What's Fare Isn't Always Fair and Random Observations

Once upon a time Easter meant a vacation for me. It commenced on Holy Thursday and included Good Friday and the entire week after Easter Sunday—seven whole schooldays in the springtime no less. Trust me when I say this was a gift of providential proportions.

Nowadays, the Easter vacation and, too, the largess of the Easter Bunny are distant memories. There are no more popcorn bunnies, chocolate crosses, and triple-packs of baseball cards in my Easter baskets. There are no more Easter baskets. There are no more Easter visits, too, to the maternal grandparents in Bangor, Pennsylvania and hams from Speer's Meat Market. Nothing in life lasts forever, including meat markets. An Easter footnote here: Approximately a half-century ago, I actually spotted the Easter Bunny in my grandparents' Miller Street backyard. As soon as I laid eyes on the creature, he, she, or it hopped away with resolute alacrity. The official location of the sighting: under the newly-budding black walnut tree. Of course, it could have been an alley cat.

Well, that was then and this is now as Holy Week and Passover approach. It was a pretty chilly day yesterday—still colder than normal—but tolerable at least. The sun shone brightly on the "March for Our Lives" demonstration in Manhattan. In fact, the subway was overflowing with attendees and their placards. My favorite read: "Thoughts & prayers won't protect me from bullets." True dat.

My subway adventure began at the Van Cortlandt Park terminal, where I made my way to the first car, which is typically the least crowded on the southbound journey—Bronx to Manhattan. The first car being the last car on the northbound trip is also more apt to have homeless folks vegetating therein, and often in the Land of Nod. This was indeed the case yesterday, but the train operator would have none of it. He informed a prostrate man that sitting erect was required if he wanted to ride the train. This was too much to ask and the man exited the car to find another one where he wouldn't be bothered and could rest in peace. Before pulling out, the train operator exited his cab and sprayed the area previously occupied by the homeless man with an air freshener. It was the train operator's domain and he wasn't about to let any lingering body odor waft his way. Truthfully, I didn't smell the homeless man, but I did smell the air freshener, which didn't smell so fresh in an enclosed subway car destined for the land down under.

My day ended on a sour not with a visit to a nursing home at dinnertime. Considering what these institutions charge per day, one would think the fare would be at least fair, which most of the time it isn't. I won't say that what was served last night looked like dog food, because canine eats have taken a considerable turn for the better in recent years. Seriously, I don't think too many pet parents would feed the nursing home's Philly cheese steak and soggy French fries to their beloved canine companions. A nursing home is just not where you want to end your days, or even rehabilitate in for days or weeks. How about mandatory private rooms? Put up half walls where the curtains separating patients are. It's nice that every patient has a television set, but with two sets on in the same room—in hard-of-hearing central—it's enough to drive one to madness and a nursing home.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)