Dedicated to Wm Thompson Ong, committed Obama campaign worker
Santa Monica, CA, January 20, 2009
Open verse to President Obama:
A Black man in the White House, Hallelujah
By Charlie Redner
(a northern, Caucasian who regretfully missed the “‘64 buses” headed south)
A Black man in the White House, Hallelujah
Hallelujah not because he’s Black but because he was elected by a white majority.
A Black man in the White House shows the world that this Nation may now claim
our ballot box colorblind.
A Black man at the helm of the most powerful Vessel in the world exclaims: Slave ships, out of our way -- we’ve been there, done that, and finally, finally we’re sailing on.
Here’s proof positive that Goodman, Chaney and Schwerner did not die in vain. A victory won over great pain, borne by all the Freedom Riders, and those for whom they fought.
Here’s proof positive that Doctor Martin Luther King Jr’s Dream has at last, long last, come true. His vision of a better land where little children can be judged by the content of their character and not the color of their skin has arrived.
Here’s proof positive that, not as the founding fathers scribed, but as attested this day: “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men (and women) are created equal.”
President Obama, the hopes of this Nation rest upon your shoulders as they did Washington and Lincoln -- a prayer that you prove your supporters right, and that your detractors discover they were wrong.
Please be a good President. Great, would be better!
God, Bless America.
Land of the Free and home of the Brave where we celebrate our first,
Black man to live and govern in the White House.
Hallelujah!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Happy 2009
Yeah! Two thousand and eight is going, going, gone! Good riddance -- now, on to make 2009 one of the best. Didn’t do a resolution list, but know what I’m after: Continued good health for me and mine; watch my portfolio grow back into positive territory; finish my Giardello bio project including the marketing, publishing and promotion of it. Research First Encounter and write same. Wishing you and yours, the best for the New Year.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Birth of A Christmas Carol
Christmas came on a Friday in 1868.
The Sunday School children of the Episcopal Church of Holy Trinity, on Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square, stood up at their special holiday service, and sang a little song. It was especially written for the occasion, by the pastor of the church and the organist. It was a simple Christmas song. Nobody expected it ever to be heard beyond the walls of Holy Trinity.
The children had rehearsed the song on the previous Sunday morning. “O, Little Town of Bethlehem,” it began, “how still we see thee lie.” This Christmas, the 140th Christmas since that day, hundreds of thousands of Christians and many creeds and languages will sing the carol that the children first sang at Holy Trinity. The Sunday School song that became a traditional carol was born in the upstairs rear apartment at 113 Walnut Street. That was the residence of the Rev. Phillips Brooks, rector of Holy Trinity. Mr. Brooks had just turned 33 on December 13, and was already pastor of an impressive 11-year-old church on fashionable Rittenhouse Square. He would go on to become bishop of the Diocese of Massachusetts and a leader of the Episcopal Church. He had just come back from a trip to the Holy Land. The sights and sounds of the actual location of the Christmas story were on his mind.
So was the upcoming Sunday School program. Mr. Brooks sat at his desk and began to write a poem. Perhaps, he thought, his organist, Lewis H. Redner, could write an appropriate melody for it. The song would have to be finished by the Sunday before Christmas, so the children could learn it. Four verses he wrote, picturing the everlasting light of the Nativity illuminating the dark streets of quiet Bethlehem.
He gave the poem to Redner, who said he would see what he could do. Redner was a real estate man, with an office at 735 Walnut Street. He was jolly, mustachioed bachelor. His friends called him “Bubbles.” He was known for donating peanuts in bushel quantities to the students of the Episcopal Divinity School, and for conducting midnight religious services for the employees of the Philadelphia Gas Works. On the Friday before the day for rehearsal, the rector asked his organist, “Have you ground out that music yet?
“No,” Redner replied, “but I’ll have it by Sunday.”
He kept thinking about it, but when he went to bed in his residence at 1711 Spruce Street, Saturday night, he still had no finished idea. “But I was roused from my sleep late in the night,” Redner wrote later, “hearing an angel strain whispering in my ear, and seizing a piece of music paper, I jotted down the treble of the tune as we now have it, and on Sunday morning, before going to church, I filled in the harmony. Neither Mr. Brooks nor I ever thought the carol or the music to it would live beyond that Christmas 1868.”
(This story was written by my friend, James Smart, for the Philadelphia Bulletin 12/22/68 on an anniversary of the carol. He called to ask me if I was related to Lewis Redner, and I was happy to report that he was my great, great uncle, according to family folklore.)
www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/o/l/olittle.htm
The Sunday School children of the Episcopal Church of Holy Trinity, on Philadelphia’s Rittenhouse Square, stood up at their special holiday service, and sang a little song. It was especially written for the occasion, by the pastor of the church and the organist. It was a simple Christmas song. Nobody expected it ever to be heard beyond the walls of Holy Trinity.
The children had rehearsed the song on the previous Sunday morning. “O, Little Town of Bethlehem,” it began, “how still we see thee lie.” This Christmas, the 140th Christmas since that day, hundreds of thousands of Christians and many creeds and languages will sing the carol that the children first sang at Holy Trinity. The Sunday School song that became a traditional carol was born in the upstairs rear apartment at 113 Walnut Street. That was the residence of the Rev. Phillips Brooks, rector of Holy Trinity. Mr. Brooks had just turned 33 on December 13, and was already pastor of an impressive 11-year-old church on fashionable Rittenhouse Square. He would go on to become bishop of the Diocese of Massachusetts and a leader of the Episcopal Church. He had just come back from a trip to the Holy Land. The sights and sounds of the actual location of the Christmas story were on his mind.
So was the upcoming Sunday School program. Mr. Brooks sat at his desk and began to write a poem. Perhaps, he thought, his organist, Lewis H. Redner, could write an appropriate melody for it. The song would have to be finished by the Sunday before Christmas, so the children could learn it. Four verses he wrote, picturing the everlasting light of the Nativity illuminating the dark streets of quiet Bethlehem.
He gave the poem to Redner, who said he would see what he could do. Redner was a real estate man, with an office at 735 Walnut Street. He was jolly, mustachioed bachelor. His friends called him “Bubbles.” He was known for donating peanuts in bushel quantities to the students of the Episcopal Divinity School, and for conducting midnight religious services for the employees of the Philadelphia Gas Works. On the Friday before the day for rehearsal, the rector asked his organist, “Have you ground out that music yet?
“No,” Redner replied, “but I’ll have it by Sunday.”
He kept thinking about it, but when he went to bed in his residence at 1711 Spruce Street, Saturday night, he still had no finished idea. “But I was roused from my sleep late in the night,” Redner wrote later, “hearing an angel strain whispering in my ear, and seizing a piece of music paper, I jotted down the treble of the tune as we now have it, and on Sunday morning, before going to church, I filled in the harmony. Neither Mr. Brooks nor I ever thought the carol or the music to it would live beyond that Christmas 1868.”
(This story was written by my friend, James Smart, for the Philadelphia Bulletin 12/22/68 on an anniversary of the carol. He called to ask me if I was related to Lewis Redner, and I was happy to report that he was my great, great uncle, according to family folklore.)
www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/o/l/olittle.htm
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Giardello statue announced
PHILADELPHIA (December 2, 2008) – Former middleweight champion Joey Giardello will be honored with a life-sized statue on East Passyunk Avenue in South Philadelphia in 2009.
This Sunday, December 7, 2008, a ceremony is scheduled for 11:00 AM to officially announce the statue project at the future site of the monument – the triangle of East Passyunk Avenue, South 13th Street, and Mifflin Street. Both the public and media are welcome to attend.
The December 7th event date commemorates the 45th anniversary of Giardello’s winning of the middleweight championship in 1963. At the event, Giardello will be remembered, the statue location will be dedicated, and refreshments will be served.
The statue project is a non-profit effort being conducted by a partnership between the Veteran Boxers Association – Ring One, the Harrowgate Boxing Club, and the Web site Philly Boxing History.com. 1st District Councilman Frank DiCicco cleared the way for the group to use the East Passyunk location and is supporting the project completely.
World-renowned artist Carl LeVotch has been commissioned to create the statue of Giardello. LeVotch is responsible for numerous artistic works throughout the world, including such boxing-related pieces as “The Spirit of Boxing”, “The End of the 9th”, and the “Briscoe Award.”
Giardello, who became champion by defeating Dick Tiger at Atlantic City’s Convention Hall, was born in Brooklyn but lived most of his life in South Philadelphia and Cherry Hill, NJ. Giardello passed away September 4, 2008.
This Sunday, December 7, 2008, a ceremony is scheduled for 11:00 AM to officially announce the statue project at the future site of the monument – the triangle of East Passyunk Avenue, South 13th Street, and Mifflin Street. Both the public and media are welcome to attend.
The December 7th event date commemorates the 45th anniversary of Giardello’s winning of the middleweight championship in 1963. At the event, Giardello will be remembered, the statue location will be dedicated, and refreshments will be served.
The statue project is a non-profit effort being conducted by a partnership between the Veteran Boxers Association – Ring One, the Harrowgate Boxing Club, and the Web site Philly Boxing History.com. 1st District Councilman Frank DiCicco cleared the way for the group to use the East Passyunk location and is supporting the project completely.
World-renowned artist Carl LeVotch has been commissioned to create the statue of Giardello. LeVotch is responsible for numerous artistic works throughout the world, including such boxing-related pieces as “The Spirit of Boxing”, “The End of the 9th”, and the “Briscoe Award.”
Giardello, who became champion by defeating Dick Tiger at Atlantic City’s Convention Hall, was born in Brooklyn but lived most of his life in South Philadelphia and Cherry Hill, NJ. Giardello passed away September 4, 2008.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Memory Keeper's Daughter
As research for my Down But Never Out bio of former middleweight champion, Joey Giardello and his Down syndrome son, Carman, I watched Memory Keeper's Daughter. The movie based on a book by Kim Edwards tells the story of a doctor who gives away his new-born baby daughter when he sees that she has Down syndrome. He tells his wife the baby died and they go on with their life raising the "normal" twin boy. I read the book some time ago and now must read again. It was based on a true story told to the author. Watch or read it and be prepared to cry.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
My wife need jewelry
A thought:
My wife needs jewelry
By Charlie Redner
My wife needs jewelry
But not like food and air.
No, no the wants much stronger there.
Her line between need and the desire
is infinitely closer than flame is to fire.
She follows the impulse to trade
or swapped the pin that somehow failed to inspire,
to exchange some earrings might be required.
A bracelet, a necklace, a ring or two
replaces the ones that now no longer do.
Will the search for gold and silver,
diamonds and pearls, ever cease?
This spouse can only hope that need and desire,
are distinguished some day,
one from the other, before we go broke, or I expire.
My wife needs jewelry
By Charlie Redner
My wife needs jewelry
But not like food and air.
No, no the wants much stronger there.
Her line between need and the desire
is infinitely closer than flame is to fire.
She follows the impulse to trade
or swapped the pin that somehow failed to inspire,
to exchange some earrings might be required.
A bracelet, a necklace, a ring or two
replaces the ones that now no longer do.
Will the search for gold and silver,
diamonds and pearls, ever cease?
This spouse can only hope that need and desire,
are distinguished some day,
one from the other, before we go broke, or I expire.
Monday, November 3, 2008
An eastern city man arrived in Old Pueblo
An eastern city man arrived in Old Pueblo to speak.
Will you read on if I utter what he professed to be,
or, least we judged, not to be?
I’ll take the chance -- a poet.
His name sounded like a south sea island,
Maui, or Bali, ahhh, no, no -- Mali.
Now, Mister Mali was a Letterman, more in the mode of the nighttime host than the singers or a campus jock.
His letters though, formed words that arrived in specific order.
An order that held one’s attention bound, bound as tightly as a body wrapped with duct tape smeared in super glue.
Words that moved -- or not.
Words that spun fasterthanSupermantryingtosaveLois,
where they arrived in a flash only to ricochet ‘round the head.
Words that -- c r a w l e d - in - s l o w - m o t i o n -- penetrating your mind a Technicolor, animated, Cinemascope, surround-sound, four-hour feature film.
On the spot he wrote a piece about a tractor guy,
then spoke of his Dad, the Yalie, who never attended the Ivy Tower of bushy presidents,but organized the keys to his glorious own universe.
Dining one night, Mali mentioned to his host how much he made teaching,while at the same time enlightening the clod how little -- money mattered when making a difference.
He told about tapping his dog on the snout, tough Love,
then heaping praise on a silly Lilly.
She a flower of an eighth-grade child who couldn’t,
but finally did, like, make up her mind.
Mali’s story about the student whose spell checker failed to correct and even added to the mess the boy made of his report entitled, A Tail of Two Tities, produced more unbridled laughter than the best-crafted,
perfectly delivered Leno monologue.
If, by chance, you were there -- you know of what I speak.
If not, then you may never appreciate this sentiment:
I just loved you, Taylor Mali. Thank you for sharing you.
And thanks, Society of Southwestern Authors for inviting an eastern city man to the Old Pueblo -- to thrill.
Will you read on if I utter what he professed to be,
or, least we judged, not to be?
I’ll take the chance -- a poet.
His name sounded like a south sea island,
Maui, or Bali, ahhh, no, no -- Mali.
Now, Mister Mali was a Letterman, more in the mode of the nighttime host than the singers or a campus jock.
His letters though, formed words that arrived in specific order.
An order that held one’s attention bound, bound as tightly as a body wrapped with duct tape smeared in super glue.
Words that moved -- or not.
Words that spun fasterthanSupermantryingtosaveLois,
where they arrived in a flash only to ricochet ‘round the head.
Words that -- c r a w l e d - in - s l o w - m o t i o n -- penetrating your mind a Technicolor, animated, Cinemascope, surround-sound, four-hour feature film.
On the spot he wrote a piece about a tractor guy,
then spoke of his Dad, the Yalie, who never attended the Ivy Tower of bushy presidents,but organized the keys to his glorious own universe.
Dining one night, Mali mentioned to his host how much he made teaching,while at the same time enlightening the clod how little -- money mattered when making a difference.
He told about tapping his dog on the snout, tough Love,
then heaping praise on a silly Lilly.
She a flower of an eighth-grade child who couldn’t,
but finally did, like, make up her mind.
Mali’s story about the student whose spell checker failed to correct and even added to the mess the boy made of his report entitled, A Tail of Two Tities, produced more unbridled laughter than the best-crafted,
perfectly delivered Leno monologue.
If, by chance, you were there -- you know of what I speak.
If not, then you may never appreciate this sentiment:
I just loved you, Taylor Mali. Thank you for sharing you.
And thanks, Society of Southwestern Authors for inviting an eastern city man to the Old Pueblo -- to thrill.
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