hunky guys

For the past forty years off and on I have lived part of the time in Hull, Massachusetts which apart from the fact it abuts an incredibly  beautiful shore line of the Atlantic Ocean is your typical small town working class America.  Very Irish, Jewish, and Italian, not first generation but not too long ago off the boat.  I still read The Hull Times, although I no longer live there.  Why?  Trying to connect with my small town Iowa roots, I would guess.  I always delight in reading the Letters To The Editors column, and take particular pleasure in the congratulatory letters of thanks to the Hull Fire Department which is out and about every day 24/7 taking the citizenry to the hospital.  I have had my own experience of them when they rushed my husband suddenly overcome with pneumonia off to the hospital in Weymouth hours after a car and driver had brought us back from an overnight stay and his surgery in Beth Israel.  At the time I wrote a letter to the paper remarking on their wonderful humane take-charge behavior with two elderly confused and effeminate men.  I meant every word of it.  Some time before that I was in New York City in the large freight elevator that doubles as transportation for the audience of the theater in the cellar of the Citicorp Building on 53rd Street when it stopped between floors with fifteen people aboard twenty minutes before curtain.  The theater when apprised of the problem said they would hold the curtain; the fire department was called and said they would soon respond.  We all waited and with maximum high WASP reserve remained utterly glacial and impassive.  Soon the Fire Department crackling speaker phone announced their arrival and alerted us to the escape mechanism.  They would manually move the elevator down between floors and manually force open the large horizontal door and then one by one we would drop into the arms of a  waiting fireman.  I have to say it was delicious when my turn came.  No, not because I am an aging queen who cannot get enough of youthful males.  It was because I had never in my entire life up to that point been caught and held for security in the arms of a strong male.  Never having had a father, I had never felt a man's caring protective hold of me.  I am not asking my reader to burst into tears at this desolation, just to acknowledge the fact.  Recently on my trip to New York City with my balance more precarious than ever I leaned slightly out into 57th street to signal for a cab to go to Penn Station, and lost my balance and fell.  It was eight am on a Saturday and blissfully free of crowds.  Suddenly two men were at my side.  "You hurt?"  "No." "Wanna go to the hospital?"  "No, I'm okay. Just need a taxi to Penn Station."  "Put your arms around my neck, and don't try to raise yourself."  He stooped down, and my God, this hunky young man lifted me to a standing position.  Daddy!