will the circle be unbroken

Mrs Pincus and I spent the first couple of years of our marriage living in a small townhouse apartment in Northeast Philadelphia. We had accumulated a small savings in the bank with regular deposits of our meager paychecks. One day, Mrs. P, who maintained and monitored our finances (because we certainly didn't want me taking on that responsibility, seeing as I have difficulty with any equation whose answer is more than double digits), brought up the possibly of purchasing a house. I was puzzled by the idea at first. After all, I was just 24 years old and buying a house was something that adults did. Even though we were married, I still viewed us as two crazy kids. For goodness sake, we still frequented Chuck E. Cheese, despite not having any children of our own. We attended performances of Disney on Ice. We even went to the circus in full clown make-up. Are these the kind of people who buy a house? Well... we would soon find out.

We did things in the proper order. We looked at a number of houses in Elkins Park, the suburban community where Mrs Pincus grew up. Elkins Park is a lovely little area known for its classic architecture, close proximity to public transportation and ridiculously high property taxes. After seeing a few potential homes, we chose one and made an offer... which was promptly accepted. Our next step was to gather all of the required forms and receipts and paycheck stubs and tax returns to prove to a financial institution that these two youngsters could be responsible for a mortgage. We submitted everything that was asked and we waited. Eventually, we were approved for a mortgage and we had to go to a big, sterile looking office to sign the final paperwork.

A young woman — a secretary — led Mrs. P and I to a room and we were offered seats at a large table. The secretary returned with a comically huge stack of paper, which she plopped down on the table's surface. She then informed us that the mortgage officer would be joining us momentarily. True to her word, the doorway was soon breached by an expressionless man in a very conservative business suit. (If I recall correctly, he resembled actor Joseph Maher, who portrayed a drunk airplane passenger in a Season Three episode of Seinfeld.) The man introduced himself as "Mr. Cassidy" and he extended his hand for the the obligatory shake. As Mrs. P shook Mr. Cassidy's hand, she smiled and proudly stated that we have a cat named Cassidy. (Our "beloved" pet was just one in a long line of cats that we would own whose names were inspired by the titles of Grateful Dead songs. Cassidy was a beautiful tabby cat with very distinct striped patterns on her sides. She had the disposition of someone with a perpetual toothache and she liked to sit on high shelves and push knick-knacks off to watch them shatter on the floor.) Our assigned mortgage officer — in his starched white collar and equally starched demeanor —was less than thrilled to hear about his feline namesake. With the exception of an ever-so-slight grimace, Mr. Cassidy did not acknowledge my wife's comment. Instead, he removed the top sheet of paper from the stack and pushed it in our direction, pointing our where we were to sign. This procedure was repeated over and over for the next 90 minutes until the stack of paper was reassembled in reverse order, now boasting the Pincus signatures on the majority of its pages. Mr. Cassidy thanked us, begrudgingly congratulated us and left the room. We were now officially members of that exclusive club and heretofore would be known as "homeowners."

Flash forward to today — forty years after two crazy kids signed on to become homeowners. Today, we were just approved for a home equity line of credit. This procedure differed greatly from the very tactile experience of gathering hard-copy documents to present to an actual face-to-face person at a desk in a brick-and-mortar bank. This time around in the age of the internet, electronic documents were uploaded to a secure website with instructions from faceless people working from various locations across several states. We were assigned a specific online portal with passwords and two-step verifications and several other security measures that weren't even dreamed of when we applied for our mortgage. During this application process, Mrs. Pincus received an actual phone call from an actual human being. In this rare case, she needed to clarify some minute piece of information that was previously submitted. The woman on the phone identified herself as "Cassidy" before proceeding to explain the reason for her call. Mrs. P laughed and interrupted. The woman asked what was funny.

Mrs P told her about our mortgage application. She told about the staunch gentleman who presided over the mass signature process on the day of closure. She told the woman on the phone — Cassidy — that the man's name was "Mr. Cassidy." Mrs. P explained that — at the time we had a cat named "Cassidy" and the little anecdote about name similarity did not amuse Mr. Cassidy in the least. The "Cassidy" currently on the phone, however, giggled. She said she thought the story was sweet. She even momentarily dispensed with any sort of financial conversation to find out more about the origins of the "Cassidy" name. Mrs. P was only too happy to expound on the Grateful Dead connection. She mentioned that the song "Cassidy" is a beautiful acoustic ballad that was rarely performed by the band (339 times as opposed to "Playing in the Band" which was performed nearly 700 times. This is for your benefit. These facts did not make it into the Mrs. Pincus/Cassidy phone exchange.) Cassidy thanked Mrs. Pincus for the information. She also said that she would seek out the song on YouTube during her lunch break. Quickly, the conversation switched back to the request of clarification of some financial document. Before the call ended, Mrs. P noted to Cassidy that our experience as homeowners had come full circle — beginning and concluding with a "Cassidy."

Our "Cassidy" — gone over thirty years — would be happy. She'd knock something expensive off a shelf in celebration. Then, she'd bite me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i'm beginning to see the light

We moved into our house on Labor Day weekend 1986. That's nearly forty years ago. In that time, I have changed a lot of light bulbs in our house. 

Every so often, when I am in the main bathroom in our house — or even when I just walk by the open doorway to the bathroom, I glance up at the odd ceiling fixture and I think: "I don't think I have ever changed that light bulb." Sometimes, I find myself staring at it for way too long, wondering..

1. How a light bulb can last so long. That bulb had to have been originally screwed in to its socket by the previous owners, the couple we bought our house from

2. If I do have to ever change that light bulb, how on earth will I get my hand up into the long glass shade to get the bulb out

3. Why am I pondering this light bulb non-dilemma when have to get to work?

... then, I just go about my business, often putting a little speed into my step because I wasted so much time unnecessarily contemplating a light bulb.

Just the other day,  I was in the bathroom getting ready to go to work. I was leaning over the sink, brushing my teeth, when the lights dimmed — ever so slightly — above my head. I stopped mid-brush and looked up. The lights seemed fine. I returned my attention to my dental hygiene, and, once again, the lights flickered. And then they flickered more. And then, with the sun outside not yet up at 5:20 AM, I was plunged into total darkness. I stopped what I was doing. I spit out the foamy toothpaste in my mouth and dropped my toothbrush in the sink... and I let out a long, exasperated sigh to myself.

Before heading to the basement to check on the Pincus utility closet's lightbulb inventory, I hopped up on the edge of the bathtub to determine if the light bulb really needed to be changed... like l'm some kind of licensed electrician. I leaned over precariously, keeping a firm grip on the shower rod to prevent Mrs. P's discovery of a nasty scene when she awakens a few hours from now. I carefully fitted my hand up into the glass shade protruding vertically from the bathroom ceiling. The opening was just big enough for me to get my hand inside, but it was difficult to employ the digital dexterity required to extract this light bulb from its socket. Determined, I slowly rotated the bulb with the tips of my fingers pressed against its smooth glass surface. It was a slow and tedious process, but I finally was able to turn it enough times so as to release its threaded base from the receptacle. The bulb dropped into my hand. After all, there was little space for it to drop any place else. I examined the bulb. The glass nearest the metal base was darkened, most likely from the burnt filament that had once proudly illuminated our bathroom for so many years. The spent bulb was marked 60 watts. I noted the size as I started for the basement.

Downstairs, I rifled through the shelves of extension cords and cleaning products until I located our stock of light bulbs. We had a full box of 100 watt bulbs, a partial box of 100 watt bulbs and a box where the size had been torn off, yet was identified as "40 watts" in black marker in my handwriting, something I must have done years ago but could not recall exactly when as I stood shirtless and barefooted in my pajama bottoms holding a burned-out light bulb at five-thirty in the morning.

Disappointed with the selection at hand, I chose a 40 watt bulb. I climbed the stairs back up to the bathroom. This time, I brought a chair from the living room to stand on, as I no longer trusted myself on the edge of the bathtub where I would be working like one of the Flying Wallendas without a net. With the same patience I used to remove the old bulb, I inserted the new bulb in a display of skill that was slightly trickier in reverse. The words of Ginger Rogers commenting on the extra effort she was forced to utilize when dancing with Fred Astaire suddenly came to mind. The task finally completed, I flicked the light switch and the room was once again bathed in light — 20 watts less than previous, but bathed just the same.

When I got home from work, I went upstairs to our third-floor office where my wife was busily listing items  in her eBay store (no, she won't sell your stuff for you). I related the tale of changing the light bulb to Mrs. P, asking if she thought the bathroom light seemed dimmer. Before she answered, she produced a 60 watt bulb from a nearby desk, where it had been sitting in reserve, just waiting for the bulb in one of our desk lamps to blow. I frowned, but took the bulb downstairs to install it in the bathroom fixture. I repeated the steps — slow turns and all — until the bathroom once more glowed in 60 watt luminescence.

Forty years went by without a change of light bulb in our upstairs bathroom. Today, I changed it twice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

think about your troubles

I live in a small suburb of Philadelphia, the sixth largest city in the United States. (We used to be fourth, until people started moving to Houston and Phoenix.) A filled-to-capacity Citizens Bank Park could hold over twice the amount of people who call Elkins Park home. I told you it was small. Elkins Park boasts some of the highest property taxes in the area. Surrounding municipalities have much lower taxes because of the amount of businesses in those areas. Elkins Park, however, has fewer businesses, thus higher taxes are employed to take up the slack. If the overly-discerning "powers-that-be" would allow more businesses to open, then perhaps our taxes would drop to a more reasonable level.

As Hamlet said: "Ay, there's the rub..."

Businesses and business owners in Elkins Park have an uncanny track record. So many have opened, floundered and eventually failed, despite their best efforts.

Wait. Did I say "best efforts?" I meant "no efforts."

In recent memory, it seems every new and hopeful business has followed the same business model. The first decision, after signing whatever necessary paperwork allowing a business to open, is "when should we be closed." There is a small area — catty corner to a train station on the regional rail line — that one would deem a veritable gold mine for any business, but, alas, the can only ring up sales if their doors are open. Most of the stores — a book store, a coffee shop, an Italian restaurant, a clothing boutique and "sort of" co-op — are closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. This is not a welcoming sight to those coming off the train after a long day at work, hoping to pick up a quick cup of coffee or a fast browse through the clothing racks  — on their walk home. Instead, foot traffic is subjected to locked doors and darkened windows. And these businesses wonder why they fail.

An ice cream store opened in this block adjacent to the train station. It was the perfect spot for an ice cream store. They had a walk-up window where one could order hot crepes along with the standard sundaes and pre-packaged frozen novelties. They had small tables set up on the sidewalk where you could relax while you enjoyed your dessert, perhaps sharing some conversation with a neighbor.

Except, this particular ice cream store opened its doors to customers in the middle of December 2018. Sure that particular winter was light on typical weather, but, nevertheless, opening an ice cream store six months before anyone is thinking about ice cream is not the best business decision. This was followed by more "head-scratching" decisions. Within weeks of opening, the ice cream store decreased its operating hours, cutting Mondays and Tuesdays off of its schedule. This adjustment caused the first blemish on their establishment. You see, the hours were etched into the top panel of their glass entrance door, just below their folksy-looking logo. To convey the change in hours to protentional customers, a blank piece of paper was taped over the top two etched lines of text. It looked terrible. Then, to make matters worse, one day the bottom glass panel erupted in a large spidery shatter with long cracks reaching out towards the metal door frame. The owners made the decision to never fix this.

Soon summer came and they were ready to face the real onslaught of the ice cream hungry public. They still kept their abbreviated hours, despite the change in season. They even began to open later in the day and lock up earlier — sometimes as early as 8 o'clock, right around the time folks would be finished dinner and ready to embark on a stroll around the neighborhood... perhaps for some ice cream. They changed their menu often and displayed their bill of fare with the all the elegance and care as someone offering guitar lessons or moving services to the patron of the corner laundromat. It was sloppy and dirty and unbecoming of a place that wants your business. It was a reflection of how much interest the owners really had in appealing to customers and making sure those customers returned often.

As their first summer came to a close, the ice cream store announced they would be closing for the winter. They posted a handwritten sign in their window thanking everyone for their support and a promise of reopening in March.2020. Well, we all know what happened in March 2020. The ice cream store reopened for a week before shutting down again, this time for an amount of time to be determined by a global pandemic. The ice cream store reopened later in 2020, with all sorts of safety measures in place — masks, touchless payments, social distancing, the whole shebang. The even had  a guy playing guitar and singing into a way-too-loud PA system to the two people seated at the sidewalk tables. 

They braved another winter and re-emerged at the start of 2021 with hopes of thriving as the pandemic slowly subsided. Then in April, the ice cream store announced that they would be shutting their doors for good at the end of May — but prior to Memorial Day weekend. They thanked their small loyal fanbase. They also offered the business for sale, promising to keep things  running until the final day.

They didn't. They have been closed since the first week of May, their lights out, their chairs stacked up on tables, their cracked front door locked tight. However, their Facebook page touts new milkshake flavors for this weekend as well as live music. 

The typical prospective Elkins Park business owner thinks owning a business involves opening your front door and watching the customers roll in. They do little promotion, little advertising and little caring. And — worst of all — they begrudge customers for not being customers. "After all I did!," they lament.

But — surprise! — they have rescinded their announced closing and will remain open for business. However, after posting their new business hours beginning June 1... their doors were locked tight on that date.

If you are considering opening an ice cream store (or any sort of business), just do the opposite of everything you just read. You're sure to be a success. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

baker street

See those bagels? Look good, huh? Well, they were. Very good, as a matter of fact. And my wife baked them from scratch. Here's how they came to be.

Ten weeks into this worldwide coronavirus quarantine, we are running out of things to do. We watched all the television shows. We watched all the movies. We went on all the walks. Every day. Every single day until the days began to run into each other, one indistinguishable from the next. 

In between these mundane and repetitious time killers, Mrs. P and I spend a good amount of time on social media... even when there is not a pandemic going on. Under the current circumstances, we find ourselves staring at small screens and large screens for long periods of time. I post my drawings and, lately, a succession of screenshots from old televisions shows featuring a well-known actor or actress in a very early role. (I figured I should put my excessive TV watching to some constructive use... if you call that constructive.) Mrs. Pincus checks Facebook to keep in touch, catch up and commiserate with friends. A few days ago (it may have been a week ago... or maybe a month), Mrs. P came across a simple recipe for bagels. At this point, it appears that everyone is baking some sort of bread or bread-type concoction. I see the pictures on Instagram. There are beautiful, rustic masterpieces of oven-browned works of art. Some have intricate designs etched into the outer crust. Others are deftly braided and glistening with an egg-washed shine. Then there are some that can only be identified as "bread" by the accompanying caption. 

Mrs. Pincus is an accomplished baker, turning out bakery-caliber specialties that have brought her regular praise at our annual "Night before Thanksgiving" dessert party. She mostly concentrates on baked goods of the sweet and dessert-y variety. The closest she comes to anything remotely bready is her renowned kamish broit, which is sort of a cookie biscotti... but not really. Kamish broit is sometimes called mandel broit or mandel loaf and it is a traditional Ashenaszi dessert with origins among Ukrainian peasants. Aside from flour, sugar, eggs and oil, additional ingredients can include almonds, walnuts or candied fruit. Mrs. Pincus loads hers with semisweet chocolate chips and they have been known to cause riots if there is not enough to go around.

Mrs. Pincus often gathers recipes that pique her interest, hoping to eventually make some a permanent addition to her repertoire. Baking bread has never interested her. She couldn't be bothered with yeast and proofing and rising and kneading and resting and all those other steps. (Yeah, I took the self-guided tour at the Boudin Sourdough Bakery attraction in Disney's California Adventure, so I know those terms have something to do with bread baking.) The bagel recipe, however, seemed to pride itself on being comprised of just five simple ingredients — flour, salt, baking power, Greek yogurt and eggs. Actually, since the eggs are just used for a topical egg wash, the number of actual "mixed-in" ingredients are reduced to four. All of the traditional methods associated with the age-old process of bagel-making are dispensed with! No yeast! No mixers with a dough hook attachment! No boiling! Mrs. Pincus was game.

Sunday afternoon, we gathered in the kitchen. Mrs. P allowed me to assist, an appointment that I took very seriously. In the two days in November that Mrs. P works tirelessly to crank out an overflowing table full of tempting desserts, no one is permitted in the  kitchen, lest they interrupt — or worse, get trampled — amid the baking ballet that my spouse has perfected.

I collected a canister of flour, a can of baking powder and a box of coarse salt from the cabinet. Mrs. Pincus extracted two eggs and a recently-purchased-just-for-the-occasion container of plain Greek yogurt from the refrigerator. She added a small pouch of sesame seeds and a shaker of "everything bagel" seasoning to our last grocery order. We were ready. A cup of flour was measured. Two teaspoons of baking powder were added. Three-quarters of a teaspoon of the coarse salt followed into the bowl. In a separate measuring cup, Mrs. P spooned a heaping spatula of Greek yogurt, adding small amounts until the level reached the "one cup" marking on the glass. While Mrs. Pincus blended these unlikely bread ingredients, I got my first on-the-job-training in cracking an egg. Following verbal instructions from my wife, I gingerly held the egg with the tips of my fingers and began awkwardly tapping it on the edge of the sink until a crack spread across its surface. I carefully pulled the crack wider until the yolk and cloudy albumen dropped into a waiting glass bowl. Then, with a fork, I whipped the yellow and white contents together and waited further instruction.

By now, the four ingredients in the mixing bowl had melded miraculously — and against all explanation — into a dead ringer for bread dough. Mrs. Pincus rolled a chunk of dough — by hand — into a rope and then attached each end to form a circle. She repeated this several more times until a greased baking sheet was evenly arranged with nine bagels awaiting their time in our oven. I brushed the top of each one with the beaten egg and then sprinkled them with bagel toppings — six with "everything" seasoning and three with sesame seeds only. 

After a twenty-five turn in the oven, Mrs. P donned a quilted mitt and withdrew a pan of golden bagels. They were beautiful little examples of baked nirvana (the blissful state, not the band.... unless your idea of bliss is Kurt Cobain's mournful growl, then, by all means....). She placed the baking sheet on our kitchen counter for the recommending cooling time. As the temperature dissipated, we marveled at the little round, sesame and poppy-topped comestibles. When a suitable cooling period has passed, my wife broke one of the bagels in half and handed me a piece. I popped it in my mouth. It was absolutely delicious! I am not just saying that because my wife baked it. It was sincerely delicious! It was on a level of any commercially-produced bagel I had ever eaten. Seriously! While we enjoyed outr first taste of their magical bready goodness, my wife quickly mixed up another batch and and placed them in the oven. I called my son to tell him how good they were. My wife put five on a plate to bring to her parents. Plans were already in the works for the next time these bagels would be made. We saved the remaining bagels to accompany our dinner over the next few nights.

After dinner, we settled in front of another screen — the television — to find something to watch for the evening. As per usual, we settled on something that would not need our undivided attention. Mrs. P scanned Facebook, proudly posting pictures of the bagels that she had baked, explaining that they only required five ingredients. Well, the internet being what it is, its never ending mission to outdo anything you may have just read, someone else posted a recipe that only uses two ingredients! How can this be possible? We were doubtful that bagels could be made with five ingredients considering that none of those ingredients were yeast! But, come on, two ingredients? This is nuts! Mrs. Pincus clicked the link and read on. Within a second or two, she emitted a disappointed exhale. It seemed the two ingredients are plain Greek yogurt and self-rising flour. And what exactly is self-rising flour? Why, it's flour that already contains salt and baking powder! Oh, the internet!

Anyway, here's the recipe that we followed. And, no, this has not become a baking blog.

Five Ingredient Bagels

Ingredients

1 cup (5 oz) unbleached all-purpose flour (whole wheat or gluten-free mix can be used)

2 teaspoons baking powder

3/4 teaspoon coarse salt (kosher salt)

1 cup non-fat Greek yogurt (not regular yogurt, but non-dairy Greek yogurt can be substituted)

1 egg white, beaten (a whole egg can be used)

optional toppings:

everything bagel seasoning, sesame seeds, poppy seeds, dried garlic flakes, dried onion flakes

Instructions

Preheat oven to 375°F. Place parchment paper on a baking sheet. Spray parchment with oil to avoid sticking. In a medium bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt and whisk well. Add the yogurt and mix with a fork or spatula until well combined, it will look like small crumbles. Lightly dust flour on a work surface and remove dough from the bowl, knead the dough a few times until dough is tacky, but not sticky, about 15 turns (it should not leave dough on your hand when you pull away). Divide into 4 equal balls. Roll each ball into 3/4-inch thick ropes and join the ends to form bagels. (or you can make a ball and poke a hole in the center then stretch it slightly) Top with egg wash and sprinkle both sides with seasoning of your choice. Bake on the top rack of the oven for 25 minutes. Let cool at least 15 minutes before cutting.  (We made smaller bagels and got nine out of this recipe.)

I guess we'll be churning our own butter next.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

splendid isolation

This is weird. Very weird.

Like many people worldwide, I am working from home... except I am working from home for the first time in my 30+ tenure in the workforce. Honestly, it is very disorienting, but I am slowly getting used to the situation. For twelve years, I worked in the marketing department of a law firm. When I would arrange and take time off for a vacation, my supervisor would throw herself into a panic in the weeks and days before my scheduled time off. I argued that the graphic designer couldn't possibly hold this much importance in a law firm. Often I would ask if I could work from home, something I felt was totally feasible with an internet connection. I was regularly told that it was impossible and my request was denied. I don't work there anymore.

Well, here I am... two weeks into a mandatory "work from home" situation set in place by local jurisdictions to combat the potential spread of the volatile COVID-19 pandemic. Although my current job is very "hands-on," I am working from home.

Unfortunately, there is very little work. My employer is very reliant on the trade show industry and since trade shows (and other public gatherings) are being canceled left and right... well, there is very little to do. At the end of the work day on March 12, 2020, an ominous office-wide email went out, the contents of which gave instructions to all employees to take their computers home with them. "Work from Home" would begin the next morning... like it or not.

To maintain as much "normalcy" as possible, I still wake up at 5:30 in the morning, like I always do. I wake up so early because I work approximately forty miles away. My commute, depending on traffic, is a little over an hour on some mornings. However, now that I'm working from home, my commute is about thirty seconds, or as long as it takes me to walk downstairs to my dining room table. But still, I wake up when I am used to waking up and I get dressed like I'm going to work.

I get a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal and I watch a few episodes of The Andy Griffith Show — as is my usual morning ritual. Now, because the traffic is much lighter, I can watch My Three Sons, The Beverly Hillbillies and an episode of Leave It to Beaver and still be on time for work. At 8:30, I send an email to my boss, letting him know that I am ready and anxious to tackle any work that may come our way. Almost immediately, I receive a reply from my boss to say: "Thanks." Then I don't hear from him again until 5:30 when his email wishes me a "good evening," echoing our daily parting words when we are at our office. We had one meeting via Microsoft Teams that was awkward. Our weekly, 30-minute production meeting, conducted as one big conference call, lasted about four minutes.

My "work day" now is taken up with more television watching. I have seen every episode of Friends, Family Affair, Petticoat Junction and Father Knows Best. Some of them multiple times. I have scrolled through countless posts on Instagram and Twitter, adding mindless silly comments where I probably would have been better off keeping my thoughts to myself. I have drawn pictures of dead celebrities that I will add to my illustration blog in the coming weeks. I have watched several concerts on my phone. Performances by artists confined to their own homes, trying to release pent-up energy squashed by canceled tours. In the late afternoon, I take a daily walk with my wife. We respect the new normal of "social distancing" from our neighbors, but, as the days go on, there are fewer and fewer people from which to "social distance."

This time at home has a melancholy feel to it. I hate being non-productive. Sure, the are some Saturdays where I don't change out of my pajamas for the entire day. But that's what Saturdays are for. I don't like sitting day after day and doing almost nothing... especially when I am used to doing something. It reminds me of, a few years ago, when I lost my job. Every morning, after scouring and applying to every relevant job posting on the internet, I sat on my sofa and watched television. I rarely paid attention to what I was watching. And I hated it.

So, now I have a new job and some disease is disrupting my daily routine with no ending point in sight. We are trying to stay optimistic. We are trying to look forward to the day when we can go back to work and we are trying to brush away visions of Will Smith walking through a deserted city in I Am Legend.

At least I'm trying.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

in this house that I call home

After two years of marriage and two years of paying rent in an apartment, Mrs. Pincus and I bought a house in the small Philadelphia suburb of Elkins Park. The house, a three-story, six-bedroom twin, was just a few blocks from Mrs. P's parents' house, the sprawling residence where Mr.s P grew up. 

Ripped from the headlines

My mother-in-law had been scanning local newspapers ever since my wife casually expressed an interest in purchasing a house. She spotted a small ad in the Classified Real Estate section of the Montgomery County Times-Chronicle offering a "Spacious stone Twin. Elegantly refurbished. 1 block to train, shopping, school." There was a phone number, but no address. My mother-in-law (with, obviously, a lot of free time), scanned each and every page of the modest Elkins Park phone book until she located an address to match the published phone number. My wife covertly drove past the house-in-question like a former girlfriend stalking the cause of a bad break-up. She eyed the place up and concluded that it was a good fit for us... at  least from the outside.

Then, my wife called the number. There was no answer. She called again and again at regular intervals, but there was still no answer, no matter what the time of day. Finally, the next day, her eleven billionth phone call was answered. Her inquiry about the house was met with a bit of hesitancy. The man on the phone – the house's owner – informed us that the home would not be officially shown until Saturday. We made sure that we would be the first ones there on Saturday morning. And indeed we were. The house was perfect – filled with charm and character and fortified with apparent solid construction. We offered the asking price and it was accepted. A few nights later, we found ourselves sitting in our future dining room, signing an Agreement of Sale with the current owners. We packed up our little Northeast Philadelphia apartment and moved into our new home on Labor Day weekend 1986.

Over the course of 33 years, my family seemed to have accumulated a load of stuff. And while we do have a spacious home (as the original newspaper offering promised and delivered), we managed to fill it up to near-capacity. As my wife and I approach our 60s, we decided that it is time to purge. We enjoyed our various collections displayed throughout our house. But, as they say: "You can't take it with you." Last year, when I unceremoniously lost my job, the incentive to "clean house," as it were, became more imminent. Plus, I was determined not to leave a houseful of shit for my son to sort through, as my parents so thoughtfully left for me. We have always sold the occasional household item that we no longer needed or that certain collectible that had been replaced by one in better condition. But, in the immediately desperation of not knowing what the uncertain employment future held for a 57-year old artist, we began to seriously concentrate on thinning out our accrual. We started with our massive Disney collection and never looked back. For months and months, my wife and I sat side-by-side and listed the thousands of items that comprised our 30+ year collection in her eBay store. Soon, we were reassessing everything in our house, trying to determine whether or not we really needed it. Things that were deemed "eBay-worthy" went that route. Items that didn't make the cut were stored on our back porch for inclusion in our yearly yard sale... one of which we staged just this past Saturday.

Early on Saturday (and I do mean "early'), we filled our humble front lawn with, what we hoped to be, someone's new treasures. Happily, many folks came and perused the items strewn across our grass, obviously enticed by the 100 or so signs we tacked to utility poles throughout our neighborhood.

Around noon, an older woman ascended the two cement steps that lead from the sidewalk to our front walkway. She was accompanied by a woman about my own age. The older woman approached me, ignoring the plethora of items lining her path. She was focused on me and not interested in any of our household cast-offs. She stood before me, gestured towards my front porch and asked, "Do you live here?"

"Yes, I do." I answered.

She smiled and maybe even choked back a tear as she continued. "I used to live here. I grew up here and I was married right in the living room." She pointed to the younger woman and said, "My niece grew up here, too." She went on to explain that she got excited when she saw our yard sale ad on Craig's List and recognized the address immediately. She continued on, saying that she grew up in my house in the 1940s, eventually getting married in a small ceremony held in my living room. She implied that her husband was no longer in the picture (either a break-up or death – this was not made clear) and when her sister passed away, her sister's young daughter came to live in the house with her aunt and grandmother. They sold the house in 1980 when the niece (the younger woman by her side) graduated from high school. The house was sold to the couple that Mrs. Pincus and I bought it from. The woman cheerfully related many anecdotes about her childhood in my house, punctuating her stories with questions about accouterments and amenities of the house and if we still kept them in tact. I was treated to a lengthy session of reminisces, including a very cool tale of the woman who lived next door in the 1950s – a mother of three – who jumped to her death from a second story window. I noted that a story like that is usually a deterrent to a potential buyer, but for me, that would be a selling point. After a while, I uncharacteristically offered the inevitable. I welcomed the pair into my house as a trip down the Pincus version of "Memory Lane." 

Leaving my wife to tend to customers on her own (which, with my meager level of help, was a fairly simple task), I took the two women on a tour of their childhood in the current guise of Chez Pincus. Curiously, as we entered my house, the older woman mentioned that she was glad to see that we had not changed anything in the dining room. Puzzled, I ask how she knew that. She sheepishly admitted to reviewing my wife's Facebook photos, using the yard sale post as her entrance. She saw pictures from the phenomenal spread my wife puts out at our annual Thanksgiving Dessert Party. 

The two women grew huge smiles as they looked around my living room, examining the fireplace mantel, the locks on the windows, the original cast-iron radiators. If I didn't know otherwise, I would have thought they were casing the place for a planned burglary. As we moved into the dining room, they caressed the tiny crystal pulls on the louver-doors to our built-in china closet and gazed misty-eyed out the windows that reveal our backyard. In the kitchen, they marveled at the rearranged appliances. The couple from whom we purchased had done extensive remodeling in the six short years they occupied the house. The older woman pointed out that the small attached extension behind the kitchen was referred to, by her family, as "the outside kitchen." We just call it "the back porch." The basement was the biggest shocker to the two women. In the early 1990s, we remodeled our basement as an alternative to moving, transforming a cement-floored, purely utilitarian storage space into a close approximation to a 50s-era diner, complete with a vintage Formica table, black & white checkered floor, vinyl booth seating and a working pinball machine and Q-Bert video cabinet. They remembered a confusing (and somewhat spooky) series of doors and closets making up the dark basement, the younger woman confessing her fright at the thought of going down there alone. It was in stark contrast to the now brightly-lit space, the faux-tiled walls decorated with numerous autographed and framed photos of various levels of celebrities. In the laundry room, I was told that the closet where we currently keep detergent and the small collection of basic household tools we own, was used by the older woman's family as a food pantry.

Floored!

We headed back upstairs so my charges could see the second and third floors. The older woman stopped to examine a small crevice alongside the banister where she hid small objects as a child. I assured her that nothing would be there anymore, as the mother-daughter team who clean our house probably made off with any trinkets they discovered – that weren't long-forgotten cat toys. Once on the second floor, my guests jogged their collective memories as they scrutinized the moldings at the base of the walls, the fixtures in the bathroom and the unique push-button and turn-knob light switches. They waved off my apologies of not having the made the bed or the state of disarray in the room that previously housed our Disney collection. They were excited to see that we had preserved the beautiful linoleum floor. I told them that we loved that floor, inlaid with muted color nursery rhyme scenes and game boards, from the moment we saw it on our initial tour of the house. Also, it would be impossible to move and would probably crumble if the attempt was made. Moving into the top-floor bathroom, our claw-foot bathtub brought smiles to their faces as did the red-velvet upholstered chair perched under the window (my own addition to the retro "theming" in our house), a prize rescued piece from my grandparents' Philadelphia antique store by way of my parents' living room. And against my better judgement (with Mrs. P's mortified voice in my head), I even opened the door to a walk-in closet that's filled with a jumbled assortment of eBay items, our luggage, a surplus of all-occasion wrapping paper and stuff for the next yard sale.

Roll up!

Our tour completed, we made our way back downstairs and outside to join the yard sale festivities once again. The two women were grateful and appreciative of my hospitality. I was actually surprised that I was so accommodating. It was so unlike me. The older woman told me that she enticed her niece, who was visiting from her current New York City home, with the promise of a mystery trip to a mystery location. I never imagined or even considered that my home would feature in someone's fond memories – other than those with the last name of Pincus, of course.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the next voice you hear

At the end of the summer, my wife's trusty Toyota 4Runner finally gave out. After sixteen years of reliable, nearly maintenance-free service, it just couldn't proceed anymore. With over 160 thousand miles tallied on its odometer, accumulated on countless journeys, it was the final few miles of a return trip from Slaughter Beach, Delaware that finally did the dependable vehicle in. The non-specific "check engine" light glowed ominously until our mechanic revealed the old workhorse was in need of a new transmission, a costly repair for a car that was pushing two decades on the road. Totally taken off-guard, we made the reluctant decision to purchase a new car. 

Jane! Stop this crazy thing!

On Labor Day, we drove over to our local Toyota dealer, the same one where we purchased our last three cars, including my 2004 RAV4 that sat almost dormant for the 12 years I took the train to work. Once in the showroom, we were approached by the same salesman that sold us our Previa minivan when our 31-year old son was a toddler. The salesman, in typical salesman fashion, told us he remembered us. (He did not.) My wife had done some online research prior to our arrival and reserved a 2018 RAV4 (in red) for herself. Our salesman led us out to the lot and we all climbed inside this shiny-new, pumped-up version of my car – fourteen years newer and chock full of technological enhancements that weren't even considered when my car was easing its way down the assembly line. There was a back-up camera and blind-spot indicators and beeps and dings and other assorted noise that alerted the driver to critical circumambient happenings, as though it was the command center on a NASA rocket launch.

We made our purchase, signed and initialed a bunch of papers and soon, Mrs. P was presented with a giant plastic key fob emblazoned with the Toyota logo. It was explained that the car did not require a key to start the engine. The dashboard sported a lighted button that fired up the engine when pushed, as long as the driver had the fob somewhere on his or her person. My wife joked that she went from driving the Flintsone's car to driving the Jetson's car.

The most important update on the hulking dashboard, of course, was the sophisticated sound system. This computer-operated, digital-displayed system integrated Bluetooth technology, HD radio and the Sirius XM satellite subscription radio. With 30 optional pre-set stations and a large screen displaying a wide variety of information, this system was, at first, overwhelming to those of us who considered an in-dash cassette deck to be hot stuff. Although it wasn't officially presented to us, we found out that with our purchase, we received a free, three-month, trial subscription to Sirius XM satellite radio. Sure, it was cool, but we really only listen to one terrestrial radio station in the Philadelphia area – the one that, bias aside, employs our son. However, free is free, so we gave it a cautious shot. First we discovered a channel that plays only big band and swing classics from the 1940s. My wife and I are huge fans of the music of that era. A little more scouting around unveiled a channel that played only Beatles tunes. Then one that plays early New Wave songs from the early 80s. Then a Billy Joel only channel, hosted by the Piano Man himself. Then, Mrs. Pincus stumbled upon the Grateful Dead channel and it was as though the red carpet to the Pearly Gates were just rolled out for her. A scenario that included twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week of Jerry Garcia and his psychedelic pals was the clincher. Mrs. P was officially spoiled.

After enjoying weeks and weeks of Sirius XM, the pending end of the trial period loomed large. The regular price of continuing the service was outrageous, as was affirmed by a number of emails reminding us of the termination of the free subscription. However, the longer we waited to make a decision, the sweeter the deals became. First, Sirius started dropping the price a little bit with each email. Then, the length of time of the proposed subscription was extended. Then, a combination of lower price and longer time period. Sirius didn't want us to leave, so they finally took a page from the Don Corleone playbook and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. My wife opened an email that enticingly put the price at fifty bucks for six more months and they'd throw in a free Amazon Echo Dot, something with which were were only vaguely familiar and were pretty sure we didn't need. But, we took the offer and we took the free Echo Dot and within two days I found myself setting up this little lighted hockey puck that plugged into the wall.

Talk to me.

Two years ago, we made a major leap into the world of advanced entertainment technology. We bought – not one – but two high-definition flat-screen televisions and signed up for the magical X1 service from Xfinity Cable. The new system came with a sleek black remote control that would respond to voice prompts. I felt kind of stupid talking to a piece of plastic, especially if I was asking to see the latest episode of Sam and Cat. I use the feature infrequently, as there are many other options to make the television do the exact same thing. Honestly, I feel more comfortable pressing a series of buttons than telling the remote what I want to watch... especially when I am by myself. Now, we have a new gadget in the house that is operated by voice commands. Granted, it was essentially free, but we still felt obligated to use it. (Actually, Mrs. P wanted to sell it on eBay, but I thought it would be cool and convinced her to keep it.)

The future is now.

Following the brief, simple set-up, our new Amazon Echo Dot was ready to heed our every command. According to write-ups and explanations about the Echo Dot's capabilities, it could control our television, control our house lights, operate and set our burglar alarm, lock our doors, adjust the heat, see who is knocking at our front door, answer our phone and a plethora of other time-saving duties. But, none of those things in our house are compatible with or equipped for the state-of-the-art technology of the Echo Dot. Instead, we are limited in its potential. Disappointed that our home was not immediately transformed into the Monsanto House of the Future (on display in Disneyland from the late 50s until the late 60s), we were relegated to having the Amazon Echo Dot perform a few amusing tricks. At this point, it was a novelty, like a little trained seal that can do a bit more that balance a beach ball on its nose. Activated by starting each command with "Alexa" (the so-called "wake word"), we get a daily report on the news, the weather, what are our choices for the evening's television viewing and other basic information. We have asked "Alexa" various trivia questions like who played a particular character in a movie or in what year did a certain event occur – questions that could easily have been answered by a few taps on our omnipresent cellphones. We have installed several "skills" (Echo's version of "apps") that allow "Alexa" to tell us daily celebrity birth and death anniversaries. We can also have "Alexa" provide musical entertainment via WXPN (our favorite radio station) or even through our new Sirius subscription. We discovered that "Alexa" can tell jokes, sing songs and recite poems all in her pleasant, weirdly-inflectioned, otherworldly female timbre – somewhat unnervingly reminiscent of HAL 9000.

"Alexa, hi."

To be honest, we are enjoying our time with "Alexa." For the first week, my wife was determined to change "Alexa"'s name to "Janet," after the adorable and obedient android on the quirky TV series The Good Place, to no avail. (The device is pre-programmed to respond to either "Alexa," "Computer" or "Echo" exclusively.)

Resigned to the fact that a name change is impossible, Mrs. Pincus is now focused on trying to get "Alexa" to say "fuck."



www.joshpincusiscrying.com

boy, you gotta carry that weight

I am fascinated by technology. I remember when we got our first color television, the annual network showing of The Wizard of Oz took on a whole new excitement. When I was in high school, my family got a VCR complete with a hard-wired remote that my father would monopolize, as he fast-forwarded the boring parts of DeathWish 3 to watch Charles Bronson shoot the bad guys over and over again.

In the late 80s, I was totally awed when my boss at the small graphics studio where I worked purchased a fax machine. Oh my God! This was the coolest thing I had ever seen. Way cooler that a Xerox machine. Little did I know, that facsimile technology would be obsolete before too long. Then came computers and modems and flash drives and on and on and on. But just this week, I discovered a piece of technology that is so ingenious that all of those aforementioned things pale in comparison.

I found out long ago.
It's a long way down the holiday roast.

Thirty or so years ago, when Mrs. P and I moved into our house, we purchased a chest freezer. To this day, I'm not sure why it was an immediate purchase for our new abode, but it proved pretty convenient as it sat nestled in a corner of our basement next to the washing machine. We stocked it with all sorts of stuff. We had a few free turkeys obtained by collecting supermarket receipts around Thanksgiving time. We had a big box of fruit-flavored sherbet that came in little fruit-shaped serving dishes. I'm pretty sure we lost interest in eating them after two or three, but at least we had a giant freezer in which they were kept rock solid. We had just purchased a number of difficult-to-find Gardein® vegetarian holiday "roasts" and when I went to put them in our old reliable freezer, I noticed that the bottom was covered with a wall-to-wall sheet of ice about an inch thick. A few frozen chickens that my wife had been storing where imprisoned in the ice, telling me that it had thawed and refrozen a few times. Well, after thirty-plus years, it appeared that our trusty, workhorse freezer — silently and without warning — gave out.

My wife began searching the internet, as it was without question, that we needed a new freezer. We had become spoiled (as spoiled as those thawed chickens) by having an additional fifteen cubic-feet of frozen storage space in our house. She settled on a smaller model and we ventured out to a nearby Best Buy to make our purchase.

Mrs. Pincus spoke with a sales representative (who, curiously, didn't budge from his chair behind a desk), while I opened and closed the doors of several $2600 refrigerators on display, wondering if a $2600 refrigerator keeps food colder that the one we had at home. Mrs. P picked out a freezer, paid and arranged for free delivery for the weekend and we left. The whole transaction took about twenty minutes. We returned home and cleared a path in the basement to make removal of our old freezer easier for the delivery crew. I remember when Freezer Number One was delivered, the delivery guys were exasperated by the steep, narrow steps that lead from our backyard to our basement, with those steps ending at an even narrower doorway.

For reference only

Well, Saturday rolled around and, at the appointed time, a truck pulled up in front of our house. Two guys (one who looked like veteran character actor Hector Elizondo and a younger fellow who looked like my friend Steve's son Peter) bounded out. Hector came up to our front door clutching a clipboard. We instructed him that the only access would be through the outside basement door. He walked around back and I went downstairs to meet him at the basement door. He assessed the layout, smiled, nodded and went to fetch his partner. The first task would be to remove our out-of-commission freezer. They quickly returned. Within seconds, Hector had our wooden basement door off its hinges. Peter began arranging an unfamiliar apparatus around his shoulders and torso. The two-man team slid two long cloth straps underneath the freezer. Hector took up the slack and hooked the ends of the straps in a similar fashion around his shoulders. With little to no effort, the two men lifted that enormous freezer up off the floor. They easily guided the dead appliance up the narrow stairs with nary a kvetch or a grunt, effortlessly guiding it lightly with their hands so it didn't hit the walls. The freezer just barely swung in its little hammock suspended between these two men. In a few minutes, they returned with our new freezer, snugly fitted into its little cloth harness. They had it down the steps and placed in its waiting basement corner in under two minutes. Mrs. Pincus signed on the dotted line to confirm delivery and Hector snapped a picture on his cellphone confirming the same.

Happy lifting!

Those straps, I later discovered after a Google search, are called "shoulder dollies" and are readily available for purchase on Amazon. The many listings for them show Mr. and Mrs. Average Couple easily hoisting a huge clothes dryer with this thing threaded over their shoulders. They both are smiling as though they are holding a puppy. Best of all, this clever invention costs under thirty bucks and requires no electricity or lengthy set-up. Just a few twists and wraps, and you can lift (as Hector informed us) up to 700 hundred pounds. Technology doesn't always have to involve an internet connection, a three-prong electrical adapter or even a set of multi-blade screwdrivers. Sometimes it's a simple "why didn't I think of that?" solution to everyday challenges. But, honestly, I don't know if the need for "shoulder dollies" will ever present itself to me.

But I am glad I know about them.... just in case.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

closing time

For our second date, the future Mrs. Pincus took me to her parent's store in the rural town of Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania. Gilbertsville was a place that time had forgotten. Just an hour west of Philadelphia, the fifth largest city in the country, Gilbertsville was a tiny farming community inhabited by characters from a John Steinbeck novel — folks that can only be accurately described as "salt of the earth." The men were weathered and grizzled, with far less than the standard adult issue of teeth. Most were clad in well-worn overalls caked with and stinking of farm animal excrement. The womenfolk were meek and reserved, dressed as though they were the stand-by female model for Grant Wood's "American Gothic." And, for some reason, they cowered behind their spouses. This was 1982 and when these people said they were headed to "The City," they meant Reading, Pennsylvania. They'd never set foot in Philadelphia. You could get murdered there.

This populace comprised the customer base of my future in-law's store — an amalgam of hardware, housewares, novelty items and anything on which my father-in-law thought he could turn a quick profit. The store was one of many that occupied Zern's Farmer's Market, a weekend-only commerce center that was a regular gathering place for the aforementioned locals for almost a century. Alongside the store was an array of vendors that offered fresh produce (well, fresh at least until early evening on Saturday), unusual configurations of processed meat identified on hand-written signs by angry-sounding Teutonic names, prepared food (like the popular chicken gizzards in a Styrofoam cup of, what appeared to be, motor oil), as well as sturdy, double-stitched clothing suitable for plowing the fields and a wide assortment of antiques, curios, collectibles and what-nots. But Zern's was more than just a place to buy things. It was a social outing, along the lines of a square dance or a barn raising. (I'll have you know that I refrained from saying "cross burning" as a second example, so I'm pretty proud of myself.)

Mr. and Mrs. Hardware
in their natural habitat.

How am I so intimately familiar with Zern's Farmer's Market? Well, by my third date with Mrs. P, I was working there. That's right. This naive kid from Northeast Philadelphia, who got lost outside of the comfortable boundaries of the city limits was now employed as a stock boy under the tutelage of my soon-to-be father-in-law. In addition to a concession in Zern's Farmer's Market, my father-in-law owned a stand-alone store directly across the street from Zern's that was open an extra day longer than the market. Here he sold, what he referred to as "the serious hardware" — professional-grade trowels and hammers and other implements of construction with which I was not familiar at the time but would come to be well acquainted. Despite years of experience in other retail establishments, I was not permitted to operate the cash register. That privilege was enjoyed by only one person and his name was emblazoned on signage throughout the store. Instead, I was relegated to schlepping cartons of merchandise from the storage area — a large, dirty, poorly-ventilated barn-like structure that had been attached to the existing large, dirty, poorly-ventilated main building. Boxes were piled high and my job was to bring them up to the selling floor, empty them and, at my father-in-law's behest, make all of the contents fit in a space that was way to small for proper accommodation. In the summer, during which I spent many a weekend stretch, the heat was stifling. In winter, the building could be used to keep meat from spoiling. Days, no matter what the weather, were grueling marathons that monopolized entire weekends, including the hour-long ride to and from Gilbertsville. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for his generosity, affording me employment while I sought a job in my chosen field. I just have a funny way of showing my gratitude. 

On Fridays and Saturdays, the logistics of the operation were slightly altered, as my future spouse and her mother would come to open and run the stand in Zern's. I would work with my father-in-law at the hardware store across the street, the two of us coming up much earlier in the morning. While he was a sweet, pleasant man at home, he would succumb to a lycanthropic transformation somewhere around Schwenksville when he would be come a ruthless martinet bent on uncontested ruling over his retail empire. On Saturday evenings, I would head over to Zern's to help Mrs. P bring things to a close for the day. Those were my favorite times. First, I was sprung from the sometimes unreasonable demands of my father-in-law. Second, I got to spend time with my fiance (Mrs. P and I would marry in 1984). We would steal away from the "satellite stand" for a few minutes (this is probably the first time my father-in-law knows about this) and walk thorough the market to see what we could see. Sometimes we'd wander outside to the weekly flea market, where a glance in any direction looked like a living Dorothea Lange photograph. Here we would peruse the unusual (and unrecognizable) items offered for sale. Then we'd quickly rush back, grabbing a soft pretzel or a bag of old-fashioned penny candy, just in time to start the task of closing up the stand for another week.

For twenty-five years, I worked at Zern's. In my younger days, I fearlessly scaled rickety shelves to retrieve that one elusive gizmo that was missing from a customer's life. I was there to help bust through the back wall when we expanded our selling space. I assisted in the arrangement and promotion of special sales when my wife slowly, but diligently, transformed the one-time hardware/housewares store into a treasure trove of pop culture collectibles, bringing in cool memorabilia to join the (ever-shrinking) mix of screwdrivers and extension cords. Mrs. P creatively spearheaded an annual Coca-Cola Festival, offering more Coke branded items than you knew existed. During the summer, she turned the store into an indoor beach party, displaying everything needed for a rural summertime soiree. She single-handedly introduced "Mardi Gras" to the heretofore sheltered population of Gilbertsville.

Throughout my nearly three decades of employment, we would regularly hear customers tell us that Zern's was closing... for good. Every weekend, a growing number of shoppers — many of whom had it on good authority* — would explain confidential details of the fate of the venerable market. "Oh yeah," they would smugly cluck, cocking a thumb confidently around a faded overall strap, "this place was sold to [insert local land developer here]. I heard they're gonna tear the place down and put up a [bowling alley, amusement park, car wash, supermarket, housing development, apartment complex, golf course, multiplex movie theater]." Yep, every week, according to our loyal customer base, Zern's was a goner and would soon become any number of decidedly un-Zern's-like domains. I came to learn that Gilbertsville was "ground zero" for wrong information. They never got anything right. But, that was part of the charm. I suppose.

A fond(ant) farewell

In early 2007, my wife's family made the difficult, but realistic, decision to close their store in Zern's. It was a tough decision, but with many contributing factors (declining sales, my in-law's advancing age, a fucking Walmart within spitting distance), it was the right decision. We mounted an almost year-long liquidation sale — slashing prices, moving merchandise, clearing shelves and wondering what we would do with our weekends. Just after Thanksgiving of that year, my father-in-law contracted an auctioneer and the remaining merchandise was practically given away for pennies on the dollar. (My father-in-law was not happy with the auctioneer or his meager results. He still grumbles about it to this day.) At the end of the day, we closed up shop for the very last time. We left the Zern's parking lot like Lot's wife fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah, never looking back for fear of being turned to pillar of fasnachts.

And then we never had to go to Zern's again. Mrs. Pincus remained in frequent contact with some former employees, as well as fellow merchants (some of whom are regular readers of this blog and may have been understandably offended by many things I've written, especially in the first, second and a little bit of the sixth paragraphs of this entry). Mrs. P has even returned to Zern's for a visit on several occasions. However, she went as a solo. I have not been back since the day we closed our doors. Recently, though, through my wife's Facebook page, I have been privy to the same rumor-mongering about Zern's that I heard in the past. Misinformation for the electronic age. But, this time, uncharacteristically, they got it right.

Zern's announced it was closing... for good.

In a lengthy Facebook post, the current owner cited a number of reasons for the proposed September 2018 closure, but the real reason is: Zern's is a relic. A dinosaur whose concept has long overstayed its welcome. A folksy, genial, single-proprietorship retail operation cannot survive in the world of big box mega-stores and internet shopping. It just can't. Even in a place like Gilbertsville that's several years behind the trends. The business is offered for sale, but I doubt there will be any takers. If there are, it will be to level the structure and build one of the previously mentioned options about which customers had speculated.

Do I have have memories of Zern's? Sure. There was no place like it. It was like a visit to Twilight Zone's Willoughby every weekend, if the citizens of Willoughby attempted to "jew down" the merchants. Do I have fond memories of Zern's? Few. It certainly gave me fodder for stories that made it to blog entries over the years. Will I ever stop talking about and thinking about Zern's once there no longer is a Zern's? 

Never.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* he said sarcastically