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-four years has done nothing to alter your sense of that day.
And that is a very good thing.
I have a bad habit of writing in my head when I am trying to get to sleep.
Very often the title of a post or specific phrases that I will use keep me up well into the wee hours of the morning.
Sometimes I equate these moments to dreaming while awake.
I have had similar experiences while fully awake and with a group of friends. One memorable instance of my waking dream phenomena happened when I was thirteen while attending a Halloween Party out Jeannie’s house. This was in 1963, and all our friends were there.
It was a magic moment, and I understood the significance of that time even as I lacked sufficient understanding of the hormones that were attacking my body and psyche. At some point during the party, I was able to draw myself out of the reality of the music, dancing, and laughter as I became a silent observer rather than a participant.
I was only gone for a few seconds, but I can still remember the joy that those few seconds helped me to appreciate.
Another moment like this occurred on September 3, 1971.
Unlike the Halloween Party in 1963 which I had been anticipating for days, I had no hint that a special moment was on its way.
It was my last day working in the mail room at Lorillard Corp. and, like most Fridays that were also paydays, my colleagues and I cashed our checks and headed to the nearest Blarney Stone on Third Avenue. We didn’t have to walk far, as it seemed that a Blarney Stone occupied space on every block on Third Avenue in Midtown.
Lunch consisted of roast beef sandwiches on rye and a few cold brews to aid in their digestion. Later on the walk back to the office, we stopped off at a Tobaconist and bought some Tipparillos for a light after lunch smoke. Ironically, we worked for a tobacco company that made cigarettes but no cigars.
The work day soon came to a close, and goodbyes and hugs were exchanged, and before I knew it, I was on the Six train heading north to the Parkchester stop. I should add that in 1971, subways were not air-conditioned, and warm air was rendered even hotter by the ceiling fans pushing hot air into your face.
Because it was my mother’s birthday, I had to stop at the Parkchester Pharmacy on The Circle when I got off the train. I purchased the typical cosmetic collection of perfume, scented soaps, and hand cream. My mother was always appreciative of my modest efforts to honor her birth.
After dinner, I went, as planned, to Al’s Wine and Liquors to meet up with my friends. Cake and a Happy Birthday rendition were planned for Sunday, when other siblings would share in the festivities.
Little did I know that when I entered the liquor store that my life would be forever changed.
No specific plans were set for our Friday night adventure. We wound up going to one of the usual bars that had served us well in the past. The bar was called the Castle Keep but on this particular Friday night, the Castle might as well have been protected by a moat given the paucity of female clientele.
We didn’t stay long enough to order a beer.
So. we meandered down East Tremont Avenue to another bistro known as the Hollow Leg, previously known as the Bronx Irish Center, AKA BIC.
I wasn’t a fan of this place as it held too many memories or traumatic experiences dating back to high school. Here I was on the verge of entering senior year in college and I was sucked into the black hole that was the Hollow Leg….Thank God!!!
As I was bobbing and weeving on the dance floor by myself, my friends having abandoned me, I spotted someone at the bar smiling or perhaps laughing at me. Thinking along the lines of Oliver Hardy I mused, What Could Be Worse?
I then made my way to the bar and the smiling or laughing individual. Now, even from the great distance of ten. feet I could tell that she was a red head. I previously encountered a beautiful red head on two occasions at Manhattan College’s Manhappening and had a good time on both occasions. Except, when the time came to go home or to plan our next encounter, she always used the barrier of her father. She said he would not appove of me and she itereated the reasons, I believe, in iambic pentameter.
However, as I approached this particular red head, I could tell she was a completely different person…Thank God.
But here I am approaching her and I had no clue as to what I should say. I adlibed and uttered a disastorus opening line, “I’ve been admiring you all night.”
Well, there was no doubt as to whether she was smiling or laughing as she nearly fell off her bar stool laughing so hard at my poor excuse for a pick up line.
Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before I realized that I had found the wife of my children and the Memaw of my grandchildren.
That was fifty-four years ago today and on September 19th a short five years after our first encounter, we were married.
So much has happened from that September night in 1971 but most of what happened was completely expected.
So, the one take away I can offer you is that sometimes you never see what is heading your way until you walk through the door and find the girl who smiles.
The rest of that evening was previously described in A Bronx Boy’s Tale so, while it bears repeating, I will allow you to do so at your own leisure.
Well, it’s not officially the last weekend of the summer but it might as well be.
If you were one of my boomer friends who grew up in the Bronx and attended Blessed Sacrament School, you can almost smell the stale aroma that permeated our classrooms on that first Tuesday after Labor Day.
The hatefule jingle of the Robert Hall ad reminding us in the beginning of August that school bells would soon be ringing had already lost its sting as our parents had taken over preparing us for the return to school.
Although we had a good idea as to whom our new teacher would be, we never. were quite sure and had no idea at all as to how she (it wouldn’t be until high school until we had male teachers) would be to deal with on a daily basis. I have to say that I was always pretty lucky in that regard, despite having a break in period before we each appreciated the other’s humor.
Eighth grade was a different story all together and I have written about that experience in A Bronx Boy’s Tale. But even 62 years later the special nature of that experience still resonates with me as well as the friends and classmates who shared it with me.
I prefer to think of those times today as whether it was a factor of age or naivety, those years seemed happier and less dangerous. Even after the Kennedy Assassination we were able to mourn without despairing.
Then the Beatles came to (I Want) To Hold Your Hand and suddenly we could smile and sing.
This weekend many of us may continue that tradition with friends over a barbecue as we anticipate a beautiful autumn season.
The wheel turns; we get older; we live to laugh and bring joy to others.
Don’t watch the news; don’t read the paper; play music and eat a hot dog.
Have a great weekend and I will write again soon.
We were living in Bradenton, Florida for only a year when the Parkland school shooting occurred. The day after the mass murder of innocent children I started volunteering in a cancer research compontent connected to where I receive treatment for CLL.
That first day I was working along side a woman of about my age (being kind), so late 60s, and I remarked to her about the tragic shooting in south Florida. Her response always haunts me anytime there is another school shooting.
She said, ” I JUST WORRY ABOUT THE SECOND AMENDMENT! ( Caps and exclamation point are my own.)
I asked, “Are you worried about people worshiping false idols or taking the Lord’s name in vain?” That of course references the Second Commandment. I didn’t reply to her and I didn’t say another word to this poor excuse for a human.
Even the gutless right wing nuts catering to their gun lobby support at least offer their “THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS.”
I don’t pretend to know God personally or what his thoughts are on human behaviour, but I do believe He/She (Remember we are all made in God’s image or is it the other way around?)
Thoughts and prayers don’t seem to be working against automatic rifles but thoughts and prayers are the only things our cowardly law makers can offer to stop the murder of children.
Of course, the National Guard can reduce crime in our nation’s capital (well, not really) and federal agents can mask up and wear all sorts of body armor to arrest people hanging out at Home Depots just looking for work.
Why don’t we use all those thoughts and prayers in someting for which they have the best application. Say, combating hatred and racism. How about we offer all those offering thoughts and prayers a bounty for handing in all the weapons they have stockpiled? Pay them twice what they paid for these guns and we can fund it by cancelling the tax reduction for the billionaires.
It’s a terrible way to live when you have to worry about your children and grandchildren going off to school for the first time.
Boomers like me only had to worry about the Bomb, and, thankfully, we had leaders that made America great without going Nazi on us.
A few years ago, I signed up with Major League Baseball to participate in one of their outreach programs.
Fans At Bat is a survey device that MLB sends participants via email to gauge fans’ support (or lack thereof) for various baseball-related topics. The League and its owners want to take the pulse of public reaction to some of their programs and events, ostensibly.
I have received surveys on what candidates should qualify for the Baseball Hall of Fame, and what TV station is broadcasting the All-Star game (and in what city will it be played). I have even been asked about the sponsors supporting the transmission of the game.
The other day, I received a survey about my favorite topic…sports gambling.
Having watched the exploits of Shoeless Joe Jackson and his contemporary ghosts play baseball in a cornfield in Iowa, the history behind the Black Sox scandal has always struck a chord. Baseball at that time was so concerned with maintaining the integrity of the game and having fans continue to value their product, that they made a special effort to punish the players as well as appointing the first Commissioner of Baseball in the person of Kenesaw Mountain Landis, AKA Judge Landis.
Landis was a federal judge who quickly applied law and order to professional baseball. He was appointed in 1920, and so ingrained was the goal of keeping Baseball free of gambling and gamblers that even in the 1970s, two of baseball’s all-time greats were banned from baseball activities, eg, Old Timers Day.
Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays were banned for merely serving as greeters at gambling casinos. They were later reinstated when they stopped serving in this capacity.
But now? The gamblers are not only allowed into the inner sanctum of America’s Pastime, but they are also welcomed as sponsors and collaborators with sports gambling companies.
Odds are posted on MLB broadcasts, and fans are encouraged to bet on whether Aaron Judge will get a home run or a particular pitcher will get six strikeouts.
Judge Landis is spinning in his grave.
It seems that making money has now displaced Baseball as America’s Pastime.
That is why I take every opportunity to slam MLB on their surveys when they ask for a comment, even if the topic has nothing to do with gambling or the companies that provide an opportunity for some fan to lose money he can’t afford to lose.
I know…I have a case of the cranks. But really, I just can’t tolerate hypocrisy.
Remember when you were a kid and awaiting the last day of school and the first day of summer were like waiting for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day?
It’s still that way for me and I haven’t been in school for quite a while. Nevertheless, you never lose that feeling that something wonderful is about to happen. Despite it being the longest day of the year, the first day of summer also ushers in the beginning of days getting shorter.
When I was a kid my mother always told me the story about her mother telling her on the first day of summer, “Now the days will be getting shorter and shorter.”
That always depressed my mother but it didn’t keep her from repeating that observation to me each and every first day of summer. But, it never really got me down as sleeping later, staying out well into the summer night, and staying up late watching TV easily overcame the sudden realization that summer was on a short leash and the first day of summer and the last day of school would suddenly and inexorably transform to the end of the summer and the first day of school.
John Sebastian said it best, “Hot Fun Summer In The City.”
The air conditioner didn’t make its appearance at Apartment 6, 1261 Leland Avenue, until the summer of 1975. Window fans kept us “cool” from the fifties through half of the seventies. Subways never had airconditioning when I commuted to Manhattan on the 6 train. The subway wasn’t just hot, it was jam packed with hot, sweaty people…it was lovely.
The best part of the work-day was arriving at 200 East 42nd Street after an unbearable subway ride and an equally unbearable walk along 42nd Street. Once inside the haven that was 200 East you were ensconced in cool, moist vapors that revived you in an instant. So much so that you were eager for a hot cup of Horn and Hardart coffee from Kathleen who brough our brew each morning in her coffee cart.
Having cooled off and imbibed a hot cup a Joe, it was now time to make our rounds and deliver our mail to the executives of the company.
Actually, we made our deliveries to the secretaries which was the best part of our day.
Our bosses thought we were merely go-getters and hard workers when in fact, we just wanted to talk to the girls (back then it wasa ok to call them girls) of the office.
Hot town in the summertime .
To quote my dear friend, “Hey Ice keep cool.” Good advice during a summer heatwave.
It’s difficult to understand how so many “patriots” have succumbed to a lying cheat. A man who mocks those who have made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States (words foreign and unknown to this man) and plans to use the anniversary of our US Army as a way of honoring him on his birthday with a military parade of all things!
I hope that, in the near future, a special day is set aside to remember the abominations of this would-be dictator as well as those cowards who enabled and encouraged his outlandish antics.
So as we remember those who served our nation this Memorial Day, let us not forget that a new day, a Memorable Day, is coming soon, and America will again be the country we have known and loved.
I think it behooves Americans to let Elon know what we have done today. Yeah, it may clog up his email account but he’s the Techie In Chief so he can cope.
So, Elon, here goes.
First, I spent an inordinate amount of time wondering why I should be accountable to some white guy from South Africa.
Second. I brushed up on my English grammar because I know Trump wants to restore English to its proper status, and never mind that when he uses it in public, we always get a good laugh.
Third. I pondered whether our new Secretary of Education was going to add wrestling to the curriculum in lieu of a foreign language requirement,
Fourth. We all heard Trump trash the electric car industry, so I said a Rosary for you so that you don’t lose more than three or four billion dollars because of this. But, maybe you can convince him that he never said anything about electric cars.
Fifth. To be honest, Elon, I am exhausted and am going to take a nap now.
TGIF
What’s happened to music?
If I had to make a list of my favorite current-era songs, I’d be hard-pressed to come up with five or ten.
I guess I should think about today’s music before I make such a judgement but it really wouldn’t matter. There is no comparison with the music of the 60s and 70s so it would be a futile effort to even try to come up with a list.
There was so much good music I couldn’t even buy all the records that I wanted (let’s face it, the act of buying an album with an iconic album cover was itself a more satisfying purchase than buying a digitized rendition of something that is supposed to resemble music. The squeezing of notes is just what it sounds like and just as unpleasant.
And our poets are nowhere to be found. There is no Dylan, no Lennon and McCartney, and even Iggy Pop (AKA James Newell) no longer inhabits the airwaves.
Forget about The Flowers; where has all our music gone?
Today is the Daytona 500, sometimes referred to as The Great American Race…hmmmm. No wonder Trump will be there for a sprint around the track. After all, he has ordained that he will make The Great American Race even greater. But I don’t think auto racing is what he had in mind.
Ok, that was for my right-wing friends who refer to me as a leftie.
It’s funny that back in the late 60s and 70s, it was easier to hold opposing views on the issues of our time. We might disagree with people, but I don’t remember anyone hating me, and I can’t say that I ever hated anyone simply because they held views that differed with mine.
But this has nothing to do with the 500.
I started watching the race when I was still living on Long Island. It was somewhat exciting, but, more importantly, it was one of the signals that spring would soon be here. It usually came on the Sunday between the Superbowl and the beginning of Spring Training.
Finally, my long wait was over.
But I guess the Yankees’ rivalry with the Red Sox and the Mets is akin to the thoughts expressed aloud by the fans of their respective teams. That is why when I had a Saturday package, I often gave my tickets to the Met game and Red Sox game to a friend or family member. There was just too much stupid at these games and it was easier to avoid getting beer all over you from an errant throw while sitting at home watching it on TV.
But going to a Yankee game (as I am sure fans of other teams would echo my words) was that Yankee Stadium was a melting pot. If you were a Yankee fan, it didn’t matter where you lived or what you looked like. You would often just engage in an uplifting conversation.
But then, going to Blessed Sacrament Grammar School and St. Helena’s High School, both in the Bronx and St. John’s University in Queens, taught me tolerance without even realizing it. The secret is talking to people, not really a difficult thing to do.
Which calls to mind a conversation I had at a Spring Training game before Covid.
I was having a hot dog sitting at a hi-top table and Steinbrenner Field when a man and his son approached me and asked if they could share my table.
They both had Red Sox hats on, so naturally, I welcomed them to join me, provided they took off their hats. we laughed and started talking baseball between dog bites.
Then, the conversation shifted to football, and my prejudice got the better of me when I asked. “I suppose you’re New England Patriot fans?”
To my amazement and delight, the father responded., “No, we’re actually Jet fans!”
I learned a very valuable lesson that day.
You can’t always judge people solely by the color of their baseball cap.
The Newell Post 