The Newell Post

Seventy-seven years ago in the European Theater of Operations in World War II thousands of insanely brave men accosted the shores of France at Utah Beach and thus began the end of the Nazi empire.

Back at home, there were no debates about whether this was the right thing to do. No one questioned the President’s motive in ordering the attack. No revisionist historian had yet pondered the dramatic loss of life and whether such sacrifice was prudent. It was a different America. No one was going to apologize.

I thank God for that.

Where would we be in this country, in this world, had these brave men not thrown themselves on the beach that day in 1944? Maybe we would not have prevailed in World War II? Maybe we would be goosestepping our way through life hating everything and everyone not Arian? Maybe the world economy would consist of  Nazi Germany and a militarist Japan?

Remembering those that put their lives on the line for us this day seventy-five years ago is the least we should do today.

That was a time of American heroes when partisan politics had not brought our government to a grinding halt. It was a time when no one would dare question the integrity or patriotism of the American President.

For his part, FDR would never have praised Hitler or Hirohito and insult Churchill. Then, after the war, Truman stood up to Stalin and helped recreate Europe.

The only wall erected was built by the Russians.

It was a much different time.

Years later, when the war in Viet Nam was dividing our country, setting us up for today’s division, you could not argue with a World War II vet about the war. Although many were reluctant to speak about their experience, they never questioned the legitimacy of the war nor their duty to answer the call to defend this country.

It was a much different time.

These heroes possessed an undying faith in their country, in their President, in their religion. There may have been atheists among them, but they didn’t openly mock believers as you often see today on cable news and even commercials supporting atheism.  Believe or don’t believe, just don’t mock. It’s so unAmerican.

Growing up in the 1950s included the continuity of faith in our country. It was demanded of us though never a word had to be spoken. It was just taken for granted that you supported our nation. When the USSR threatened us with annihilation as Kruschev banged his shoe at the United Nations, President Kennedy was respected even by those disagreeing with him.

It was a much different time.

Perhaps on this one day, we can put our political and cultural hostility behind us so that we can focus on the heroes who assaulted the beaches of Normandy to ensure our freedom to disagree.

This entry of The Newell Post was written six years ago. Eileen and I attended an event celebrating our surviving cancer. It was a moving experience, and we came away convinced that we needed to share our story, not so much to write for ourselves as to try to encourage hope in others who may be facing this dreaded disease.

Since that time, we have written the book and moved to Florida. Cancer had a role in both.

Here’s hoping you are all well and celebrating National Cancer Survivor Day along with us.

Yesterday was National Cancer Survivor Day and Eileen and I celebrated it by attending a meeting of survivors. The day started off with a  definition of “Survivor.” The broadest would include not just the cancer patient but the patient’s entire team. Family, friends, health care providers make up the team, and when I think that Eileen and I each had our own team, the number of our combined team members is staggering. It continues to grow.

The next thing I learned is that I was embarrassed, listening to the experiences of the panelists who offered their experiences with cancer and being a survivor. I had it so easy compared to many of the people who spoke and those in the audience who merely nodded their heads in agreement. When I think about what my own wife, Eileen, endured during her treatment and what she continues to endure, I feel kind of silly and ashamed thinking about the times I was feeling sorry for myself.

I also learned a new mantra. Victor, not Victim. Again, I was humbled by the few times in my thirteen years of surviving when I felt sorry for myself. I will now try to live up to the concept of being a Victor and leave the Victim behind. I should have learned that lesson from Eileen, but I have sometimes been known not to listen.

The other thing I learned is that Eileen and I have a story to tell. We started talking about it before yesterday’s meeting, but Eileen got a head start at 3 AM this morning. An idea for the title of the book that we will write is His Story Her Story: A Couple’s Guide To Survival.

The concept is that we will each write about our own cancer and that of each others’. We will each write from the vantage points of patient and caregiver. I was the patient first, and I never knew how hard it was being a caregiver until it was my turn. Eileen has already started writing her view as a patient, and I am not sure how I can match here poignancy and emotion. She gets right to the heart of the matter while I have a tendency to worry more about how I write rather than what I write.

Though we may differ in style and, at times, subject matter, I think we both will accomplish illustrating the importance of family and friends and health care providers who make you feel it is their life’s mission to make your day. I would never have imagined going into an oncologist’s office and being happy to see the people there. It is one of those blessings I mentioned earlier.

I guess that if you are reading this, you are a member of our team in some way. You have either supported Eileen and I directly or, perhaps, you have supported members of our family or one of our friends. You certainly have supported other cancer survivors.

It’s a big club.

One of the hardest things for adults to adjust to is that there are no longer any “last days of school.”

Even those who have gone back to school to pursue an advanced degree miss out on the last day of school phenomenon. There is absolutely nothing better than the last day of school. The Peter Pan in all of us, longs for that feeling of freedom and late morning sleep-ins.

I can remember sitting in a classroom in Blessed Sacrament as we approached Memorial Day. Remember, back then Memorial Day was celebrated on May 30^th. It didn’t matter if it created a long weekend for us. So, Memorial Day ushered in summer because it ushered in June. June was just around the corner and that extra day of May was more like Summer’s Eve despite the fact that the official start of summer was three weeks away.

When June 1^st arrived, I was in Summer Heaven.

You could see it in the faces of the teachers and Nuns. They had that thousand-yard stare indicating they were as done as we were. They wanted summer to begin just as much as we did.

My most vivid memory of school in June was thirst. There was no bottled water back then. In fact, the only mobile water containers we had were our trusty water guns, but you didn’t dare bring those to school. I can still see myself sitting in the row next to the window and a bookcase with a vase full of water perched on its top shelf.

I would hallucinate just thinking of that water and how good that flower must feel. You know you are having a bad day when you are jealous of a flower. Every now and then we would be allowed to get a drink from the water fountain, but most times we just sat and suffered.

But it was June, and I knew I wouldn’t be stuck inside a classroom for long.

Eventually,  the school day ended, and we all went home and quickly changed into our play clothes and set out to play baseball, softball, curb ball, or triangle. It didn’t matter what kind of ball we played, we just played ball.  We may have interrupted our game for dinner but, because the days were longer, we were allowed to continue until it got dark. But then we went home and attempted a little homework and got ready for a new day of school.

But, it was June, and school’s days were numbered.

Finally, the big day arrived. It was always a half day because, why not? We hadn’t done any real work for a week now, why don’t we just all acknowledge that we are done and set off on our summer vacation?

The kids who went to public school had another tradition to mark the beginning of summer. They threw their sneakers over the telephone and electric wires that crisscrossed our streets. I never understood this. After all, it would be a long time before I would ever wear shoes again and I needed my sneakers. It takes all kinds, I used to think.

In addition to being thirsty, another strong memory of mine is the music that was played on the radio. I can still get happy just hearing some of these summer songs. This appreciation of summer music would continue even into my college years and beyond. Well, I am really in the beyond category as I approach my next birthday, but I still love my summer music. I love it so much I have created a Summer Playlist on my iPhone, and I will share it with you now. They are listed in no particular order, and I usually listen to it in the shuffle mode. Here they are:

Summertime Summertime                            The Jamies

All I Really Want To Do                               The Byrds

The Bells of Rhymney

Chimes of Freedom

My Back Pages

Draft Morning

Goin Back

It Won’t Be Wrong

She Don’t Care About Time

Wasn’t Born To Follow

You Won’t Have To Cry                        As you can see I like the Byrds

Badlands                                                 The Boss

Bus Stop                                                 The Hollies

The Girl From Ipanema                          Getz/Gilberto

Had To Cry Today                                 Blind Faith

HOT HOT HOT                                    Buster Poindexter

I’d Love To Change The World             Ten Years After

In The Summertime                                Mungo Jerry

In The Year 2525                                    Zager and Evans  (Oh, that takes you back, doesn’t               it?)

It’s My Life                                             The Animals

San Franciscan Nights

We’ve Gotta Get Out Of This Place

Jamming                                                    Bob Marley and The Wailers

No Woman No Cry

Positive Vibration

Waiting In Vain

Kokomo                                                   The Beach Boys

The Rain In The Park                               The Cowsills

Saturday In The Park                                Chicago   (also appears on my Yankee Stadium list)

Sing This All Together                              The Stones

Summer In The City                                  The Lovin’ Spoonful

Younger Girl

Summer                                                      WAR   (You may have missed this, but it is a great song.)

A Whiter Shade of Pale                              Procol Harem

What A Little Bit of Love Can Do             Jeff Bridges      (Yes, that Jeff Bridges)

Waiting In Vain                                          Jimmy Buffet

King of Somewhere Hot

Weather With You

Good Morning Starshine                                  Oliver

Hot Fun In The Summertime

American Woman                                   The Guess Who

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?     Chicago

Everybody’s Talking                                Nilsson

My Cherie Amour                                    Stevie

Summer Wind                                          Frank

The Boys of Summer                               Don Henley

A Whiter Shade of Pale                           Procol Harem

A Salty Dog

1865 (96 Degrees In The Shade)           Third World

I am sure I will be adding to this list.

Ndakuvara                                        Oliver (Tuku) Miyukudzi    Seriously, check iTunes

Let me know some of your suggestions.

Happy June everybody!

Perhaps even better than the invention of sliced bread has been the discovery of Amazon Prime…not Bezzo’s discovery, mine.

Not since I discovered that you could buy Lionel Trains on eBay have I been so captivated with the glories of modern technology.

On top of having access to scores of movies and old TV shows as well as old music that I had forgotten to buy when it was new music, I can also think of an old book and order it and have it delivered today…which I did yesterday, and it appeared on my doorstep this morning.

I can even order coffee in the form of K Cups for my Keurig device, which I use when I am too lazy to make a full pot of coffee in my Mocamaster.

The coffee is coming later today as my Amazon account just informed me.

There are an infinite amount of items that I can order, and usually, they will be delivered in two days. The hardest thing to master is creating my list of needs and wants that I can click on the instant gratification app on my phone.

I am even afraid of creating my summer book list. No longer committed to hoarding books, I frequent the library in Sarasota However, it is not unusual for the item of my choice to be unavailable. I know I will look once more for Brave New World and they will have some other book by Huxley but no sign of Brave New World.

Do I resist the temptation of clicking my request? I can’t promise that I won’t. It’s just there waiting for me.

Oh, if other things were so easy to access and obtain!

Pizza from the Bronx?

Summer Ale from the Blue Point Brewery in Patchogue?

My mother’s rice pudding! Oh, if they could only deliver that!

Were it possible to get these things, I would never leave the house again.

One of my favorite lines in a Bob Dylan song comes from Positively 4th Street.

“I wish that for just one day you could stand inside my shoes. You’d know what a drag it is to see you.”

Today is Dylan’s birthday. So, it’s time for you to get out your LPs and CDs and iTunes and listen to the United States Poet Laureate.

Here are some suggestions:

Blowin In The Wind

A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall

My Back Pages

Chimes Of Freedom

Mr. Tamborine Man

Shelter From The Storm

The Times They Are A’changing.

There are so many, and I am sure you have your favorites so celebrate Dylan’s birthday and try to Seve Somebody.

Decoration Day, more commonly known today as Memorial Day, originated in the years after the Civil War when graves of fallen soldiers were decorated. Though it’s place of origin has been in dispute, it was ruled by President Johnson to have started in Waterloo, New York.

It should be noted that a yearly ceremony soon took place at Arlington National Cemetary where Union and Confederate graves were decorated. That is something to consider as we head into this Memorial Day weekend.

The graves of Union and Confederate soldiers were decorated. If divided in war, it was hoped that we could at least unite to honor the dead.

The era after the Civil War was certainly not one without its animosities and division. But, at least it was recognized that some type of reconciliation was not only possible but necessary for the Union to survive.

Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better for the Union not to survive.

Let me be clear, this feeling came long before Trump ever became a candidate much less, President.

The divisions that permeate our culture are, in large part, hangovers from the Civil War. Racism still is the national disgrace. The role of the Federal Government in addressing the needs of the nation and whose needs should be of primary continue to fuel political stagnation.

It seems that only in times of war was Congress able to agree on anything.

Even when one party held the majority it was difficult to get anything done.

The question I have today is who in Washington is worthy of decoration? Who will be remembered as a hero, as a statesman/stateswoman?

It’s time for America to remember the Civil War and not just the soldiers who died. Otherwise, their death would be a meaningless testament of our great divide that has yet to be overcome.

We often hear it said that the two subjects to be avoided at friendly gatherings are religion and politics. The very things that you would think should inspire us to get along with each other.

Talking about religion opens up so many opportunities to understand ourselves and each other. Faith is always personal and should not be demeaned by others who do not share this faith. Likewise, politics offer us insight into how people operate. Do they want to work on their own, what we used to call the rugged individualist? Or do they appreciate working as a team member? Neither option is without merit even though it might not suit you.

In either case, I think we do too much watching of issues like religion and politics and not enough speaking. Rather than talking heads doing our thinking for us, maybe it’s time for us to speak to each other about the ideas we have.

Just a thought.

I have to confess. I did it. After years of avoidance and denial, I have succumbed to the peer pressure of the cultural bullies.

I watched two episodes of Game Of Thrones, albeit from season one.

I have a lot to catch up on to take part in all the water cooler or coffee pot discussions. Fortunately, being retired, I no longer take part in these gabfests. Nevertheless, there are occasions for me to sit quietly having nothing to say about GOT.

I hate having nothing to say.

I began watching and tried mightily to not associate the politics of GOT with the politics of GOTrump.

I have been successful, and no other mention about the current state of affairs will appear in this essay.

In the first two episodes, we see a number of beheadings, a dwarf having group sex with absolutely gorgeous women, I think there were five, and a small boy being pushed off a castle wall because he had the misfortune of seeing the Queen and one of his trusted men engage in an activity of, shall we say, double disloyalty?

Anyway, all the sex and violence did not move me in any way in identifying the good people from the bad people. I like Ned only because the actor, Sean Bean, also played Boromir in the Lord Of The Rings or LOTR as I am prone to say.

Well, here is my likable character in episode two killing one of his kids’ dogs.  Well, the dog is really a wolf, but he’s a cute little guy. It was this scene of gratuitous violence that upset me more than all the heads rolling on the ground.

I have been advised that you have to get through the first three episodes before GOT got you. Therefore, I have to decide if I want to get GOT got. Perhaps my most obvious obstacle to overcome is the sheer enormity of watching all those episodes from all those past seasons before I can be relevant in any meaningful GOT discussion.

The last thing I want to do is, for example, say I like Ned, and then someone chimes in that Ned is killed by his daughter for screwing up her chance to marry a Prince.

I hope the Prince gets killed. Let me know if he does, and I will be sure to continue no matter how long it takes.

I was always a late shopper. I always went Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. It seemed the thing to do. It was a spiritual impulse, not a procrastinating one. It seemed to make the present more significant if it was bought on Christmas Eve. Of course, it was a simpler time, and I had few gifts to purchase.

Nevertheless, I continued to do at least some shopping on Christmas Eve just to keep the tradition alive.

Mother’s Day was a lot like that for me.

Invariably, I would get up on that Sunday morning and get washed up and dressed for the ten o’clock mass that was mandated by the nuns of Blessed Sacrament. I would get out of the house by 8 o’clock, however, so that I could make my Mother’s Day purchase before my mother went to mass.

This entailed a trip to the Circle Florist and the purchase of a corsage. One year I had arrived at the Circle too late and had to head back towards St Lawrence Avenue to Dan’s Florist. That was a close one.

Every year the same gift and every year Momma loved it as much as the one she received last Mother’s Day.

I also had a card, and though I would wish her Happy Mother’s Day, I would always write,  “Happy Mother’s Day Momma” maybe sometimes I would use Mom instead of Momma. The point is I never called her Mother. My father never referred to her as Mother. Maureen, Johnny, Barbara, and Michael never referred to her as Mother.

It was always Momma. Never mother, never mommy and sometimes Mom.

I always got the impression that rich kids or at least snooty kids called their Mother, Mother. Sometimes you would see movies or television shows where kids referred to their parents as Mater and Pater.

But Lizzie was always Momma.

I should point out that our Father was never referred to as Father, always Daddy. Rarely Dad and always Daddy.

Of course, later in life, Momma and Daddy became Nana and Pop. But this was consistent as they were never called Grandmother and Grandfather.

So today, I write about Momma.

She seemed to have different relationships with people. I knew her in ways that my siblings did not. They, in turn, had much different relationships with her (I can hear Daddy yelling at me for using “her.” He hated any usage of pronouns when referring to Momma.)

Momma had an uncanny ability to know what was going on in your head. You really had a hard time keeping anything from her. I wouldn’t say she was manipulative, but she could get me to do things without coming out and asking me.

There was a time when I was in college, and I was working after school and I had some money. I could go out without asking my parents for money, and I bought albums whenever I wanted, and I saved up for next year’s tuition. Momma never asked me to contribute to the household and was confident that I was saving and not wasting my money.

Anyway, one night I came home, and she proceeded to tell me that someone had lost something they loved. She just related the story but in a way that made me ask, “Well, how much to replace it?” She replied, “One hundred dollars.” But, with a look of entreaty or anticipation.

I said, “I can give you a hundred dollars.” And she smiled.

Years late, I bought a 1973 Chevy Vega.

I was living at home, and I bought the car on a three-year payment plan.

Because I was living at home, I was able to pay the car off in seven months.

Now, because I had paid the car off in such a short time, I got a refund check of unearned interest for $800.

When I opened the letter and found the check, I was excited as you might expect.

Momma watched me and my reaction and asked very innocently, “So, what will you do with the money?”

Again, she had that look.

At that precise moment, I realized that I never would have been able to buy the car, much less pay it off in seven months, if I hadn’t been living at home. I saw all of that in her look.

She never asked me for it, but I believe she was wondering if I would realize what the proper thing to do would be.

I did not disappoint her.

In answer to her question, I responded, “Well, I never would have been able to pay the car off so fast so I’ll give the check to you.”

I know I made her more proud than happy. It wasn’t the money that pleased her, it was the appreciation of what I had been given all my life.

More than forty-five years after that interaction, I can still see her in our kitchen in 1261.

I consider that one of my many blessings and I hope you are as fortunate as I in remembering the tenderness and love of your Momma.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you beautiful mothers.

There was a time in my life when I could throw a football.  For a few years in my life, there was little else I could do but throw a football.

The combined talents of a number of my friends formed a pretty good team. We called ourselves The Falcons. Consisting mostly of New York Jet and New York Giant fans, Falcons seemed a useful compromise. Besides, it looked pretty good on our Gold and White with Black stripes around the shoulder uniforms.

One of our standard pass plays was what I called the loop. Today, I am going to refer to it as the Deep Fake.

It was a simple play. Mike or PJ would run a down and out pattern, and I would do a pump fake, look to the other side of the field all the while the receiver would run down the sideline. Having fully stimied the defensive player, I lofted a bomb that usually was caught by the wide open receiver.

We faked short and went deep.

Today the Deep Fake has nothing to do with football.

Apparently, savvy tech people can create human life. Well, at least to the extent that they can manipulate photographs and images and create a face that does not exist. It looks completely human, and in some ways, they can be very attractive. The trouble is it is a fake face.

Back in 2016, I knew there was something wrong with Facebook or at least with what I was exposed to on Facebook. There was a story that someone posted (not sure where it came from) relating that Hillary Clinton had had four abortions before she gave birth to Chelsea. This sickened me, and I refused to even comment on these types of pornography about a woman who was running for president.

Our concern with identity theft continues to be real. I feel vulnerable doing anything on the internet anymore. It won’t be long until I am sending checks instead of automatic payments. We worry about the big computer disasters. Someone hacking into the electric grid. Someone hacking into the Pentagon and launching an attack. But it is these seemingly minor incursions into our private life, being exposed to false information, that may prove most devastating.

While it is not certain, the 2016 election was affected by Russian hacking if only to sow a seed of doubt into our democratic process. Now, when data can be manipulated to create a face that does not exist, how long will it be that someone creates images of politicians in compromising situations. In the past, we had to rely on their sexting to do that. Now a four hundred pound guy in a New  Jersey basement can do it for us.

I worked at two colleges when they were implementing student information systems. Both were terrible experiences, and many people lost their jobs. Interestingly, it was never the IT people. They were the ones responsible for our schools purchasing inferior systems, they set it up badly, yet it was the users who paid the price. I remember thinking that this era will be deemed the Dark Ages Of Information Technology.

Apparently, we still have a way to go to perfect our technological vulnerability.

I understand the irony of this essay. I am here typing on an Apple Mac, and I am about to share my ideas on Facebook and Twitter and LinkedIn.

Oh well.

The last time I was in apartment six in 1261 Leland Avenue was sometime in the summer of 1983. Momma had died the December before and we thought it would be good for Pop to go to a different apartment. My brother Michael helped him identify a nice place on Benedict Avenue right outside of Parkchester.

Notwithstanding what I just wrote in the first sentence, I have been back to Leland Avenue and 1261 many, many times in the last thirty-six years. In fact, I was there just a few hours ago.

I used to return at least once a month but it seems the last few weeks I have gone there once a week. Most times my parents are there but, oddly enough, none of my siblings ever accompany me.

It’s usually dark and quite often in the dead of night. The television is never on, nor is the radio. If I talk to my parents it is only briefly and I seem to wake up shortly after seeing them. This morning’s encounter was the oddest one yet. My mother died when she was seventy-five but in this morning’s dream, she appeared very old, in her nineties.  My father, although I knew he was in the apartment, was not visible to me. He was in the front bedroom and I was in the living room talking with Momma.

We always called her Momma and my father was always called Daddy. Of course, once the grandkids came along they morphed into Nana and Pop. Even their children called them that whether or not the grandkids were around.

When Eileen and I were married we moved to Flushing in Queens. We stayed there for three years and then we moved to New Rochelle, just on the border with Larchmont. We lived in New Rochelle for four years.

I have never returned to Flushing or New Rochelle in my dreams.

From New Rochelle, we moved to East Quogue where we lived for over thirty-three years. In the two years since we moved to Florida, I have often dreamt about East Quogue.

I can only imagine that Leland Avenue and East Quogue have attachments still grabbing at me that Flushing and New Rochelle never had. It’s not that I wasn’t happy in either of these places. We had nice apartments and many good times with friends and family. Flushing was our first place when we were newly married. Life was easy and fun.

While living in New Rochelle I was still working in St. Vito’s and loving every minute of it. We did, however, grow up rapidly, forced to deal with crisis and life events that we hoped we could have put off for many years.

Shortly after moving to New Rochelle, we lost Eileen’s brother, Patrick, Then I lost my Momma. I think she would laugh if she knew I was still coming home to see her and Pop.

Leaving your parents when you reach a certain age is not only normal, it is expected. Leaving your children behind when you reach a certain age is not normal and I never would have expected that I would do that.

I know, lots of people leave their kids and move to Florida.

There wouldn’t be half the people down here if we all stayed back with our kids. So, dreaming about what I have left behind is probably not unusual. I don’t wake up sad or anything. In fact, dreaming about my parents allows me to enjoy their company however briefly.

Dreaming about East Quogue is mostly about remembering my youth and when my kids were young. Ironically, I also dream I am on a train about once a week.

Fortunately, we see our kids frequently considering the miles that separate us but that would have happened even in East Quogue. Life gets busier for them as they get older just as mine has grown lest hectic as I got older.

Sweet dreams everybody.