The Newell Post

Fifty years ago today the third day of The Aquarian Exposition of Peace And Music, what we’ve all come to know and love as Woodstock, was to boast a lineup of Joe Cocker, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, and The Band among others. I opted to go to New Haven to see the performance of Joe Namath, Don Maynard, Pete Lamons, and George Sauer. Collectively, they were the New York Jets.

Of course, the team consisted of other members.

I went to New Haven that day because my brother Michael had given me a ticket for my birthday to see the New York Jets play the New York Giants in a pre-season game in the Yale Bowl. You might ask yourself, why would a nineteen year old boy give up the chance to go to one of the most historic events to go see a pre-season football game?

Well, fifty years ago this nineteen year old did not have a car and didn’t have a friend who had one. To be fair, a number of us talked about going, recognizing tha it might be something to do. But it never became a serious discussion. And, to be honest, the Jets were more important to me then than the prospect of going to Woodstock.

Besides, who knew?

It was only after the fact that we realized what Woodstock was and had become. It was a life-changing event to those who attended. It had to be. It was a life-changing event to me when I bought the three LP album and then saw the movie a year after in 1970.

Woodstock represented possibilities.

It did appear that it was one big love fest where no violence occurred and where no one seemed to mind sitting in the rain on a grass field long turned into mud.

People weren’t swilling beer and puking all over themselves, they were getting high on grass. They were being warned to avoid a bad form of LSD and encouraged to take care of each other.

In the Age of Nixon and Enemies List people saw what it was like just to have joy and love in their hearts.

It might seem  quaint to the Boomers today but for a while we really  did think we were startdust.

We didn’t need Ancestry DNA to affirm our kinship with all humanity.

We weren’t afraid of the unknown and actually sought it out.

Just a few weeks before Jimi electrified the Star Spangled Banner, we landed on the moon.

Asssassinations, war, and burning cities defined 1968 but the Jets winning the Super Bowl, Apollo 11, and Woodstock demonstrated that we were overcoming the obstacles cast in front of us. The New York Mets and the New York Knicks would continue this  trend in the months after Woodstock.

I may no longer feel like stardust but I do still want that Aquarian outlook permeating my psyche.

Peace and Love everybody.

Nineteen years ago today, I was diagnosed with Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia, CLL.

I had just returned from a week’s vacation. The next to the last day of my vacation, August 10th, I had a physical.

There was nothing wrong with me, but I recently turned 50, and Eileen was after me to have a physical. Three years earlier, my brother, Michael, died at the age of 53, so she was after me to have a physical.

August 14th started off with a cup of coffee and a little catch-up. Office operations were running smoothly, much more so than last year when we implemented a new information system to combat Y2K. Do you remember when Y2K was our biggest worry?

Anyway, about an hour into my day, I received a call from my doctor’s office. I was not concerned in the least until I heard the voice on the phone. It was my doctor and not a secretary or nurse. I was expecting a “You’re doing ok Mr. Newell,” type of call. When I heard the doctor himself, let’s just say he had my attention.

He went on to tell me that the blood test revealed that I had leukemia. He said Chronic Lymphocytic, but all I heard was leukemia.

He added that, as cancers go, this is a “good one.” That drives CLL patients crazy.

Most CLL patients live a long life and die of something unrelated to CLL, I was told.

Still, leukemia is a scary word.

Being a man of the 21st Century as soon as I got off the phone, I hit the internet.

I found a lot of information, some of which validated what the doctor had told me. Still, there was enough uncertainty to concern me.

After my abbreviated research, I knew I had to tell Eileen.

Perhaps because I was scared, (writing this is the first time that thought ever came to mind), or because I didn’t want to prolong the agony, I decided to call her.

Now, to be fair, Eileen had just returned from vacation too, and now I was going to inflict her with something else to worry about instead of Central Suffolk Hospital.

There was a Seinfeld episode where George is taking time off from working for the Yankees, but he leaves his car in the Yankee parking lot. Jerry and Kramer bang it up and return it to the lot, and Steinbrenner is made to believe that George is dead. Eventually, George’s father, Frank Costanza, is informed. Frank calls Jerry to tell him and leaves a message.

In his famously staccato vocal style, Frank erupted, “Jerry, Frank Costanza, Steinbrenner is here, George is dead, call me back.”

My recollection of my call to Eileen telling her I had leukemia was similar in style and tone. However, I didn’t leave a message, I spoke to her.

I said all the right things. I feel great. I can live a long life. Probably won’t need to be treated. Etc etc. etc.

Of course, I only learned years later that she focused on the word leukemia and very little else.

But, instead of hitting the internet and worrying in a vacuum, Eileen sprang into action. I had an appointment with an oncologist the next day, a bone marrow biopsy the day after that, and then a sit-down with my new oncologist…soon-to-be friend…Dr. Louis Avvento.

Back in 2000, there were new drugs on the horizon, and the prognosis for a good outcome was certainly a realistic belief. However, I was advised that a ten-year survival was undoubtedly achievable.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I was grateful that death was not imminent. Nevertheless, dying at or before attaining the age of 60 was not what I had hoped for. But, the hope that these new therapies promised was enough for me to have a positive outlook.

To be honest, I didn’t even think of outcomes or how many years I might have. I just did what I was told and went for chemo every 20 days, and after six courses of the treatment, I went seven years before needing another round.

One of the things that I experienced was a sort of epiphany. I had spent the greater part of 1999 stressing out about my job and the possibility of getting fired. I was under enormous pressure and it was getting to me. It affected my ability to enjoy life.

2000 was better as our new computer system was operational and the pressure eased up a bit.

But, when I received my diagnosis and started chemotherapy, I realized how stupid I was to let a job affect me the way it had. I let people push me around and make it appear that it was my fault that they bought a crappy system and didn’t know how to implement it.

I let all of that angst go. I had cancer. You’re going to put pressure on me? Not likely.

I remember later that year when the IT folk told us we had to go through an upgrade. I went nuts at a meeting saying, quite loudly, that we just got the bloody thing running. We had version 17 of the system and now had to go to 20. I was told by our IT person that it wasn’t that big a deal. In fact, “20 is 17 without the bugs!”

I replied, “I don’t think you told us that when you sold us 17.”

The point is I might have been running scared but it was because of leukemia, not a job

Of course, this epiphany was short-lived as I did return to worrying about mundane things like bills and mortgage and my job. But I was able to keep things in perspective

I moved on to a number of different schools but then found myself in another challenging position. Perhaps not coincidentally, I was then in need of additional treatment.

That second treatment was a new drug that had been developed, which resulted in a nine-year remission.

When my numbers started to go up my doctor, and I decided it was time to try the new drug that had been developed. So, in September of 2016, I began a one-pill-a-day therapy that has kept me in another remission.

This coincided with my retiring and moving to Florida with Eileen.

So, back on this day in 2000, I began a journey that was a little frightening but I always felt I was in good hands.

The ten-year promise morphed into 19 years and, God willing, more to follow.

I am sixty-nine, so maybe I am old, but to a seventy-year-old man, I’m still a kid. And maybe I have been known to pass gas or break wind as they say but who doesn’t?

Nevertheless, this sixty-nine-year old who from time to time breaks wind is most assuredly NOT an old fart.

How can I be sure?

First, in addition to listening to the classic rock and roll of my youth, I still have a penchant for new music or newer music at least. For instance, I like The Cure, which may actually be classified as a Goth band. I like Pearl Jam, a grunge band. I love U2. I listen to Zac Brown even while I listen to Sinatra. My musical tastes are eclectic in style as well as era.

Old men live in the past.

I write about the past because I learned a great deal as a kid growing up in the Bronx that I wish to share not just for nostalgia’s sake but to share a parable, to illustrate the importance of family and friends. It’s more important to apply these lessons today than ever before.

I would tell people that I went to an integrated school before I knew what integration was. I am not sure if we can even refer to it today as integration as diversity seems to be more in vogue to describe the melding of people of different colors, nationalities, ethnicities, and religions. In either case, Blessed Sacrament and St. Helena’s, the schools I attended before college were diversified for its day.

That is not to say that all was bliss or that there were no expressions of ill will, but whatever disagreements occurred were not limited to kids of different backgrounds. More often, it was different neighborhoods that served as the cause of prejudice and conflict.

I remember seeing West Side Story in the Loews American and while I liked the music and, if I am going, to be honest, the dancing too, the concept of the Sharks vs. the Jets was disquieting as many of my friends at Blessed Sacrament were Puerto Rican. My parents sacrificed to send their children to Catholic schools and made sure we paid attention to what being a Catholic mean.

In addition to never missing mass on Sunday or eating meat on Friday, I was taught to respect people, all people. My mother was always taking me and my brother Michael on day trips. Sometimes we went to Scarsdale on the New York Central (even back in the 1950’s I was riding a train) or taking a ride on the Staten Island Ferry.

On one occasion, when we were coming back from lower Manhattan, we took a bus ride through the Bowery. In those days, that was the section where the homeless gathered. My mother was sure to point this out and to encourage me to include these people in my prayers. They were not “bums,” as they were often referred to, they were people who needed our prayers.

Don’t judge people by appearances, see the goodness in them. See Christ in them.

When I was in the eighth grade, I had to take a Catholic High School entrance exam. The format was new to us as it included a test booklet and a computer answer sheet. We would darken in circles associated with the letter of the correct multiple choice answer. Sister Margaret told us to be very neat as even a slight smudge from our Number 2 pencil might be marked as a wrong answer. She repeated the warning while looking right at me.

So, on the day of the exam, I raced through the questions in no time, and when I got to the last page of questions, I realized I had more answers than questions. Somehow I must have turned two pages at once. I only had about fifteen minutes to make right my mistake. I had to erase and erase and erase until I was able to answer all the questions.

My answer sheet was a mess.

I left the exam in a state of shock and depression. I got back to our apartment on Leland Avenue. No one was home, but as I went into our living room, I saw something on a table that caught my eye. It was a little, tri-fold prayer booklet. It had a statue on one page, a picture on another and in the middle the Prayer to St. Anne.

It noted that St. Anne, Mary’s Mother and, therefore, Jesus’ Grandmother, was the patron saint of special requests. Well, I had a special request. I immediately prayed to St. Anne on that Saturday in October 1963, and I have been saying it every day since.

I like to tell people that I pray to a Jewish Grandmother.

It’s my way of expressing confusion about anti-semitism. I just don’t get it how you can call yourself a Catholic or a Christian and have those feelings. It’s like being a Yankee fan and not liking Donny Baseball. Just stupid.

One of the things I would do in grammar school and high school was to read the New Testament. I don’t recall reading anything about Jesus telling us we couldn’t eat meat, or that priests couldn’t marry. He was actually a little critical of the priests of his day. Don’t get me started on that!

Anyway, the point is that I always took to heart many of the parables and sayings that Jesus offered.”What you do for the least of mine you do unto me”. That’s right up there with forgiving us our trespasses as we forgive others. Man, do we really want to be treated the same way we have treated some people?

I am not getting nostalgic here because I have no interest in returning to or living in the past. I do believe, however, that it is sheer folly to forget the lessons we have learned and not apply them to our lives today.

We know we shouldn’t hate people for being different.

We know that God loves all people.

We know that how people worship God is less important than the fact that they do.

We know there is evil in the world, but that is no excuse for us to spread evil.

We know what we have to do, and we have to get over our differences and help each other survive.

I don’t know anyone of the twenty-nine people that were killed last night in El Paso and Dayton. Nevertheless, I feel so bad for them and their families. This is just so wrong, and we all have to stand up to hatred that kills. It’s just not who we are as a nation.

God help us all.

I am not a cranky old man. At the moment I am just sad about what has happened to all of us. Being bombarded with accounts such as the ones we have seen last night and this morning takes its toll.

It’s time to listen to good music, read a great book and remember who we are.

Certainly, being retired and living in Florida, I do have my lazy and hazy days. Given the fact that summer lasts fourteen months a year, I often do get crazy.

However, the lazy, hazy, and crazy days which I am remembering are those experienced on Leland Avenue in The Bronx circa 1960.

When we weren’t trying to escape the sun by staying on the shady side of Leland Avenue, we were probably engaged in several summertime activities. It was never boring as everyone was out and about. Women were hanging out the windows recording all our activities with a motherly gaze. Teenagers were listening to the boss songs playing on their transistor radios.

There were few cars parked on the street as the men were off to work, so we had a wide playing field to occupy ourselves. Stickball, Tri-Angle, Stoop Ball, and Curb Ball played on the corner of Leland and Gleason on Hoch’s Corner.

For these games all was needed was a Spalding. I can still remember the smell of a new ball and the powder covering it. Stickball, of course, required a broom or mop stick or one of the new store-bought variety that was now available.

On special days we would go to a Yankee game and, if it rained, we went to the Circle Theater, The Rosedale (Who would have thought in 1960 that I would wind up in Rosedale in Bradenton, Florida?), or The Loews American to see a Japanese monster movie. Rodan was my favorite.

As the afternoon wore on the temperature rose to an uncomfortable level, but a faint tinkling of a bell heralded the arrival of instant relief. The Good Humor Man on his bicycle ice cream cart was peddling our way.

You always need a few coins in your pocket back then. Either to chip in for a new Spalding or to buy an ice cream delight from our Good Humor Man. Who wouldn’t be in good humor, he had a boatload of ice cream in front of him!

He always had some new concoction to sell us. There was a Fourth Of July ice cream bar with red, white, and blue bits. Of course, it was soon replaced by Strawberry Shortcake and later on a Chocolate Eclair. My favorite, however, was the ever-popular Coconut Bar.

Whichever variety you bought, you had to eat it fast before the sun deposited it on your shirt or Leland Avenue.

The afternoon games would adjourn to dinner, and after a hasty summer meal, we were back at it. Summer evenings were cooler, which allowed us to play Manhunt or go for a bike ride. We always seemed to have our bikes handy. When we were younger, it was roller skating that kept us moving, but we gave up our skates last fall when we built our scooters out of milk crates and used our skates for wheels.

My father would often take a group up to Ferry Point Park, which was in the shadow of the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge. We would play softball and climb the Big Rock in the coolness provided by a gentle breeze off the East River.

When my father was on vacation from ConEd he would drive the family, my mother, my brother Michael and myself,  (as all the other siblings were married) to Steeplechase Park in Coney Island.

I can still get goosebumps when I see the Parachute Jump Ride.

The rides were great as was the Penny Arcade which actually had games that you could play for one or two pennies.

A big lollipop and some saltwater taffy went nicely with a Nathan’s Famous.

When we weren’t going to Steeplechase, my father drove us up to Aunt Catherine and Uncle Al’s house up in Rosendale, New York, which was just outside New Paltz.

The only thing bad about these trips to Rosendale is that there was no TV. It was also hotter there than in The Bronx, or at least it felt hotter.

Nevertheless, my father always made it a fun trip as a new toy or two was purchased, and card games took the place of summer replacements.

They were grand days. You could sleep late, and you never had homework.

I was always forced/encouraged to read. But one week it became a pleasure.

My friend PJ and I were just throwing a ball near his house when one of our friends came up to us. He explained that his family was moving and he had a lot of stuff he had to get rid of.

“Do you know anyone who would like a bunch of comics?”

Well, it was all we could do not to beat him to his own room. It was a treasure trove.

Superman, Action, Adventure, Jimmy Olsen, Annual Issues. Then there was Batman and Aquaman. There were even a few Archies. It was heaven.

There had been other Best Days Of Summer, but that one stands above the rest.

Of course, it wasn’t just fun and games and comics. There was business, and we were entrepreneurs at a young age.

Our first enterprise was a bicycle repair service. For fifty cents we would repair a flat for you.

Our first customer, I will call him. Sorry, had a twenty-four inch Schwinn that needed a front tire to be repaired. PJ and I got right on it, and soon we had the wheel off the fork and began to disengage the tire from the rim.

This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy.

For some reason, we deduced that a spoke wrench was required to complete the job. So, off to Frank’s Bike Shop, we went.

For a mere seventy-five cent investment, we had our spoke wrench. Now, I know what you’re are thinking. We were only getting fifty-cents from Sorry, but we trusted that we would recoup our investment and more in volume.

We put the spoke wrench to work and began loosening the spokes from the rim. As I indicated, I am not quite sure why we felt compelled to do so.

In practically no time nearly every spoke was not only loosened from the confines of the rim, but they flared out from the hub akimbo. It was a frightening sight which was very soon replaced by another.

Our friend, Sorry’s shadow, loomed over us as we struggled to make some sense of our flat fixing ordeal. Before we saw his shadow, we felt it. Then we heard it. No need to repeat the actual words used to inform us that our services were no longer required and that we needn’t expect compensation for our efforts.

Ok, a lesson learned. On to our next adventure.

Hoch’s Candy Store and others sold packets of a candy-like powder that you could turn into a delicious fruity drink. Lik-M-Aid had five packets ranging from lime to cherry.

We had the idea that making a concoction of all the flavors, we called it Tooty Fruity, would help us make up for our bike repair losses.

So, with a little water and sugar and some paper cups, we were off to the races.

We estimated this venture required eleven cents in start-up capital.

Instant success.

Our investment paid off, and we were due to make a profit after selling only half our Tooty Fruity. We now had enough to re-invest and make another batch.

However, it was hot, and the Tooty Fruity was delicious and very refreshing.

In short, we drank up our profits.

Our play dates were never arranged, never structured, but they always resulted in a good time.

I hope your lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer offered you as much joy as it did to the kids on Leland Avenue. I hope my memory has had the effect of inspiring you to remember yours.

Happy Days.

Today, Mariano Rivera will be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. It is fitting that Mo will be enshrined in the Hall the weekend America is remembering and celebrating the triumph of Apollo 11.

You see, more men have walked on the moon than scored against Mariano in the postseason.

Growing up in the Bronx in the 1950s, I was genetically predisposed to being a Yankee fan. The environment of the Bronx supported this predisposition, but it was the specific location of apartment 6 at 1261 Leland Avenue that provided no choice in the matter.

My brothers Johnny and Michael were already Yankee fans when I was born in 1950. My father, being the source of the Yankee gene for all of us, grew up when Babe and Lou were young sluggers winning  Yankee World Series in the new ballpark in the Bronx.

My Yankee life began with Mickey Mantle. There was also Yogi, Moose, Roger, Elston, Hector, and Clete.

Later on, Horace Clarke and Jake Gibbs would be the stars that I followed.

That was during the lean years when the Yankees weren’t winning games much less World Series. Still, you’re a Yankee fan no matter.

The Yankees were already on the mend when George Steinbrenner bought the team, but he sure helped bring them back to the glory days. Munson, Nettles, Chamblis, Guidry, and Reggie were among the new heroes.

Donny Baseball, Bernie Williams, Paul O’Neill, were soon joined by Jeter, Pettitte, and Posada.

But, the Yankee that eclipsed them all was Mariano Rivera.

My father and I would often discuss his favorite Yankee player. One day it would be Ruth, but then he would switch to Gherig. The next day it was Dimaggio.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate his reluctance to identify the one player that was his favorite. Now, however, I see what an impossible thing it is to do.

I saw Mickey play. How could you have a player that was better than Mickey? But then when I started taking my oldest son to games, we saw Don Mattingly. You just had to love Donnie Baseball. Then, of course, Jeter comes along and how could you think he was better than Mickey…I began to see how you could.

The fact is we remember all these great players as equally great and equally historic in their own right.

But then there’s Mo.

One of the things that I always regretted is that I had taken Mickey Mantle for granted. You know when you’re a kid you have a bad sense of time and history. I always thought Mickey would be patrolling centerfield and slamming long home runs in Yankee Stadium. Because of this, I never had the urgency that I had better get to a game to see him while I still could. I went to games but not nearly as many as I wish I had.

I didn’t make that mistake with the modern-day Yankees.

I made sure that I got to games and that my children got to see these players while they still could.

It was a great run.

We would go to a few games a year and, starting in 1996, we were able to see five World Series teams. Now, it wasn’t as glorious an age as when I grew up, but for me, it was much more exciting.

Even the years the Yankees didn’t win it all it was exciting because you knew you saw a Hall of Fame team, a once in a lifetime team. And the hear of that team was Mariano Rivera.

More men have walked on the Moon than have scored against him in the playoffs.

I tried to impart the historic nature of watching this generational player to my son. We had a Saturday package that provided tickets to sixteen games, mostly on  Saturday. On this one occasion, we were standing outside with a beautiful view of the field as Enter Sandman echoed all around us. I started haranguing Bryan by asking, “Are you getting this?” I must have asked him five times. Finally, in frustration of the nagging, he replied, “YES! I’m getting it.”

You see, at that moment I was with my father and Babe Ruth was coming to bat. I never got to experience that, of course. But, on that Saturday with my son Bryan, I felt I was experiencing a similar event.

It occurred to me that Mariano Rivera was the Babe Ruth of his day. He was the Babe Ruth of Closers. He was the best at what he does, and we have never witnessed anyone like him before.

The sportswriters, who unanimously elected Mariano Rivera into the Hall of Fame agreed with this assessment.

Today, Mariano joins Babe Ruth, Lou Gherig, Joe Dimaggio, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and Mickey Mantle.

Today, Marian Rivera is a Baseball Immortal.

The British Open is being held in Northern Ireland. Not too many years ago, this would have been unthinkable. Nothing to do with golf of course.

Because of the sectarian violence that has scarred much of recent Irish history, it just wasn’t feasible for The North to host such an event. It took the Green Dragon of the Republic, I believe, to bring people to their senses.

I do not wish to open those wounds as that would not be helpful to me on a beautiful hot day in sunny Bradenton Florida.

Nevertheless, I wish to use the Irish issue as a metaphor for what we are facing in America today.

In addition to the intercession of the Clinton administration and the hard work of  George Mitchell, Clinton’s envoy. But one factor I believe that finally got the two sides talking was economics. The North was not benefitting from the Green Dragon.

Economics is a stronger motivating force than morality. It may be cynical to believe this but isn’t it economics that is keeping Republicans from speaking out against Trump?

Maybe economics can convince these same Republicans to speak up?

We know many farmers could not survive without migrant laborers. Crops would rot on the vine as American workers would never work as hard for low wages as the migrants. There has to be a precise economic impact study outlining an economy without immigrant, legal or otherwise, participation.

It should have examples of what the products that the middle and lower classes would have to pay for basic needs.

The same analysis should be made for other ethnic groups.

People contribute to the commerce of this nation in so many ways.

The tax laws are rigged in favor of the super-rich. Corporate welfare is acceptable but not individual welfare. The theory is that corporations will create jobs if they are encouraged to invest in their own business by favorable tax incentives.

I never understood this argument. You would think that profit was enough motivation and that making money requires that corporations invest in themselves. We tell students who borrow thousands of dollars in student loans that investing in yourself will pay off with a promising career with a substantial profit in the form of a salary. Why do corporations need anything more than their own profits to believe in themselves?

When I was selling Kool-Aid when I was ten years old, my buddy PJ and I would sell enough to pay for our initial investment. Then we would drink up the profit. Our motivation to sell Kool-Aid was so that we could drink up the profit.

No one subsidized us, well except for PJ’s mother who provided the water and sugar to make our product. We never required other financial assistance.

We operated as a real corporation, however, in that we never filed taxes.

The point is Democrats, especially The Squad, should provide, in simple terms, in words Republicans can understand, so that voters can appreciate, exactly what workers of all faiths and ethnicities contribute to our beautiful country.

NFL, MLB, NBA, and even NHL sports franchises could never afford to field a team were it not for the players and fans of our diverse country.

This President could probably issue an executive order to ban different groups from attending sports events. We have a Cowardly Lion for an Attorney General and a stacked Supreme Court who would look the other way. But then Mr. Trump would get a phone call or two from his one-percent friends to let them know precisely how much money they would lose.

Maybe we should start with sports and entertainment moguls?

That’s an easy analysis to do. Billions of dollars would be at stake and some of its tax revenue, rendering the national debt bigger and worse than ever.

FOX News would even abandon the President as they would be losing as much money as any corporation.

The list is endless. Surely there is an economist who has already started this review.

We wouldn’t need Mueller or any of the other witnesses set to testify.

Money talks louder than law, order, and morality.

Fifty years ago today, the United States launched Apollo 11. A few days later Neil Armstrong would utter those famous words ” (for which he would, no doubt, be railroaded today), “That’s one small step for (a?) man, one giant leap for mankind.”

The “a” is added parenthetically because Armstrong vehemently asserted that is what he said despite the audio evidence to the contrary. Speach and audio analysts have examined the recording, and some make the case that many from Armstrong’s native Ohio often combine the words “for a” to “fora.”

The fact that I have to describe this is more a commentary on the era of the 50th anniversary of the first moon landing than the day the event occurred.

Back then, there was only the beginning of the Great Divide that marks our society today.

But that is not the point.

What is of more significance is that the moon landing took place a little over a year removed from the Tet Offensive, the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, and the Democratic Convention in Chicago.

The war in Viet Nam was still raging in 1969. Because the Democrats were so divided in 1968, Nixon was President in 1969. Race relations were abysmal, and the women’s movement was in its infancy.

Life was not pretty in 1969.

Nevertheless, for one week in July, our nation forgot its immediate past and marveled at its future. Landing humans on the moon was a historic First Step. There would be many more exciting achievements ahead. Colonies on the moon, voyages to the planets and all the good things that science promised were at our doorstep.

While it is easy to lament our lack of achievement, to do so would be a mistake. For one thing, if I had Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia in 1969, I wouldn’t be here to write this. My wife would probably not have survived back in 1969.

Chemo and other therapies have been developed and have saved thousands if not millions of lives. Science has delivered.

Are there challenges that remain? Of course. Are we capable of facing these challenges? Yes, we are.

First, we have to accept our humanity. We are not pronouns. We are not a race. We are not a gender. We are not a sexual orientation. We are not a color. We are not a hairstyle.

If people want to limit us to these characteristics, shame on them, don’t let them do it. See each other in the total humanity of our being.

Talk about a small step and a giant leap!

First, we have to accept our humanity. We are not pronouns. We are not a race. We are not a gender. We are not a sexual orientation. We are not a color. We are not a hair style.

If people want to limit us to these characteristics, shame on them. Don’t let them do it. See each other in the total humanity of our being.

Talk about a small step and a giant leap!

Is that the best Trump could come up with? I mean he could as well have said. “Fuck you and the horse you came in on.”

I am not sure what the statute of limitations is for “going back to where you came from” or how many years you or your family have to be here before you are no longer included in the group so directed.

I might be in trouble.

My mother came to this country in 1926, but she did not come through Ellis Island as immigrants of that time did. Instead, she came under a visitor’s visa, and she was supposed to go back to County Sligo.

I often think about what America was like for her when she first stepped off the boat. It was the Roaring Twenties after all. (Oh yeah that will be a topic next year.) She had two sisters and a brother already here, and she soon met my father, and there was no way in hell that she was going to use that return ticket.

We think this may have upset her brother back in Ireland, but the Irish are a tight-lipped people, and no one talked about such things.

The point is she wasn’t an immigrant, but we think she was what they called a Registered Alien. Even that is not a certainty.

Would she be considered an illegal if this happened today?

Would The ICE men be knocking on our door at 1261 Leland Avenue?

Or would they simply send a letter telling her to go back where she came from?

What’s next? Will this group of miscreants in government decide to edit Lady Liberty’s plea to the nations of the world “Send us your huddled masses…until we get sick of them”?

We are all children of immigrants, some of whom were not immediately welcomed into the melting pot of these United States. That is not an excuse to haze these new immigrants. Instead, it should be a warning that we remember to remember the lessons of the Good Samaritan.

Evangelicals? How do you look yourself in the mirror with what you have allowed?

Thousands of immigrants were probably afraid to enjoy a Sunday stroll in the park or to go to the beach, or maybe go see the Yankees beat the Toronto Blue Jays.

ICE agents were ordered by the President to round up illegal immigrants and, given the way many have been treated at the border, I would have stayed inside too.

We should all be very scared.

This isn’t exactly what we all learned about truth, justice, and the American way.

It seems Lady Liberty can be accused of false advertising. When she proclaims to the countries of the world to send their huddled masses, was the jailing of men in cages what she had in mind? Was this the opportunity these people were looking for when they came to this country? Maybe she only wanted huddled masses from Norway?

Some of the targets of this  ICE age have children who proudly serve this nation in foreign wars, the like of which Trump avoided as a fat college student with bone spurs.

Look, I think many of us would agree that something has to be done to improve our borders. We don’t want criminals and rapists; we have much too much of them already, some are wealthy supporters of our leaders and maybe even in our government. But nothing has come out indicating anything to link these immigrants with any crime except not having the right card in their pocket.

When I lived on Long Island MS 13 was a significant concern and responsible for many deaths of high school kids. The Suffolk County police created a task force to address these crimes. I don’t remember ICE getting into the picture. It wasn’t viewed as much an immigration problem as a crime problem.

The Irish are drunks; the Italians are in organized crime; the Jews are corrupt money changers. Who else should we attack?

That’s why we should be scared.

Back when I taught American History and the topic was World War ll, I began my discussion on the Nazis stating that they were Christians and loved their families and celebrated Christmas. My students had a fit an immediately yelled at me. “Mr. Newell, you saw those movies. You saw how they tortured and killed six million Jews!”

“Yes,” I replied.”That is the point. Good people, who should have known better followed orders and committed those atrocities.”

Today, good people are putting up with Trump and the miscreants who want to make America white again.

That is what this attack on these immigrants is all about. That’s what the gun issue is all about, too. That is why there is no Republican with the moral courage to stand up to this nonsense.

This is what the Democrats should be addressing not sniping at each other.

We should be scared because the tide could turn in the blink of an eye. Maybe Democrats and liberals will be the new target of hatred and bigotry?

Being white in America may not be enough to protect you. If we continue to let purveyors of racial hatred spread their disease, being white will not protect us from the wrath of God.

To those with a sense of morality, there is no other choice than to resist the haters.

Like most people, I have always aspired to live a comfortable life. I wanted a nice house. I wanted to travel. I tried to raise my kids in a beautiful setting. I wanted them to go to good schools. I wanted enough money to do these things and more.

I guess I got enough money but not nearly as much as I wanted.

But now I am thinking that was a blessing.

When you see two recent examples of billionaires gone mad, you should realize that money is a curse. Money in the amounts that the ultra-rich possess is not just the dollars in their investment, it’s the hubris in their moral life account. It’s the feeling they can do anything, and it can’t be wrong, no matter what they choose to do. Morality is for the poor, after all.

We had one billionaire accused of going to a massage parlor which had been implicated in sex trafficking. Then, you have another who had been charged years ago, given a ridiculously light sentence only to be arrested on new charges when he got off his plane in New Jersey. This guy, “likes them on the younger side,” according to one of his well-placed buddies, the president of the United States.

But this billionaire is bipartisan in his friendships as former President Clinton is also counted among his pals.

If there was any concern about restricting free speech by curtailing the ability of the wealthy, individuals or corporations, to donate uncontrollably to politicians, perhaps now is the time to get over it.

Do we want pedophiles to have a role in determining who is elected to serve the people? Do we want pedophiles to be protected from prosecution and detection by these same politicians?

I guess the Supreme Court does because they had a chance to restrict money’s hold on politics and politicians but resorted to protect the rich and fuck the poor.

How many times has the fall of the Roman Empire been evoked when discussing life in America in the Twentieth Century? Now, here we are in the Twentieth-First Century, and the demise of the American Experiment seems possible.

While Democrats discuss bussing in the ’70s, immigrant children are being held in prison away from their parents because they are from Latin America and not Norway.

Guns are out of control as is the NRA, but God forbid we have a rational gun policy.

It’s all about money, which is power. It’s never about what is best for the nation. It used to be said that what is good for General Motors is good for America. Those were the days.

Now, as long as we all get a good return on our IRAs and 401Ks, these crazy politicians can do what they want. Religion can no longer supply the moral guidance to help us identify right from wrong. Religion has lost its appeal and ethical foundation. Whether it’s the power of the Catholic Church concentrating on its own damage control necessitated by its own sex scandals or the Evangelicals who have been co-opted by its own narrow focus on abortion and the Supreme Court. There is no great American Moral Leander anymore.

ROI has superseded GOD.