The Newell Post

Writing on steroids may be a mistake. Even this first sentence presented an inopportune misadventure. I actually typed “Writing on hemorrhoids may be a mistake. Surely if the former poses a danger, the latter definitely will. (The reason I am “on steroids” is because I had my IVIG treatment and it is a pre-med to prevent an adverse reaction. I can now hit a 95 MPH fastball but let’s see if I can write.)

For good or ill I am in the mood to write about missing.

Missing you? Missing moments? Missing evening light this time of year? Whatever it is that we sometimes miss we all can relate to the mood of missing.

I have been cursed with the mood of missing for quite a while.

The funny thing is that when I possessed the missing, whether it be an object or a person in my life, I never failed to take it or them for granted as if they would always be there when I desired them.

Mickey Mantle for instance.

Growing up in The Bronx in the ’50s and ’60s I, like many of my friends, adored Mickey Mantle. I often went to see him play, but not quite enough as I came to realize when he was no longer playing. I missed those days and the lost opportunities to see my hero. When I had children of my own, I vowed that I would get them to see their heroes as often as I could. But, they still miss their heroes who are gone.

Missing people who played such a significant part of our lives is healthy and is the final act of love that we bestow on them. When parents die, worse, when siblings die, the mood of missing never leaves you. But, the good news is they frequently come to visit in our memories, and we can almost see them and hear their laughter.

Missing inanimate objects such as one’s house is a little harder to explain. I miss living in our house in East Quogue. I loved my house. I loved building fires in our fireplaces. I loved going down to our finished basement to watch Yankee games and Ranger games. Even watching Jet games was enjoyable but far less satisfying.

But as much as I loved my house, it had nothing to do with the house. It had everything to do with the life we shared in that house. Mowing the lawns, watering the grass so that you had to mow the lawns again next week. The neighbors we had and the memories we shared. Christmas parties, birthday parties, simple Saturday afternoons preparing dinner.

It’s really not the house, it’s the home.

I am missing that.

The trouble is if I could, like Dorothy, don a pair of ruby slippers and click my heels and be whisked back to 10 Halsey, I would be missing my life here in Florida.

That is my curse.

At my lowest moments when I am missing my children and the life we had in East Quogue, I know in my heart of hearts that I would be writing this essay about missing Florida. It’s just the way I am.

I am afflicted with missing.

Of course, the only people I have shared this diagnosis of my temperament are Eileen and my children.

I really don’t think it’s a bad thing to miss the good things in your life so long as you’re able to recognize that you are still blessed with a good life.

We have loving friends and family in our southern retreat and no longer have to face the winter blahs. So, despite the fact that the steroids may be affecting my emotions as I type this I really do appreciate all that I have, and I am convinced that Eileen and I did the best thing for us at this time in our lives.

I think missing is more affirming than a sign of melancholy. Missing is an acknowledgment that you were blessed with good people who love you and had so many good memories that you shared.

The fact that Eileen and I can continue to enjoy a life together is miraculous and a constant reminder that I have much more in my life than what I am missing.

Sorry if this is just jibberish to you but let me just add that missing isn’t a bad thing as long as you’re able to move beyond it.

When I commuted on the Long Island Rail Road from Penn to Speonk on the 5:51 evening train, summer did not last as long as the calendar said it did. Getting off my train at 7:55 PM, the darkness began to greet me even in the second week of August.

It never failed to usher in a feeling of remorse, of loss.

Another summer was coming to an end and, with it, long days and warm weather with weekends spent on Ponquogue Beach.

The funny thing is that the best time of year to be living in the Hamptons was in the weeks after Labor Day. The crowds had thinned out, the train was less crowded, and the weather was still beautiful.

Even weeks after we stood and applauded the lifeguards on Labor Day in gratitude for their diligent and vigilant service to Southampton Town beachgoers, the beaches were beautiful, and the water was still warm. But the absence of the lifeguards only emphasized the dying of the summer and the arrival of autumn.

Still, autumn weather was much appreciated after a season of heat and humidity, and there were festivals and farmers markets not to mention the department stores reminding us that Christmas was only ninety days away.

Now, as I living in Florida, the end of summer is not so keenly experienced. It is getting darker earlier. It is also getting lighter later. But warm temperatures still persist and a day when the temperature only reaches the 80’s may inspire you to get sweatshirts and jeans ready for the cold days sure to come.

Fortunately, the cold days may start with temperatures in the 40s but rarely fail to reach the high 50s or 60’s. Still, it is cool enough to bring out the pumpkin ale.

Still, the sense of loss persists. A different type of loss but poignant nonetheless.

I should be calling my wood guy to get a cord of wood for the winter, and you could be sure that the first chilly weekend we had a fire would be started and enjoyed with one of those pumpkin ales.

No need to do so when you don’t have or need a fireplace.

But I’ll be wearing jeans and socks and even a sweatshirt before you know it.

There are only a few iconic historical events that an individual witnesses in a lifetime.  There were those who remember what they were doing and where they were on the Sunday of December 7, 1941. Many of these people have passed away.

For boomers like myself, the date that defined our generation was November 22, 1963. I was in my eighth-grade classroom taking part in a group discussion when Sister Irene Mary, the Principal of Blessed Sacrament School in the Bronx announced on the PA system that President Kennedy had been shot and that he died.

You don’t want to have too many of these memorable events take place in your life as they are usually of the catastrophic type.

Today, we remember one such event that all of us know exactly where we were and whom we were with when we heard that terrorists flew jetliner into the World Trade Center.

It’s hard to fathom that it has been eighteen years since we all witnessed the collapse of the towers. Even in today’s America where history, even our own history is rarely appreciated, we will take time to remember the past. It might be nice to forget our partisan disdain for each other on a day when hatred failed to conquer us.

Fanaticism of any variety is never a good thing. Whether the fanatic is an ISIS supporter or a neo-nazi, an intolerant religious zealot or an intolerant atheist for that matter.

Fanatics deny the value of anyone or any group that does not share their beliefs.

That is how men could learn how to fly a plane for the sole purpose of crashing into a skyscraper killing everyone on the plane, including themselves as well as the thousands working in the skyscraper.

Maybe we should keep that in mind when we talk about those on the other side of our political persuasion? Maybe Fox News and MSNBC should keep that in mind, too?

Just today. Let’s just try to remember that today.

Friday, September 3, 1971, was a memorable day. Life-changing events are almost always memorable, and I experienced a life-changing event on September 3, 1971.

The date also happened to be my mother’s 64th birthday. That is especially amusing as I am six years older than that as I type this story. I guess she really wasn’t all that old back then, nor was Pop who was the same age.

Anyway, as I do every year at this time, I commemorate the day that Eileen and I met. We met forty-nine years ago today, but we met on a Friday night of Labor Day weekend.

She was seventeen and for the first time in all the years reminiscing about that moment I am brought back to the Beatles’ I Saw Her Standing There.

After all, she was just seventeen, and I was twenty-one, so you already have a good idea as to what I mean.

She wasn’t really standing there, however, but perched upon a bar stool grinning from ear to ear as if, when she first laid eyes on me, she knew that forty-nine years later there would be a story to tell. How could she have known? And, having known, what a miracle that she stayed seated and grinning as I made my way over to her.

But she did stay, and soon we both realized that we would be staying for good. We didn’t know then about Sean, Jeannine, or Bryan but the idea of “our” children would not have been a surprise as we began our future, making our way home from the Hollow Leg.

Saturday came, and we ventured to Central Park and its environs. The picture that adorns my Facebook page on this date was taken on this trip downtown. The picture is of Eileen smiling into the lens with me holding the camera right next to her. A mirror in the Sherry Netherland Hotel served our reflection onto the film. It’s my favorite picture of Eileen because she looks so happy to be standing next to me.

Another Miracle, I suppose.

I went to my local beer and wine distributor last weekend. I had hoped to get a few six-packs of summer ale. Last year around this time they were looking to unload it and what would have normally cost me twenty dollars or more only amounted to eight dollars for two six-packs. No such luck this year.

There was only one six-pack to be had and, while it was a good brand, it wasn’t my Long Island favorite Blue Point Summer Ale.

So, there I was with a little more than a month left of summer and summer ale was no longer available. To make matters worse there were big displays of Pumpkin Ale.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Pumpkin Ale and can’t wait to have some, but there’s something antithetical to me to be drinking an autumnal brew when it is 90 degrees. Of course, it probably will still be 90 degrees here in Florida when the calendar morphs from summer to fall, but at least I will have the pretense of drinking an autumnal ale at the appropriate time.

Buying Pumpkin Ale in the summer would be akin to decorating for Halloween in the summer. Well, my next stop on my shopping spree took me to Lowes which had huge displays of all types of Halloween decorations.

I know merchandising is big business and you always have to be a season ahead to entice shoppers and to reach your quarterly quotas, but it just doesn’t seem decent to be pushing Halloween when you haven’t made it to September.

And now that it is finally September will the Christmas displays be far away? You can bet your credit card balance  that they are in the pipeline even as we prepare for Labor Day.

Then there are the hurricanes.

Just when you are beginning to rest easy thinking that you might be escaping another hurricane season a storm crops up on the radar sending us all into panic mode. We have been watchinghurricanes for weeks , and while they have stayed away from Florida’s shores shifting, you can’t rest easy until you see the calendar change to November and even then you are on the lookout.

But still, if I only had a little more Summe Ale, my hurricane angst might not seem so bad.

If that were the only thing to worry about this Labor Day weekend, Florida and the Southeastern coast would rest easy. But 2020 has provided us with a host of worries not including hurricanes.

Be well.

Stay safe.

Remember when you used to listen to albums? Or LPs?

You’d put the first side on and maybe you would put two or three more albums on the spindle and when all four Side A’s had played you’d flip them over to listen to side B’s.

Then maybe you finally discovered that this practice was scratching up your albums and you resorted to playing one disc at a time.

However you played your records, you listened to an album in its entirety.

The Beatles had Sergeant Pepper, The White Album and the Moody Blues and Jethro Tull both produced albums that you had to listen to in the order presented on the record. Of course, there were many other groups who provided long-playing entertainment.

The point is, I don’t listen to albums anymore or, not as much as I used to.

I have all my music on my Mac and downloaded onto my iPhone. I can still play albums but the ability to create playlists has captured my music listening attention. Maybe it’s a type of Boomer ADHD? Maybe I don’t have the attention span to listen to one entire album? Maybe I need the variety of different groups and even different styles of music on a playlist to keep me bemused while sitting poolside?

It’s the natural development after the vinyl disc morphed to the CD which only survived a few years only to be replaced by a digital representation of the music we love. Remember going to Sam Goddy’s or even EJ Korvettes and perusing the record aisles? You may not have known what you were looking for when all of a sudden and album by the Byrds jumped out like a guest on Let’s Make A Deal screaming at you PICK ME!

It was the start of impulse buying for me. The same was true of books as well. You may not have had any idea about any book in particular but then one just seemed to jump of the shelf and into your hand.

Now, you have to know what you are looking for. You either have to have the name of the song or at least the group. iTunes does have the requisite logarithims to identify your likes and will have a list of digital albums from groups you have previously purchased but it just isn’t the same.

Playlists are nice don’t get me wrong but hearing songs out of context just isn’t the same. I even anticipate the next song which appeared on the album despite knowing full well, that I never included it in my playlist.

Progress.

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.