The Newell Post

Fifty years ago tonight, I made my one and done Times Square New Year’s Eve appearance. Along with two other friends Lou and PJ, I took the IRT 6 train from the Parkchester station in the Bronx to 42nd St- Grand Central Station.

You didn’t need to have tickets or passes, and you could just show up as late in the night as you cared. You didn’t have to wear diapers as you had access to an abundance of bathrooms in every bar that you sought Yuletide Cheer.

It was a more painless experience than tonight’s revelers will have to endure, but the sentiment of ringing out an old year while welcoming the new one remains the same.

1969 had been no picnic. To be sure, it had been better than 1968, but that was no accomplishment to hang a hat or hope on. Much like 2019, 1969 saw its share of division and discord. Some were against the Viet Nam War as much as they were against President Nixon. Likewise, defenders of the war and Nixon couldn’t understand the hippies and the freaks who were against the war.

Nevertheless, on that New Year’s Eve in 1969 at Times Square, hope reigned, and joy at starting over washed any bad memories we may have endured the previous year were erased as the ball was lowered in front of us as we sang (however badly) Auld Lang Syne.

So, tonight at the first strike of 10 (for I have long ago given up staying up till midnight and DVR the ball drop), I will once again rejoice at the dawning of a new year if not a new age of peace, love, and understanding….but hope always remains.

Happy New Year, Everyone.

I wrote the above entry precisely one year ago today.

I alluded to the upheaval of the 60s as a comparative time to our own in 2019. Indeed we were as divided a year ago as much as we were fifty years before.

I had to laugh at my reference to hope in the next to the last line of my post. I had hope then much as I have now, but who could have predicted that the trials and tribulations of 2019 would appear so trivial in 2019?

It is preposterous that over three hundred thousand Americans have died due to a virus. Equally nonsensical is that we appear headed to the America of the 1920s without so much of a roar as of a whimper.

Millions have lost their jobs; many never to return to them.

Restaurants and bars that had been landmarks in their locations have shuttered their doors forever.

But the stock market is doing well, so that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?

It’s hard not to be cynical during such times, but like talk, cynicism is cheap.

We need faith.

We need hope.

We need charity.

I can still remember my Baltimore Catechism and the listing of Faith, Hope, and Charity as leading to sharing God’s nature.

Maybe there was something to that?

Just maybe when we had faith and had the hope of a better life and lived with charity in our hearts, we actually were better off? Maybe when our neighbors’ welfare meant more to us than our 401K performance, we weren’t just better neighbors but better people?

Maybe when we worried about the homeless and the hungry more than who posted what on social media, we were better tuned in to the life around us?

2020 was a terrible year in so many ways for so many people, but we need to remember the love that also was exhibited during this time.

This blog is nothing like I first intended. I was going to write a satirical piece about a stupid inconvenience as a way of taking our minds off the problems we all experienced in the last year. But this is what I came up with, and there’s nothing more that I can add to make this entry better.

Except, we have to do better next year. We have to! We just have to!

I am still going to wish you all a very Happy New Year!

As we enter Christmas Week 2019 I am growing nostalgic for some of my recent ways of celebrating Christmas. On this day, for example, the Winter Solstice, I would always post a YouTube of Jethro Tull performing “Ring Out Solstice Bells.” Then, the next day, Band Aid singing, “Do They Know It’s Christmas,” would replace it.

Sadly, I no longer possess the enthusiasm to share such sentiments on Facebook knowing how that platform has been used to divide us. I no longer participate on Facebook. Similarly, Twitter has put me off for similar reasons.

However, my initial reason for getting off Twitter had to do with something I posted regarding Trump and an associate and I asked, “How long will it be before he throws him under the bus.”

Whatever algorithm Twitter employs to identify bad or hate speech I was effectively banned for using such a metaphor. But, other posters can use words I would not use to grace my blog.

So, during this week that celebrates the Day That Forever Changed The World let us endeavor to make social media social once more.

I do miss Facebook. I miss connecting with family who are spread over thousands of miles, with friends who you had lost contact with but with whom you can get reacquainted. It truly was a social media.

But then hate and ill will visited the neighborhood.

Where have you gone, Mister Rogers!

As I type this I long for a touch of Christmas past. Like the Magi, I need to follow a star and leave the clouds behind me.

If I abandon my tradition of posting those favorite seasonal songs of mine, haven’t I acquiesced to those who would destroy social media for us?

So, that is what I will do. Ring Out Those Solstice Bells!

There are so many things that divide us. The sources of our divisions are often deep-seated and irreconcilable, and they are all not of recent origin. Many have been formed decades ago.

It seems fitting to start with one of our most spirited debates as it is at this time of Christmas when it usually arose in public discourse. I am referring, of course, to the Lionel v American Flyer controversy.

As a child in the ’50s growing up in the Bronx, you were either a devotee of American Flyer trains or Lionel. There was no quibbling allowed. You had to choose. You had to take a stand.

It was not enough to acknowledge the attributes of each, you had to point out the flaws of your opponent’s choice of model trains.

Santa brought my brother Michael a set of American Flyers before I was born. So it was that Newell flirtation with A. C. Gilbert’s trains began. When I was six years old, Santa brought me a beautiful American Flyer freight train despite my insistence on an even more beautiful Santa Fe passenger set by Lionel. That set was listed as costing $100 in Macy’s and my father insisted Santa was bringing a freight set. To this day, I remember “hearing” fake set, and of course, I rebelled and said  I wanted a real set.

Nevertheless, I did receive a beautiful freight set with a boxcar equipped with a walking brakeman.

Three years later, however, my father and mother picked me up at Blessed Sacrament, where I was a fourth-grader. This was unusual because my father rarely got home early enough to do so.

Something was up.

As I squeezed into the front seat next to my mother, my father directed me with a nod to take a look at the back seat. There I saw a big Lionel boxed set.

And so Michael and I become Lionel devotees ever since.

Another issue that tended to divide our nation of Leland Avenue had to do with Mickey Mantle.

Most Yankee fans chose Mickey as their favorite player. By this time, 1960 or so, the days of arguing for Willie, Mickey, or the Duke were long since over. Willie and Duke were now the topics of debate for Californians.

However, there were many fans who chose Roger Maris for the subject of their adoration.

Yankee fans loved them both, of course, so the debate never reached a fever pitch. But that source of partisan scorn was on the horizon.

In 1960 The American Football League was formed to challenge the National Football League for domination over the nation’s second national pastime. The New York entry in the new league was the New York Titans, and they played in the Polo Grounds.

As New York Giant fans, my brother Michael and I scoffed at the newcomers.

How can you possibly compete in New Yorke when your New York Football Giants possess such stars as Y.A. Tittle, Sam Huff, and Frank Gifford? You just couldn’t compete.

But then in the summer of 1965, Michael was working down in Wall Street when he came home one evening with startling and incomprehensible news.

Michael had purchased a season ticket for the Titans who had been re-named the New York Jets, and they were set to play in the brand new Shea Stadium, and they had a brash new star in the person of Alabama quarterback, Joe Willie Namath.

He wore white shoes…on the field!

Now, my friend Mike had been singing the praises of Joe Namath all summer long, so I wasn’t completely shocked by Michael’s pronouncement, but I still demanded an explanation.

Michael’s one-line response was sufficient to convince me of his wisdom, “We could never get tickets to the Giants.”

In a few weeks, Michael took me to a game and I go,t to see Joe Namath play for the first time. I never saw anyone throw a ball like Namath and, it was clear, I became a Jet fan in the first quarter of that first game I attended when Namath threw his first pass.

Of course, I was the recipient of scorn and contempt by all Giant fans who regularly congregated on Hoch’s Corner.

As with the Lionel v American Flyer debate, opponents wouldn’t let you say, “I’m a fan of both teams.” You had to choose.

When it came to Mickey Mantle, there was never any other choice you could make. I was always a Yankee fan and always a Mickey Mantle fan…to this day.

But I still have some fond feelings and memories about my American Flyer trains and my New York Football Giants’ heroes.

You may think I can’t love both.

You may demand that I absolutely should not see the wisdom in any other choice.

But, not everything is binary, and I get to choose what I like.

So should you.

More than forty years ago, when we had a Republican President who obstructed justice, there were members of the Republican Party who were die-hard Nixon supporters. Nevertheless, they convinced him to step down when impeachment was an eventual reality.

These Republicans stood up for their own party by telling their leader to step down.

Today’s Republicans would be unrecognizable to the likes of John Rhodes, Hugh Scott, and Barry Goldwater. They were no liberals in Republican pinstripe suits. They were hard-line Republicans that put Lindsay Graham and Mitt Romney to shame.

Now, I don’t expect anything more from this group of Republicans; we know what they are. They are willing to abandon ideals in order to keep the president happy, in order to keep his supporters happy, in order to get re-elected.

But, to claim that the Democrats have presented an incomplete case is obscene as their president, their ideal, their party leader, has ensured that no evidence is forthcoming from the White House. You would think that an innocent man would demand that the evidence be provided.

No exoneration for Trump.

And it is also funny to hear Republicans attack the FBI, which is responsible for Trump’s election in the first place.

Forget about knowing history; these guys think we don’t know what happened last week.

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 word 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 stand in honor of the Emperor of Japan, Hirohito and to 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 at the time 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.

The Thanksgiving-Christmas Holidays often inspire thoughts of loved ones who have left us.

You miss these people every day, but the holidays seem to bring memories to vivid life.

Yesterday, as my wife Eileen and I were getting the last preparations prepared for our Thanksgiving guests I started thinking of my mother and father,

Not unusual.

What was unusual I started a David Letterman’s Top Ten List comprised of my favorite things about my parents during the holidays. So, here they are:

Number 10: The look in my father’s eye as he brought the turkey to the table.

Number 9:  My mother’s stuffing.

Number 8: My mother’s mince pie.

Number 7: My father giving me my Lionel Santa Fe locomotive a week before Christmas.

Number 6: My mother’s exquisitely cooked turkey.

Number 5: My father’s turkey sandwiches a few hours after dinner.

Number 4: My father posing with a lampshade on his head,d mimicking a chef.

Number 3: My mother bouncing around the apartment to Bing Crosby’s Christmas In       Killarney.

Number 2: My mother’s plum pudding.

Number 1: The sound of their voices and the love in their hearts.

God bless you if you are fortunate to have such favorite things.

Hopefully, the retailers of America took in the billions they so desperately need to transform their ledgers from red to black.

It is good for America to have a booming holiday gift-buying economy. Where the American motto once declared, “What’s Good For General Motors Is Good For America”, today it reads, “What’s Good For Walmart and Target Is Good For America.”

Well, really, China.

Nevertheless, Christmas shopping makes the American world go round.

Hours after our annual day of feasting, the American appetite turns its eyes on iPhones and iPads and PlayStations. Hopefully, a few Lionel Trains will be sold.

Yet, I cannot help thinking about the forgotten people whose shopping doesn’t even take place in the commonest of bargain basements. For there are nearly 600,000 Americans, who can not shop, nor do they have a place to call home.

Our infrastructure needs mending. Our healthcare system has its flaws. But nowhere are the greatest of inequities of American life revealed than in the dire lives of those living on our streets and alleys. In all the misery that Dickens could depict about nineteenth-century England, 582,000 souls walk amongst us with nowhere to go and no one to offer solace.

These people probably did get fed yesterday but not in their home, nor was it a meal they prepared for themselves.

It just doesn’t seem right that a country as wealthy as ours has so many living in such desperation.

It’s a thought that doesn’t get you into the jolliest of holiday spirits. But it’s a thought we should have every day.

I wrote the following for Thanksgiving 2019. Reading it again made me laugh and cry just thinking about what a simple time it was just one year ago.

Well, here we are again soon to be assembled round a turkey with all the fixins.

I am assuming this will be my seventieth Thanksgiving celebration, but I am guessing that not too much turkey was consumed in my earlier commemorations. Commenting that I soon made up for that is not a kind thought to have as we enter the holiday season.

I had a bit more turkey angst this morning than I have had in some time, or ever had. My wife, Eileen, called our local Publix supermarket to order a fresh-killed turkey. She made this call this past Friday and was advised to have it picked up on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving.

This in itself was reason enough for me to break out into a cold sweat if such a thing can actually occur in Florida. I mean, waiting until the day before Thanksgiving to get your turkey was something our parents would never have permitted. So, this morning, I called the supermarket to see if our turkey was available for pickup.

After waiting a few minutes, I was advised that no such turkey was being held in our name. Okay, not to worry as we had several Publix in our immediate area, so I made some calls.

Each call added to my sense of dread.

No fresh turkey in my name. A frozen turkey would not do as there is no way it would thaw in time for Thursday’s dinner. I began to ponder a Chinese food dinner. Chicken Chow Mein? Well, it did have poultry in it. General Tsao’s Chicken? Again, poultry but not really something the Pilgrims would have had feasted on.

Frantically, I set out on a mission to find a turkey fit to be roasted on Thanksgiving Day.

I need not have worried as they were in abundant supply…at Publix.

I guess I should have asked if they had any available when I was told I had none on reserve. But of course, Publix could have informed me of that fact too, but I have a turkey, and that’s all that matters.

It wasn’t so much worrying about having to face Thanksgiving turkeyless, it was what the turkey always represents in my mind.

The turkey was always cooked by my mother, carved by my father, and devoured by my siblings and in-laws.

Somehow eating turkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas is like having it with my family. It has always been like that and will remain so. It is even like that with our children and other relatives who will be having their own meal in distant locations. Yet, no matter how far geographically apart we may be, we will be together.

It’s just that it would be so nice if for only one day to have everyone that we will be missing sitting alongside us as we pile on the yams and the stuffing and drizzle gravy over the turkey.

So, here is to all our dear friends and family, Happy Thanksgiving!

The Christmas Season has begun in earnest. We went to the mall today, and, despite the temperature, a distinct hint of Christmas was in the air.

There were stacks of firewood ready for you to put in your fireplace, presuming they didn’t spontaneously combust before you got to the checkout counter. There were Santas and Rudolphs and a myriad of wintry scenes to display on your living room wall or poolside in your lanai.

Candles of every size and scent were also ripe for the picking, as were Florida’s finest hot chocolates.

To northerners, Christmas shopping in Florida while the temperature has cooled down to 77 may at first seem a little strange but, you soon realize that Floridians love their Christmas season as much as any New England town or village.

Lights galore are strewn on the palm trees. And, while Black Friday is still two weeks away, shoppers were everywhere to be seen, and the only thing getting hot were debit and credit cards and salespeople stuffing stocking stuffers into the bags of Saturday morning shoppers.

I don’t recall hearing Christmas music being piped in, but maybe I was too overwhelmed with the sights and smells of another Christmas season in the Sunshine State.

It is only November 9th, but the early signs indicate that shoppers will continue to shop and stores both the brick and mortar variety and on-line will have a happy season. While our temperatures may face a downturn, it appears that shoppers intend to ward off any potential downturn of the economy.