Now that money and the ills of greed are headed south we’re seeing an increase of survey reports on the plain old-fashioned subject of happiness. Amazing ain’t it? Overly optimistic, but the truth is life’s best things are not expensive. Frankly, I’m in heaven when confronted by 4 inches of corned beef (mustard-covered) between two slices of rye bread at a Manhattan restaurant called the Carnegie Deli. A plate of fries, some half-sour pickles and a bottle of cream soda … life is good!
Beyond food there’s the sound of my daughter’s voice on the phone when she says, “Hi, Pop, how ya doin’?� My kid’s on her way to a Ph. D. at the University of Rhode Island; that voice is an angel’s choir to “Pop.�
Then there’s sunshine in New England, going back to the days when I was newly discharged from the army, dating Marge.
Marge Rommel was a wonderful lady, a schoolteacher from Ohio working a summer job on Cape Cod. Rommel. Sound familiar? Yup, she was distantly related to the late German field Marshall Rommel, aka “The Desert Fox� of World War II fame in the deserts of North Africa. Marge was a gentle and pretty lady. She played the ukulele, strumming and singing on the moonlit Cape beaches. That’s as close as I ever came to being Pat Boone; corny but wonderful.
Another Cape memory came from the back porch of my friend Mischa Richter’s house in Provincetown, just talking, exchanging thoughts with the maestro of New Yorker cartoonists. Cape Cod Bay was the backdrop accompanied by a symphony of seagulls and the tasty scent of fried clams drifting in from refreshment stands further down the beach. A week earlier some folks from the Smithsonian had dropped by to select some of his artwork for their permanent collection. Wonderful man, unforgettable moments on that porch. A happy time.
Sunshine glistening off the water after a swim, toweling dry, sitting down to that first beer; the scent of charcoal announces barbecue in the background and New England birds, beautiful critters with songs that cause smiles; I want to sing back but, hey, they’re too good for me.
My miracle of the butterflies! We had the luck of perfect timing on a Montauk beach in late summer. My friend Cheri and I witnessed the miracle of the Monarch butterfly migration, millions of them in a thin line, orange and black wings in a steady stream, endless, miles long. Pure joy to see and watch. We’d gone to get groceries at the Montauk supermarket to replenish the freezer chest; the beach was just beyond a berm at the parking lot. Set up a chess set on the sand and nature shouted, “showtime.� Couldn’t have been happier.
A step back in time places me at a glass panel in New York Hospital and the miracle of my daughter’s birth. November 1979 in New York Hospital, the Shah of Iran was being treated for cancer in their medical center as anti-Shah demonstrators rioted downstairs; the world was going to hell in a handbasket as the Ayatollah Khomeini took control of the Iranian nation but all was well with me, staring through that window at my Jennifer Catherine Lee, my miracle lying next to Meryl Streep’s kid Henry. A cartoonist’s daughter and the son of America’s classic film actress, turbulent times but pure happiness … . I can live with that, and those babies looked so happy.
Cartoonist Bill Lee lives in New York City and Sharon.
