The Newell Post

The other day, I was checking out of my doctor’s office and setting up for my next appointment. (Going to doctors is the extent of my social life, and I have very little room on my social calendar due to these commitments.) As my wife and I were leaving the office, a man stopped us and asked, “What part of New York are you from?”

I told him that I grew up in the Bronx but moved out to the east end of Long Island (don’t always say the Hamptons, as I don’t want them to think I’m one of those hipster doofuses that inhabit the region during the summer).

His reply, “Yeah, I heard that.” He meant my Bronx accent, of course.

A few years before I retired, I attended a conference organized by the AAMC, the American Association of Medical Colleges, of which I was a member as part of my duties as a Director of Financial Aid at a Downstate Medical School in Brooklyn. At this conference, I presented two sessions and took part in discussions at other sessions.

So, my voice often echoed in the meeting rooms during my attendance.

As is often the case, lunch is provided at these conferences, and open seating encourages meeting people from other schools and other geographical locations. Name tags often stating, “Hi, My Name Is…” help break the ice. I do wish these tags were placed somewhere other than on a person’s chest, as trying to read the name of a woman makes me uncomfortable, as it may appear I am gawking at their breasts.

Anyway, I am sitting at this table with a number of empty seats around me, and two women ask if they could join me. I welcomed them to do so and introduced myself, thereby saving them the awkwardness of staring at my breasts.

I did dare to look at their name tags and learned that they were from the University of Texas.

Soon into our conversation, in a beautiful Texas-Southern drawl, one of the young women said,

“I just loooooooove your accent.”

It tickled me to hear her say that but it wasn’t the first time I heard this.

One woman (it always seems to be women) in another venue asked if I was from Boston. At first, I thought maybe she heard a little of JFK or one of the other Kennedy boys. I took it as a compliment at the time until I started to think that maybe I sounded like Cliff from Cheers!

I love being from the Bronx, and I love all my Bronx family and friends who probably have Bronx accents like me. The funny thing is that I only hear a Bronx accent when it is exaggerated, as in saying Da Bronx, for example.

If we say that at all, it is to be funny.

No one has yet told me I write like someone from the Bronx, which wouldn’t be a bad thing.

I had a Latin teacher in college who either identified me as a Bronx Boy or asked us where we were from. However he made his analysis of me being from the Bronx, he proceeded to recite a snipet from Ogden Nash, “The Bronx, No Thonks”.

I wanted to reply, who gives a shit what a guy named Ogden says about the Bronx?

I encourage all my fellow Bronxites to treasure their Bronx accents and not give in to snob pressure should it arise. Do not exaggerate it but rather speak in the poetic cadences that we all share for having grown up in the Center of The Galaxy, AKA,

THE BRONX.

Today is supposedly the 60th Super Bowl…this is false if only in semantics.

The first two games between the NFL and AFL champions were called the AFL-NFL Championship Game.

The first Super Bowl was actually played in 1969 and was the first AFL-NFL Championship Game to be referred to as the Super Bowl, and was called Super Bowl III.

That was the last Super Bowl, as far as I am concerned.

That game played on January 12th, 1969, changed professional football forever. Because the two previous games were so lopsided in favor of the Green Bay Packers, the NFL representative in each, there was a real chance that another dismal showing by the AFL would have resulted in the cancellation of the planned merger of both leagues. This would have been catastrophic to the AFL and may have led to its demise.

Instead, Joe Namath guaranteed a victory, and he made good on his claim by playing a flawless, albeit conservative, game and handing the 19-point-favored Baltimore Colts a taste of what football would become.

Johnny Unitas’s crew cut and high-top black cleats would give way to Joe Namath’s long hair, sideburns, and white cleats. Not willing to make short passes to running backs a staple of his offence, Namath dared defensive backs to stop him from throwing long sideline passes and hitting receivers in stride with abandon. Yeah, he got picked off more than some from the past, but that didn’t deter him. But in Super Bowl III, Joe played it safe as he picked apart the Colts’ vaunted defense, a defense that shut out the Cleveland Browns in the NFL Championship game just a few weeks earlier.

I have been a Jet fan since 1965, and we have not had another moment like Super Bowl III since then. We have had some moments, but lately it has been frustrating to the Nth degree to root for the J E T S JETS JETS JETS.

But, as the song goes, When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way!

We used to be proud of the description of America as a nation of immigrants. Now, the children of immigrants, many of my generation, anticipate that emigration may well replace immigration as the American dream.

Watching what is going on in Minneapolis and what has gone on in LA and other places in the United States, I’m almost tempted to think that I no longer inhabit the United States of America. Nazi Germany? The Gulag Kingdom, formerly known as the Soviet Union?

How did we get here and where are we going?

It never used to be like this.

On that dark day in November 1963 when our President was gunned down in an American city, we grieved, and perhaps despaired, but we never lost sight of America as the City On The Hill, serving as a beacon of hope to the world.

As recently as September 2001, when thousands of Americans, many first-generation immigrants, were the victims of a foreign invasion by real terrorists (not the made-up kind we hear about today), Americans grew tighter as people.

I look back on those events not because they were the “good old days,” but rather because they illustrate what being an American used to mean in a historical sense.

We didn’t enter the World Wars because we wanted to brag to our allies that they couldn’t have won those wars without us, while failing to recognise the massive contributions and casualties absorbed by our friends until we finally joined the battle fray.

Wilson and FDR were too respectful to even think those thoughts.

The notion that NATO is ripping us off is laughable, but only to those who ever read a history book.

In 1962, when America was faced with the Cuban Missile Crisis, my mother would have us all kneel down in our living room and say the Rosary.

We are beyond the time when we should have been praying for our nation…but it’s never too late to start.

Amen.

I wanted to name A Bronx Boy’s Tale, My Back Pages, inspired by the Byrds’ version of Bob Dylan’s song of the same name. But the people at Create Space, where I was publishing my book, suggested that a title like that was better suited to a famous person’s memoir. I wanted to protest, “But I’m Jimmy Newell!” But I saw their point, acquiesced, and chose A Bronx Boy’s Tale.

I enjoyed writing the book and remembering what it was like growing up in the Bronx with the greatest people you could hope to share that experience. Some who chose to leave their comments thought it was not a true memory of the Bronx. Others found it inaccessible. I put up a banner on the WFUV website, and the young man I dealt with suggested the inaccessibility concept. I wanted to know what that actually meant and wondered if he found Shakespeare or Hemingway inaccessible. But thought it better to put myself in their company just yet.

My own criticism related to the many friends I left out of the book. This was not done intentionally or with malice, but really out of my own inability to juggle that many characters. Nevertheless, they were all part of my experience and, whether identified or not, all contributed to my fond memories, which inspired me to share my Bronx experience.

I wrote in chronological order beginning on November 22, 1963…the last day of American Innocence. Nothing was ever the same since then, and, sadly, the American Experience has deteriorated ever more precipitously in the last twenty years.

The gestation of American Divisiveness had already permeated American Life long before 2013, when A Bronx Boy’s Tale was published, had its roots in American life long before the date Kennedy was assassinated. However, we were convinced that the good life was trickling down to all Americans until it wasn’t in 2008. Reagan started our demise by masquerading as a populist who, nevertheless, busted unions, taxed Social Security, and was the first obnoxious candidate for President who mocked Jimmy Carter, “There you go again.”

Ronnie was a slug who aged better after dying ala Richard Nixon.

So, maybe A Bronx Boy’s Tale is inaccessible to young people (or at least younger than Boomers) because a world where you weren’t constantly bombarded with news, fake or otherwise, never was part of their experience.

Many may disdain nostalgia as soupy and unrealistic. I didn’t intend to be nostalgic, but wanted to write a social history of life in the Bronx before it became the fodder for late-night comedians. Consider it a reminder of where we used to be and how we used to be.

My recollection is that PJ and I met on a huge mound of snow, the remnants of a delightful blizzard that kept us home from school during the winter of 1959-60.

I could be wrong about the year, but we definitely met on a snow mountain somewhere near his house on Leland Avenue. So began a friendship that sadly ended on December 28, 2025 as a result of his untimely and unexpected passing.

Since Covid, a group of friends known as Da Bronx Boys have periodically gotten together on Zoom thanks to the Lou Fabrizio who reigned us all together to share updates and rekindle our Bronx memories.

Laughter was the common languange spoken by those of us who grew up together in the Bronx, and PJ was as big a contributor as any of us to the joy that we felt, and continue to feel, as we remember the lives we lived in the Beautiful Bronx.

There are so many stories that we all could detail and I have been blessed to have so many moments to keep PJ’s memory alive.

One of my favorites pertains to our journey to Hot Dog Beach in Hampton Bays for the Fourth of July Weekend in 1971.

We were well prepared for the weekend as we loaded our provisions into the trunk of John Crimmins’ car. Liquids and dry goods made up our the bulk of our weekend delights which is all I will write on this subject. Suffice it to say that it was 1971 and we were all in college.

We arrived at the beach at the sensible time of 11PM that Friday night. Sensible, especially if you were a fair haired, easily sunburned son of Erin. (The next three days would provide enough sunshine to tan our hides quite darkly.)

We were singing, drinking, and you remember those dry goods I mentioned earlier. Before we knew it the sun was rising just above the horizon. Naturally, PJ thought it was a good time to seek shelter and a little shut eye.

You see, the previous Fourth, we ventured down to the Jersey shore to celebrate the nation’s birthday without giving any thought to our own birthdays. In New York, being 18 gave us the right and privilege to go into any bar and order a cocktail or to purchase large orders of beer in a local bodega.

In New Jersey? Not so much.

So our celebration in the Garden State ended before it began. We wound up watchin Forbidden Planet on a black and white television in an un-airconditioned motel room. I think there was nine of us. I was one of the lucky ones and slept in a hard wood desk chair.

We cut our losses and came back to the Bronx Saturday morning. This did not sit well with PJ and he vowed NEVER AGAIN!

He took it upon himself to explore the Hamptons on Labor Day Weekend and came back as the Prophet of Hot Dog Beach. He met the renowned John Tent Man, who, had a tent in which you could sleep. He also had an eyepatch which made for easy identification.

So, on this Saturday morning of the Fourth of July Weekend in 1971, PJ and I searched Hot Dog Beach looking for John Tentman.

Our quest brought us to a number of guys working as a team with a common purpose, erecting a tent.

“Jimmy, this is it,” Pj announced. The two of us then entered the tent and made ourselves very comfortable. The trouble is the tent builders had yet to finish erecting their tent. Finally, the tent was completed and one of our hosts entered. I immidiately thought there was something amiss as this guy was NOT wearing an eyepatch.

He immediately went into attack mode and asked who we were. PJ attempted to defuse the situation. However, PJ’s attempt at explaining it all was just a tad incoherent. It included several attempts to explain that PJ was a friend of John Tentman. No matter how many times this refrained echoed in the tent, no one was buying it. Finally he gave up and turned to me. “Who the fuck are you then?” I went for the short reply and said while pointing at PJ, “I’m a friend of his!”

Ironically, we actually did get to meet John Tentman but it did us absolutely no good at all and we had to resort to three nights sleeping on a bed of sand.

God Bless you PJ as God blessed us having you in our lives.

We lived on the East End of Long Island in a hamlet (I think it was a hamlet) in the town of Southampton. My wife and I and our three children made East Quogue our home for over thirty years before I retired and Eileen and I moved to Bradenton, Florida.

Bradenton is lovely, albeit hot and humid in the summer. We had hot days in East Quogue to be sure, but they usually didn’t arrive until July and usually ended around Labor Day when we had absoltuetly beautiful weather.

While I am happy to avoid the ice and snow of wintering in East Quogue, I still miss the beauty of those bleak winter days in the Hamptons.

The crowds had gone, the beaches were barren, and we could drive out to points further east without the fear of bumper to bumper traffic. But just staying in East Quogue on a cold. winters day was a beautiful thing. Eileen and I would do a bit of local shopping and come home to bake and make dinner and sit in front of a nicely roaring fire sipping a nice winter ale.

But we often took a detour after our shopping and visited Ponquoge Beach in Hampton Bays or Rogers Beach in Westhampton. Sometimes we would do the trifecta and include Tiana Beach in East Quogue. We preferred to go on a cloudy day just cold enough to remind you it’s winter and every now and then a biting wind would leave no doubt as to the season.

The sky along the horizon was spectaularly beautiful. Grey and blue and white skies were just a wonder to behold. Some might refer to it as a bleak day and it was.

I love bleak days and I miss them.

You felt you were in Ireland or England and not only did I not miss the sunshine, I reveled in the lack of the yellow orb that would have altered our experience.

It’s the kind of day that inspires reading an old classic. At this time I would pick out my hard cover edition of A Christmas Carol. Running my trains on such a day was a must as they always brought me back to Apartment 6 in 1261 Leland Avenue in the Bronx. There the steam radiators were hissing while in East Quogue the fire spit and crackled. Both were glorious experiences.

I would urge all of you privleged to experience a bleak day to revel in its beauty and don’t lament the lack of sunshine. The light and the heat that the sun provides will be back soon enough. In the meantime look up and feel the bleakness that is all around you. It can be a beautiful thing.

This post may be a litle hard for even those who know and love me to digest.

I was reminded about what you are about to read(if you are brave enough to continue) while reading a book on Christianity in Trump America. The premise of the book (Separation Of Church And Hate by John Fugelsang) is that many so called Christians forget what Christ actually said.

The book rekindled my own thoughts on Christ and two specific memories came to mind.

I was brought up as an Irish Catholic in the Bronx in the 50s. Like all my siblings, I went to Blessed Sacrament Elementary School. I also went to a Catholic High School, Catholic Undergrad and Graduate School and, eventually, Catholic Law School.

Along my journey I taught in Catholic elementary and high schools. When my parish on the East End of Long Island was in need for an eighth grade teacher for their CCD (Sunday School) program, I volunteered and continued teaching on Sunday mornings for ten years.

I bought into the Catholic program.

When all the scandals erupted and virtually destroyed Catholicism, I got mad and frustrated with the Bishops and other church leaders and remembered that Christ did too.

I realized that my faith was not in the leadership of the church but in Christ. Fortunately, I had many friends who, by their own grace and observance of what Christ taught, inspired my continued faith in Christ.

That wasn’t too bad, was it? Many of you may have had similar experiences. But, here it comes now.

I commuted from East Quoge via Speonk on the Long Island Rail Road as part of my trip to work up to 168th Street and Broadway in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan. It was an arduos ordeal to say the least. I started commuting in the early 80s. There were no iPhones, no iPads, in fact we were a decade from having the internet at our disposal. So, in order to obtain my monthly LIRR ticket I had to get it at a ticket booth in Penn Station.

Trying to get it in the morning was impossible. I was already running late and hundreds of my fellow commuters were attempting to get their ticket. One time I decided to go down at lunch time rather than risk missing my train in the evening while stuck on a line.

The 8th Avenue A train was fast and convenient making it possible to accomplish my task during the lunch hour, but I had to hurry.

I caught the subway right away and soon arrived at Penn Station. I am running from the train and down the stairs making my way. through the turnstile and had my ticket booth in sight. All of a sudden I am accosted by a homeless woman asking me for money. I had no time for this and rushed past her and said I had nothing to give her.

I am now on the end of a fairl long line but the tickety agent was up to the task. I soon was second in line when this same homeless woman renewed her plea for money. Again, I just wanted to get my ticket and get back to work without being late. I don’t have anythin to give you, I protested.

Finally, I got my ticket and soon to be up on the subway platform waiting for the northbound A train. But, of course, just as I am putting my token (remember it’s the 80s and no Metro Cards or Apps) when the old homeless woman once again demanded me to stop what I was doing and give her some money. (Actually, she never made any demand but beseehed me for some help however little it might be).

I am now on the other side of the turnstile and realize what I have done. I turned around, frantic, hoping to see her but she disappeared.

At that moment I realized how appropriate it was for my mother to make my middle name Peter.

That woman was Christ and , like Peter, I denied her three times. Whatever you do to the least, you do unto me. It wasn’t just a story. It wasn’t a recommendation. It was a commandment. Worse than not giving Her any aid or sustenance, I failed to recognize Christ in Her.

I met Christ that day for the first time. It would be a few years before I saw Him again. Ironically it would be in New York’s other train station.

Ten or so years after this first encounter with Christ I, as I always seem to be, was rushing to get to work. This time I was working on the East Side and had to take the Flushing Subway to Grand Central to the northbound 6 train.

As I came up the escalator to get to the stairway down to the 6, I entered a world of mayhem with no ssemblance of order. Just getting from the escalator to the concourse was like swimming in a rip current. There was this one guy who had absolutely no tolerance for other people and merely smashed his way through the crown disregarding whether or not he ran over people or not. I was one of the people he tried to run over. It was like being a running back and he was a middle line backer. While I didn’t get knocked down I did get knocked into.

I was now thinking and muttering all the hateful things that came to mind. I may have made up a few along the way. Finally went down to the platform for the 6 and a northbound train sonn arrived. The best part of this journey was that the train woul be virtually empty…or so I thought.

I entered a subway car, still seething from my ordeal of getting knocked about. There was hardly anyone on the train as the northbound trains at that time of the morning did not have to transport as many commuters as they would later have to once the work day ended.

I am quietly sitting, not making any eye contact in case there were any eyes attempting contact. I had my subway face on… no smile, looking down, and giving the appearance that I am either sleeping or reading a book. But this was not going to work on this day.

It wasn’t long before I felt a presence. I tried as hard as I could to ignore the person standing right over me but, it was obvious that this strategy would not be successful.

I looked up to see this youngish man looking down at me. I said, YEAH?

Then it happened.

He had this smile as he asked me if I was a teacher. At that very moment, all the hatred and rage that I haad been feeling only seconds before was gone. He then went on to say that I reminded him of his favorite teacher who was so important to him I told him that I was a teacher in the past and knew that I met Christ once again but this time to remind me that my hatred and rage that I was feeling was not who I was.

I was a teacher and it did not matter that I was no longer employed as one.

My friend on the train forgave me and, in so doing, I forgave the linebacker who took me out while getting to my train

Compassion and Forgiveness were the lessons I had forgotten as the cornerstones of Christ’s teachings. A homeless woman and a young man on a subway who was not too bashful to teach this. teacher.

Too often we expect (if we expect anything at all) that God will come to us in a burning bush or a James Earl Jone voice from the sky. This is the Cecil B DeMille School of Theology. But, God AKA Christ,

is alredy here, in us. We just have to recognise each other in this way. Compasion and Forgiveness are the first steps to overcome fear and loathing.

I am not sure how you feel about my encounters. I only know they have served me well in this world begging for Compassion and Forgiveness.

Peace and Love.

It was a Saturday and the Viet Nam War was still raging.

I was with Peter, Paul, and Mary and Country Joe McDonald in Washington DC. PPM sang Bob Dylan’s Blowing In The Wind and Country Joe sang the Fish Cheer.

I sang along with them along with 300,000 of my closest friends.

There were no problems. No confrontations. No Violence. Everything was straight up.

There were many people then and many people now who did not agree with our protest. Some stupin people demonstrating were against the soldiers who fought in the war. I never was and prayed for their safe return. I was anti Military because they, along with our politicians, both Democrats and Republicans, brought us into a needless war.

In 1971 our right to peacefully protest was in our DNA as a nation.

It still is!

Accusing those who voice their opinions about snatching people off the streets or out of their beds does not mean you hate America.

People who say peaceful protestors hate America hate Americans.

I didn’t hate America in 1971 when I protested on the Capital Mall anymore than those protesting in the No King marches today.

There is an underlying nastiness to the hate mongers today.

Wanting the ultra rich to pay taxes, never mind their fair share, or a government that provides health care and takes care of the needs of the poor and the veterans they purport to love is not based on hate. Far from it. We are proud to be Americans and we wish to make it an even greater country for all.

Most of us are either first generation children of immigrants and probably no more than second or third. We should live up to the inscription on the Statue of Liberty and to the tenets of our faith.

It’s sad that we are so divided that we can not see the danger that faces us.

America was formed because we wanted to cast off the shackles of living under the rule of a king.

That country still exists…for now.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to go to law school or even teach law school these days.

As a former history teacher, Constitutional Law was my favourite class when I was in law school. I took as many Con law related classes as were offered. The case law at that time defined, as the Supreme Court saw its obligations, was settled and new cases that demanded new interpretations of the Constitution were decided in a political vacuum.

The classic example of the apoliitical nature of the Supreme Court was the Warren Court.

Earl Warren had been the Republican Governor of California before his appointment to the bench as Chief Justice by President Dwight D. Eisenhower, also a Republican. That however did not affect the jurisprudence of the new Chief Justice.

Brown v The Board of Education and Miranda v Arizona are only two of the Court’s decisions that revolutionzed Ameerican law during Warren’s tenure.

I am not going to bother writing about the current court.

However, given the state of affairs in which we find ourselves where it is impossible to predict which rights we have and those that are being taken away, I would like to address the Firt Amendment to The Constitution particularly as it applies to free speech.

Like all rights (except those mentioned in the Second Amendment) the right to Free Speech is not limitless. The famous line by Oliver Wendell Homes explained that the First Amendment is not absolute by using the analogy of yelling fire in a crowded theater. The notion that free speech doesn’t extend to causing physical harm. (But I always asked: Are we not allowed, are we not duty bound to alert the people in the theater when there is a fire?)

Anyway, the first amendment is not absolute.

However, the purpose of the first amendment is clearly that of protectin unpopular speech. Pornography is protected. The marches of hate inspired groups are allowed to protest just as Civil Rights workers and anti war demonstrators.

You may not like what any of these groups have to say but that is the point of thte First Amendment. We all have the right to speak our mind so long as we do not cause physical harm or incite others to do so.

So late night TV hosts can offer us political satire just as Fox News can say what they say. Trying to bully the media by threatening to cancel television stations licenses or preventing corporate activities should be unconstitutional but we know this court doesn’t have the stomach to even read the Constitution never mind apply its tenets.

I am not sure where these justices (or our politicians) went to school but they should bring a suit based on educational malfeasance.

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.