Traits

One morning I was asked, by a kid looking into a mirror, “What’s a trait?” That kid was me. Once again, I was guilty of a game I had devised many years prior to that morning; it’s called self-appraisal.

An aside: Folks, if da harv was miraculously given a gift of pride, over his human character trait of integrity in all the endeavors he might attempt to accomplish, perhaps he would genuinely smile as he looked in the mirror each and every day.

  

  

Traits may be or become

Yesteryear or from now on

Sure or uncertain

In front of the world

Or shyly

Sneaking a peek

Alone with observance

Momentary

Ignored during a lifetime

Bowed while receiving applause

Free from it being a lifetime accident

Events nurtured by my climb

And on this next and very particular morning

Once again these kids

With their new day dawning

Clasp hands

Altogether deciding to share

Their newest trait

Theirs will be each day

Integrity will sweep our land!

Harvey Kalmenson

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Of personal note to all who may know of our mutually effectuated character traits, Catherine and I are more than merely proud to announce the successful formation of our latest venture:

Welcome to “DreamBuilder”

Offered in our newly launched “Life Success Coaching” Division, Cathy Kalmenson under the banner of Kalmenson & Kalmenson has begun her latest prominence in the field of human guidance. More to come...

Winners Are Habitual Dreamers

Winners Are Habitual Dreamers

(at least for Cathy & da harv)

"Well, excuse me", sarcastically uttered by a person of great inherited funds was heard to say.

Their names have been changed and placed in the categories of my choice. These are some people I’ve come in contact with during my life as a habitual dreamer.

And for the eight subcategories, depicted above, has become time for them to move on with life. 

If it is your most important desire to grasp and hold onto what tasty juices a dreamer is always ready for, well, then, my friends, you are a dreamer.

My point is: What in God's name are we supposed to make of all this?

Lincoln Terrace Park, Brooklyn New York 1941

I secretly overheard my father telling a friend of his, in a quiet manner, “That’s all the kid thinks about—is playing baseball.” Then, without hesitation, he added: “And right until he falls fast asleep, he’s squeezing the life out of a baseball and dreaming about tomorrow’s game in the park. The kids got talent!”

Almost every night, I was dreaming about something good. I didn’t realize at the time that I was an eight-year-old kid who was destined to remain a dreamer—hopefully forever!

Sooner or later

Out or in favor

New beginnings

Arise to savor

Two finally have become one

It’s still referred to as marriage

Then, like in a moment or two

A pram appears

Dudes and dudesses call it a baby carriage

That’s life, and wouldn’t you know

Some trouble begins

Oh my, out come twins

One and one multiplied

Two had become four

Young no more

But not yet old

These four moved to a larger space

Nothing glamorous, this extra room

And, oh yes, one more than a little thing to contend with

Overnight

Two sparkling little kids had become ten years old

And so they had to move to an even larger place to live

It was a time to be bold

On each and every Friday night

The four clasped hands

To say a prayer

Without another word

The candles, mom would light

Home became a castle

Each and every Friday night

This now is a very short epilog of what became the

Story of two becoming four...

Who worked hard...

Keeping a family together...

Clasping hands...

Relying on faith...

And all together dreaming

All together within a candle-lit castle

A king, his queen, a prince, and a princess

Still beaming and dreaming of much more!

Excuse me now, it’s time for me to move aloft in order to partake as a constant habituate...

Sweet dreams to all

From da harv

Keep the faith (yours)

May your castle beam on forever and a week!

If you need a disclaimer, here it is:

I can probably guarantee that what follows will be almost impossible for you to understand. I, for certain, can’t explain the true meaning or creative effectiveness of my thoughts having been turned into an honest appraisal of their meaning. After all, my old gold stories stem from a dreamer's mindset.

Good luck be had by all of ya…

"Old Gold Stories Told"

Old gold stories told

From within mind’s eyes

Worldwide

Admissive during one’s lifetime

Dismissive, almost never

Pad nor pencils ever a necessity

Public reciprocity never offered

For all people over eighty

Still strong enough

Allowing visions

Of old gold stories recalled

Pleasing insightful memories

Yours forever believably unfold

Past performances

Hot and sweet when first they came

Unannounced

Each a new discovery

For you to claim

Youthful grails to be held, and behold

There within

A method for my madness lies

Often one must be gentle

When preparing to unfold

A pleasant remembrance

May not always be for your taking,

Not always from a happy time

Revisited

A person, place, thing, or happening

Accompanying this dream or that

Often quietly still

Free from reason, rhyme, or formality

When certain memories resist

When generosity begs for the forgettable

Life presents dreamless sobriety

It summons, deflates, challenges,

Perhaps 'tis new, this unabashed paradigm

An inhaled, unencoded, undesired spectacle

Of what life places within our human paths

Will it serve as a final engrossment

Who amongst us will endure

Frets stemming from life’s past

When deceptive age

Chronicles one's present

We gather from the past

Serving as a possible remedy

Presenting new goals

For the present and future

And then, too many years ago

Do you understand,

You are nothing more than a dreamer?

“Perhaps”, he replied, in a free form I had never heard before. He spoke of what and when my mother explained to him on the day I was about to be born. “This one, I can tell you, has a mind of his own”, while her groan was heard as well. And as my dad went on with his story of this new beginning, it became a stream of consciousness he used under his breath explaining to whoever might have been listening: “How did she know it was going to be a son?” She must have dreamed it. My mother might have been a dreamer. Often, dreaming ran rampant within a man or woman’s family. Often, it’s all a dreamer is free to do within their entire span of life.

A Tale of Two Cities is a historical novel published in 1859 by Charles Dickens, set in London and Paris before and during the French Revolution.

Dickens opens the novel with a sentence that has become famous:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

...And for a few moments at this special moment

A distinct time in one's life, yours to conjure and celebrate

To take and reshare with yourself all you’ve seen and felt, and, yes…

All you can humbly store within a choice of dream-like treasury…

Dream humbly and great magnitudes of life and joyous well-being will become dream-like…

With great humility, joining your dreams in a salute to the very best of times…

With my special thank you to Charles Dickens

Harvey Kalmenson

Source/s: charlesdickensinfo.com

There's Going To Be A Great Day

"Lift up your head and shout:
There's Going To Be A Great Day"

At Dorsey High School, back in those days of the real early fifties, the student body referred to athletes around campus as “the jocks”. Most of us didn’t walk like regular humans. We’d “swagger”. We were a bunch of sixteen-year-old kids who grew up playing baseball as men. Men who within the next two years were to become recognized as the best high school baseball team in the United States. At the time, during eleventh and twelfth grade, our school baseball team established a high school national record; our team won forty-three straight games.

Of the sixteen team members, four of us were constantly receiving glowing writeups, singing the praises of the team’s success story. During the course of our senior year together, a variety of Major League Baseball scouts began showing up in an effort to find out if what the local newspapers were reporting was for real.

Note for those who know little about baseball, our national pastime: Being a winning team in the great city of Los Angeles is a major accomplishment. Winning forty-three straight games is almost an impossibility.

Upon completion of the season, all there was left to accomplish was to celebrate with the family and friends who cheered us on from the start. When you’re in love, it should be a lifetime of continual celebration. It seemed like, during that heady time period, wherever we turned there’d be an individual or organization inviting all of us to attend something or other.

About Coaching

Baseball and the unbelievable similarities with life and the way we play at it each and every day of our lives…

It was at a practice one day when I had completed my daily running and calisthenics workout, and I was loosening up my throwing arm as I prepared to pitch team batting practice. It was a ritual of mine to do two go-arounds. Simply explaining the methodology of pitching batting practice, it was making sure the guys were getting good pitches to swing at.

After giving the batters a full fifteen minutes on the first go-around, I came off the mound and rested for ten minutes, and then came back to pitch between fifteen to twenty minutes as if it was an actual game. The difference was, in this set, I told each batter coming up to the plate exactly what pitch I was intending to throw. Today, many professional baseball pitchers practice the same way when they pitch team batting practice. But not all—depending on who the team pitching coach happens to be.

In my case, it was a lot like life: A relief pitcher, especially as a team closer, that’s who I was. We must learn how to compete under far less-than-ideal conditions.

“That’s life. That’s What It’s All About”

Some happiness

Some pain

Some glory

Some strife

Easy or strain

Maybe too damn hot

Could it be your lucky old sun

Try not to complain

The guy on our team

I loved the most

Was always there to encourage us all

No teammate worked harder toward success

- Harvey Kalmenson -

George (Sparky) Anderson was not only a teammate during our once-in-a-lifetime ride to the top, but also my sincerest high school best friend as well. There was a time many years ago, while I happened to be throwing batting practice, I stopped for a couple of seconds to dry my brow… for whatever reason I glanced away from the guy in the batter's box and caught sight of my dad playing catch with George's father on the sidelines. I smiled from inside out, and I caught sight of my friend, Georgie, admiring the same incident. Two fathers enjoying themselves. It was indeed pride personified. Two dads together celebrating without a word being spoken.

Today and forever, within the confines of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, you’ll find a statue and a story about George "Sparky" Anderson, one of the few managers to win the World Series while managing two different teams, one in each league. I, on the other hand, have a baseball signed by George Anderson a few years ago in 1952. We were teammates and champs.

While my teenage swagger may have been better than his, it fell into disrepair shortly after high school ended due to a freak injury on a baseball field which abruptly evicted me from the dreamland I was living in. It all took place almost exactly as I received my high school diploma upon graduation. I had recently turned down getting a college scholarship. There were no other choices for me.

I became a walk-on baseball player and student at Santa Monica City College. On Saturdays and Sundays, I pitched for a variety of Major League-funded teams that played off-season baseball here in Los Angeles, and as far east as San Bernardino. During the weekdays, I worked for my father in his factory. My heart wasn’t in either my dad's factory nor did I have a love affair with traveling to the furthest reaches of Los Angeles county to pitch baseball for a few bucks. It wasn’t a great day for me. I guess a crossroad in almost anyone’s life can become trying. A decision had to be made, and so I did. The clock was ticking, 1952 was ending. It was definitely time for a new beginning.

And so, Harvey Kalmenson said goodbye to his family, cohorts, and friends. And hello to the United States Army. I volunteered for the draft. In a few days, I was on my way. Hello, Korea. I was about to discover things I had never realized about myself, and what a narrow life I was living. Being able to pitch a baseball is playing a game. True teamwork is synonymous with what you can spiritually make out of it. You’ll hear from me next week, God willing!

da harv
Now pitching for Kalmenson & Kalmenson