, I’ll move kongoboken.com to kevinxkyle.com and be done with it. It’s good to have goals!  

Tales of Amagansett Part 4:  Traffic

Thursday I’d check the weather. It didn’t matter what it was. Susan and I were going to Amagansett. It didn’t matter what time we left on Friday. There would be traffic. Going out was never as bad as returning. Going out we were happy to be going to the beach and all the frivolous images it provides. We would bring lots of groceries and beer. Occasionally, I’d stop on the way at an Indian Reservation Smoke Shop to buy cigarettes. A carton of Marlboro ($2.50) and a carton of Kool  ($2.50) will keep me in smokes for a few weeks.

It was stop and go on the Long Island Expressway until Exit 49ish. We’d usually get off in the 60’s. You drove a few miles and turned left onto Sunrise Highway Route 27. The name changes but not the number. It ends up Montauk Highway. But Route 27 and the Expressway were basically the only 2 roads you traversed. Two roads, 2 hours on a normal Friday night. Manageable. When we arrived, it was dark and quiet. The salty smell and sounds of the surf washed over us. I’m NOW (2023) remembering the smell and surf sounds in Long Branch that prompted this whole series. Must go back there.

Suddenly it’s Sunday and the “when do we leave” debate starts. Do we leave at 3 and maybe get home at 7. Or do we wait and leave at 7 and get home at midnight or later. Decisions. Decisions. Whatever we choose, the traffic was terrible. On Route 27 we had Malls on either side of the road with traffic lights and 2 lane left turn lanes. No matter which time you chose you had Seniors going to the blue hair specials or families heading to the Outback Steakhouse. It was stop and go until you got to a connector to the Expressway – maybe 20 miles from Amagansett. So for 20 miles you just stopped and go’ed you way.

Most drivers were so fed up with the stop and go shit that they all took the first road possible to the Expressway. Only 7 or so miles but on a one lane road with a shoulder. It’s that shoulder that sticks in my mind as an example of “every now and then, something GREAT happens – and you are there to watch it”. We’d be on the road, close to the entrance to the Expressway. It was just up ahead. On the right. That shoulder sure looked inviting. I could just pull over and speed up. Tempting, but not for me, I’m chicken. Others would do it and it would PISS ME OFF. One day we found three patrol cars had been pulling shoulder riders over and they were all lined up in an empty parking area waiting to get a ticket. It made the rest of the trip somehow easier.

But mostly it was a fight to get onto each of the 2 roads and then just the fact of too many cars going to the same place. By the time we got home I’d be swearing I would NEVER go back to Amagansett again. Then I’d go to work on Monday. And again, on Tuesday. By Wednesday, Amagansett was looking good. By Thursday I was checking the weather.