"It matters not how long we live, but how."

…..You need not read this particular post on my blog because I am writing it to myself trying to assess what I have accomplished in this long life.  Ever since I was a little waif, I never wished to be merely “good”…my aspiration was to be great.  Well, I don’t know if my aspirations actually reached fruition, but the time has arrived when I need to evaluate the meaning of my life. So, to begin, my first venture into the world of action…apart from just eating candy and playing with girls when I was 9, was to get down to the beach in Long Branch, NJ, and sell newspapers.  It was a lot of fun, and I met some very interesting people…but my feet were burning because of the hot sand.  My most  prolific financial day was the day after the steamship “Morro Castle” burned right off the coast.  So, at the least, that became a “great” day.  

…..After Dad died in 1933, my mother, sister and I moved in to mom’s parents’ apartment in the Bronx.  I graduated there from selling papers to becoming a shoe-shine boy.  I made a shoe-shine contraption out of cheese boxes, bought brown and black shoe wax, and ventured into the streets to shine shoes for for 25 cents.  However, it took all day just to make $1.75… in those days a largess of awesome proportions.  I was now a successful entrepreneur… and I was my own boss; that was also not merely good—but finally something great!  And to think I was only 11 years old.

…..So, Baron, let’s skip ahead a few years to high school.  I wasn’t particulary great in school, although I did manage to get good passing grades in all my subjects…particularly English, steno, and typing.  Mom thought I should become a court stenographer; but I wanted to be a journalist--a sportswriter.  Little did I know that in my 80s I would become a “journalist”…but not the newspaper kind…On my PC I began to keep a “journal” of my life in Florida on a column called a “blog”….so there.  I was a “journalist” after all…one of the vagaries of life...and somewhat of a disappointment.

…..It wasn’t very long after I graduated high school in 1941 that Pearl Harbor was bombed and America went to war again…WWII.  I was 18 when I joined the Navy in November of 1942.  I spent three years as a combat aircrewman, flew 60 combat missions and eventually was awarded two Distinguished Flying Crosses and eleven Air Medals.  However, that accomplishment did not make me a hero…the real heroes were those who didn’t make it back.  Regardez…(I learned a bit of French during the war such as “Voulez vous cigarette? O chocolat?”, and “Voulez vous couche avec moi?”.)  I wasn’t too sure what that meant—but eventually I found out.

…..This blog is now getting too long.  Readers might lose interest, so I will continue this, perhaps tomorrow, and I guarantee it will be exciting reading…good enough for kindles, iPads, iPods…and whatever.