Concentration

Concentration
By J. Glenn Eugster
May 29, 2013

My Aunt Lucy was abucted, following a fall and emergency ride, by two seemingly friendly relatives over one-year ago in broad daylight.  She was taken by car, wheel chair, and jet to a remote outpost in the southeastern US. Her abductors waited until she couldn’t stand her temporary rehabilitation residence in Glen Cove, NY any longer before they whisked her away from where she lived all her life.  Small talk about cloud formations and cocktails helped soothe her apprehensions on the flight south.

Since her arrival she has been kept in a loving-type of elderly lockdown.  Over the course of her abduction she has been moved about, first from room to room, and then from location to location.  Along with the various drugs that medical staff seem intent on giving her, this movement of body and mind keeps her constantly wondering where she was, is and will be.  As she continues to adjust to her incarceration one thing she clearly understand is that this isn’t NY.

Talking with Aunt Lucy is often entertaining and reflective of the changes she is going through.  On a good day “it’s okay”.  On a bad day “it’s like a concentration camp”.  As I talk to her I try to take my cue from her, not deciding what we should or could talk about, or whether what we are talking about is real or imaginary.  Some days the conversations  are wonderful and other days they a bizarre.

For example, my aunt will occasionally tell me that “these are not my pants”, “there are Gypsies living upstairs at  night in my house”,  and “they were doing construction across the hall last night”.  I checked on the Gypsies half-wondering if the reports on her pants and construction might be true.   One night while working inside her home I heard a radio playing upstairs but decided I wouldn’t  check upstairs or mention it to her.  Frankly it was nice to have someone in the house again.

The inmates at the place she stays in now are reportedly mistreated during meal-time, according to my aunt.  “The oatmeal is watery”, “there’s no butter for the grits”, “they give us different color plates” and “they only have corn flakes”.  Her mealtime stories break my heart and I regularly mail her pats-of-butter and bags of Lucky Charms not knowing whether or not her mail is screened for contraband, melted or crushed.

My aunt regularly gives me lists of items that she wants smuggled into her compound.  “I don’t have any white blouses, black slacks, sunglasses, sun visors, sandals, nightgowns, or multi-colored vests”, she says repeatedly to make sure I understand.  “Where is the watch with the big numbers I gave you to hold for me?”  “Where is my jewelry?” “Where is the notebook that I use to record my bill payments?”

Her lists are wonderful as they describe items, their appearance, the rooms they are in, and helpful hints.  They are exact and serve as a treasure hunt taking me through closets, the basement, upstairs, behind couches, into cupboards, under tables, and beneath layers of family archaeology.  “It’s behind the couch”.  It’s in a plastic bag under the kitchen table”. “Just go in the basement and it’s on the right”.    Most places are accessible except for the basement which makes the movie “Silence of the Lambs” seem like a fairy-tale.

More often than not I find what she wants.  Sometimes there are fourteen blouses and twenty-three watches to choose from but after telephone consultation I usually narrow the search and find something close to what she was looking for.  Not that this work isn’t without its hazards.  The clothes are dusty and there is black mold in the basement.  Unhealthy conditions don’t concern my aunt and once she berates me for being a wuss and throws down the challenge of returning to NY to look for things herself I put my mask and doo-rag on and search-on.

She often asks me to care for her yard as well.  “Just snip the English Ivy so you can mow the lawn”  not realizing that the lawn went to old field the shortly after she arrived in the South. Gutters have fallen down, adding more water to the toxic concoction in the basement.  Trees and shrubs are overgrown and the grape arbor came down during Hurricane Sandy.  More than the vitality of the plant life all of the yard speaks to how diligent she was maintaining her property.  

Despite the efforts of other abductors to get her to wear the clothes she has, or those they have purchased for her, she is steadfast on shopping herself.  “The clothes they buy me don’t fit”.  She called the Orvis Store on her block in NY and arranged for her own credit card, ordering two more white blouses to go with the fourteen I sent her.  Her complaint about her clothes has some merit.  “I need new clothes, my body has changed”.  No doubt the pats of butter never made it to her grits.

Aunt Lucy struggles in her confinement to be entertained.  Cable TV and unlimited phone calls only go so far with her.  “There is no NY news on television here.  I don’t know these channels.  We are in a different time zone. The people here are all either crazy, sleeping or boring”.  She continues to believe that access to her savings would cure this problem.  “Why can’t I have money?” she repeatedly chants.  Fortunately, of late, she met a man who she likes.  She enjoys their time together but can’t understand why he has so many clothes.  She thinks he might have money and recently asked me to Google his finances.  I told her that her nose has grown since she moved south and not to snoop.

Surprisingly she doesn’t seem to realize, yet, that all she needs to do is call a cab and she can leave anytime she wants to.  The security in the compound is erratic and she still has a fairly quick step to her.  Incarceration may be weighing to heavy on her these days.  On occasion she will ask me, “Is this it?”.  I don’t believe it is and I tell her that it is still her life and she decides how she wants to live it.  I ask her if she wants to leave and she says, “Oh no, it would be too expensive to go somewhere else.  This is okay”.  Obviously the Gypsy life isn’t for everyone.

More fun than the H.O.R.D.E.!

Review: Travel

More fun than the H.O.R.D.E.!

By J. Glenn Eugster

Eastportorican Travel Critic

I was scanning the magazine rack of the Alexandria “News”, as I do most Saturday mornings, moving from current events, through scientific journals and over to the travel section when I spotted the headline.  “Cape Charles: Where it all begins” the cover read, causing me to perk up from my pre-coffee stupor to think, are the Allman Brothers Band playing at the  Cape this year?  My mind wandered with excitement to the HORDE (Horizons of Rock Developing Everywhere) concert I attended two years ago in Philadelphia and soon I was thinking of returning to a musical menu of “Blues Travelers”, “Big Head Todd and the Monsters”, and the “Allman Brothers Band”.

I picked up the magazine, the April 1996 edition of “Chesapeake Bay”,  and fumbled through the pages looking for the news on the dynamic musical caravan.  The feature story was appropriately placed in the center fold of the slick and glossy magazine dedicated to people who make too much money and use it to cruise the Chesapeake Bay.   The story line “Gateway of the Chesapeake Bay” confused me, sounding much like a smoke and mirrors slogan cooked up in some inland office of the National Park Service, but the opening photo soothed my eyes and redirected my mind.  Strolling the boardwalk was a attractive blonde, walking away from the camera, toward a Club Med type of environment.  Good grief I thought, has Cape Charles gone in a new direction?  Are they catering to the young, beautiful and decadent?  Where have I been and why didn’t someone tell me of this switch?

After snapping out of my trance I read the article and noticed that it wasn’t about Greg Allman & Company, good looking women at pleasure resorts, but rather about fishing in the Cape Charles area.  The article, of the same name as the Allman Brothers compact disk of two years ago “Where It All Begins”, is by Charlie Petrocci a self described free-lance writer, traveler and angler.  I hadn’t seen any of Charlie’s work since his Third Place finish in the 1994 “National Oyster Cook-Off”.  1994 was reportedly one of the most intense competitions in the history of the world famous St. Mary’s County event and Mr. Petrocci more than held his own.

Charlie Petrocci’s article on Cape Charles, or “The Cape” as insiders refer to it, is wonderful once you get past the reality that he won’t talk about rock and roll horizons or the curve of the blonde on the walk way.  Charlie talks about fishing and the wonderful charms of the Virginia Eastern Shore, including Cape Charles.  His inside perspective on sport fishing and reading the peoples, lands, and waters of the Chesapeake Bay are exciting and inspirational.  If you aren’t a fisherman before you read Mr. Petrocci’s description of his adventures around the Cape, you surely feel like you are missing something special.

Charlie also describes the places which are a part of a fishing trip, or any trip for that matter, to the Virginia Eastern Shore.  He highlights the activities, localities and characters in an easy to use format, that are truly some of the most special qualities of a unique part of the Chesapeake Bay.  About the only information that was missing from Charlie’s hand-picked pointers, is where to have a really good time.

Mr. Petrocci has consistently added mystery to his recipes and writings and this time is no exception.  Although it is hard to be sure if the reference is tounge-in-cheek or not, Mr. Petrocci describes “the mysterious cobia as a cross between a shark and a catfish”.   With a veil of intrigue Charlie describes the “cobia’s” fishing qualities noting that the fish is finicky but cooks well in stews.  One can almost hear Charlie and the Cape-opolitans chuckling as they drink cans of “National Premium” and tell other tourist tales from the local dock. 

Mr. Petrocci’s article has reaffirmed his position as the premier ecotourism expert on the Eastern Shore.  Whether it’s cooking, snapping a photo of beauty, telling tales to tourists, or cooking the famous “Deer Mr. Oyster”, Charlie from Chincoteague, Virginia lives the Bay and enjoys every minute.  

"The last day of the last year of the 50's"

"The last day of the last year of the 50's"

(A birthday letter to my sister)

J. Glenn Eugster

January 19, 2011

Good grief!  Could it be that you are on the verge of the final lap for the 50's?  Yes, my dear sister, you are that old.  Being old isn't for sissies but you knew that when you were 12. 

Getting old isn't all it's cranked-up to be from where I sit.  Once you get into the 60's the body parts start to get out of wack.   You can feel your arteries and internal plumbing start to clog.  Country music is so much more relevant.  You spend more time in the porcelain room when no one else is around.  Your kids don't recognize your voice let alone listen to you.  Your hair falls out, your gums and your butt drop and flatulence follows you around like a friendly dog.  If you thought the 50's was difficult transition, the 60's will keep you up at night.  Cormac McCarthy wrote, "One of the things you realize about getting older is that not everybody is going to get older with you". 60 is still a stigma of being old and the discounts just aren't that great.

Many of the baby-boomers talk about how great the 50's and 60's were.  They must mean the time period although I'm not sure if I believe that those two decades were so wonderful.  My sense is that the further away you get from something, and perhaps someone, the better and better it or she/ he looks.  Oh, wow, I remember the 50's.  But say hey Willie, you aren't out of the 50's yet!

As you enter the last lap of being 50 something you need to squeeze the juice out of this part of your life like it was a sweet orange.  Not necessarily crazy stuff but perhaps a new or adjusted approach to the way you live your life.    Given my four year and seven-day head start on you I offer these lessons for the last days of being 59.  Although these ramble a bit perhaps there is some wisdom you can extract or translate from what follows.

First, thank God each morning and night for another day and for all you have been given.  St. Ignatius will tell you (if you read the book) that you are fortunate that God hasn't turned his head and sent you to another world.  God does love you.  Ask Him for grace and knowledge so that you might better love and serve him.

Second, live each day as if it's the last day you have.  No, no, no, that doesn't mean pig out on food, soaps, pills, or Lifetime movies.  Treat everyone you encounter as if it were the last time you were seeing them.  Share the generosity of spirit that is within you with family, friends, and strangers--just not too strange strangers.  Remember, we don't know the time or the hour......and "This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time", from the Fight Club.

Third, talk and listen to the people you enjoy and care about.  Everyone has a story to tell or an idea to share.  Stewart O'Nan wrote, "Lately it seems there are mysteries everywhere as if you've only just opened your eyes".

Fourth,  take your health more seriously than before.  Make believe you have health problems and err on the side of being too thorough and cautious.  Get checked by real doctors, exercise, give up something you love for Lent, think healthy, and meditate.

Fifth,  celebrate the small joys in your life, and in the lives of your family.  Give people and yourself a reason to smile at the small things that go well.  Sully once said, "Happiness is a place-saver between tragedies".

Sixth, take time out for yourself and do something every so often that means a great deal to you.  Decide what you really like to do that you don't have time to do anymore--and do it.  No, it doesn't mean dressing-up farm animals, but rather the small passions of your life that you never have time for.

Seventh,  keep your wits no matter how crazy the environment is.  I worked with a guy named Daniel Martin from Northern Ireland.  He once said, "My life is not this steeply sloping hour in which you see me hurrying".

Eight, love the love of your life in new and different ways.  Love and marriage blossoms if you let it the relationship express itself.  St. Francis said, although not necessarily about marriage, "It is in giving that we receive".  It's a good bit like religion and AA, it works if you work it.

Nine, be open to the ideas and opinions of others but don't give up who you really are.  Larry Brown wrote that Barlow, in "Big, Bad, Love",.."couldn't get anyone to do what he wanted but at least he knew what he wanted".  The Lord's Prayer, each morning and night, reminds me that "Thy will be done".

Finally, 59  is a nice number and you don't look a day over 52, so take time and enjoy your birthday.  If we lived nearby we'd give you a cake and obligatory honors galore.  The world is a far, far better place with you in it.  Keep-on keepin-on!  Happy Birthday!

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays!
J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press
December 6, 2005


Alexandria, VA.  As I was helping my wife put up our Christmas tree
I thought that the holidays have been happy and sad.   It is easy to recall
the great fun we had at Grandma's sharing gifts, eating and waiting for the
antics to begin after dinner.  I remember spending  time in the basement of
East Hills with Dad as he built plywood Santa's that were to grace people's
lawns.  Most of the days leading to the holidays were always filled with
love, excitement and enjoyment.

Interestingly the holidays that weren't traditional still come to mind as
I hang the lights around the tree each year.   For example, I recall my
first Christmas memory was one Christmas eve when Dad spent the entire
night trying to put together a bicycle they bought for me--it was called
"Dam Bike".  He couldn't do it because he drank to much beer and
not all the parts were included.  It was exciting getting a bike even if
it didn't work and the extra portion of holiday stress was an appetizer
for the years to come.

One year in Philadelphia, living on 6th and Catherine Streets, the heat
went out Christmas eve and we couldn't get it fixed.  We spent part of
Christmas Day frolicking with other lost souls at Dirty Franks Bar where
it was warm but not necessarily festive.  Our landlord offered to put us
up in a motel in Camden, NJ--one of the murder capitals of the US, but we
opted to tough-it-out instead.  My sense was that if Dad and Mom could do
without heat for years I could manage for a few days.

Another holiday I recall is the Christmas eve Dad came home drunk and
caused a Battle Royale with Mom.  He was really wacked-out and the furry
filled the room.  I couldn't cope so I took the car and headed for town
looking for an old flame.  I drank at the Appletree for a while and then
set out to find my love.    She was out with her Polish boyfriend that
evening so I decided to sit next to a tree in her driveway and wait for
her.  I waited for hours, in the December cold, until I couldn't stand it
any longer.

I got up and went to her families back door and went inside the mudroom
for a while.  That to was cold so I tried the kitchen door--which I thought
would be unlocked for my flame.  It was in fact open and I quietly let
myself in.  I crept into the living room, took off my coat and stretched
out on the floor while the family slept upstairs.  I decided the floor was
the best place to wait so that when my love came home she would see me and we
could talk.

In the morning, after sunrise, I awoke to the sounds of my loves sister
coming down the stairs to open her gifts.  She screamed when she saw me
and ran upstairs to let her parents know that "Glenn is asleep on
the living room floor".  The parents came down, in their night-clothes and
greeted me.  My love hadn't come home that night because it snowed heavily
and she had to spend the night with her boyfriend.  The parents
were cool about my visit, asked me to staff for breakfast and suggested I
hang out until the roads were plowed.

The roads didn't get plowed until later in the morning, when my flame
returned home.  I explained that I needed to leave and couldn't talk
because I had to get home to celebrate Christmas.  By the time I got to
North Oakwood my sister and mother had left for Grandma's and Dad was still
sleeping his hangover off on  the couch.  The day was spent in a fit of
holiday loathing and the emptiness of not begin with the family for
Christmas stayed with me for a good while.

It is good that I spend the holidays with my family, and
others, as we all look forward rather than backwards.  Sharing the holidays
with those who really do enjoy the season is good for the heart and the
mind.

"The Great Lasagna Escape"

"The Great Lasagna Escape"

Forty-two years ago, on this day in Laurel history, two children were waiting for their parents to arrive home on Saturday night. The children, Glenn and Claudette, were instructed by the Mother-Josephine, Jay, Mom, to remove a pan of lasagna from the oven at 6:15 pm. Mom said, "Take the lasagna out of the oven at 6:15 pm, put it on the top of the stove and let it cool. We'll be home at six-thirty and
we'll eat then."

The Father--Joseph, Joe, Jr., Joe, worked on Shelter Island at the Bohack
food market and each Saturday, Jay would take Joe to work so that she
could use the family's car for various trips around the rural community
where they lived. Jay had left shortly after five o'clock, leaving
Claudette and Glenn with the lasagna instructions and the promise of a
special Saturday night meal.

Jay had spent the day taking care of errands with the car. However, she
allowed enough time that day to prepare a lasagna meal for the evening.
Lasagna was a special favorite of the family and it featured flat noodles,
tomato sauce, ricotta cheese, and ground beef. The lasagna would be
served with a tossed salad--with French dressing, and hot crusty French
bread. Of the many meals that Jay prepared for the family, lasagna was in
the top-three in terms of her ability to cook and the quality of the
delicious dish.

Glenn and Claudette watched television while Jay went to pickup Joe. As
they watched the television they were mindful of the lasagna
responsibility, regularly popping-up from their seats to check the wall
clock in the kitchen. Claudette, always the more responsible of the two
children, said, "Let's not forget to take the lasagna out of the oven to
cool at 6:15 pm." Glenn, always one to underestimate the complexity of
life and the tasks he was given, replied "No problem!".

During the year of this event, Jay and Joe were quite predictable with
their patterns. You could usually expect, within five minutes, when they
would return from the Saturday routine. In the late fall and winter it
was possible to look out of the porch window and actually see the car
approaching the Brush's Creek bridge along Peconic Bay Blvd. The bridge
was a little more than an eight-of-a-mile from the turnoff at North
Oakwood Road where the family lived. This Saturday, however, leaves
blocked the view so the children could only estimate that their parents
were likely to arrive home around 6:30 pm as promised.

Shortly after 6:10 pm Claudette and Glenn began to stir. As the children
hovered around the small kitchen they prepared for the removal of the
lasagna from the oven. Walking in place each child put one oven-mitt on
and used a pot-holder for the other hand. With unusual teamwork and
deliberation the two children approached the oven at precisely 6:15pm and
opened the oven door.

As the door opened the heat and the aroma of the lasagna gently touched
the children's bodies and senses sparking both fear, hunger and
excitement. They reached in with the oven-mitts and began to slide the
lasagna out in order to lift it to the top of the oven. In an instant the
pan slipped and fell upside-down onto the floor. Although massive panic
filled the room, not a hint of noodles, sauce, ricotta cheese or beef was
seen on the floor. Unbelievably, the pan of lasagna was in tact, albeit
upside down, facing the kitchen floor.

The children spoke rapidly in moaning sounds, close to crying whispers of
pleas for mercy. "Why, or why, did this have to happen to us? Maybe we
should leave!", said Glenn. Claudette replied, "She'll kill us for
ruining this meal." "Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh..." became a chorus that the children
sang in sweet painful harmony. "What are we going to do? cried Claudette,
into Glenn's bewildered eyes. Thoughts of an angry and painful tongue
lashing by the Mother raced through the children's head until they thought
their heads would pop.

Jay was short in stature and could be the sweetest and most kind parent
ever charged with the birthing and raising of children. Unfortunately she
had a temper that had been cultivated in some dark recess of her adult
life. Most importantly, she was very intelligent and tended to have a
major disdain for stupidity, especially when it involved her children or
husband. Both Claudette and Glenn new that this accident crossed Jay's
standard and went beyond a reasonable mistake. Stupid acts such as this
one could turn a nice Saturday evening into open family warfare filled
with cursing, crying and an early curfew.

It was now 6:22 pm and the kids had to move quick before the Jay and Joe
would come in the back door. Quickly the children lost their fear,
moaning and panic decided that they would try to turn the pan of lasagna
rightside-up without losing the mix of ricotta cheese, noodles, beef and
tomato sauce. Armed with spatulas and a sense of determination that was
surprising considering their years and sheltered existence, they bent down
and slid the spatulas under the pan from each side.

Holding the breath and praying to Jesus, the two--one the count-of-three,
flipped the pan and held the lasagna. "We did it!" they both screamed
with joy. "We saved the meal and our lives" blurted Claudette, as they set
the pan on the stove top. Once the pan was in place, they started to
breath normally again and did a quick clock-check to see that it was now
6:28 pm.

With minutes until the arrival of their parents the children quickly
repaired the "face of the lasagna." Although the panful of noodles,
sauce, ricotta cheese, beef stayed in place, the top had taken a beating
as it the kitchen floor. "Thanks God the floor was clean," said Glenn, as
the two redecorated the face with all the skill of French pastry Chefs.

Shortly after 6:30 pm the children heard the car turn into the yard and
within seconds Jay and Joe arrived and found the lasagna cooling on the
stove top and Glenn and Claudette in a relaxed--slightly exhausted state,
watching television. "Are you ready for dinner?". said the Mother. "You
bet," replied both children as they quietly and thankfully moved into the
kitchen to take their place at the table. Never was Mother's lasagna as
good as it was this day, forty-two years ago.

J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press
Alexandria, VA September 7, 2002

Summer Night Passion

Summer Night Passion

J. Glenn Eugster

Fontana Free Press

March 2, 2005

As a young boy I would watch the Mattituck High School Varisity basketball team play in a small gym in Mattituck, New York.  The team was awesome and typically come out of each game victorious.  For a small school in rural Suffolk County it was a joy to watch Dave Tuthill, Herman Strickland, Jerry Sawicki, Charlie Tyler and John Krupski play with skill, talent, savvy and joy.

Passion was also part of their equation.    I was a junior in high school and playing basketball all the time when I first encountered contact basketball.  In Mattituck, NY we 

played games in the summer time on an outdoor court with whoever would 

show-up.  I was a small-town high school rising star and I did well.  I could 

jump then, shoot the eyes out of the basket and block shots better than 

most guys my height.  One nigh alumni John Krupski, came to play.  

Krupski was an all county all-star and his teams won Suffolk County 

Championships. He played on a team that is still legendary in Mattituck.  

They were big, smart, very good and most successful and all of the Tucker 

fans were in awe that they played for our small town.    John was one of 

the stars and he went on to play college ball at Brown University.   He 

was home that summer and decided to play that night.

The game started and I guarded Krupski, a farm boy my height but 

60 pounds--of muscle, heavier.  He took me down low and tried to 

shoot over me only to have me block his shot.  He retrieved the first 

block and made the same move again, with the same result.  He retrieved 

the blocked shot again and started to make the same move again, only this 

time he planted his elbow squarely in my mouth before he shot.

John Krupski knocked my front teeth out of socket and the evening turned 

out to be a painful trip to the dentist.  After my teeth were re-set I played again and had a good senior year on a very mediocre team.  I learned that basketball was far tougher than I thought it was.  It was then that I learned that my roundball aspirations far exceeded my size or ability.

The Wrong Bird in the Bowl

The Wrong Bird in the Bowl

By J. Glenn Eugster

Fontana Free Press. January 28, 2015

The last time I watched the Superbowl was with my Daughter, my Son-in-Law and Granddaughter.  We watched part of the game in 2005 between the Patriots and the Eagles.  Before moving to Virginia I lived in and around Philadelphia for years, gradually becoming an Eagles fan.  That year, despite their heady ascension to the “big bowl” they lost as their quarterback couldn’t get it done at the end.

The other time I watched the game was in 1981 with my father as the Eagles lost to the Raiders.   He had moved to Philadelphia to work for Boeing and he and my Mom promised he would stay for a week or two sleeping on my couch and sharing my apartment in Bella Vista.  He stayed with me almost one year before finally getting 

a polite shove out of the nest and moving to Delaware County, PA.

When he became a Delawarean he and I would get together on occasion, 

after he got over the sting of being set out on his own, usually to go to 

the Boot ‘ n ' Saddle Bar on Broad Street or to do something related to sports.

We agreed to spend that Superbowl Sunday hanging out in a Delaware County, Pennsylvania bar and root, root, root for the Eagles.  The place was filled with blue 

collar Eagle fans of passion, dedication and demonstration.  Dad and I hoisted 

draft after draft as the Eagles struggled with the Raiders and only one of 

us was vocal enough to look like an Eagle fan.  

I wondered as we watched the demise of the beloved Eagles why he wasn't 

taking the beating more personally.  In fact, he was quite silent and it wasn't until we were safely back at his apartment did he confide in me that he had bet some over-zealous, optimistic Eagles fan that the Raiders would win.  He told me "it was like 

money from home".  I told him that he was lucky the patrons at the bar 

didn't find out.  

I didn't bet on the Oakland game and still wonder how my father could put money over sports passion.  Perhaps he wasn't loyal to Philadelphia, but then again he hadn't 

lived in the City long enough for it to love him back.  

I won’t watch Sunday’s game because my team isn’t in the fight.  However, the stage is set.  In another 5-10 years I’ll invite someone from our family to watch the Eagles play again in the Superbowl.  The result might be the same on the field but sharing the game with special people is really what all the free-market commotion is about.