The Newell Post

This is a birthday card for my daughter, Jeannine. I wrote it for her a few years ago, and I have shared it every year on her birthday, and I do so again. Since the first time I shared this post, she has had two beautiful boys who have brought joy to our family. So, once again, Happy Birthday, Jeannine.

The Day The Music Died?

February 3, 1959, was a day I will forever remember. I can still see my brother Mike and me watching our Mother prepare breakfast. I cannot tell you what the weather was like. If there was snow on the ground, I could not tell you. What I do remember, though, is listening to the green Zenith radio that was up on the shelf over our refrigerator.

In those days, my Mother would often have on a rock and roll channel. It would be years later that she would turn to listen to Rambling With Gambling. So, back in 1959, she was probably listening to Herb Oscar Anderson or someone like him. On that particular day, it did not matter what channel you had tuned into or who the DJ or radio host was. That day it was all the same news and music. Buddy Holly had died, and that is all we heard that day. Even as an eight-year-old, I saw the irony in his most recent recording that every station was playing. ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore,’ written by Paul Anka, just about summed up the feeling of that day.

We also heard that Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper had died as well in the same airplane crash as Buddy Holly. Twelve years later, Don McLean would refer to this day as The Day The Music Died. While music most certainly did not die that day in February, it was never the same. I am not sure what impact The Big Bopper would continue to have on the course of music, but Buddy Holly and Ritchie  Valens would surely have continued to provide terrific music and, no doubt, to inspire new artists and bring new innovations to rock and roll. It is not coincidental that The Beatles recorded ‘Words Of Love’ in deference to Buddy Holly’s contribution to music.
Twenty-Five Years Later
Now, it is February 3, 1984. Eileen and I are expecting our second child. The plan was that we would go to the hospital that Monday, February 6th, for the birth of our child. That taught me a lesson. There are some things you can plan and some that you cannot.

It was a Friday evening. We had a nice dinner, and I was just about to put a fire on and watch the Winter Olympics. No sooner had I had the logs in the hearth than Eileen called out from the bathroom that we would need to go to the hospital instead. My first reaction was to push my way into the bathroom and take a shower. To this day, I cannot fathom why I thought it necessary for me to be showered and shampooed. I guess I was recalling when Sean was born and that it was going to be a long night/day.

Now we had made plans with friends to take care of Sean on Monday, but they were nowhere to be found. So, we called our friend’s mother, who promptly drove over and picked up Sean. Eileen and I then made our way to Southampton Hospital. Upon arriving at the Hospital, Eileen’s doctor came in, shaking his head, saying, “I thought we agreed this was going to happen Monday. I was just about to watch the ice skating competition.” I told him I was too, but that at least I did get my shower in.

We then made our way to the OR room, and I got the chance, again, to sit next to Eileen as our baby was being born. (Let me tell you, that’s the type of sex education we need in our schools.)

The birth of your child is always amazing. One minute, she wasn’t there, and the next, she was. Before that minute had elapsed, however, we named her Jeannine. It was 9:30 PM.

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She was a sight to behold. A beautiful round face trimmed with a wisp of reddish hair. We always thought she would be a redhead like her mother. The maternity nurse took her and got her ready for her crib, and then both of us walked Jeannine up to her room. Eileen was in recovery and would join us later.

When we got to the room, the nurse asked me if I wanted to hold her. So, I picked her up out of the little crib and took her in my arms. She turned her head up to me, and I swear she looked me right in the eyes. I think she was a little miffed for being disturbed while she was napping. She had a look, and I also think she was eying me up, wondering what her fate would be with this big doofus that was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue, her lips were puckered, and the nose that I would spend most of her early years stealing and hiding was as cute as could be.

It was then that I first sang ‘You’re Sugar….” but it was by far not the last time.

Happy Birthday, Jeannine.

Though the music may have died back in 1959, it was resurrected in 1984.

Heuristic Algorithmic Computer or, as we more lovingly remember him, HAL was created by Arthur C Clarke in his book and Stanley Kubrick’s classic movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey. I say HIM referring to HAL because even in the liberated 60s, women were having a hard time getting a good job in the tech world.

Every time I hear or read anything about Artificial Intelligence, I think the AI must really refer to Anti Intelligence. Surely, we have better uses for supercomputers than devising schemes to dupe would-be consumers into purchasing nonexistent products or helping a Nigerian Prince get his money out of Nigeria (which, to be fair, preceded AI).

Scarier attacks have surfaced, including scams to bilk you out of thousands of dollars by ransoming a loved one who phones you and sounds just like your child begging you to pay these people so that he or she can be released.

AI is used to create these voices that sound so real you would run to the bank to save your child. First, there was the Deep Fake that used trumped-up (sorry, couldn’t resist) videos of people doing and saying things that never happened. No wonder our nation has a hard time defining the truth.

Hal warned us that we were on the road to technical disaster, but we didn’t take heed.

After all, growing up in the 50s, we all believed that by 2001, there would be colonies on the moon and that a trip to Saturn or Jupiter would only require a transfer from the moon, much like transferring buses at West Farms in the Bronx from the 36 to the 20. Sadly, we are still waiting for the transfer.

Space travel and even Earth travel are much the same as they were in 1969 when we landed on the moon. If anything, Earth travel is worse as often the wait in the airport is longer than the flight you’re hoping to take.

Never thought about Deep Fakes or the horrors of AI; I mean, even Isaac Asimov had his Three Laws of Robotics in his I Robot series. The Cliff Notes version of Asimov’s laws simply states that Robots cannot injure a human or allow a human to be injured.

I realize that’s a lot of government regulation for some of you, but when AI strikes, you’ll wish there was a robotic McGruff Crime Dog to sic on the techno-miscreants.

Don’t get me wrong I still have great hope that AI can turn the corner and provide valuable service to a world teetering on collapse.

Re-creating circa 1980 ABBA holograms appearing live in concert is probably a good thing, well, better than a kidnapping ruse. And I might have resorted to ChatGPT when I had those three term papers due the same day when I was in junior year, but I think even my professors would have approved rather than reading the typo marred drivel I submitted for their reading pleasure. But no harm, no foul, as they say.

We just might be a little better off with less tech.

But then I would just be writing to myself (which just might be better for you all.)

Happy Saturday!

The year is racing towards its end, and how do you feel about that?

I decided to say goodbye to 2023 today as I will be tied up watching The Honeymooners on DVD (I’m living in Florida, and we are culturally deprived, not having WPIX to remind us of our traditions.)

I used to play a game with myself by trying to remember New Years Eves past. There was a time when I could revel in the memories of 15 to 20 past celebrations of transitioning to a new year, but sadly, those days are gone.

It’s not so much that the recall power of those memories has been lost with old age but more attributable to the sheer boredom of most recent Eves, thereby making them unmemorable in the first place.

Even before moving down to Florida, we hardly rejoiced in the recognition that one year was ending while a new one blossomed before our eyes…big whoop, as they say.

Nevertheless, I probably shouldn’t dwell on the dramatic fall from excitement and celebration that my Eves have undergone. After all, do we really need to drink to excess, eat to excess, wear funny hats, and blow tin horns to signify the planet and its passengers getting older?

Auld Lang Syne, or for old time’s sake, is the spirit behind ushering in the new year with a celebration of the past year. What we must remember is that we don’t necessarily have to go to Times Square (although everyone should experience New Year’s Eve there at least once in your lifetime.) or watch the Big Eye in London erupt in a flurry of fireworks at the stroke of midnight on December 31st. A more controlled festivity can be enjoyed by sitting in a comfortable chair with family and loved ones.

This, after all, is what makes surviving the past year in order to welcome the new year a tradition worth savoring.

Now that I think of it, the memory of these Eves really is more worthy of my recollection.

Happy New Year Everyone!

Love.

Peace.

Joy

If we still remembered History, we would know the poignancy of the word infamy.

Those of us who are boomers cannot hear or read the words without thinking of FDR’s speech following the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.

Nearly thirty-four years later, I was sitting in the endzone of Shea Stadium for a game between the Jets and the Patriots. Joe Namath would throw three touchdowns en route to a 36-7 rout of the Patriots, but this is not what I remember of that day.

During halftime, all those in attendance were asked to honor the Emperor of Japan, Hirohito, and give a rousing Jet welcome. I’m not sure if we were asked to give a rousing Jet welcome or not, but we did clap and cheer somewhat.

Hirohito was Emperor of Japan during World War II and, of course, on December 7, 1941.

At the time, I was in the middle of my graduate degree in American History, and I could not help but think that there were probably a few people in the stands who had fought in World War II or lost loved ones during the war, perhaps even in the Pacific Theater of Operations.

Nevertheless, we cheered out of respect for an ally.

How far we had come in our forgiveness and understanding of a man who had once been our enemy.

It was a fascinating lesson in global politics and something I have always remembered. It is something we should never lose sight of when we determine any nation is our enemy.

Indeed, it is a lesson that we should all ponder in our age of polarization and division. People who disagree with us are not our enemy. People who disagree with us may hold opinions for which we have no tolerance but that doesn’t mean we should be intolerant to the people who hold such ideas.

Hate the idea, perhaps, but not the person. Leave a little doubt in the absolute righteousness of your opinions and try to understand the opinion you despise.

Anyone alive that day and still with us remembers precisely where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news.

Though the term was not applied to the event at the time, it was indeed America’s first mass shooting.

One person lay dead, and nearly two hundred million were seriously wounded.

It was the end of an era.

It was the beginning of the end.

Nothing was ever the same afterward.

Life went on, but not the life that a thirteen-year-old had imagined.

Life was not perfect the day before, but any chance at a more perfect union bled out in Dallas on this day sixty years ago.

It wasn’t that President Kennedy was perfect, but he was inspirational to many despite his flaws.

Sister Margaret was our eighth-grade teacher in Blessed Sacrament, and I can still see the shock seemingly frozen onto her countenance when our Principal, Sister Irene Mary, announced that our President had been assassinated. It may have mirrored my own disbelief and that of my classmates.

When you’re in the eighth grade, you don’t necessarily understand the meaning of transformative events. But on this day in 1963, we all knew that America would never be the same.

We knew that hatred was the culprit responsible for killing our President even if we hadn’t fathomed how extensive this hatred permeated the country. The day before, we were still living in postwar America and had forgiven our enemies and the atrocities they had committed.

So, how could hatred have replaced forgiveness?

So, how can forgiveness be restored in a nation that loves to hate?

The wounds of November 22,1963, continue to fester and have been passed down in our nation’s DNA.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and many of us have so much for which we should be thankful. Maybe it’s time to celebrate Forgiveness Day and bring gifts of love and understanding in lieu of pumpkin pies and cranberry sauce?

It’s just a thought.

If you had the good fortune of growing up in The Bronx in the late 50’s and the early 60’s, you would already understand the significance of the title of this essay.

This quartet of magical instruments provided hours of fun for the fifty or so children that resided on Leland Avenue in what was known as postwar America.

Unlike comic books and baseball cards, which were equally gratifying in their own way, the toys mentioned above kept us moving and outside of our apartments and our mothers’ hair.

The automobile had yet to take over the streets of the Bronx, so while fathers were not home from work, Leland Avenue was our field of play to which we put good and extreme use. In addition to the physical enjoyment provided by each, a spark of genius was engendered as we thought of new ways to enjoy ourselves while employing these wondrous and relatively inexpensive treasures.

The Spalding (most often pronounced SPALLDEEEN) perhaps was the perfect toy of that era.

In addition to stickball, enjoyed on many a summer’s afternoon, the pink Spalding rubber ball was the medium for many of our street games. It was cheap, twenty-five cents, the purchase price often funded by five investors willing to give up a nickel.

Added to stickball was a long list of games for utilising this marvel of modern sports technology.

There were: I Declare War; Hit The Stick; Ace King Queen; Three-Box Baseball; Four-Box Baseball; Off The Wall; Triangle; Stoop Ball; Curb Ball.

I am sure I left a few out, so maybe you can add to the list.

Roller Skates also provided hours of fun on the smooth tar surface that was Leland Avenue. Potholes hadn’t been invented yet, and while Con Ed was advising “Dig We Must For A Greater New York, their unsightly digging took place elsewhere than on the streets of the Bronx.

Creative games utilizing roller skates included drawing the outline of a super highway with pastel chalk (another great outlet for the creative-minded in our group.)

This highway had on-ramps and off-ramps and areas of rough terrain where you had to walk as you skated and some where you had to jump over an obstacle represented by a thick pastel application.

These skates were not the type that employed laces on a boot with wheels affixed to the soles. Rather, you wore your shoes or sneakers to slide the skate on and tighten clamps on the front to hold the skate to your shoe. This required you to own the ubiquitous skate key that often hung on our necks, ready to be called into service at any moment your skate slipped off the front of your shoe while still tethered to the back via a strap, making walking cumbersome at the least.

As the skating season wore on, so did the wheels on your skates, which often developed “boxed wheels.” But while these made skating less enjoyable, your old skates could now be affixed to a plank of wood to fashion a scooter, which would then be completed by nailing a milk crate or fruit crate to the front of your street transport.

While stickball and the other Spalding-related games, as well as roller skating, did not have defined seasons during which we adhered to (or maybe the candy stores where we bought them forced us to) for Tops and Yo-yos.

Tops always appeared in the fall. No sooner did school start than the first box of tops appeared in Hock’s Candy Store. Tops came in two varieties: there was the ball-bearing top, which had a ball-like tip. They were often bigger and easier to spin; the other variety was the “Digger,” which sported a needle-like tip and was usually smaller in girth than the ball-bearing variety. The Digger was especially useful in playing “crack-top,” where you purposely aimed your top to hit your opponent, knock it off its spin, and perhaps take a chunk of wood off it as a collateral victory.

Then there was the Yo-yo, more specifically, the Duncan Yo-yo.

Duncans came in three models, each with a distinctive look but all seemed to offer the same yo-yo experience. There was the traditional wooden model to which we all gravitated. But then Duncan introduced the Buttlerfly and the Imperial yo-yos.

The Butterfly merely had its components reversed, so the edges flared out a bit and may have enhanced your ability to Walk The Dog. The Imperial, on the other hand, was Duncan’s premier offering. Made of plastic and coming in a few colors, this was by far the costliest yo-yo; for this reason, I never owned one. It never made sense as I was able to do the same tricks with my Butterfly as I would be able to do with the Imperial.

I could do Around The World, Loop Deloop, and Walk The Dog. The one trick I could never master was The Cat’s Cradle. Lacking the dexterity to quickly form the cradle, my cat had long lost its spin by the time my cradle was ready. It’s something I’ve had to live with for a very long time.

Playing with these toys not only provided opportunities for safe exercise and a healthy dose of fresh air but also helped forge lifetime memories and lifetime friends.

I haven’t posted a blog since the middle of July.

A lot has happened since then, and I am sure much has happened in your life during my hiatus as well.

Living in The Land With Two Seasons, as I do, the weather has become one of my most watched spectator sports. It’s not just the heat, which by New York standards is excessively hot and unbearably long beginning in May and ending in time for Thanksgiving if we’re lucky.

Ninety-degree days with an index of over 100 can be annoying, but it’s watching storms developing off the coast of Africa that really grabs your attention. No sooner does one storm veer off the coast of the United States than another one is heading our way.

So far, we have had only one hurricane that brushed our coastline, and now that we have passed the September 10th peak of the hurricane season, am I tempting fate by hoping we have made it through another summer?

The sad fact is that the hurricane season runs from June 1st through November 30th. I wonder if we ever had a hurricane on Black Friday?

I lived on Long Island for over thirty-three years, and we had three hurricanes during that time and one Super Storm named Sandy. In all four storms, we suffered a few fallen limbs and loss of electricity three times, ranging from one week for Sandy and two to three days for the others.

With power lines above ground surrounded by trees, it only took one good gust of wind to power us down for the week.

Fortunately, here in Bradenton, all our utilities are underground, which has prevented long-term power availability, and the steel shutters have provided protection from flying debris. Luckily, these have never been truly tested as we have had only one direct hit of a hurricane and have only experienced glancing blows the other times the west coast of Florida has been hit.

So now I watch weekly weather reports to comfort me that we are getting closer to November 30th. Like a prisoner awaiting his parole date, I seek release from the potential categories coming up the coast and the next names on the list that might be heading toward Bradenton; I check off the weeks on my meteorological calendar and then do the NYT crossword.

I neglected to write about my summer playlist that I usually share on the first day of summer. I guess that I haven’t updated it over the last year or two was the primary reason for not boring you once again with my summer hits of yesteryear.

Today I will try not to bore you with a list of songs that may get you through the week ahead.

For those of you who listen to WFUV in the Bronx, you may be familiar with their daily themes that relate to a word or topic that appears in a few songs that listeners suggest. Well, here is a list of songs I have come up with that relate to the days of the week.

Most of the songs I have included are personal favorites, but a couple are, quite honestly, the result of a Google search because I was coming up empty.

So here goes:

SUNDAY Will Never Be The Same (Spanky and Our Gang)

MONDAY MONDAY (The Mommas and The Papas)

TUESDAY AFTERNOON ( The Moody Blues)

WAITING FOR WEDNESDAY (Lisa Loeb)

THURSDAY (Pet Shop Boys)

FRIDAY I’M IN LOVE (The Cure)

SATURDAY IN THE PARK (Chicago)

So, there you are.

I’d be interested to know what songs make up your week.

Till next time, have a great Friday!

We celebrate holidays during the year that have had special meaning to all of us.

Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Year’s Eve.

I always placed my birthday in this hierarchy of special holidays despite the fact that it has not been recognized as a federal or even a state holiday, but I continue to have high hopes in that regard.

Among the special holidays that we all celebrate is, of course, the Fourth Of July!

As kids, we were barely a week into our summer vacation when this special day got our summer off to an explosive start.

Living on Leland Avenue, which consists primarily of apartment buildings, the American Barbeque did not exert a firm grip on the neighborhood plans for the day. While the kids on our block would commence disposing of our firecrackers early in the morning, our parents waited until late afternoon before they set up camp in front of their respective buildings.

Coolers stocked with quart bottles of Rheingold or Ballantine Beer were brought down by the Dads while the Moms brought assorted snacks and sandwiches to celebrate the birth of our country.

Everyone was indeed dandy by the time the skyrockets, aerial bombs, and Roman candles produced their oohs and ahhs.

There was no noticeable police presence required as our mothers made sure we set off our firecrackers safely and held our sparklers far away from our eyes and clothing.

I always considered the Fourth of July a neighborhood holiday, similar to New Year’s Eve when our neighbors kept their doors open for easy access to whatever treats they had to share.

Many years later, when Eileen and I lived in East Quogue, we had similar get-togethers with friends and family. We first began the day with an early visit to Ponquogue Beach, but not too early for Eileen’s Big Sandwich and a couple of cold ones surreptitiously poured into solo cups, which were often enjoyed by PJ and me.

Though our location has changed, and while we have added new friends to our lineup, the Fourth Of July has retained all its Dandiness for me, and I hope for you.

Happy Birthday, America!

I probably write too many posts regarding past experiences and nostalgia. It’s quite intentional as I got to the point of avoiding controversy, fearing I would piss somebody off who owns an automatic rifle.

You might say I am overreacting, but am I?

You can’t watch an evening news program (not on MSNBC or Fox) without a report of yet another mass shooting. So, writing something that might be viewed as inflammatory by some racists and bigots might not be the thing to do.

When did life get like this?

When did having opinions that differed from another become so volatile?

There was a time in my lifetime when you could have your own opinions without worrying about insulting anyone. Discussions might get heated, but you rarely hated the other side of the argument and had no fear that you were despised.

Not today.

Even atheists are getting into the act as every now and then, a person (who I won’t dignify by identifying) can’t resist the urge to mock those who believe in God as they proclaim their right to not believe.

It’s even affected sports.

When I had season tickets to the Yankees, I gave away the games against the Red Sox and the Mets. The fans were despicable towards one another.

This was all made ridiculous when you saw how the players on both teams would talk and laugh with each other and pat each other on the ass when called for. (I probably shouldn’t highlight this writing here in Florida).

Thinking back to The Adventures of Superman, whatever happened to TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND THE AMERICAN WAY?

It seems that those values have escaped the collective unconscious of American life.

As we approach our nation’s founding anniversary, perhaps a deep read of the Declaration of Independence is called for?

Words Of Love

Summer Music Through My Years

1968

Bookends

Parsley Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme

Album 1700

Idea (Bee Gees)

1969

Rubber Soul

Yesterday And Today

Revolver

Crosby Stills And Nash

Blind Faith

Byrds Greatest Hits

Led Zeppelin First Album

1970

Let It Be

Woodstock

Byrds (Galore)

Deja Vu. CSNY

Candles In The Rain. Melanie

Get Yer Ya-Yas Out Stones

Their Satanic Majesties Request Stones

Easy Rider Soundtrack

1971

Aqualung Jethro Tull

Four Way Street CSNY

Carly Simon (First Album)

Every Picture Tells A Story

Cat Stevens Teaser And The Firecat

Summer Of 1968

It’s challenging to think about the summer of 1968 without first considering the spring of that year. Of course, in April, Martin Luther King was assassinated, and then, a short two months later, Bobby Kennedy was assassinated.

It was a challenging year to graduate from high school, and there was no way I was adequately prepared for entering college. My head was spinning, and I really was adrift in my psyche with no foreseeable destination or a map to guide me there. I had not yet become a reader. That would not occur until 1970. So, music was my sanctuary during these dreadful days.

The summer before 1967, commonly called the Summer of Love, virtually exploded on the radio. The Jefferson Airplane, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Cream, and The Doors all created new and exciting music. But nothing compared to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles.

However, by the summer of 1968, I wasn’t looking for anything so compelling. I entered my folk/folk-rock phase and sought music with a message and a soothing sound.

The album list I selected for the Summer of 1968 is a rather shortlist. That is not a reflection on the state of music that summer but was more indicative of the state of the economy that summer. Well, my economy.

I needed to buy a stereo.

I had jerry-rigged my own version of stereophonic sound by converting my family’s hifi to a stereo. I needed a new cartridge for the HiFi, and our local radio and repair shop, Johnny McGrath’s, had a cartridge that would fit the tonearm of my hifi, but it was a stereo cartridge.

I reasoned that I could hook up a supplemental amplifier and add a speaker; voila, I had a stereo. I bought a cheap amplifier and a speaker at Lafayette’s Electronics down on 14th Street in the city and put it all together.

It was ok for a while, but I needed a stereo.

I used to go to EJ Korvette’s during my lunch hour from the mailroom at Lorillard Corp, and I saw a nice system for $99.99. I vowed to buy it as soon as I had the money after putting aside enough for college.

So, it wasn’t until August that I could buy the XAM Stereo at Korvettes, which is the reason for my short summer list.

Short though the list may be, it is comprised of iconic songs from iconic groups,

If you ever saw The Graduate, you will understand how Bookends and Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme made the list. After the terrible spring, it was something we all asked ourselves, WHERE HAVE YOU GONE JOE DIMAGGIO!!!

I was actually asking, where have you gone, Mickey Mantle? Thank goodness I had Joe Namath, or else I would have no stabilizing hero for whom to pine.

Where Bookends had us ask ourselves where the hell we were going, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme gave us poetry to help us through those troubled times, even as it juxtaposed Silent Night with the mass murder of student nurses.

The next album on my list is Album 1700 by Peter, Paul, and Mary.

Thanks to my brother Michael, I had been listening to PPM for years, so one of the first stereo albums I bought had to be a PPM production. So many great songs found a home in my psyche but perhaps none more than Bob Dylan’s Dream. Peter, Paul, and Mary sang Dylan so beautifully, like the Byrds. But there were so many poignant numbers on this album powerfully performed, including Leaving On A Jet Plane by John Denver.

The last album of that summer was Idea by the Brothers Gibb, more commonly known as the Bee Gees. Long before they or we knew of disco, the Bee Gees had several great songs, many of which were included on this album.

They were nice to listen to songs. They are not so full of meaning or poignancy, just excellent listening songs.

Well, 1968 had other terrific albums, to be sure. But these were the first few I bought for my new stereo. Other albums, such as The Beatle’s White Album, would come out in the fall, but these summer albums would get me through the rest of that turbulent summer. The Beatles and Joe Namath would get me through the fall and winter.

Now we are off to the Summer of 1969.Summer Of 1969

In the world of music, the summer of 1969 can only bring up images of Woodstock.

Three days of peace, love, and music sprinkled with a bit of grass and brown acid that wasn’t particularly good. At least, that is what we would learn in the film and album coming out the following summer.

But many would attend this festival in August of 1969.

I was not one of them.

At the time, the New York Jets were more important to me than attending any concert. Having beaten the Baltimore Colts on January 12, 1969, the Jets were poised to play the New York Giants up at the Yale Bowl on a Sunday in August. It just so happened that it was the Sunday when hundreds of thousands would be listening to music up at Woodstock.

It would become one of those events many would swear they had attended, but I was pretty content to say I had witnessed the first Jet-Giant game and one which the Jets had won.

Nevertheless, my summer began in May when I had completed my first year in college and returned to my summer job in the mailroom at P. Lorillard Corp. on 42nd Street in Manhattan.

To be honest, I would just as soon have stayed in the mailroom at the end of the previous year’s summer and foregone going to college. I probably would have learned more. But I did survive that first year of college, even if I did not distinguish myself while doing so.

So, I was back in the mailroom and making money.

I had an economic plan now and could afford to spend ten bucks every payday on albums. Korvettes had a sale just about every week, allowing me to purchase three albums for around ten dollars.

I started by buying stereo versions of all my Beatle albums. The three that I listened to most were Rubber Soul, Yesterday And Today, and Revolver. I then added the Byrd’s Greatest Hits.

These got me through the first month or so of the summer. I would later purchase Blind Faith and Crosby, Stills, and Nash.

I then purchased the first Led Zeppelin album and became a fan of them as well.

Unlike the previous summer, my taste was growing more eclectic. I always listened to the Beatles, but I also loved the Byrds, and their Greatest Hits would prove but a dipping of my toe into their extensive library. Blind Faith, like Cream before it, was an amalgam of great talented performers with a unique style but who stayed with us for a short time.

However, Crosby, Stills, and Nash brought us a great first album that would be followed up with continuous additions to the soundtrack of our lives.

Summer Of 1970

Purists may tell you that 1970 was the last year of the 60s. But, those of us who lived through 1968 and 1969 were happy to leave the 60s behind, and we greeted 1970 as the dawning of a new decade.

Unlike summers past, most of my musical delights were of more recent vintage. Having purchased most of my must-have albums’ stereo versions, I was poised to focus on new or recently released albums.

The one exception to this was the Byrds.

Realizing that the Byrd’s Greatest Hits was a mere appetizer, the Summer of 1970 began with purchasing everything the Byrds had previously released.

I always thought Let It Be was one of the best Beatles albums, and I wore that album out in the Summer of 1970. It was released that spring but remained on my hit parade for many months afterward.

One of the things that my friends and I used to do was venture into Central Park on Friday nights. First, we would go to the Sixth Avenue Liquor Store for a little Bali Hai and then peruse the sights of The Park.

On one of these Friday nights, our plans to go into the park were thwarted by a sudden cloudburst. We still went to the Sixth Avenue Liquor Store, but instead of drinking our wine in The Park, we opted to drink in a covered portion of a sidewalk cafe provided by the St. Moritz Hotel.

Realizing that the hospitality we assumed would be offered by hotel management was subject to change and revocation, we decided to vacate the cafe as we considered our options for the rest of the evening.

The film version of Woodstock was released that summer, so we decided to see it on this wet Friday night.

Well, it was like going to Woodstock.

We were wet in a mind-altering state. All that was missing was the mud, and we did not mind that at all.

The following week I went out to purchase the musical version consisting of three LPs, and it was an instant favorite that I would continue to listen to for quite a while.

Additionally, the Summer of 1970 provided us with Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young’s Deja Vu; Easy Rider, another soundtrack from the movie of the same name; Get Yer Ya-Yas out by the Rolling Stones as well as Their Satanic Majesties Request; and Melanie’s Candles In The Rain.

I should point out that, for the Summer of 1970 and the previous years, individual songs have made my Summer Playlist, but I never had the albums on which they were released. The nice thing about iTunes is that you can purchase individual songs. Nevertheless, you might include many of these albums on your list, but I only included those I bought.

Summer Of 1971

In the Spring of 1971, I marched on Washington in protest of the war in Viet Nam. I wrote about that earlier, so I won’t dwell on that. But music had been as crucial to the peace movement as other examples of the culture of the times.

But by the Summer of 1970, I was more interested in the love component of Peace and Love.

I am not sure if that change altered my taste in music. I certainly acquired a deeper appreciation of the music of that summer, especially as it culminated in the meeting of the girl who would be my wife for the last forty-five years. We met as the Summer of 1971 was nearing its end, and the music of that summer brings me back in time to that first encounter with Eileen.

Aqualung provided my introduction to Jethro Tull. Having bought this album in the Summer of 1970, I later purchased quite a few other examples of Ian Anderson and the boys of Jethro Tull. Four Way Street became an instant iconic presentation of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young’s music. No sooner had I purchased this album, but Every Picture Tells A. Story by Rod Stewart and Faces was released. It contained so many great songs that still are pleasing to the ear fifty years later. Then Carly Simon released her first album, and I fell in love with her music even as she elicited some concern about love and marriage in her The Way I Always Heard It Would Be.

Then there was Cat Stevens. Moonshadow, Peace Train, Morning Has Broken on Teaser, and The Firecat were instant favorites.

Then after I met Eileen, she introduced me to his Tea For The Tillerman album and the Moody Blues’ Question Of Balance.

Music provides Time Travel that only Doctor Who fans can appreciate. A song can instantly bring me back to another time and place, which is undoubtedly true for the albums I selected for this essay.

Other summers have their music, but I chose these years as they significantly changed me personally. I was not the same person in the Summer of 1968 as I became in the Summer of 1971.

By the Summer of 1971, I became more confident because I finally listened to my mother, who always urged me to read. Well, I did finally do what she advised and never stopped. Then, my friend PJ, who, during a drinking session at Fordham University’s Ram Skeller, encouraged me to follow his diet. I did, and my transformation was achieved in a few short months.

I was reading and looking good at the same time.

I like to think that the music of these Summers brings me back to the days of my Epiphany and helps me deal with the changes of life facing this seventy-one-year-old man.

Peace and Love, everybody.

“Cause the summer’s here, and the time is ripe for fighting in the street, boy.

While having been recorded in 1968, which has stood the test of time as America’s most volatile year in terms of violence, divisive politics, and cultural chaos, 2023 may turn out to be more extraordinary.

The trouble is, the music of 2023 cannot even come close to the variety and quality many of us were able to enjoy in 1968.

Where have you gone, Joe Dimaggio indeed!

I got my first job in the city (New York City for you out-of-towners) in June of 1968.

Working in the mailroom with black, Puerto Rican, and Jewish guys convinced me of the value of integration. Our eclectic group depended on one another, and when I first started working, I had all the support and instruction I needed to do my job. Because it was to everyone’s benefit that I learned all that I had to do as quickly as possible, everyone was willing to share their knowledge.

I also learned other life skills.

We would go out to lunch on Fridays, and we either went to the Orange Room (Nedick’s in Grand Central Station) or the Umbrella Room (The Dirty Water Hot Dog Vendor on the corner.) Paydays allowed us to go a little more upscale, and we frequently went to the Blarney Stone for a roast beef sandwich and a couple of cold beers.

There was some friction, however.

One day there was a debate about who was the better singer, Aretha or Dionne Warwick?

Now, I liked them both, but I had the sense to stay out of that one. Actually, it was one of the funniest times in the mailroom.

It was hard to believe that the outside world was exploding around us.

The Tet Offensive in the early part of the year, the Assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, and President Johnson withdrawing his candidacy for re-election appeared to set the whole nation on edge with no consensus on how to proceed.

Sound familiar?

I really don’t think 2023 will turn out like 1968. Despite all the rhetoric, I can’t accept that our democracy is in so much peril of destruction. I hope I haven’t overestimated the American intellect and the rationality of our political leaders (this may be quite an assumption to make). Still, I do hope justice and real patriotism will out.

I just wish we had better music today!

Canada is on fire, and the smoke is blowing down the eastern seaboard of America.

Baseball games in the Bronx and Philadelphia have been canceled.

The air quality is HAZARDOUS!

Yeah, but I wouldn’t worry about that climate change thing. It’s all fake news from Woke weathermen.

As I sit here in Bradenton, I have been advised that a powerful wind out of the north will be pushing the smoke down to Florida.

A perfect way to begin the hurricane season!

D-Day occurred seventy-nine years ago today.

It was the beginning of the restoration of Civilisation and the demise of evil…for the moment.

I remember how I used to teach history and WWII in particular, and I probably couldn’t teach it the same way today. I am not sure I could condemn fascism and nazism the same way today as I did in the late 1970s.

But let’s remember the past without further reference to the present.

Young boys a few months removed from their high school graduation were awarded their diplomas and. the next thing they knew, they were aboard a troop transport headed for the European Theatre of Operations.

Over nine thousand of these brave men would never return to their loved ones, who would now have to visit an American cemetery in Normandy.

I grew up in the post-war era n Leland Avenue in the Bronx.

There were quite a few men who returned from WWII, and while they may have seen and done things they would never forget, they never spoke of the war. They just seemed happy to be home.

In fact, the entire neighborhood seemed to be happy.

It took a while for the happiness to wear off.

But that’s another war and another story.

God bless all the soldiers that saved us from hatred and brutality.

We owe it to them to repay their sacrifice with love, appreciation, and kindness.

It’s the first Saturday of June and all I see on Florida television are reminders that we are officially in the hurricane season.

I wish they would stop reminding me. It makes me feel like a prisoner in my own home.

It’s hard to plan an extended vacation, say more than a week because you never know when you have to batten down the hatches and put up the shutters.

Is it too woke of me to complain about Florida hurricanes?

Will I be condemned as an eco-terrorist whining about climate change?

You have to be careful about what you say in the gloom and doom Sunshine State.

Nevertheless, I am looking forward to another summer of reading, listening, and writing.

After spending a month in New York and enjoying the cooler weather, I kinda like feeling the hot sun of Florida. I know that by the time August runs around, I will be pining for the cooler days we used to enjoy in upstate New York. But, for now, the living is easy in Summertime USA.

Remembering what the summer meant to me as a kid and even a young adult going to college. It wasn’t just the weather that changed, it was everything about your life.

Your routine changed. Maybe you slept longer and stayed out on the street with your friends longer when you were in grammar school? Perhaps you had a job in high school that helped you buy records? By the time I was in college, I was working in the city and loving every sweaty moment of taking the un-airconditioned number six train and transferring to the express at 125th Street.

Your mood definitely changed. Even rainy days couldn’t dampen your spirits. You knew that the brilliant sun would soon return and the light-deprived days of the winter would be a far distant memory.

I definitely had more money in my pocket. You had to have more money. Even as a kid, there was the Good Humor Man to support, not to mention Bungalow Bar and Mister Soft. Then we had Yankee games and Met games to attend and the mandatory movie on rainy days.

In college, there were albums to buy and outdoor concerts to attend in Central Park, and I had to pay for my season tickets to the Jets. And Bali Hai was cheap, but you still had to have some money when you went to the liquor store.

Your attire changed too. No white shirts with blue ties and dress pants, and a blazer. PF Flyers and Kids replaced our black shoes, and I always got a crew cut. This all changed when we got older as we continued to sport dress clothes for our summer jobs, especially if you worked in the City. But when we got home, we donned our faded jeans and Adidas. Of course, by then, we had long given up the crew cut in favor of long hair.

Summer was the best thing since Christmas and it lasted so long.

Eventually, though, August would come around, and the radio would soon be playing the infernal reminder from Robert Hall Clothes that school bells were ringing (or would soon be). I hated that jingle. It was a real ear worm and permeated your psyche in an attempt to ruin your last month of freedom. We shut the radio of and returned to summer.

They say that meteorological summer begins on June 1st.

So, Happy Summer, everyone!

Coming back from NY, I was listening to an Apple Playlist, and the idea for this post came to me. Some songs have iconic lyrics or, as I like to call them, snippets.

Here are a few.

See if you can name the song.

I got blisters on my fingers.

Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Look at mother nature on the run in the 1970s.

Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Poor man wants to be rich, rich man wants to be king.

Fire all your guns at once and explode into space.

You can get anything you want…

Who’s going to take you home tonight?

Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty.

Well, that’s a start. I will submit another list of snippets in the coming weeks.

Feel free to add your own.

If you stop and think about it, you might agree with me in feeling that you got exactly what you wanted.

I believe I had simple wants as a kid growing up in the Bronx. Living in a two-bedroom apartment with my parents and siblings was fun if crowded. But, like my siblings, I aspired to live in a house. Later in life, I determined that I wanted the house to be in the Hamptons on the east end of Long Island.

It was a small house, not the grandiose type that A-listers frequent, but it was exactly what I wanted.

Before the house, I wanted a wife and children and was blessed with those.

I wanted to teach….check.

I wanted to go to law school…check.

I wanted to keep in touch with my childhood friends…check.

I wanted new friends that made me feel that we were childhood friends…check.

I wanted a grandchild, and my grandson, Ethan, aka EJ, completed my list of wants.

In reality, I had no absolute control over obtaining these blessings. They just came to me as surely yours came to you.

Our blessings came to us not because we are hard-right conservatives or woke leftists. The blessings came despite of it. It’s time for us all to drop the labels that drive us apart. It’s time for us to dwell on the blessings and maybe to help others see their blessings.

Remember, negativity begets negativity, and positivity is so much nicer.

To put it another way, the Yankees may not win the World Series this year, and the Jets may not win the Superbowl, but I am ever hopeful while realizing others have their own designs on who wins the World Series and the Superbowl.

If I started the season believing my teams would lose, I am sure they would. Keeping the faith keeps me happy.

Try it.

Politicians usually sound stupid to me, but never more so when they use “WOKE” in every sentence while attacking liberals as they adroitly avoid actually speaking about a policy that will make America great AGAIN!

God Almighty, must we relive that torture again!!!

Even Tucker passionately hated the PMURT administration.

I hear they are starting an old-time radio show down here in Florida on NPR, of all places. Yes, Lake WOKE-BEGONE will fill the airwaves with pithy stories about life before Brown v The Board of Education and other wokenesses from our ancient past.

The funny thing is I have a sneaky suspicion that I am woke, and I don’t even know what the damn word means.

Every time I hear the word, I drift back to the 60s, and deep within the recesses of my mind Jim Morrison is singing:

“When I WOKE up this morning I got myself a beer.”

Now that’s WOKE.

Some of you may understand the significance of today’s title. Some might be aware, and that is a very good thing in its own way.

Elvis Costello once asked, “What’s So Funny About Peace Love And Understanding.”

Of course, the short answer, requiring no specialized knowledge. is nothing.

Nothing, indeed, is funny about peace, love, and understanding.

No, they are not funny. However, they may be in short supply.

The shooting of teenagers in Parkland, Florida, was remembered on its fifth anniversary a few weeks back. The following day I started volunteering at the cancer group where I go for treatment for CLL. I was stuffing envelopes with a woman about my age or, perhaps, older. She could have been a grandmother, but we never got that close to speaking about such things.
The first thing I said to her was, “What a terrible thing that shooting in Parkland was.”

Her reply:

“I just worry about the Second Amendment.”

I was incredulous.

I was flabbergasted.

I was dumbfounded.

I never said another word to gun totin granny, who cared more about the second amendment than human life.

In all the Constitutional Law classes I had (and I had two), the second amendment never was discussed.

But arguing over this and other hot-button issues has added to the need for my title today.

Love is rarely discussed except maybe in Hallmark movies, and we make fun of those.

What happened to America?

It’s astounding to me that we choose to identify all that is wrong with the other side. We never listen to the other side. We just know they are wrong, and some think they/we are evil.

Today is a case in point.

I could write something like, “When did America change and accept that it’s ok to hate and to say it out loud?

But you know when.

Americans claim to be a religious people. It’s time to read the tenets of our religions and apply them to the modern world. Don’t just cherry-pick your justification for applying two-thousand-year-old norms to the 21st century.

If He really does get us, He will forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Uh oh!

Some may consider it to be a sorry exercise in nostalgia when looking back on your life. But, recently, I began to wonder if I am the same person that I used to be.

On the cellular level, it has been said our body renews itself every seven years. Some cells are more enduring, but the notion of such a dramatic re-birth of our cells is a fantastic concept to ponder.

I am sure I have changed in many ways from the college student in 1970 who read and wrote from a particular vantage point to the person with a more eclectic taste in music and who gravitates to the murder master genre more than science fiction.

For this reason, as we approach spring and summer, I try to recreate my 1970s playlists and book list just to return home for a few months.

This keeps me grounded by reminding me who I was and, hopefully, still am.

Then, too, I have a touchstone of sorts consisting of six or seven Bronx Boys (and the occasional girl) who have been part of my life, some in excess of sixty years. I must confess that there are times that I am reminded of the person I really didn’t want to be, but that’s all part of your evolution. Isn’t it?

And, while we are not in daily contact with one another, once we renew the conversation, we take off where we left off. It is the purest form of mind-tripping that you can safely endure in your seventies.

Nevertheless, I have struggled to remind myself who I was and, more importantly, who I am.

It has never been more urgent to remain skeptical of what you see on television or what you need on your electronic devices. Especially now when there are so many definitions of “fake.”

It has become all too easy to hop on the wrong train of thought. That is where your touchstones, whatever they may be, are most important. They can reveal the gems from the grit and help you remember who you were. But enough with this.

It’s Friday!

Even when you’re retired, it still feels good.

Happy Friday, Everybody!!!

Here we are on January 6th. In the old days, we would have called this The Epiphany, and some would have referred to it as Little Christmas, the day when the Magi appeared with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

The term First Friday had its own special significance to those of us who attended Catholic elementary school in the 50s and 60s.

First Friday was not quite a feast day, but it was a day we were required to attend mass, after which we could return home for breakfast (one which was always made special by my mother) and then return to school for a delayed opening.

What a way to start the weekend!

We never used the phrase TGIF, but the sentiment originated back then. A shortened school day on the last day of the week?

Oh, how delightful that was.

I know I have, once again, time-traveled to my long-lost past, but I am only trying to stay positive and write about happy times. For more than a year now, I have avoided going political as much as to spare myself the negativity that I might espouse as to spare you. In 2023, I will remain as quiet, politically speaking, as possible.

I might drift into the trials and tribulations of the New York Jets from time to time or argue that the Yankees continue to strike out way too much or that the heat in Florida is stifling, but if you want political crabbing, tune in to Fox or MSNBC.

It’s essential to accentuate the positive as the holiday season comes to a close, and the return to work and the chill of winter winds and driving snow conspire to make the next three months a test of our moral courage.

Well, being retired has its benefits as well as living in Florida.

We have NFL playoffs to get us to the first week of February, soon followed by pitchers and catchers reporting to spring training. Our light at the end of the white tunnel. (No, not that white tunnel, just the snow heading our way)

Six years ago, Eileen and I and our friend Connie celebrated our First Friday in Florida. It has a different meaning here. It’s a big party day. We had reservations at a restaurant located in Lakewood Ranch in a shopping and dining area known as Main Street. Main Street was sponsoring a First Friday street fair celebration.

I dropped the ladies off across from the entrance to Main Street and proceeded to look for parking.
It was impossible to find a space, and when I finally did, I would have had to Uber back to the restaurant.

We canceled that reservation and searched for another restaurant, but we were sure the same experience might face us at every restaurant on our list.

We were lucky to find an odd little place that will serve as the topic of another posting some other First Friday.

Till then, Happy Friday.

The trouble with Auld Lang Syne is that it is sung at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

Probably not the optimum time to comprehend the meaning of a song. I used to think that Auld Lang Syne championed the idea of forgetting the past and those that made up the past. But no.
(The notion of acquaintances may have changed over the years as a more modern comprehension of the term implies that these acquaintances are not close friends at all but merely people you come across in life with no hint of a deep connection.)

The questions sung at the beginning are, of course, rhetorical in nature and certainly do not encourage us to forget the friends and family that comprise our history on the planet.

I am not sure I ever understood that, having often imbibed just enough holiday cheer to make understanding a moving target. To be fair, however, until recently, I misunderstood I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus with not so much of a sip of hot chocolate on my breath.

So, that settled, I will look back (as I often do) on a New Year’s Eve spent with old acquaintances.

The old acquaintances go back over fifty years. The particular New Year’s Eve I choose to remember occurred in 1969.

I have found that the happiest, if not the most significant, of events happened when no one was looking. No plans were made in advance, and not a second thought was wasted on what we later endeavored to do.

The night began, as most happy nights of that particular time began, in PJ’s basement.
This in itself would have qualified as a party, except that it happened so frequently that it served as our usual start to any weekend evening.

There were cocktails to be had, and a punch of dubious origins was served. In any event, the Boys were well on their way to bidding adieu to 1969.

I have no memory of whose idea it was or even how the suggestion entered the conversation, but someone spoke of going to Times Square to watch the ball drop.

The modern reader must understand that in 1969 going to Times Square on New Year’s Eve was not the ordeal it is today. There was no heightened security to navigate. You could freely roam the streets, meaning you could go to any bar for a drink and a pee. Therefore showing up at noon for an event twelve hours in the future in which your access to a toilet was so limited as to require wearing adult diapers was not a challenge we had to endure.

So, it was decided that we would go to Times Square.

The trio, comprised of Lou, PJ, and yours, truly set out on the Six train and headed to 42nd street.

There was one concern that was serious.

The MTA Union (Subway and Bus drivers) threatened a New Year’s Day strike. Of course, they did.
We were on notice that all transportation would stop at 2 AM on New Year’s Day. Therefore, our plans had to escape a relatively early escape from New York City, which, in fairness, was just as well.

In the meantime, we adjusted our schedule and set out for the west side to join the festivities.
Times Square was crowded as, of course, you would expect, but navigating the area was rather easy. Right on 42nd Street, there were spotlights, the kind you see at Hollywood premiers. I thought it would be a good idea to put my hand in front of one light giving the crowd the peace sign (it was 1969, remember), much as Commissioner Gordon flashed the Bat Signal to get Bruce Wayne to get into his Bat Suit.

Fortunately, PJ grabbed my hand in the nick of time, preventing me from coming too close to the heat of the powerful light.

I remember later that evening, before the ball had fallen, the three of us crowded into one of those picture booths that were often situated in amusement parks and places like Times Square. As PJ has often noted, “Thank God we didn’t have smartphones back then.” I carried one of those photos for quite a while before it disintegrated in my wallet.

Eventually, the ball fell, and after we noshed a late (or would you call it early) breakfast at Childs, we made our way back to the subway.

We happened to be at 125th Street and Lexington Avenue waiting for the Six train when the clock struck 2 AM.

There was a bit of a crowd waiting nervously with us, but soon the rumble of the Six relieved us of our anxiety. The MTA and the Unions reached an agreement that forestalled the strike.

Before we knew it, we were getting off the train at Parkchester, making our way to the warm bed awaiting each of us.

Here’s hoping your New Year’s Eve will be as joyous.

Days like today always have me looking back to special moments of my life.

Christmas Eve, in particular, is a day fraught with whispers from the past.
If only the Ghosts from these Christmases past could visit us!

Still, their memories are so vivid fifty and sixty years later.

Decorating the tree with my mother’s guidance making sure I didn’t just toss the tinsel onto the nearest branches.

Getting ready to decorate a beautiful real tree with my brother Michael but was forestalled by a phone call to my father alerting him that an artificial tree was on its way, and then being directed to open the living room window for an early dispatch of our soon to be, but never quite making it into a beautifully decorated real tree.

Whoever threw out a real tree on Christmas Eve?

Then there were the years when I got older, and we started exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve.
Midnight Mass was often one of our usual Christmas Eve rituals that were actually held at Midnight.
Two, in particular, Midnight Masses remain joyful memories.

In 1970 a bunch of the guys, some of whom were home from college, collected as we usually did at Al’s Wine and Liquors for our holiday libations. However, since the store would be closing long before Midnight, we made our way to PJ’s house, our alternate meeting place.
At PJs, we made short shrift of our Al’s Wine and Liquors purchases and proceeded to sing along to the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar.

This, plus the spirits we consumed, put the gathering in a festive mood, making them more receptive to my suggestion to go to Midnight Mass, where we rejoiced and sang hymns and carols with gusto and reverence. Afterward, we returned to our homes and continued the celebration with our families.

In 1971, I started going out with Eileen, and we decided to attend Midnight Mass. The idea caught on, and the rest of her family joined us, and after our religious obligation was satisfied, we returned to her house for a Post Midnight Mass Breakfast.

There’s something about eating breakfast at two in the morning while watching Scrooge as his own Ghosts haunt him.

Then there were the many Christmas Eves with our children and going to Midnight Mass at six PM in East Quogue.

But one Christmas Eve in those years was truly miraculous.

When Sean was four, he had a bad cold aggravated by asthma.

We had an extremely busy GP who hardly had time for us, but he could prescribe the appropriate medication. However, Sean could not tolerate the drug, became sick to his stomach, and lost all benefits the drug was supposed to provide.

Eileen then called a pediatrician who she knew from the hospital. He said to meet him in the Emergency Room, which we did.

Sean was admitted and put on an IV containing the same medication previously prescribed. Because it was slowly administered, he was able to tolerate it.

The bad news was Sean had to spend Christmas Eve in the hospital.

That afternoon Santa appeared and wanted to make our little boy happy. Instead of greeting the jolly elf with open arms, we shouted at him to stay out!

We explained that we weren’t telling Sean that today was Christmas Eve or that tomorrow was Christmas. We would just reset the calendar and celebrate the holiday one day later.

We then settled in, and while Sean was watching television, there was a commercial for a particular toy that elicited an “I hope Santa brings me that ” comment from Sean. Eileen gave me the eye that, indeed, Santa was unable to fulfill this hope.

As I was going to be visiting a local McDonalds for Sean’s dinner, I said I would visit the two toy stores in town just on the chance that one of them would have the toy.

With Happy Meal in hand, I proceeded to the toy stores.

The first store had already closed as it was nearing five pm.

I went to the second and rejoiced that the store was still open.

Realizing that time was short, I went straight to the cash register to ask the young sales clerk if the store carried this particular toy. I was stunned to hear her say that it was right behind me.
I nearly jumped for joy and started to tell the young lady why this was such a great thing to find. I continued my tale as I pulled my Mastercard out of my wallet.

Seeing my card, the young lady informed me they didn’t accept credit cards.

I was dumbfounded. I had all my cash back with Eileen in the hospital, but I could never get there and back before the store closed.

My young sales clerk was upset, too, and we were overheard by someone in the back of the store.
I looked up and saw an elderly woman slowly make her way to the register where we were standing. She asked what the problem was, and the clerk explained that I really wanted this toy for his son in the hospital but that I only had a credit card.

It was at this point that my Christmas Eve Miracle occurred.

“We can just bill him.”

“You can just bill me,” I refrained.

The woman explained, “Give us your name and address, and we will send you a bill, and you can send a check when you receive it.”

I did as advised and made my way back to the hospital with the toy that would make my son’s Christmas and a tale that I love to share every Christmas Eve.

It’s the memories we had as young kids.

It’s the memories we had as young parents making memories for our children.

It’s the memories we have of our grandchildren as they stand in awe of the Christmas tree and the gifts that will greet them on Christmas Day.

The great thing about Christmas Eve is that it really is the start of a forty-eight-hour celebration that began over two thousand years ago in a little town known as Bethlehem.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

I’m seventy-two, and I still believe in Santa Claus.

Yes, Virginia, I do believe in Santa Claus.

Why else would I continue to play with the toys I was given when I was 10? Why else would I continue to believe that Peace On Earth and Good Will Towards Men are achievable goals?

Why else would seeing my two-year-old grandson greet each ornament on his tree with a “Hi!” (that is more melodious than Bing, Johnny, and Nat singing their classic Christmas songs) be the greatest Christmas gift I ever received or would ever receive?

It’s Santa doing his thing is why I react this way.

So, it may not be a theorem that can be proven in a test lab, and indeed, I am in the minority when I proclaim and avow as to Santa’s continued existence and spiritual invasion of our hearts every Christmas season.

Look at the evidence in your own lives and tell me you don’t agree.

Do you exchange gifts with dear friends and family, even if those gifts are a smile and well wishes?

Do you remember the Ghosts of Christmas Past who no longer appear (at least visibly) at your Christmas gatherings?

Do you remember your best Christmas ever? Was it more recent than when you were 10?

Do you have special traditions that you repeat every Christmas, including Christmas Eve?

Of course, we have been taught that Christmas is much more than gifts, trees, or decorations.

The birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ is what Christmas is all about. Even Charlie Brown now knows this.
Santa is the spirit sent to us each year to remind us of all that Christmas is about.

After all, giving of ourselves to others and treating them as we want to be treated were part of the message brought to us by Christ.

So, whether Santa is a rolly polly man in a red suit or just someone who looked remarkably like your father or mother, Santa visited you on Christmas, and you are now continuing the work of this jolly old elf.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Peace to you and your beautiful family.

Tonight the tree in Rockefeller Center will be lit in a 90-minute ordeal.

There was a time, however, that the tree was lit shortly after five pm so that people could stop off on their way home.

I used to be one of those people when I worked in Manhattan, but in 1979, I was teaching at St. Vito School in Mamaroneck and living in New Rochelle.

So, it took a little more effort to witness the tree lighting.

Eileen and I were planning to go, and I coaxed a friend of mine, Deacon Bob, who was the Deacon at St. Vito’s. So, we all set out on a train from the Larchmont Metro North Station heading to Grand Central.

We arrived a few minutes before five PM, and Rockefeller Center was jammed with eager witnesses hoping to see the spectacular tree. At one point, I had my right foot on the curb while my left foot was floating next to it with no visible means of support.

There was a young woman with a child in a stroller, and I wondered if this was a safe place for her to be.

Bob, Eileen, and I were no more than three feet apart from one another as the countdown began.
We kidded afterward, wondering if we actually saw the moment when the tree went from dark to lit.

We stood there for five minutes before we started to leave.

It was an hour before we all got together in the same place.

The crowd was like a river with its powerful current that you had no alternative but to ride it out.

Uptown, Downton, Eastside, Westside, we were pushed and prodded in all directions.

I thought of the young woman and her child in the stroller, but I never saw them after that first time.

It was kind of scary, but we were young and had a good laugh as we made our way to the train and back to Larchmont.

Later that evening, Eileen and I watched the news.

The lead story was a horrendous account of how twelve people were crushed to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati.

Having experienced the pushing and shoving at the tree lighting and being totally out of control, I vowed never to put myself in that type of situation again.

There wasn’t a mass shooting or terrible fire, just eager fans trying to get the best seat for the concert.

I never saw the tree lighting in person after that night.

The fact that it is a ninety-minute extravaganza has as much to my missing the lighting as anything.

Still, I can still feel the angst of not knowing where Eileen was for that hour.

My mother would always remind me not to let little things bother me. Of course, at the time, I was too young to understand the wisdom of those words as I would protest I was trying to rid myself of those “little things,” thereby getting rid of them so that they would bother me no more.

The fact is that many of us share my propensity to react to little upsetting things with the explosive fervor worthy of penitents seeking forgiveness. However, we aim to impose penance rather than forgiveness on the source of our anger.

After all, people are the root of our grief and anger.

It doesn’t take much to upset us.

It could be a comment, an opposing point of view, or a Yankee striking out at a critical time.
It doesn’t take much.

But we are compelled to remember that, It doesn’t take much.

It doesn’t take much to set off a wave of joy and happiness in our hearts and mind.

Perhaps it’s a little boy who imitates the face you make and makes it on cue when his mother says, “Make Pop’s face”?

It could be the look of frustration that a little boy has when you are not quick enough to skip ads on YouTube that makes you laugh out loud.

More likely, it’s the texts and selfies he sends to me when he grabs his mother’s phone after a FaceTime call.

It doesn’t take much.

Whatever caused me grief in the past has long since been forgotten.

It may appear that it doesn’t take much, but in reality, a transformation occurs whenever that little boy walks into a room or appears on my phone.

It Doesn’t Take Much but it is a miracle all the same.

It’s very much indeed and such a nice thing to think about on a Monday morning.

Have fun, everybody.

The very notion of a Holiday is the first step in creating a Holiday Tradition.

All of our holidays inspire special celebrations. Memorial Day has always been the official start of summer. Out in the Hamptons, we got our new beach pass, and although it might be chilly, we ventured down to the surf, if for only a few minutes.

July Fourth was the real beginning of summer, and hot dogs and fireworks helped us celebrate America.
Even Labor Day provided a tradition or two. Just as on Memorial Day, we made our way to the beach, so too on Labor Day. Except Labor Day served as the official end of summer. We celebrated at 5 PM on Ponquogue Beach by giving the lifeguards a rousing standing ovation as the last whistle indicated that they were going home for good. See you next year.

But two holidays, in particular, have given us the most traditions.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and you and your family will do what you have done for years and years. A turkey in the oven, stuffing that tastes like your mother just made it, and a nice wedge of pumpkin pie with a healthy helping of whipped cream to put an exclamation point on the Thanksgiving feast.

Of course, food is not the only tradition of the day.

Thanksgiving started with the Macy’s Parade when I was a kid and switched to the Laurel and Hardy movie, The March Of The Wooden Soldiers.

It always seemed that the Packers were playing the Lions which we watched a bit. But for my brother Michael and I, Thanksgiving represented the start of the train season. The Lionel Train season.
We would start looking at the new Lionel catalog, and the day after Thanksgiving, we got to work on creating our layout.

The only thing Black about this Black Friday was the steam engine that would soon be chugging around the loop of track affixed to our sheet of plywood.

The month between Thanksgiving and Christmas was the longest month of the year. Nevertheless, Christmas Holiday Traditions would commence soon after the stuffing was gone.

Listening to Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters, Johnny Mathis, and Nat King Cole was always a surefire way to get you into the holiday spirit.

Making our Santa Claus wish list ( which always made my Father laugh) helped our imagineering skills prepare us for a life of disappointment.

Finally, it was time to decorate the tree.

I have previously described what happened to the last real tree we had at 1261 Leland Avenue, so I won’t bore you again. But in 1966, my mother and I decided it might be time to look for a new artificial tree.

My brother Michael and his wife Margaret were newly married and also needed a tree.
I wonder if we had supply chain issues (not sure if there were even such things as supply chains), but there was not an artificial tree to be had in the Bronx that year. Perhaps there was a shortage of green pipe cleaners?

We looked in every possible store that might have trees to sell. We even looked in the Park Florist on Metropolitan Avenue in Parkchester.

We eventually gave up.

I forget where Michael and Margaret finally got a tree, but I reported to my mother that we were out of luck.

So, she and I got to work and decorated the tree we were so quick to toss out the window.
The result was that we had the best tree we had ever had. Perfect in shape, lighting, ornament placement, and just the right amount of tinsel.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past has so many glorious tales to tell if we can only take the time to remember.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I’ll be back before Christmas.

About this time fifty-nine years ago. I may have been daydreaming about the approaching Thanksgiving Holiday. More likely, I was daydreaming about a girl. In any event, I wasn’t paying attention to Sister Margaret. Although I always loved her stories about her time in the Bahamas, today was Friday, and the three o’clock bell was more interesting to ponder.

But dismissal was a long way away, and even lunchtime was far in the future. Well, when you’re thirteen, you have a distorted sense of time.

We had Math, then History, and eventually English, and all of a sudden, it was lunchtime. We prayed the Angelus, and then, those of us like me who avoided cafeteria food made our way home for a nice PBJ sandwich. Of course, in 1963, we didn’t refer to it as PBJ but as peanut butter and jelly.

It was Friday which meant bologna was off the menu in Catholic homes.

After lunch, I met Freddy, Mike, John, and Lou at Hoch’s corner candy store, and we made our way back to Blessed Sacrament.

That served as the last few moments of our normal life.

The America that we lived in would end in just a few short hours, but no one saw it coming.

The first announcement came around 2 PM.

“The President had been injured” was all that Sister Irene Mary, our Principal, said.

My classmates and I were perplexed and wondered why that announcement was so important as to interrupt our reading of our Catholic Messenger.

A few minutes later, our confusion was replaced by bewilderment.

“The President has died in Dallas.”

Assassinated?

We read about that in our History textbook, not the New York Daily News!

I am not sure any of us ever fully recovered from the shock of those few moments on a previously joyous Friday afternoon.

I know America has never recovered.

Ok, UNCLE!

When I finally retired and moved to Florida, I thought I would be entering the Magical Phase of my life.

Disney and Yankee Spring Training lured me south to the Sunshine State. Who knew it was also the Cat 4 State?

This past week we had another hurricane hit Florida. It was only a Cat 1, so no biggie? Wrong, it was a big biggie for those on the east coast of Florida. And, by the way, it occurred later in the year than any other hurricane that made landfall, but I wouldn’t worry about that climate change thing.

The only wave we were supposed to fear this week was that red wave sweeping through the country. Fortunately, for the remaining 49, Florida was the only state to be hit by the wave, and that’s mainly because God handpicked our governor to do His work.

But I wonder if that is really the case, as Ron’s Realm was struck by the hand of God twice in a very short time, right before the election.

A few weeks ago, I asked, “What Are You Going To Do? Where Are You Going To Go?”

Now, more urgently than before, where can I seek shelter from the storm?

I feel more angst about this Election Day than any in recent memory. Even the Election of 2020 was not nearly as disturbing as 2022 is threatening to be.

The hatred and vitriol exhibited by both sides are nothing new, but after 2020 armed resistance and extremist violence are a real possibility.

We’ve seen it before

Even though there are those, who deny the occurrence of the attack on the Capitol building just as they doubt the legitimacy of the election, many of us will go to the polls to vote as if it will matter.

For me, there will be no peace coming out of this election. It will either be denied and result in more lies and, perhaps, more violence, or we will have a bloodless coup as democratic institutions fall under attack as Congress changes hands.

Regardless of what party wins, I will continue to have faith.

I surprise myself by writing that, but we are a nation of survivors.

You only have to look at the recent past (historically speaking) of our nation to understand this.

We only have to consider the following: The Great Depression; World War II; McCarthyism; the Cold War including the Cuban Missile Crisis; the assassination of President Kennedy; Viet Nam and the ensuing divisiveness it inspired; the assassination of Martin Luther King; the assassination of Bobby Kennedy; Watergate; September 11th; and the last six years of political mayhem.

America survived it all, and we will continue to survive whatever Tuesday, November 8th may deliver.

Pray God that I am right.

It’s 86 degrees (feels like 91) here in Bradenton, so if it was New York, it could be the last day of July. There’s just something unnatural about having the AC on as we approach Halloween.

Nevertheless, there is a hint of Autumn’s chill in the air even here in Bradenton. We’ve already had a few days that we didn’t climb out of the sixties, but lately, it’s been back to the mid to high eighties.

I’ve learned that the sun and heat do nothing to stifle the early arrival of Christmas.

Christmas is quite evident when you go to the mall and enter the few department stores that haven’t been put out of business by Amazon. I have yet to hear Christmas music, but I haven’t been to the mall often.

Eileen and I did visit a big Christmas shop in Sarasota, and there was a line at the register on a Monday morning. I guess the people down here haven’t gotten the word that the economy is struggling. They mustn’t watch TV because every republican candidate likes to remind us that we are suffering and that the election was stolen.

It’s funny how they all seem to forget about 2000.

It was reported that home heating oil was costing more than five dollars a gallon. That is one good thing about living in Florida, but the price of oil and natural gas will affect what we pay for electricity and gas for our stove, clothes dryer, and bbq grill.

Big oil gets you no matter where you live.

But, I’ve drifted away from the last Friday of October.

There was a time when I went to Catholic grammar school and high school that a big thing was made of First Fridays.

In grammar school, we were always expected to go to mass, and we were rewarded for our faithful adherence by a late start to our school day. The notion was that we could receive the Eucharist and then go home for breakfast. You see, in those days, you couldn’t eat anything for at least three hours before you received it. So, the late opening was our payback for receiving.

Whether it was the last Friday of October or the First Friday of November, we were all into the fall.

It was football weather. The temperature was cold enough to warrant a heavy sweater or warm jacket.There was a smell that defined the season. Maybe it was the leaves decaying at our feet as we played football on Theriot Avenue.

Even as an adult living on Long Island, I loved this time of year, raking leaves and all.

It was also a great time for holidays.

There was Columbus Day. Then on October 31st, we had Halloween, which was not a day-off holiday but going to Catholic School, we got the day after, November 1st, off for All Saints Day. Then there was Election Day and then Armistice Day or Veterans Day as it was called in 1954.

The big holidays, however,  were in the bullpen, ready to start the festivities.
Thanksgiving (Can’t you still smell the turkey cooking in your mother’s kitchen?) ushered in the Christmas season. We didn’t call the day after Thanksgiving Black Friday back then, but it was a special day, notwithstanding.

You see, if you had a set of Lionel or American Flyer trains, this was the day you began to get them out of the box and begin to construct your layout. I still get goosebumps.

It’s good to remember these things. Sometimes we may forget how grand life was and continues to be. One thing I am sure of is that our parents were right. Television should be taken in small doses because I find myself getting more frustrated than entertained after a heavy  TV day.

I’m not just saying that because the Yankees were swept in the ALCS.
Happy Friday, this last Friday of October, and know that the First Friday of November is just around the corner.

I was driving home from the dentist, trying not to dribble on myself when I came to a red light.

I looked down at the center console and a bunch of coins in one of the cup holders.
There were quarters, dimes, nickels, and even a few pennies (bless their heart).

Back in the day, I would have been able to buy a cup of coffee with the change in that cup holder, but now, those coins are so much refuse, not worthy of jingling in my pocket.

I hardly ever have paper money in my wallet these days. The debit card has replaced Washington, Lincoln, and Hamilton…rarely had Benjamins in my possession. And coins? Hard metal cash? Sorry, I don’t do heavy metal when it comes to do re mi. The coins in question will probably be relegated to a jar or perhaps my sock draw with my roll of Lincoln Head pennies that I bought on eBay.

Then I thought (It was a long light) of the expression “To coin a phrase.”

Kids growing up today wouldn’t understand the verb “coin,” much less the noun coin.

Banking technology has affected our culture to the extent that it won’t be long if the keeper of Webster’s Dictionary manages to keep the word coin in its publication; no doubt, it will be described as an archaic throwback to the dark ages of the late twentieth century.

What other words or expressions are doomed to the eraser of the dictionary police?

Fax?
Democracy? (Oooh, that was nasty.)

Of course, every generation has words that evolve into and out of usage, so it should be no surprise to us as we opt for plastic and shun the currency of our past.

Words have always mattered to me.

I never bought into that “sticks and stones” thing. A lot of crap that was. Words certainly do hurt you from time to time.

However, it is not about the words that hurt that I wish to write, but rather, the words that inspire and adorn our world with all that is good.

For me, it all started with my mother.

She had several expressions or sayings that she would often regale all of her family who would listen. Of course, we all listened.

Momma always attributed these pithy words to her own mother, Mary Dowd McHugh.

To be sure, I only got to appreciate the inherent wisdom of her words as I got older. Some of them infuriated me when I was a kid.

“Don’t let little things bother you.”

The times when life got the better of me and my frustration with not getting my way often resulted in this advice from my mother.

Don’t let little things bother you.

In all my frustration, I was trying to overcome the cause of frustration which, to me, was trying not to let little things bother me. My problem is I never really understood what my mother meant.

She wasn’t telling me anything about overcoming my particular problem of the day. Instead, she was telling me to forget about this minor issue. She really meant don’t sweat the small stuff. But I was too young to understand…until yesterday, I think.

Then, of course, she would often drift into the classics.

“Too much of anything is good for nothing.”

I think this is a catchier version of “Moderation in all things.”

So, Lizzie McHugh was a Greek and Roman literature student but put her own spin on the adage.

Then, of course, she used the Bard himself to have us scurry into our bedroom when it was time for bed.

“To bed to bed, there’s a knocking at the gate.”

I really thought she made this one up. But then I read Macbeth in high school, and sure enough, it was in Act V.

My mother taught me other things, but these were her classics, so I thought I would share them.

And, of course, others in my life inspired me with their words.

“Oh yeah, I’ll tell you something. I think you’ll understand.”

That still gives me goosebumps, just like it did that first time I heard it in the fall of 1963. Of course, I Want To Hold Your Hand by the Beatles is the sort of this lyric of all lyrics.

It possesses such power as to start a revolution. A revolution inspired by the concept of holding a loved one’s hand. Years before the sexual revolution, it was as erotic as it got. Goosebumps rather than lust was its outcome, and fifty-nine years later, I still have to stop typing and calm myself down.

Transitioning from the time of teenage love and romance to the words of Christ.

Ironically, it was about the same time in 1963 that I began to take the words of Christ to heart.

The Prodigal Son and other of Christ’s parables of forgiveness illustrated that God was not mad at me or disappointed with me. Christ showed the infinite ability to love and forgive. I realized both actions cost me nothing.

It didn’t matter how many people I loved because there was always enough love for one more. Forgiveness? When would you stop forgiving someone? Is it about the same time you would no longer require forgiveness for your transgressions?

I then turned to the Our Father.

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive the trespasses of others.?

Mother of Mercy! Do you mean I have to forgive others all the time when they offend me? Yeah, Jimmy, that’s what it means. Otherwise, you will run out of forgiveness sooner rather than later.

There’s no better time to introduce the words of Bob Dylan than right after writing about Christ.

“Blowin In The Wind.”

Perhaps Dylan’s most important song poses nine questions. The answers, however, were not provided, merely suggesting that the answers are Blowin In The Wind.

Go listen to the song or at least read the lyrics.

You will realize that the answer to each and every one of the questions is simply “Too Many.”

JFK inspired us to look for help rather than ask for help.

MLK dared us to dream along with him.

We were a divided nation in 1963 and 1968, and while our hatred may have gone on hiatus for a spell, it was still percolating under the surface.

We seem to be at a loss as to which words can release us from this tailspin in which we find ourselves. I don’t think we really hate each other, but maybe we’re just afraid to grasp that hand of the other in a commitment of friendship, if not full-blown love.

Before the US Postal Service put ZIP in our address, I lived at 1261 Leland Avenue, Bronx 72, New York.

That address has changed to Bronx NY, 10472.

It’s just not the same.

Like our area code which abruptly changed from 212 to 718 because of all the damn fax machines in Manhattan, our mailing address became more complicated for no apparent reason.

Of course, you couldn’t complain because of the “Postal” thing, but it really ticked me off.

It was just one more intrusion of modernity into our comfortable Bronx home, and we didn’t have any say in the matter.

The world was simpler when our addresses and phone numbers were consistent with our childhood.

There were so many other adaptations we succumbed to and new challenges that we had to meet; you think the least they could do was leave my damn address and phone number the hell alone?

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Sunday will be the sixtieth anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Beginning on October 16, 1962, and keeping my family on its knees praying the Rosary until October 29, 1962, it’s hard to believe that we are still living in fear of the mad inhabitants of the Kremlin and all their nuclear bombs.

As the modern-day version of Khrushchev, Poutin Pootin unsuccessfully tries to destroy Ukraine, maybe our strategy in 1962 to survive the blast of Soviet nuclear bombs would have prevailed.

Maybe Duck and Cover was a damn good way to face Soviet annihilation? They probably would have failed as miserably in 1962 as in 2022.

I guess the whole Sputnik thing and rushing to successfully put a man in space made it seem that the Soviets had a thing for technology.

Now, not so much.

They can’t even seem to keep their Generals out of harm’s way, much less launch a successful military campaign.

By today’s standards, Duck and Cover was sheer genius

I’ve gone through my share of hurricanes.

The earliest one I remember was Donna when I was a kid on Leland Avenue in The Bronx.

I don’t remember any others until Gloria when we first moved to East Quogue.

Then there was Bob.

And Irene, of course.

Sandy was the last one we went through while living on Long Island.

We lived in East Quogue for thirty-three years and experienced four hurricanes.

Not one severely impacted us save the loss of electricity for a week or so.

Given the destructive capacity of hurricanes, this was nothing to lament.

Five years ago, we moved to Florida and were immediately greeted by Irma, bless her heart.

We have heavy metal shutters, which, with the help of my nephew Nick, were installed, and we were safe from harm. Losing electricity, with which we are well experienced, was the worst of it.

We were spared Michael, but the panhandle of Florida was not.

Then along came Ian.

It was first aiming for Tampa, which is forty or so miles to our north, but then he changed his mind and veered off into Fort Myers.

You’ve seen the videos, you’ve read the reports, and it is uncertain still as to the number of fatalities.

It’s terrible to see the destruction of property and the loss of life, knowing you were only a few miles away from enduring the same.

It has me wondering what can we do?

We can eliminate all the carbon in the atmosphere, but I fear it is too late to turn back the geological clock.

So, should I move to higher ground?

Well, where exactly is that?

I left Long Island weary of the annual angst of the hurricane season.

If I leave Florida for the same reason, where do I go?

Give up the sun for the snow?

Blizzards can be just as devastating and deadly.

How about out west?

Arizona and Nevada are popular for retirees.

Oh yeah, no water and wildfires. Not ideal for your leisure years.

I can go back to The Bronx, but flooding and freezing are common phenomena there, too. I really don’t want to be a prisoner in my apartment for the entire winter.

I’ve been thinking about Ireland, but that’s a heck of a trip to see my kids. So, the answer to the questions, What will you do? Where are you going to go? have no good answers as far as I’m concerned.

It’s funny that we may all wind up being immigrants of a new variety…Climate immigrants.

Pray for those suffering the effects of Ian and all disasters, both natural and of human origin.

The autumnal Equinox will appear in just under three hours if you believe in such things.

This is another myth that has been perpetrated by those who insist on believing things.

For example, some still believe that Neil Armstrong took a giant step for mankind on the moon!

Then some defy flat-world logic and continue to accept that Christopher Columbus proved that the earth is round. As if!

This whole thing about equinoxes is ridiculous.

The only Equinox I believe in is the Chevy Equinox sitting patiently in my driveway waiting for the autumnal Equinox to arrive…yeah, right.

See, the thing is, the autumnal Equinox is supposed to usher in cooler weather when everyone here in Florida continues to wear white even after Labor Day because it is still ninety degrees. OOOOH, BRRR, I’m freezing.

So, go ahead and believe all that nonsense and savor your pumpkin latte.

I prefer to reside in a world where facts are for dreamers.

This entry might not make much sense if you don’t know about Stuckeyville.

In the early days of the twenty-first century, we were brought to Stuckyeville every Wednesday night on NBC.

For me, it began a perfect evening of television.

From Stuckyville, we were brought to the West Wing, and thereafter HBO gave us a taste of the mob as portrayed in The Sopranos.

Three different shows, but each is a special show in its own right.

You probably know more about the West Wing and the Sopranos than you do Stuckyville.

Stuckyville was a small town, probably in the midwest though it was never clear.
Ed Stevens was the lead character, and his name served as the show’s title.
But ED had several interesting and lovable characters, of which Ed Stevens was only one.

There is Ed’s childhood buddy, Mike, a local doctor. Mike’s wife Nancy, their friend Molly and then the love of Ed’s life, Miss Carol Vessey.

I don’t know how many seasons we waited for Ed and Carol to get together. But they finally did.

Stuckeyville appeared to be the small town that America wishes it still had.

There were no gerrymandered districts or failing infrastructures. The school provided a quality education, and there was no bullying, and of course, there were no social media to incite it. Thankfully, only flip phones existed in 2000.

There were teenagers with angst either because they were in love with the wrong girl and didn’t recognize the perfect mate right before their eyes.

There were heroes and villains, although the villains always appeared to be a love interest of Carol, who was not Ed. They were rightfully hissed whenever they slighted Ed.

It was a fun show that depicted a delightful town, and there don’t seem to be too many fun towns around anymore.

Ed was like a decaffeinated Seinfeld. The humor was there to be enjoyed, but it was soft and more functional than dysfunctional. It was like Cheers because, in Stuckeyville, everyone did know your name.

But in the end, it was too good to stay on the airwaves for too long.

It was so nice to visit there even if it was for only one hour a week.

Here we are at the waning days of summer and my biggest concern is time.

(It really isn’t but I’m trying to be entertaining this Saturday morning.)

So, I ask you, what time is it.

As I type it is 10:46 EDT but is it really?

Time is never a constant. It’s probably the one thing that started to divide our nation.

Some states, and even counties within states refuse Daylight Saving Time or is it Standard Time that they reject? Anyway, there is a movement, that I thought proved to be successful, which would do away with the biannual ritual of resetting all our clocks to conform either to daylight savings time or to revert back to standard time.

But, apparently, we are destined to once again fall behind on November 6th.

To be sure it has become a less arduous task as many of our devices automatically make the switch. iPhones, iPads, cable boxes and other devices will all make the task easy for us. Of course, I will have to change the time on our microwave and oven and the big clock that we have high up on a kitchen wall. So, I really shouldn’t be complaining.

But come on, this is a rather simple fix if we could all just agree to fix the time issue once and for all.

Who am I kidding?

There is absolutely nothing that we can agree on but so far no one appears to be willing to riot in support of one position or another.

I think we can agree that this, at least, is progress.

Well, maybe not.

You know where you were.

You know what you were doing.

You know who you were with.

You know how you felt.

You can’t help but remember.

You may have had one other event that lives in your psyche as real today as when it happened.

Twenty-one years has done nothing to alter your sense of that day.

And that is a very good thing.

As we approach the last full week of summer, change is already in the air.

It’s been quite an eventful summer in which the world lost a beloved Queen ( I wonder what our so-called beloved Founding Fathers would say to America’s reaction to the death of Queen Elizabeth II?)

Then, of course, America has its own drama unfolding every few minutes on our HD televisions (Again, what would the Founding Fathers say to that?)

But I chose to ignore the drama of the day to dwell on the Last Of The Summer Ale.

The changing of the seasons is as much symbolized by the changing of the food that is available for which we are now ravenous to enjoy as the cooler weather and darker days.

The lure of the barbecue no longer appeals to us as the prospect of fall comfort foods admittedly too dense for our summer palates.

Of course, we can include our choice of beverages in this mix.

Light wines give way to hearty reds. Gin and tonics cannot compete with a whiskey on the rocks. So, too, is our taste regarding beer.

Lager and pilsners no longer intrigue us as much as a malty stout or hoppy IPA.

The summer ale that I so enjoy as early as Memorial Day (previously dubbed the official start of summer), I regrettably savor the coming of a cinnamony pumpkin ale at the expense of my beloved summer ale..

A delicious brew sipping right out of the bottle is even better in a glass rimmed with brown sugar and cinnamon.

Scrumptious.

Tale gating and pumpkin ale!

America’s favorite pastime, well, mine, even if the tale gating occurs in my den while watching the NFL Redzone.

Of course, the ebb of summer ale can only serve as a warning that the demise of the pumpkin ale is nigh.

Before I drain the first bottle of this fall libation, I will be thinking of Christmas and Winter Ales approach.

To think that people once drank the same beer all year long?

Interesting.

My siblings always referred to our Mother as Mamma. My father did, too, when he didn’t call her Bett.

Today Mamma would have been 115 years old.

She has been gone nearly forty years, but I can still hear her laugh and smell her peach pie and rice pudding.

But today, I will remember her 64th birthday.

September 3rd in, 1971, fell on a Friday. It was payday, so the guys from the mail room at Lorillard Corp gravitated to our Blarney Stone of choice for a roast beef sandwich and a cold draft…maybe more than one?

It also happened to be my last day working there as I would be entering my final year at St. John’s the day after Labor Day, which happened to be Monday.

So, the boys celebrated the upcoming three-day weekend and my forthcoming departure with a cherry-flavored Tiparillo. This was ironic because we worked for a tobacco company but elected to smoke another company’s brand.

It was a glorious September day in the City, which is often the case in the waning days of summer. On most Fridays, I took the express bus to The Bronx instead of the IRT. It was my weekly treat and well worth the buck it cost me to ride in air-conditioned splendor.

An overly packed and un-airconditioned subway car was no match to the cool comfort and luxury seating in a spanking new motor coach.

It was my Mother’s birthday, so I had to stop and pick her up something to mark the occasion. I opted for the traditional perfume and powder collection of one Estée Lauder. To be sure, it was my tradition and not necessarily my Mother’s.

When I arrived at 1261, dinner was ready to be served, as was a lovely birthday cake decorated with a politically correct number of candles. Just enough to offer a faint glow in our humble kitchen.

We sang Happy Birthday, but the real celebration would come tomorrow with my siblings and grandchildren to offer their congratulations.
(It’s hard to believe that I ever thought 64 was old!)

Knowing what was in store for tomorrow, I had no qualms about going out for the evening with my friends.

We met at Al’s Wine and Liquors which served as a pseudo clubhouse and a source of our desired beverages.

From there, a few of us decided to go to one of the local clubs along East Tremont Avenue. The Castle Keep was one of my favorites, but on this particular Friday night, the echo that its emptiness offered was deafening. We then moved down the avenue to The Hollow Leg. Previously known as the Bronx Irish Center, I was never a fan of the new rendition and thought seriously about giving up on the evening and going home.

It’s funny how life offers you a flashpoint that may decide your future, and you have no immediate sense that such a momentous decision awaits.

I decided to go in with the rest of the boys because I had already had a few and thought there was no point in going home so early.

Before I knew it, I was standing rather unsteadily by myself, perusing my surroundings.
I must have been quite the sight. Because as I bobbed when I wasn’t weaving, my eyes rested on a sight at the bar.

She was sitting on a bar stool, sipping a drink and smiling, if not fully guffawing, as our eyes met.

Momentous decision 101.

I made my way over to her to see her more closely and learn what was so funny about me.

I was awestruck by her beauty, and where I am usually glib and charming in such situations (I may be exaggerating just a smidge here), I was lost as to what I should say.

“I’ve been admiring you all night.”

It wasn’t Shakespeare, Browning, or even Edgar Allan Poe, but it did the trick.

Because fifty-one years later, Eileen patiently awaits my return to the lanai so that I can clean the glass slider in preparation for our Labor Day party tomorrow.

This tale began on my Mother’s birthday. All of my tales began on my Mother’s birthday.

How nice it would be if she could only read it and smile while saying, “Very nice, Luv.”

Happy Birthday, Mamma.

Well, here we are on the last Friday of Summer. Of course, that’s not exactly true, but it will have to do for a nation that can’t tell the difference between truth and lies.

Labor Day has always been considered the end of the summer, much as Memorial Day is its’ beginning. Neither sentiment is supported by the Julian calendar or the Farmers Almanac, for that matter. But Labor Day unmistakably is the end of summer.

Of course, here in Florida, summer doesn’t end until Christmas Eve and arrives on St Patrick’s Day.

The days in between those sacred holidays are pure joy in Florida. We can wear jeans and socks and sometimes you even have to put the heat on.

One morning last year, I woke up, and the house temperature was 66 degrees! Oh, bliss!

Still, the end of summer awakens memories of past summers and Labor Days of yesteryear.

Traditionally, we would always go to Ponquogue Beach in the Hamptons, Hampton Bays to be precise, and enjoy one more day at the beach with family and friends. Eileen would make The Big Sandwich, and frisbees and footballs, as well as bubbles, would pierce the air under a bright blue sky.

The sky was so blue that it almost hurt your eyes to look at it.

Finally, the ocean water temperature reached a level of comfort, allowing extended boogie boarding for the kids. Unlike me, they were not filled with the angst of another summer coming to an end. They just enjoyed flying through the waves with no thought about the approaching first day of school.

We always did our best to extend the day and soak up the last of the summer rays that would be remembered on those approaching cold and rainy days of November.

We were sure to stay at least until 5 PM because that is when the lifeguards signaled the end of their watch for the year. At that moment, before the shrill of their whistles evaporated in the air, the entire party of beachgoers would stand and applaud their service provided all summer long.

Somehow that last gesture of ours was as much for our benefit as theirs.

Gratitude does have that effect on you.

It’s a bit ironic that a day devoted to labor and those that provide it delights more in the days free of work.

We may think that working is a noble experience that is good for the soul, but the truth is that one day at the beach, hands down, beats any day stuck in front of a computer.

Work, in fact, is the curse of the beach-going class.

Happy Days In Hampton Bays.

Today, my father would have been 115, just a few years older than Bilbo Baggins, but no less a joyful and inspirational man.

My father lived and worked for his family.

I always considered him a Man Of The Twentieth Century.

He was seven years old when World War I broke out.

He was 22 when the stock market crashed, and the Great Depression began.

He got his job with ConEd in 1930 and was soon going to be laid off. When told of this, he proceeded to the office of a Vice President and told him he couldn’t be laid off. My mother was pregnant with my sister Maureen, their first of five children.

The VP had a heart and called a supervisor and instructed him to put my father on the paint gang.

Pop painted everything in sight. He would paint these huge gas holders (you may remember the Elmhurst gas tanks) higher, hanging on a scaffold.

Pop saw Ruth and Gehrig, DiMaggio, Berra, Ford, and Mickey Mantle.

I even took him to his last game and the last season at the Babe Ruth Yankee Stadium before it was renovated.

I took him to see Joe Willie.

What a life!

But all of that meant nothing compared to the superstars that made up his family: his children, grandchildren, and most of all, our mother, Bett.

It was Mickey (or Mick) and Bett to all their adult friends and neighbors.

Pop loved to laugh and make other people laugh along with him. One Christmas, he put an inverted lampshade on his head, imitating a chef as he carried a huge platter of turkey to the dining table.

When I told him we were moving out to the Hamptons, he was visibly angry. I guess he thought I was abandoning him. He asked me what I would do for a job, and I told him I would commute on the Long Island Rail Road. He responded:

“Don’t think you’ll be staying with me!”

Little did he or I know that a short three years later, I would be doing just that as I started law school in 1986 and lived with him four days a week until I graduated in 1990.

The first night I stayed with him, I put a few sofa cushions on the floor, wrapped a sheet around them, and went to sleep.

When he woke me up the following day, I saw him shake his head.

I came home that night after class, and he told me that he had taken the subway down to Macy’s at Herald Square and bought a $900 sofa bed.

He was 79 years old.

He begged the salesman to expedite the order because “My son is sleeping on the floor.”

It was clear to all of us that my staying with him provided much joy and purpose to Pop. He was proud to help put me through law school.

He taught all his children what it meant to be a parent, and we have all tried to emulate him.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about him and my mother.

I only wish he was here to have a slice of strawberry shortcake for his birthday.

I wrote this a few years ago to commemorate Father’s Day. I wrote…A Father is the guy…

I have updated this today and changed it to A Dad is the guy…

It’s a clarification that needed to be made. Any man can be a father but it is the blessed ones who become Dads. So, for all of you who are Dads or were fortunate to have a Dad, Happy Dad’s Day.

A Dad is the guy who took you to your first Yankee game and sat you in the Bleachers because that was where Mickey Mantle played.

A Dad is the guy who just couldn’t wait until December 25th to give you your first set of Lionel Trains and so he gave them to you in October.

A Dad is the guy who that same Christmas gave you your Santa Fe diesel three days before Christmas.

A Dad is the guy who didn’t get you those Mouseketeer Ears you wanted so badly but came home with the most beautiful red two-wheeler you ever had in your life.

A Dad is the guy who didn’t always give you what you wanted but made damn sure you got everything you needed.

A Dad is the guy who never uttered a profanity in his life until that day you went missing, and he had to search the neighborhood looking for you.

A Dad is the guy who answered ‘steak’ to the question ‘What’s for dinner?’ that you yelled to him up at the window when he was calling you in for dinner because he didn’t want the neighbors to know we were having meatloaf.

A Dad is the guy who took you to Ferry Point Park on evenings after he worked all day and then had to flag every fly ball that went to the opposite field he was playing.

A Dad is the guy who couldn’t tune a ukulele without breaking a few strings but could sing Ain’t She Sweet like no body’s business.

A Dad is the guy who made a weekend without electricity the most magical weekend of a kid’s life.

A Dad is the guy who was called The Tasheroo Kid and never explained what that meant.

A Dad is the guy who didn’t know the definition of a sick day.

A Dad is the guy who saw you sleeping on his living room floor and went out and bought a sofa bed the next day.

A Dad is so much more than all the things I have listed, and I am only one of his five children, and if you have been blessed with such a Dad, then you have been truly blessed, indeed.

If we still remembered History, we would know the poignancy of the word infamy.

Those of us who are boomers cannot hear or read the words without thinking of FDR’s speech following the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.

Nearly thirty-four years later, I was sitting in the endzone of Shea Stadium for a game between the Jets and the Patriots. Joe Namath would throw three touchdowns en route to a 36-7 rout of the Patriots, but this is not what I remember of that day.

During halftime, all those in attendance were asked to honor the Emperor of Japan, Hirohito, and give a rousing Jet welcome. I’m not sure if we were asked to give a rousing Jet welcome or not, but we did clap and cheer somewhat.

Hirohito was Emperor of Japan during World War II and, of course, on December 7, 1941.

At the time, I was in the middle of my graduate degree in American History, and I could not help but think that there were probably a few people in the stands who had fought in World War II or lost loved ones during the war, perhaps even in the Pacific Theater of Operations.

Nevertheless, we cheered out of respect for an ally.

How far we had come in our forgiveness and understanding of a man who had once been our enemy.

It was a fascinating lesson in global politics and something I have always remembered. It is something we should never lose sight of when we determine any nation is our enemy.

Indeed, it is a lesson that we should all ponder in our age of polarization and division. People who disagree with us are not our enemy. People who disagree with us may hold opinions for which we have no tolerance but that doesn’t mean we should be intolerant to the people who hold such ideas.

Hate the idea, perhaps, but not the person. Leave a little doubt in the absolute righteousness of your opinions and try to understand the opinion you despise.

I am baking my St. Patrick’s Day soda bread as I type. Getting used to baking with gas after thirty-three years using electric ovens posed a challenge that I think I have overcome. So, my advice is to make sure your bread is done by inserting a toothpick in the center of the bread just to ensure that it is done. The next issue is how to serve the finished product.

I always loved the first piece that my mother would give me nearly right out of the oven. It was hot and melted the butter to a glorious topping for any fine bread. Jam and marmalade of course make a delicious alternative, but always on top of the butter and always after the first piece.

That’s my habit but you are welcome to enjoy your technique for eating your own slice of Heaven..

Enjoy and eat well.

Every culture that has sent its representatives to our grateful shores has, along with hard-working people who had dreams of a new life and guts of cast iron, given America its language, folklore but, most of all, food. This morning our subject is Irish Soda Bread.

I have always viewed Irish Soda Bread the way my Italian friends thought of gravy, what we call sauce. Just as any self-respecting Italian would rather go hungry than be forced to eat pasta covered in Ragu, so, too, do I have my standards when it comes to Irish Soda Bread for no two soda breads are ever alike.

No matter how nice they look in their bakery wrapper, and regardless of the wonderful aroma that permeates the bakery, when you get the bakery-bought Irish Soda Bread home and attempt to slather it with butter, well, let’s just say it sucks. Supermarket Irish Soda Bread may suck even more. The only recourse true Irish Soda Bread Aficionados have is to only eat homemade Irish Soda Bread. But even here one must tread carefully. There are a lot of wannabes out there, but Jimmy is here to help you. Take this down:

Lizzie McHugh’s Irish Soda Bread Recipe

First. My Mother never had a recipe. She winged it. One day when Eileen and I were still living in New Rochelle, I called her for her recipe. She obliged, and I baked. I love having the first piece when the bread is still piping hot and the butter melts right into it. I didn’t love it this time. It didn’t even taste as good as a supermarket bread. I called her back and told her. She was confused and had me repeat what I had done. “I never said a tablespoon of sugar, you need at least a third of a cup.” Ok, I wrote the corrected recipe down and made a terrific Irish Soda Bread, just like Momma’s. Here it is for your baking and eating pleasure:

Ingredients

Combine

3 1/2 cups of flour

2/3 cup of sugar

3 tsp baking powder

1/4 tsp baking soda

1-tbsp caraway seeds (I like more I’m just saying)

1/2 half box of raisins

2 eggs

Buttermilk

2tblsps-melted butter

Beat the two eggs and add butter (let melted butter cool down) and enough buttermilk to bring the total mixture to 2 cups.

Add the liquid and dry mixtures and combine and place into a greased baking pan, round or loaf.

Put into a pre-heated 350-degree oven and bake for about an hour. Ovens vary so I would check at the 50-minute mark.

Let cool…but not that long as there is nothing on Earth quite like a warm piece of Irish Soda Bread.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day everybody.

Christmastime is here, that song is actually playing on the radio as I type. How fitting to start off with reminding you that it is, indeed, Christmastime.

When I used to teach religion in Catholic schools I used to speak of Christmas as a time for transformation. After all, Christ was born and transformed the world. Now I know a lot of bad things have been done in His name by religious leaders who should have been spreading His word but instead did horrible things while wearing the collar.

I am trying to ignore that for the time being and to get back to transformation.

Back in my teaching days, I would speak of the various characters in the arts that exemplified  the transformative nature of the season,

There was Scrooge of course.

But there was also Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree and even Frosty The Snowman.

If you are to believe the animated Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, even Santa and Donner were transformed, though you would have thought that Santa needed no change of heart.

In all of the above illustrations, Christmas brought a change of heart and mind to the characters. In some cases, life-changing transformations were realized.

This year I am going to try on my transformation. Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from Scrooge and Santa?

One thing that retired life provides is ample time to be crabby. You can start your day off watching whichever side of the aisle to which you subscribe. If you are like me, MSNBC will be the eyeopener for the morning along with a hot cup of coffee. I recently restricted my viewing to no more than a half hour. I then listen to the mass from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and try to transform my Church by not abandoning it in its time of disgrace. It’s sort of like being a fan of the New York Jets.

If you are one of them, you probably watch Fox and you really do need to transform.

Well, there I go. I have to stop doing that and perhaps that is the first journey on my road to transformation? I have to leave all the hate behind me.

It’s not easy to do but it is certainly necessary and, without abandoning hate, you miss the whole point of Christmas and transformation is impossible.

So, I am going to leave Trump alone and I hope those of you who support him can ignore the Democrat you most love to hate. It’s a start and only step one of the thousand-mile journey.

The goal is not just to abandon hate for Christmastime but to make its abandonment a way of life.

I am tired of being angry.

Try watching (or even reading) The Polar Express this Christmas as it might be worth all our whiles to believe in Santa and to play with your trains as you prepare for the arrival of God’s Only Son.

Merry Christmas.