"Diary of a Powerless Homeowner"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

Since I am always in the dark, mainly because I’m lightheaded, the recent storm didn’t throw shade at me. But it left my house in the dark, too. For six days. So I got a pen and a flashlight and kept a diary because, unfortunately, I was powerless to do anything else.

Tuesday: Tropical Storm Isaias breezes in and knocks out the electricity at 12:30 p.m.

“How could the power go out?” I ask my wife, Sue. “It’s just drizzling.”

The power comes back on at 2 p.m.

“What a wimp of a storm,” I say.

Isaias must have heard me because half an hour later he blows through with a vengeance and knocks out the power again.

The storm leaves twigs and branches all over our property. Sue and I go outside after dinner (chicken salad — yum!) to clean up the front yard and see Corrie, our next-door neighbor, who says the power isn’t supposed to come back on until Thursday.

I call the power company but can’t get through.

“They must be out, too,” I chortle.

Darkness descends. I light candles and nearly burn off my fingertips. My phone is almost out of juice, so I get in my air-conditioned (thank God!) car and drive around while charging it. When I arrive back home, it feels like a sauna.

“Let’s wear towels!” I tell Sue.

She frowns. I grab a flashlight and try to read a book. It’s one of mine. I get drowsy.

We go to bed but can’t sleep. Sue gets up and goes into another room, possibly because I forgot to brush my teeth. I’ll do it in the morning.

Wednesday: I finally get through to the power company. A recording tells me there is no information about our outage but that crews are “working hard” to restore electricity, which should be back up by Friday.

I wonder how many times I can flick the bathroom light switch before remembering that we have no power.

I spend the entire day cleaning the backyard. I smell to the high heavens. So does some of our food, which Sue throws out.

Thursday: I finally take a shower. The water is so cold it could induce cardiac arrest in a walrus.

Power update: It should be back up by Saturday. I drive around after dark to charge my phone again and notice that every house in the neighborhood but mine and several others in a two-block area are illuminated like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

Friday: Sue and I drive to the home of our younger daughter, Lauren, and her husband, Guillaume, who have power. Our granddaughters Chloe and Lilly are happy we are staying over.

Sue and I sleep in the air-conditioned living room on an air mattress that Lauren’s friend Tara kindly lets us use. It’s the best rest we’ve had all week.

Saturday: I play with the girls outside, first on the swings, then in their inflatable pool. Afterward, I have a beer that, unlike the brew in our house, is actually cold.

Power update: They’re shooting for Sunday. I’d like to shoot them.

Sunday: Sue and I thank Lauren and Guillaume for their hospitality and drive home. We arrive at 2:45 p.m. and find that there’s still no electricity. As Sue throws out the rest of the food, I call the power company and speak with Patti, who apologizes and says, “There are no words.”

“There are plenty of words,” I tell her. “But I can’t repeat them over the phone.”

Then, at 6:09 p.m., the house alarm starts blaring.

“We have power!” I squeal.

“Finally!” Sue exults.

I flick the bathroom switch. The light goes on. I’m not in the dark after all.

Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima

"Banks for Nothing, Moneybags"

 By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

If I ever won Powerball and survived the shock, a technical necessity since you can’t collect if you are legally dead, I still wouldn’t be in the money. That’s because my wife, a neat person, would inadvertently throw out the ticket or I, a messy person, would put the ticket somewhere in the house for safekeeping and never find it again.

But I am happy to report that my heart is still beating, albeit at a much faster rate, because I have just won 1 million euros in the Spanish Lotto Lottery and am eligible to win $1.3 billion in the year-end drawing of the Euro Millo Lottery.

The timing couldn’t have been better because approximately half an hour before receiving the good news via email, it took my bank exactly three seconds to reject my online application for a line of credit.

Stunned at the speed with which I was rejected, which was even faster than what I experienced on the dating scene before I met my wife, I called the bank’s 800 number and was connected to the “fulfillment department.”

After hearing a disembodied voice say that the call “may be monitored and/or recorded for quality assurance purposes,” I spoke with a “customer service specialist” named Tesshana.

“There is some delinquency on your credit,” she said.

“I used to be a juvenile delinquent,” I told her. “I’m all grown up now, but I’m still juvenile. Will you give me credit for that?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Tesshana.

“The bank must have set the world record for fastest rejection,” I noted.

“It doesn’t take long at all,” Tesshana explained. “Thank you for being a valued client and have a good day.”

The rejection caused dejection until I got an email from Paul Schmiitz, award consulting director of the Spanish Lotto Lottery, informing me of my fabulous winnings.

I phoned him but got this recording: “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and call again.”

So I sent him the following email:

Dear Mr. Schmiitz:

I’m Jerry Zezima, an internationally syndicated newspaper columnist whose work, I am proud to say, has no redeeming social value.

Because I had to take a vow of poverty when I went into journalism, and because I was just rejected for a bank loan, and because the price of beer has gone up during the pandemic, I was beside myself (my wife was in another room) with excitement to receive your email informing me that I have won 1 million euros in the Spanish Lotto Lottery.

If that weren’t generous enough (the mortgage is due, so it isn’t), I am eligible to participate in the Euro Millo Lottery’s year-end drawing for $1.3 billion. That’s a lot of beer money. I’m not sure I would take it all in one lump’s sum because it would only weigh down my pants and put me in a higher tax bracket.

Still, I am so excited about this windfall that I would like to write a column about you and the lottery. As proof of just how low journalistic standards have sunk, my columns run in papers around the world, so you would be getting lots of free publicity. After giving me all that money, it’s probably the only kind you could afford.

Thanks very much, Mr. Schmiitz. I await your reply (and the 1 million euros) with bated breath. In the meantime, I guess I should brush my teeth.

Sincerely,

Jerry Zezima

P.S. Pay the phone bill. Your number is out of service.

I am shocked to say that I have not heard back. But the bank and the lottery can keep the money. As long as I have enough for beer, I’ll consider myself a rich man.

Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima

"This Electrician Is a Live Wire"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

I have always been considered a dim bulb, except for the fact that I married a bright woman, who proves it by making me the one to risk electrocution whenever a light bulb needs to be changed.

So fearful am I when it comes to wattage that I was shocked — shocked! — to find myself helping out with electrical work being done at our house.

The track lighting in the family room had to be dismantled and replaced with high hats. And the ceiling fan and the chandelier in the kitchen both had to be updated. Because I could never perform these tasks without turning myself into a lightning rod, I hired Ed Knopf, a licensed electrician who, against his better judgment, made me his apprentice for the day.

“Do you know anything about electricity?” Ed asked.

“Of course,” I replied. “How do you think my hair got so curly?”

In his 40 years in the business, Ed has gotten a jolt or two himself.

He said, “You have to watch out for live wires.”

That includes hot women.

“I’ve had a few who were scantily dressed and were coming on to me,” Ed said.

“Did they want to make sparks fly?” I asked.

“I guess so,” he said. “Nothing happened because I was married at the time. But I did make sparks fly for a guy who wouldn’t leave me alone. He was standing right next to me to see what I was doing.”

“Was he making you hot under the collar?” I inquired.

“He was burning me up,” Ed said. “So I shorted out the wires on purpose. Sparks flew and he was gone. I had to reset the circuit breakers, but it was worth it.”

I’m not sure it was worth it to have me as an apprentice, but I tried to help.

“Here,” Ed said as he stood on a ladder and handed me the track lighting. “You have to do something. You can’t just stand there and look pretty.”

I looked plastered when plaster fell on my head while Ed cut holes in the ceiling so he could run wires through. After handing me a handful of screws, he said, “Don’t screw up.”

I handed Ed the high hats and listened as he told me about more wacky customers.

“At this one house, the power was off and the homeowner wanted to turn the lights on,” he said. “I told her I would get shocked. Then I said, ‘Don’t you know electricians can see in the dark?’ She said, ‘They can?’ She wasn’t too bright herself.”

Then there was the guy who thought Ed and his then-girlfriend, who was helping him install a fan, were having sex in the attic.

“It was 90 degrees and we were up there for a while,” Ed said. “But we were just working. Honest.”

The worst customers are the ones who try to do electrical work themselves.

“I’m surprised they don’t burn their houses down,” said Ed, adding: “My favorite line is: ‘I have no idea where these wires go.’ I always say that to people.”

As he was installing the new ceiling fan in the kitchen, he said, “I was working with a friend once and he said, ‘Quiet, can’t you see I’m thinking?’ I said, ‘I thought I smelled something burning.’ The woman who owned the house said, ‘Burning? What’s burning?’ She panicked. I said, ‘Lady, that’s a figure of speech.’ You run into some real doozies in this job.”

The biggest doozy, I’m sure, was me. But at least I made myself useful and didn’t turn on the power before Ed was finished.

“You did a good job,” he said. “Your wife will be happy to know that you’re not so dim after all.”

Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima

"One for the Ageless"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

Age, goes an old (of course) saying, is just a number. As a geezer who flunked math in school and now has the checkbook to prove it, I believe this adage for a number of reasons. I’m not sure how many because I am, you know, bad at math.

At any rate, the whole thing recently dawned on me, even though it wasn’t dawn, when my older daughter, Katie, turned 40.

When I reached that age, 26 (thank you, calculator!) years ago, I was reminded of another adage: Life begins at 40.

If that’s true, I realized, I had just wasted 39 years.

I also realized that milestones are like kidney stones: They’re hard to pass, but at least after you pass a kidney stone, you feel better.

I say this from hard experience because I have had about half a dozen of the boulder-like calcium compounds. Unfortunately, they still don’t outnumber the rocks in my head.

But reaching birthdays ending in zero has never bothered me. That’s because I am a baby boomer, a member of the generation that used to say, “Don’t trust anyone over 30.” Now that we are at least twice that age, we have developed a mathematical formula that would have earned all of us failing grades in school.

Here it is: 60 is the new 50. Or, even better, 60 is the new 40.

I don’t know if this makes Katie feel better (I doubt it), but it does wonders for me, except for one thing:

If I insisted I was 40, not only would I be the same age as my daughter, which would entail flunking both biology and algebra, but I’d have to unretire and go back to work. Even I’m not that stupid.

To any baby boomer who worries about those accumulating birthdays, I would tell you that this is the best time of life. Not only can you still do everything you have always done, but if there is something you don’t want to do, you can pull the age card.

“I don’t think I should be lugging furniture anymore,” you might say to anyone who is younger, which these days includes almost everyone.

“I don’t think I should be shoveling snow anymore,” you might say to no one in particular, because no one in particular will listen to you.

What you should say is: “I do think I should be lying in a hammock with a beer.”

This seldom works on spouses who not only are the same age but have a whole list of chores, errands and household projects for you to do.

There are two ways around this:

(a) Misplace the list. “I’m old,” you can then say. “What did you expect?”

(b) Do the chores so badly (“You mean I can’t use toilet bowl cleaner to wash the dishes?”) that you will never be asked to do them again.

The most difficult part about getting older is putting up with candle jokes. Like:

“What are you going to light them with, a flamethrower?”

“You’ll have to call the fire department to put them all out!”

“What’s the difference between you and your birthday cake? Answer: You’re not so hot anymore.”

Still, I am encouraged by the fact that longevity runs in my family. My mother, Rosina, is 95 and is sharper than I am. I admit that this isn’t such a great accomplishment because the same could be said for bathroom sponges. But my mom has grown old gracefully, as well as gratefully, with a positive outlook and a fabulous sense of humor.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she reaches 100. We will, of course, invite the fire department to the birthday party.

Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima

"All Creatures Great and Annoying"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

As a longtime practitioner of animal husbandry, which makes me a husband who has had a lot of animals, I love all of God’s creatures, except certain creepy insects and other lower life forms, some of whom I have voted for.

Sue, whose husband I am, is even more of an animal lover. She would, I admit, hurt a fly, which is why, flyswatter in hand, she prowls the house in a relentless hunt for the little winged invaders.

But otherwise, she’s as gentle as a lamb, one of the few domestic creatures we have not had as pets over the years. Our menagerie has included a dog, a granddog, four cats, several hamsters, half a dozen gerbils and countless fish, one of which lives in a bowl on the liquor cabinet. I put it there so I could say our finny friend drinks like a fish.

But lately Sue has been at war with a pair of squirrels and an indeterminate number of rabbits (the population is uncertain because they breed like rabbits), all of whom are eating her flowers and the fruits and vegetables in her garden.

The squirrels are the worst. Sue thinks they are either siblings or a young married couple honeymooning on our property. I can just see the postcard: “The menu is wonderful. Wish you were here.”

I think they are cousins twice removed, though even if I removed them, they would return twice.

The problem is catching them. Because I am afraid of heights and lack a prehensile tail, which fell off when I was in college, I don’t climb trees.

Not that it matters because these rambunctious rodents frequently stay on the ground, taunting us. Most normal squirrels would beat a hasty retreat up a nearby oak when they saw a human. Or at least one that looks like me.

Our antagonists sit on the grass and stare directly at us. I could almost hear them say, “Nyah, nyah!” Then again, maybe it’s the wind.

The rabbits are just as bad. I’ve gone out and yelled, “Eh, what’s up, doc?” But they just twitch their noses at me. It’s infuriating.

Because Sue and I don’t want to resort to violence, although I hear there’s a sale on dynamite at the Acme Company, we have tried to come up with less harmful means of ridding the yard of these persistent pests.

My sister Elizabeth suggested cutlery.

“We don’t want to eat them,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” she replied. “Get some plastic forks and put them in the garden with the tines sticking up. That will discourage the critters.”

It worked for a while, until the critters figured out a way to get at Sue’s squash and string beans anyway.

“I hate squash, so they can have it,” I told Sue. “But I like string beans, so we’ll have to try something else.”

I suggested putting up a scarecrow with my picture on the face, but Sue said it would be cruelty to animals.

Then there was the coffee ground defense, which entails spreading grounds on the ground. It didn’t work.

“No wonder,” I said. “The coffee probably kept the critters up all night.”

Finally, Sue came up with a solution, which is, ironically, a solution containing water and hot red pepper. They are put into a plastic spray bottle and spritzed on the flowers and whatever grows in the garden, repelling squirrels, rabbits, birds, warthogs and any other creatures that have designs on your flora.

Unfortunately, it’s worked on only one creature.

“Eat your vegetables,” Sue said one evening at dinner.

“No, thanks,” I replied. “Give them to the squirrels. I’d hate to see any of God’s creatures go hungry.”

Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima

"A Fence Goes From Holey to Heavenly"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

Good fences, as every homeowner knows, make bad property taxes. Bad fences make trouble, unless you have good neighbors, who are a blessing when a fence needs to be replaced.

And, lo, I was blessed not only with good neighbors, but with the fence guy for the pope.

Chris Curcio installed the fence around St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City when Pope Francis came to town in 2015.

“Did you meet the pope?” I asked Chris when he and his assistant, J.B. Becak, arrived to replace my backyard fence.

“No, but I saw him drive by,” said Chris. “He waved and gave me a blessing.”

“I’ve never met the pope, either,” I said. “But a cardinal lives in one of our trees.”

Chris told me that his full name is Christian.

“Does the pope know that?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” Chris said. “But I hope it helps.”

“Have you ever been the fence guy for any other celebrities?” I wondered.

“Yes,” Chris replied. “I got the job when Trump and Hillary Clinton debated at Hofstra University in 2016.”

“Where do I rank among your customers?” I wanted to know.

“You’re just below the pope,” said Chris, “but way above the politicians.”

It was a great compliment considering that Chris, who’s 60 and owns Complete Fence and Railing of Long Island, N.Y., has had countless customers in his 40 years in the business.

“You know who a fence guy’s best friend is?” Chris said.

“Who?” I responded.

“A nosy neighbor,” he answered. “It will make somebody say, ‘I need a fence.’ There’s the old saying, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ But bad neighbors are good for me.”

“Do you have good neighbors?” I asked Chris, who has a four-foot-tall chain link fence bordering his property.

“Not the one who lives to the right of my house,” he said. “She’s getting a six-foot privacy fence. And I’m going to install it.”

As Chris has learned over the years, installation can lead to confrontation.

“On one job, there was a corner post and four people were involved,” he recalled. “They were fighting over where I was putting it. I said, ‘Leave me alone.’ People fight over inches. I’ve put up fences where I couldn’t step on the neighbor’s property.”

Nonetheless, people aren’t the greatest challenge.

“You know the No. 1 enemy of fence guys?” Chris said.

“What?” I replied.

“Lawn sprinklers. We bust them for a living,” he said, adding: “I saw your sprinklers. They’re safe.”

Unfortunately, our old fence wasn’t. It had holes big enough for dogs and cats to come through. One spot could have accommodated a grizzly bear.

So I asked my good backyard neighbor, Ann Marie, who had put up the fence many years before, if she wanted to split a new one, though not a fence of the split rail variety. Her good next-door neighbor, Leo, was replacing his perfectly usable stockade fence, which bordered the backyard of my good next-door neighbor, Bob, with a PVC fence.

Ann Marie kindly agreed and we got a great price from Chris, who is also the fence guy for Leo.

Chris and J.B., who both look like Olympic weightlifters, dismantled the old fence with tools and muscle.

“It’s good exercise,” said J.B., 47, who also owns J.B. 24-Hour Towing Service.

“My truck broke down the other day,” he told me. “I had to call another towing company. They double-charged me.”

Chris and J.B. attached the stockade fence to several posts, none of which was The Washington Post or the New York Post, and the improvement was remarkable.

“Now grizzly bears can’t get through,” Chris said.

“Great job,” I told him. “This is the answer to my prayers.”

“When you’re the fence guy for the pope,” Chris said, “miracles do happen.”

Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima

"Strawberry Fields for Joking"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

If I were to write a nursery rhyme about a garrulous geezer on a fruitful foray with his giddy granddaughters, it would go like this: “Punny Poppie picked a peck of perfect produce.”

That precious pair of pumpkins, Chloe, 7, and her sister, Lilly, 3, are the apples of my eye. Actually, both eyes, since there are two of them. And we love to go pumpkin and apple picking, though not at the same time because I couldn’t lug that much fruit without collapsing in a field of screams.

But we recently found ourselves in strawberry fields — not forever, but for an hour’s worth of picking pleasure.

Chloe, Lilly and I were accompanied by my wife, Sue, and our younger daughter, Lauren, the girls’ mother. We all wore masks, except to take pictures, and kept a social distance from other strawberry pickers, primarily to ensure physical safety but also to protect the mental health of innocent bystanders who might otherwise be exposed to my stupid jokes.

Like this one:

Me: “Knock, knock.”

Chloe and Lilly: “Who’s there?”

Me: “Berry.”

Chloe and Lilly: “Berry who?”

Me: “We’re having a berry good time!”

Chloe and Lilly giggled. Other pickers picked up the pace.

Two who bravely didn’t were a very nice woman named Jenny and her equally nice granddaughter, Abby.

“Hi!” Chloe chirped. “My name is Chloe and this is my sister, Lilly. What’s your name?”

“Jenny,” said Jenny.

“What’s your name?” Chloe asked Abby.

“Abby,” said Abby, who is the same age as Chloe.

“Nice to meet you,” said Chloe, who pointed to me and said, “This is my grandfather, Poppie.”

“Hi, Poppie,” said Jenny.

“Hi, Grammy,” I replied when she told me what Abby calls her. “Are you a singer?”

“I wish,” said Jenny.

“I can sing,” said Abby.

“You must be good,” I said. “You have a Grammy.”

That joke and another one I told about not being Chuck Berry went over Abby’s head (she’s short), but that didn’t stop Chloe from repeating my earlier one: “We’re having a berry good time!”

Jenny and Abby laughed.

“Chloe is funny,” Jenny said. “She must take after her grandfather.”

Sue and Lauren shook their heads and kept walking.

After saying goodbye to Jenny and Abby, the girls and I took a strawberry shortcut, moving over to an untouched row to select the plumpest, juiciest berries.

“Look at mine, Poppie!” exclaimed Lilly, who tossed away a few that weren’t up to her standards and filled her basket with only perfect pickings.

Chloe also had discerning tastes and even faster fingers, loading her basket in what must have been record time.

After an hour, the Strawberry Alarm Clock went off in my head and we headed back to our cars. On the way, Chloe introduced herself to a girl named April, who said she has a brother named Colton. As he passed by, Chloe said, “Your name is Colton!”

The kid blanched and said, “How did you know?”

“You’re famous,” I told him.

He stared at me incredulously.

“Your sister told me,” Chloe explained. “Look at our strawberries!”

“Wow,” said Colton.

“We left some for you out in the field,” I said. “But you better hurry up. They’re going fast.”

Colton looked at me warily and walked away.

We stopped at the stand for an orchard pie filled with blueberries, raspberries and, of course, strawberries.

When we got to our cars, Lauren said she was going to use her berries to make smoothies for the girls.

Sue said she was going to make strawberry shortcake.

After popping a sweet berry into my mouth, I said I was going to make my own creation: strawberry daiquiris.

“After listening to your stupid jokes,” Sue said, “I could use one.”

Copyright 2020 by Jerry Zezima