Its funny how our yesterdays soon becomes the good old days. Every now and then I take a fast glimpse back into the shadows of yesterday. It seems as I grow older, the past is what I think about most. My sister and I have always been close; and one day, over a cup of coffee, I ask her, "Do you know if Sam Polito is still alive?" She shrugged her shoulders, and replied, "No." How about Nick Senzotta? "Oh, she said sadly; Nick, and Charles Mancasso, were in a boating accident a few years back and drowned.
Sam, Nick, Tom, Gus, Bob and so many others; good friends all; and now all of them are reduced to nothing but blurred memories. Yet I can smile when I see their faces. I grew up in Rochester, N.Y. in a small Italian neighborhood. How well I remember grammar school, then junior high, and finally high school. Track, cross-country, and football were my favorites, and well as P.A.L. basketball. Ahh, these were all pleasant memories for me.
I suppose the reason my friends and I were so close was because our family lives for most of us were hard. Our father's physically abusing our mothers, and rarely showed us kids any love. But my mother, God bless her soul, did the best she could.
I recall, when eight years old; we were all sitting in the local theater; suddenly everyone began to scream and holler. Alarmed, my mother snatched my sister, and me by the arm, and ran outside. The first thing I saw were people laughing; some crying; as others danced, others were kissing, and hugging in the streets; most were throwing things into the air.
"Germany had surrendered!" Many of the families had their father's, sons, or brothers serving in the armed forces; mothers praying daily in church for their safe return. Families were on rationing; sugar, coffee, tires, gas, etc., but now the war was over, good news for everyone. People could begin to dream again, hoping to return to a normal life, and a new day.
The fifties were the most memorable for me. My first car, my first girl-friend, cruising down main street, radio at full volume; eyes darking back and forth, looking for someone to drag race with. I can now laugh about how our speeding tickets used to come in pairs, usually a week apart.
That $12.50 fine was a killer for us young kids. My first job paid $.65 cents an hour. Bread was 15 cents, milk 12 cents, hair cuts 25 cents; cokes .05 cents as were Hershey bars, and ice-cream cones.
Soon after High School graduation, my friends scattered like so many leaves in the wind. I joined the Marines, and soon lost track of most all of them. Now, some 55 years later I think of them again.
Recently I had located a few. Could hardly recognize them; only in their eyes could I see them as they were. When I met them, everything seemed so different. We sat at a coffee shop for a few hours and traded memories of yesterday. When we departed, a sadness come over me; I knew this would be the last time I would ever see them. I sit here writing this, cherishing the few minutes I spent with my old friends.
Not sure what I had expected when I met them after so many years? maybe, somehow hoping we could turn back the clock, and somehow recreate yesterday; you know, do it all over again. But alas; were all old men now; gray hair; a little shuffle to our walk; and a hesitation in our voices when someone should ask a question. Fading memories, but memories still.
Some 40 years ago, when I was living in Wilmington Delaware, I happened to turn the radio on and heard a man preaching the gospel. His name if I recall correctly was J. Vernon Magee. His voice reminded me of sandpaper scratching on wood, but his words stirred my soul. His message brought back memories, a time, when as a youngster, I attended a Catholic church. I recall so well the priest reading a few verses from the Bible before he began his sermon. Only this seemed to matter to me.
The service meant little; everyone; and everything seemed so cold, even the building itself The ritualistic ceremonies, the ringing of bells; people making the sign of the cross, holy water, confessions, communion, and burning of incense. The masses were in Latin, and bored me to death, because I understood none of it.
I do remember the poor old widowed women would shrug when they put their last 50 cents in the basket, especially in the war years. Money was scarce, and life was hard.
We never had a Bible in our home, none that I could remember. The things of God were unknown for the most part, but we kids did have a sense of right and wrong.
One day, I had turned the radio on, and J. Vernon Magee was speaking about God. His words sparked something inside of me that moved my spirit. His favorite saying was, "This is where the rubber meets the road," and these were words I did understand. It took another ten years before I took that first step to become a Christian. I was a skeptic at first; doubting, yet having many questions, and a great deal of curiosity. "Who was this person Jesus Christ that Christian's were always talking about?
My marriage some 50 years ago began on a rocky road, and ended on the same road, four kids, and 10 years later. Never did remarry. I often ask myself why? Could never figure it out, except I had a problem with staying in one place very long.
Both my parents have passed on; my dad was 72, and my mother 77. In 1992, I moved from N.Y. to Alabama, where I live now. Made my living painted homes for the next 16 years until I was 71. Have made only a few friends since moving here, and have fewer today.
My dear friend Nadine passed on some four years ago. Met her one morning in McDonald's, Sweet lady, lived in a retirement home, was always joyful, full of energy, and seemed to truly care about what I was up to. Nadine was a pleasure to be around, and at 80 + years was like a young school girl who was seeing the world for the first time. She died of cancer, but her smiling face is etched in my every thought. She will always be one of my most pleasant memories.
A few weeks ago another friend of mine, Mr. Robert Sizemore passed away, he was 78. He was only a few years older than me, but I had such great respect for the man, I always called him Mr. Sizemore. Every Thursday he and a lady friend would attend the senior dances. The last time I saw him, he was fishing off the pier in my back-yard.
Everyday that passes, I thank God for receiving me as one of His own. This web-site, and the information I can share with each and every one of you, blesses me greatly. It has turned out to be the single most important accomplishment of my life. My hope is to reach one person for Jesus Christ before He calls me home. Calls me to a place where there will be no more yesterdays, a place where only love, and hope live.
In my life, I have started and finished many count-down calenders. Grammar school high school, Marine Corp, and four countdowns when my wife became pregnant. Many times I sit around thinking, "Am I now on my last countdown calender? If not, what's next?
The kids don't call much any more, I guess like everyone else, their to busy. Funny, I can't seem to find any Christian's who want to come to my home, or who will invite me to theirs, and share the Scriptures with me. It seems, as soon as church lets out, they become strangers, unknown people, passing into the shadows of the week, only to appear again the following Sunday. I suppose their all to busy.
I can never remember being very happy; not for any extended period anyway. Nothing ever seemed right; something always seemed to be missing. How often I wander if it would be any different if I could go back, and try it all over again? Probably not!
It seems that this whole thing was a dream, and I am the only one left in it. I would like to paraphrasing a few verses from the Bible. "Oh that we were wise in our youth, that we could have understood, that we would have considered our later days."
If I should live another 10, or 20 years will I have learned to heed these words? "I don't know!"
Should we remember that our lives are as a passing season: do our eyes see anymore the good things? Those who knew me, will see me no more, for I will no longer be. A memory, a name on a tomb stone; a life swallowed up in time, joining those poor souls of yesterday in the dust of the ground.
But as long as I breath, the battle continues; the enemy takes no pity, his sword drawn, and ready to strike. The sword I hold in my hand is God's holy word; my strength lies in the Holy Spirit. We face a growing enemy, and fewer, and fewer true Christian warriors remain. Fewer than yesterday!
Thank God for His Holy Spirit, that light that is never extinguished. We have won the battle, therefore I do not fear death. As a bird on the wing, our lives vanish into the blue of the sky, never to be seen again.
Phil LaSpino www.seekfirstwisdom.com
Sam, Nick, Tom, Gus, Bob and so many others; good friends all; and now all of them are reduced to nothing but blurred memories. Yet I can smile when I see their faces. I grew up in Rochester, N.Y. in a small Italian neighborhood. How well I remember grammar school, then junior high, and finally high school. Track, cross-country, and football were my favorites, and well as P.A.L. basketball. Ahh, these were all pleasant memories for me.
I suppose the reason my friends and I were so close was because our family lives for most of us were hard. Our father's physically abusing our mothers, and rarely showed us kids any love. But my mother, God bless her soul, did the best she could.
I recall, when eight years old; we were all sitting in the local theater; suddenly everyone began to scream and holler. Alarmed, my mother snatched my sister, and me by the arm, and ran outside. The first thing I saw were people laughing; some crying; as others danced, others were kissing, and hugging in the streets; most were throwing things into the air.
"Germany had surrendered!" Many of the families had their father's, sons, or brothers serving in the armed forces; mothers praying daily in church for their safe return. Families were on rationing; sugar, coffee, tires, gas, etc., but now the war was over, good news for everyone. People could begin to dream again, hoping to return to a normal life, and a new day.
The fifties were the most memorable for me. My first car, my first girl-friend, cruising down main street, radio at full volume; eyes darking back and forth, looking for someone to drag race with. I can now laugh about how our speeding tickets used to come in pairs, usually a week apart.
That $12.50 fine was a killer for us young kids. My first job paid $.65 cents an hour. Bread was 15 cents, milk 12 cents, hair cuts 25 cents; cokes .05 cents as were Hershey bars, and ice-cream cones.
Soon after High School graduation, my friends scattered like so many leaves in the wind. I joined the Marines, and soon lost track of most all of them. Now, some 55 years later I think of them again.
Recently I had located a few. Could hardly recognize them; only in their eyes could I see them as they were. When I met them, everything seemed so different. We sat at a coffee shop for a few hours and traded memories of yesterday. When we departed, a sadness come over me; I knew this would be the last time I would ever see them. I sit here writing this, cherishing the few minutes I spent with my old friends.
Not sure what I had expected when I met them after so many years? maybe, somehow hoping we could turn back the clock, and somehow recreate yesterday; you know, do it all over again. But alas; were all old men now; gray hair; a little shuffle to our walk; and a hesitation in our voices when someone should ask a question. Fading memories, but memories still.
Some 40 years ago, when I was living in Wilmington Delaware, I happened to turn the radio on and heard a man preaching the gospel. His name if I recall correctly was J. Vernon Magee. His voice reminded me of sandpaper scratching on wood, but his words stirred my soul. His message brought back memories, a time, when as a youngster, I attended a Catholic church. I recall so well the priest reading a few verses from the Bible before he began his sermon. Only this seemed to matter to me.
The service meant little; everyone; and everything seemed so cold, even the building itself The ritualistic ceremonies, the ringing of bells; people making the sign of the cross, holy water, confessions, communion, and burning of incense. The masses were in Latin, and bored me to death, because I understood none of it.
I do remember the poor old widowed women would shrug when they put their last 50 cents in the basket, especially in the war years. Money was scarce, and life was hard.
We never had a Bible in our home, none that I could remember. The things of God were unknown for the most part, but we kids did have a sense of right and wrong.
One day, I had turned the radio on, and J. Vernon Magee was speaking about God. His words sparked something inside of me that moved my spirit. His favorite saying was, "This is where the rubber meets the road," and these were words I did understand. It took another ten years before I took that first step to become a Christian. I was a skeptic at first; doubting, yet having many questions, and a great deal of curiosity. "Who was this person Jesus Christ that Christian's were always talking about?
My marriage some 50 years ago began on a rocky road, and ended on the same road, four kids, and 10 years later. Never did remarry. I often ask myself why? Could never figure it out, except I had a problem with staying in one place very long.
Both my parents have passed on; my dad was 72, and my mother 77. In 1992, I moved from N.Y. to Alabama, where I live now. Made my living painted homes for the next 16 years until I was 71. Have made only a few friends since moving here, and have fewer today.
My dear friend Nadine passed on some four years ago. Met her one morning in McDonald's, Sweet lady, lived in a retirement home, was always joyful, full of energy, and seemed to truly care about what I was up to. Nadine was a pleasure to be around, and at 80 + years was like a young school girl who was seeing the world for the first time. She died of cancer, but her smiling face is etched in my every thought. She will always be one of my most pleasant memories.
A few weeks ago another friend of mine, Mr. Robert Sizemore passed away, he was 78. He was only a few years older than me, but I had such great respect for the man, I always called him Mr. Sizemore. Every Thursday he and a lady friend would attend the senior dances. The last time I saw him, he was fishing off the pier in my back-yard.
Everyday that passes, I thank God for receiving me as one of His own. This web-site, and the information I can share with each and every one of you, blesses me greatly. It has turned out to be the single most important accomplishment of my life. My hope is to reach one person for Jesus Christ before He calls me home. Calls me to a place where there will be no more yesterdays, a place where only love, and hope live.
In my life, I have started and finished many count-down calenders. Grammar school high school, Marine Corp, and four countdowns when my wife became pregnant. Many times I sit around thinking, "Am I now on my last countdown calender? If not, what's next?
The kids don't call much any more, I guess like everyone else, their to busy. Funny, I can't seem to find any Christian's who want to come to my home, or who will invite me to theirs, and share the Scriptures with me. It seems, as soon as church lets out, they become strangers, unknown people, passing into the shadows of the week, only to appear again the following Sunday. I suppose their all to busy.
I can never remember being very happy; not for any extended period anyway. Nothing ever seemed right; something always seemed to be missing. How often I wander if it would be any different if I could go back, and try it all over again? Probably not!
It seems that this whole thing was a dream, and I am the only one left in it. I would like to paraphrasing a few verses from the Bible. "Oh that we were wise in our youth, that we could have understood, that we would have considered our later days."
If I should live another 10, or 20 years will I have learned to heed these words? "I don't know!"
Should we remember that our lives are as a passing season: do our eyes see anymore the good things? Those who knew me, will see me no more, for I will no longer be. A memory, a name on a tomb stone; a life swallowed up in time, joining those poor souls of yesterday in the dust of the ground.
But as long as I breath, the battle continues; the enemy takes no pity, his sword drawn, and ready to strike. The sword I hold in my hand is God's holy word; my strength lies in the Holy Spirit. We face a growing enemy, and fewer, and fewer true Christian warriors remain. Fewer than yesterday!
Thank God for His Holy Spirit, that light that is never extinguished. We have won the battle, therefore I do not fear death. As a bird on the wing, our lives vanish into the blue of the sky, never to be seen again.
Phil LaSpino www.seekfirstwisdom.com
