I'm counting on celebrities to help me make the right decision

With two days to go until the presidential election, I am undecided. 

There are things I admire about both candidates. I like Trump’s new hair color. It’s more natural-looking than his previous shade that matched my wife’s original 1959 Barbie. And Harris’ laugh makes me joyful. It reminds me of the way our late dog Sybil yelped whenever I asked if she wanted to take a ride in the car. 

But I am just an ordinary working-class American. Unlike rich and famous singers, actors, athletes, business leaders, politicians and other celebrities, who don't hesitate to endorse candidates they know and respect because they have probably entertained them aboard their yachts, I am incapable of understanding the complex problems facing our country. So I am unsure about which candidate can handle the issues best. I generally wait until two days before the election, as I did this morning, to google who’s supporting whom before I make up my mind. 

I learned that Jennifer Lopez is one of Harris’ most enthusiastic high-profile supporters. Not only is J-Lo gorgeous and talented, she and I have a connection. I’m not saying we are so tight we text each other or anything like that, but I once lived next door to a diamond dealer who sold Ben Affleck the pink six-carat sparkler he gave her for their first engagement twenty years ago. J-Lo’s endorsement of Harris almost sold me until I remembered she used to date Diddy, who is facing a lifetime in prison for sex trafficking and racketeering. Now I’m not so sure about her judgement.

Trump’s list of supporters is a fraction of Harris’. It includes a handful of aging Hollywood actors like Mel Gibson, Jon Voight, James Woods, and Randy Quaid. I liked Gibson in Braveheart and Voight as Liev Schreiber’s father in Ray Donovan, but Trump’s Hollywood supporters are past their sell-by date IMO, so their support doesn't give me much confidence.

Harris, on the other hand, has earned the endorsement of some of America’s hippest, most “with it" entertainers  — Bruce Springsteen, Harrison Ford, Cher, Robert DeNiro, Barbra Streisand and Rosie O’Donnell among others. Beyonce and Cardi B also support Harris. I’d never heard of Cardi A much less Cardi B, so I looked her up. She is almost as impressive as … 

Elon Musk, the world’s richest man, who is campaigning for Trump. I have long admired Musk, as I was reminded when I visited Leonardo DaVinci’s home and museum in Amboise, France, a few weeks ago. (Did you know DaVinci spent his final years in France? Me neither.) There I learned he contributed much more to the world than the Mona Lisa. A true visionary, he created drawings and prototypes for what eventually became the helicopter, underwater diving suit, machine gun, parachute, and armored car. Musk, the brains behind Tesla, Space X and now “X” (formerly Twitter), may well be the DaVinci of this century. I’m guessing he’s smarter than Cardis A B,C and D rolled together.

But I also take seriously endorsements from former presidents like Bill Clinton, Barack Obama and Jimmy Carter. All enthusiastically back Harris. Carter, unfortunately, isn’t looking so good. He’s 100, bed-ridden, and his family says he wanted to live long enough to vote for Harris, which he has now done. (Question: If, God forbid, Carter dies before Tuesday and Harris carries Georgia by one vote, will Trump challenge the result, claiming dead peoples’ votes shouldn’t count?) Monica Lewinsky, who also knows a thing or two about the Oval Office, has also endorsed Harris. 

While dozens upon dozens of Harris supporters are household names, Trump’s shorter list consists mostly of businessmen I’ve never heard of. Significantly, only a few women have publicly endorsed him, including Roseanne Barr, Amber Rose, race car driver Danica Patrick, Kaitlin Jenner, casino magnate Miriam Adelson and Brittany Mahomes, wife of Kansas City Chiefs quarterback Patrick. (Two Patricks in one sentence. That’s a first for this reporter!) Mahomes didn’t come right out and say she supports Trump but she did “like” several pro-Trump posts on social media, which infuriated Harris fans. Brittany’s decision to "like" Trump cancels out the thrill I felt when I learned her arch-rival, Taylor Swift, is supporting Harris.

And so, as of 1:25 pm Sunday, I remain undecided. With so many “in the know” celebs making their support public, this run-of-the-mill American doesn't have a clue how he is going to vote. I’m now planning to make my final decision Monday night or even Tuesday morning. Who knows what celebrity will announce his or her support at the last minute to give me confidence I’m voting for the best candidate?

Here’s hoping your favorite celeb has already helped you make an informed decision. And here's to America. 

God (whose endorsement might help me decide once and for all) help us. 

The editorial board of tomdryden.com convenes to endorse a candidate

With Election Day almost upon us, the Washington Post, LA Times and USA Today, which have traditionally endorsed presidential candidates, have announced management has chosen to endorse neither Harris nor Trump.

Sensing an opportunity to provide a service to readers who may be still be undecided, I convened a meeting of the tomdryden.com editorial board -- Rupert J. Dryden, our long-haired dachshund; Russell J. Dryden, our Jack Russell terrier; and myself, Thomas J. Dryden, America’s Only Objective Journalist ®. Here’s a transcript of that meeting.

Thomas J: Thank you for taking the time from your busy schedules to meet today. 

Russell J: Let’s get this over with fast. I’m missing The View. Whoopi Goldberg and Joy Behar are my idols.

Rupert J: And I’m missing the Glenn Beck Show. I tune in every day. He’s right about everything.

Thomas J: Unlike you boys, who sniff a dozen shrubs trying to decide which one to hike your legs on, I’m not going to beat around the bush. The most important presidential election in modern history is underway. We, as a board, need to agree whether we should endorse Harris or Trump. Russell, what are you thinking?

Russell J: Harris. No question about it.

Thomas J: Why?

Russell J: Because endorsing her will elevate tomdryden.com into the big leagues of American media, right up there with The New York Times, CNN, MSNBC, ABC, CBS and NBC, making it appear we have insight into things the human garbage who are voting for Trump aren't smart enough to know about. Not to mention we might get an invitation to appear on Rachel Maddow. 

Thomas J: Rupert, do you agree?

Rupert J: Absolutely not. This country is being invaded by illegal immigrants the Biden-Harris administration has allowed to cross our border. Here in Southwest Florida, we are overrun with iguanas from Central America, cane toads from South America and pythons from India. They can kill pets in an instant. One minute we’re walking happily down the sidewalk minding our own business, the next we’re brunch for some python.

Thomas J: To be fair, those species were already here when Biden and Harris took office.

Rupert J: But their numbers have exploded over the last four years. It’s not safe for small dogs to go outside.

Thomas J: I agree, they are worrisome. Remember that five-foot iguana who kept leaving “souvenirs” on our roof? It drove me crazy and cost $2000 to get rid of him. Or maybe it was a her, I don’t know.

Russell J: Perhaps it was non-binary in which case you should refer to it as “them.”

Rupert J: Russell won’t admit it but the real reason he wants to endorse Harris is that he’s addicted to free stuff — organic chicken dad cooks up every day, microfiber pillows to curl up on, afternoons at doggie day care, and visits to the groomer for baths and pedicures. He thinks he’ll get more handouts from Democrats than from Republicans.

Russell J: You’re conveniently forgetting the dumbest freebie of all - the doggie stroller mom bought to push you up and down the street. I’m embarrassed to be seen with you. You look ridiculous.

Rupert J:  I need it. I’m old and my legs are four inches long. I get tired easily. Plus I’m afraid of illegals that might slither out of the grass. The stroller lifts me above the sidewalk and provides at least some protection from those savages.

Russell J: That is the kind of talk I’d expect from a German like you-know-who.

Rupert J: Don’t do you dare say it and, for the record, he was Austrian. My ancestors may have come to this country from Germany with nothing but the hair on their backs but they were imported legally and I’m 100 percent American, born right here in Florida. But what about you? For all I know, you’re an illegal. Mom and dad adopted you from a shelter. There’s no record of where you were before that. Maybe you snuck across the border from Venezuela or Iran. Maybe you’re a terrorist.

Russell J: The shelter jailers kept me locked up in a cage next to pit bulls for a week. It was inhumane. I only weigh ten pounds, I was scared to death. 

Rupert J: You’re desperate because your candidate has nothing better to do than call Trump supporters ugly names. Remember when Hillary called them deplorables? How did that work out for her? 

Russell J: Your candidate calls my candidate a low IQ commie. 

Thomas J:  Stop it, both of you! 

Russell J: Anyone who is undecided at this point is an idiot. If tomdryden.com endorses either candidate, you’ll piss off the other side's supporters. Can you really afford to do that? Nobody wants to read anything these days anyway, they just want to look at memes.

Thomas J: No I can’t. My readers are mostly old, like me. And more and more of them are dying off every day. We need every reader we can get.

Russell J: Well, there’s no way I’d endorse Rupert’s stupid candidate.

Rupert J: And I’m not endorsing Russell’s moron candidate.

Thomas J: In that case, we aren’t going to reach consensus so tomdryden.com won’t be endorsing anyone. This meeting is adjourned. 

END OF TRANSCRIPT

Losing sleep about the election

 

I’m having trouble sleeping. Are you?

If so, I’m guessing that you, like me, are losing sleep over the presidential election. 

You’re worried about who will win.

You’re worried that the winner of the popular vote won’t become president if he or she doesn’t win enough electoral votes.That doesn’t seem right.  Or that the candidate who receives fewer votes than his or her opponent will be declared the winner. That doesn’t seem right either. 

You’re worried Americans won't know who won for days, maybe weeks, after Election Day. 

You are worried that one or both parties are going to cheat.

You’re worried about what those disappointed by the outcome will do when their candidate loses. Will there be massive civil disobedience? Will people take to the streets with guns? Will cities burn? Will bridges be blown up? 

You’re disturbed because, once again, you’re not voting for a candidate, you’re voting against his or her opponent. Of the 300+ million people in America, why in the hell can’t we produce candidates better than these two?

You’re worried the polls (which you have trouble believing) indicate that half the people in this country are apparently willing to turn a blind eye to the obvious flaws of the candidate you are voting against. What's wrong with these people? 

You’re wondering how friends and loved ones who are voting against your candidate can be so stupid. You like to say their choice doesn’t affect your opinion of them, but it does. And that makes you feel bad. You should be bigger than this. 

You’re reminded that Lincoln, who knew a thing or two about running against an opponent with diametrically opposite views, said “a house divided against itself cannot stand.” 

Every four years you are told that "this is the most important election in American history.” This one may or may not be the most important, but you are convinced it is certainly the most important of your lifetime. 

Regardless of who wins, you’re dreading the next four years of nonstop vitriol. 

You are heartsick it has come to this. You shouldn't care this much -- the world will go on regardless of what happens -- but you can't help yourself because you care about integrity and truth and honesty and competence and intelligence and fairness and common sense.

And that is why you are lying awake at night and when you do fall asleep, your dreams are filled with dread about your country’s future.

Just like mine.

My Monster Iguana and how (I hope) I got rid of it

M.I., the Monster Iguana.

You don't want to know what 

that mound of stuff in front of him is. 

As a homeowner in Pelican Landing for 17 years, I didn’t think there could be a more annoying neighborhood pest than the group of disgruntled owners that, for years, has been sending anonymous emails pooh-poohing any proposals that might cause an increase in assessments.

Then I met the four-foot Monster Iguana — I call him M.I. — who started pooh-poohing all over our house. 

I first encountered M.I. last summer when our dachshund and Jack Russell terrier, lounging by the pool, began barking hysterically. When I went outside, M.I. was atop one of the screens on our pool cage, where he had just laid two hefty mounds of feces. I couldn’t get to him -- the pool cage is attached to the roof — so I began shouting and waving my arms. M.I. crawled off the screen, scampered up the roof, and disappeared over the side of the house. I got out my pressure washer and sprayed the poop off the screen and backwards into the gutter. When he didn’t return, I assumed I had scared him off once and for all.

I was wrong. Four weeks ago, I heard something shuffling across the roof. M.I. had returned and there was another horse-sized souvenir -- just one this time but it was at least 18 inches long -- on the same pool screen. Again, I scared him off.

M.I. returned every day or so until last Tuesday. I wasn't able to catch him in the act, but he left numerous souvenirs which, until this morning — more about that in a minute — dotted the west side of our steeply-pitched roof. Iguana feces contains E. Coli and Salmonella. My wife and I spend lots of time on our lanai within a few feet of that roof. So do the dogs. M.I. was threatening not just our home’s appearance but our health. I decided I had to do something.

Iguanas  — not to be confused with ordinary tropical lizards — aren’t native to Florida, but, for the last decade or so, have been popping up all over the southern half of the state. I.M. is/was a bright lime green but iguanas can also be orange, black, pink or any combination of those colors. It is speculated someone may have released a pregnant pet iguana into the wild and, ever since, they’ve been multiplying like, well, iguanas. Some females lay as many as 70 eggs at a time. For years they have been causing problems on the Atlantic coast but in the last few years they have moved over to the Gulf Coast where they’ve invaded communities north of us including Gasparilla Island, Cape Coral and Ft. Myers. Since Hurricane Ian in 2022, they are, suddenly, everywhere. I am outside for several hours every day and last week spotted four big ones, not counting M.I., while walking the dogs.

I asked fellow members of the “Residents of Pelican Landing” Facebook page if anyone else in the ‘hood was having problems with iguanas and, if so, what they had done, but I didn’t mention the poop — that tidbit of info was too disgusting. Nobody, it seems, was having iguana issues. Just us. 

Knowing iguanas have become a problem on the three golf courses within the community, I called a groundskeeper of one of the golf clubs. He put me in touch with a retired military sharpshooter who came out to my house. He said he likes to use iguanas for target practice. That may sound cruel to pet lovers (for the record, I am most definitely one), but it’s not. Iguanas can dig burrows around houses that can damage foundations. Their germs can kill small animals and make humans ill. They rarely attack humans and are, I'll admit, kinda cute.  But because they are an invasive species, the State of Florida requires anyone who traps an iguana to destroy it rather than release it back into the wild. 

The sharpshooter, who lives a few miles away, said to call him next time I saw M.I. and, if he was free, he would come right over and kill him with his pellet gun. (It is illegal to fire rifles or shotguns within the city limits so pellet guns are the only way iguanas can be shot in our town.) I showed him a video of M.I. and he said he looked like a 20-pounder, maybe more. That turned out to be a not-so-practical solution. M.I. returned that afternoon — I didn’t see him — and left more poop on the roof. Over the next two days he left several more souvenirs.

A friend suggested I buy a Super Soaker water gun that uses pressurized air to shoot liquids with more velocity and range than a traditional squirt gun, and fill it with vinegar — iguanas hate the smell  — so that, if I spotted him, I could blast M.I. through the pool screen. I bought one at Costco but never was able to catch M.I. in the act.

In desperation a week and a half ago, I called a Wildlife Pest Removal Service. The owner paid me a visit last Monday and proposed setting a trap. He said he couldn’t guarantee success but was almost sure the iguana would be lured into it. He said that if M.I. was caught, he would be removed and “euthanized.” I asked how. He said M.I. would be placed in a freezer and would gently fall asleep, after which the corpse would be cremated. I asked if there would be a memorial service, and he laughed. He said that, once M.I. was removed, the roof would be cleaned and treated with an enzyme that would kill any germs he and his poop left behind. We agreed the trap would be installed today.

As if he had overheard us and wanted to express his opinion of our plan, M.I. left a jumbo-sized souvenir on the roof that afternoon.

The next day, a neighbor shot a huge iguana fitting M.I’s description in his yard using his pellet gun. He is 100 percent sure he hit him — he heard the thud of the pellet penetrating the iguana’s hide — but, before he could reload to finish him off, the iguana crawled into a thicket of palmettos. The neighbor is almost certain the iguana was mortally wounded. 

I’ve seen no evidence of M.I. since.

Yesterday I called the Removal Service and told them I didn’t need the trap. This morning they sent a professional who treated the roof and pool cage with the enzyme spray. Every hour on the hour I’ve been checking the roof to see if M.I. has returned but so far, so good -- the roof is clear. 

Bizarrely, just now, I took a break from writing to figure out how to end this post and went outside to check the roof. It was clear but I spotted another brightly colored iguana — maybe eight inches long — crawling up the west side of our pool cage. I blasted it with the Super Soaker.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed M.I. is in iguana purgatory but am under no illusions he, she, they or whatever it is or was hasn’t left hundreds of offspring. 

If so, I hope those iguanas decide to climb on other peoples’ roofs and leave mine alone.

I’ve had it with all this s _ _ t. 

Updated: The boy in the Oval Picture Frame

I wrote "The Boy in the Oval Picture Frame" the week before Memorial Day 24 years ago when I was a columnist for my local newspaper in Wilton, Conn. At the request of my readers, it was reprinted every other Memorial Day for the next six years. It has also appeared in this blog three times since I began writing it in 2011. Here it is again with an update: For the first time, it includes a picture of the boy in the oval frame in which his parents, my aunt Margaret and uncle Pat, displayed it. He was my cousin, Jimmy Timmerberg. I hadn't seen the picture for at least 50 years, and had no idea what had become of it until last month when Jimmy's nephew, Tim, texted me the above image. He said that after my aunt's death, his mother, Jimmy's sister Nancy, displayed it in her home. Nancy died in 2019 and today it hangs in Tim's home. It is exactly as I remembered it -- a handsome dark-haired boy of 18 or so peering down from an oval picture frame on his parents' dining room wall. I am grateful to Tim for sending it, and am touched that, 73 years after Jimmy's death, Tim continues to honor the memory of the uncle he never knew.

I'm also including for the first time the family photo mentioned in the first sentence. It appears at the end of this post.

Atop a table in our guest room is a photograph, taken in the summer of 1933.

The photo is of my grandparents, Burton and Judy Tate, and the first four of what would eventually become a brood of 14 grandchildren.

On my grandfather's lap is my cousin Robert, six months old. Robert grew up to be a computer specialist.

Grandma is holding another baby, my cousin Nancy. She grew up to be an R.N.

Standing next to grandpa is my six-year-old cousin Paul. Paul grew up to marry his childhood sweetheart and became an Army General.

Jimmy, a boy of four, is next to Paul.

He was killed in Korea when he was 21.

I wonder what he would have become?

Nancy, Paul and Jimmy were the children of my mother's sister, Margaret, a tiny wisp of a woman. In 1923, Margaret married a giant of a man, Pat Timmerberg, who stood six feet three inches tall. Pat's parents had immigrated to Missouri from Germany and settled on a farm near Mineola. When America entered World War I, Pat joined up and was shipped off to fight his own people in the fields of France. When he returned, he was a soldier through and through, who loved to sing war songs and tell war stories.

Margaret and Pat's oldest, Paul, joined the army in 1945, the year he graduated from Montgomery City High School, just in time for VJ Day. Like his father, Paul showed a natural aptitude for soldiering. He was selected for Officer Candidate School and, shortly thereafter, was a Second Lieutenant, on his way to earning his stars.

Jimmy, who graduated from high school in 1947, enlisted in the army the next year, when he was 19. After basic training, he was sent to Colorado, where he captained the 21st Engineer's basketball team. He was shipped to the Yukon for eight months, went back to Colorado and, in August, 1950, to Korea, where he was a machine gunner with the 21st Infantry Regiment of the 24th Division.

Jimmy was killed in action near Changgong-Ni on April 28, 1951. His tour of duty was almost over.

When they received word of Jimmy's death, the Timmerbergs were preparing for Nancy's high school graduation. She had graduated first in her class, and was looking forward to giving the valedictorian's speech.

She went ahead and delivered it, though her heart was broken and the audience knew it.

In those days before jet planes, families often had to wait months for their loved ones to arrive home for burial. Jimmy's flag-draped casket arrived in Montgomery City on a Wabash train on November 20, and he was buried with full military honors. According to his obituary posted on cousin Robert's family web site, a quartet sang "In The Sweet By and By" and "Safe In The Arms of Jesus." A solo, "God Understands," was also performed.

My mother couldn't attend. She was in the hospital, having given birth to me three days earlier.

We visited Aunt Margaret and Uncle Pat often when I was growing up. They were always full of news about Paul and Nancy and their growing families. But I was always aware of the presence of a third Timmerberg cousin -- a handsome dark-haired boy of 18 or so with a fixed broad smile, who peered from a gold oval frame on the dining room wall.

Of him, never a word was spoken.

Pat died in 1963 and Margaret, who lived alone, began spending a lot of time at our house with my mother. They spent hours discussing the family and events of the past. But they would never mention Jimmy. Every Memorial Day, my mother took Margaret, who never learned to drive, to the cemetery, and they would return looking grim.

As a teenager, I used to accuse Aunt Margaret of being a pessimist. She wasn't much fun to be around. She always seemed to look on the dark side, to expect the worst out of life.

I take it all back, Aunt Margaret.

Now that I have held my own sons in my arms and have seen them grow into young men with their own hopes and dreams, I understand.

And I want to tell you this: You were amazing. I don't know how you were able to go on, but you did. You even managed to laugh on occasion. I can't help but wonder if, every time you saw me, you were reminded of the son you buried the week I was born. I hope not, but I don't see how you couldn't have been.

Margaret died in 1988, and was laid to rest next to Jimmy and Pat, near my grandparents. My mother continued the trek to the cemetery every Memorial Day until a few years ago when she stopped driving.

Paul died in 2008 and was buried at Arlington in an impressive military ceremony with a
13-cannon salute befitting his rank. He was inducted into the Military Police Hall of Fame and there is a building named for him at Ft. Leonard Wood.

Mom talks often with the last of my Timmerberg cousins, Nancy, who just had a knee replacement.

But nobody in our family ever speaks of Jimmy. I don't think those who knew him can. Though his headstone has faded, the horror of his loss never will, until the last person who loved him is gone. And there aren't that many of them left.

Many of my grandparents' 14 grandchildren accomplished great things. One became a math teacher. One graduated from West Point, as did Paul's son, their great-grandson. The youngest, born after Jimmy's death and named for him, is president of a major music company. All of us married, most had children and grandchildren, some are even great-grandparents.

Scattered from Connecticut to California, those of us who are left will celebrate Memorial Day. We'll enjoy the sunshine and picnics.

And I guarantee that all of us will remember the boy in the oval picture frame on Aunt Margaret's dining room wall, the boy who, unlike the rest of us, never grew old.

I hope that, whatever else you have planned, you will also take the time to remember Jimmy Timmerberg ... the hundreds of thousands of other young men and women who paid for our freedom with their lives ... and their parents, who buried the best of themselves with them.