The Newell Post

Working in higher education for the last thirty years or so I attended many conferences and workshops. It was common that there would be at least one session at these events would be dedicated to dealing with millennials.

How do millennials think? How do you communicate with millennials?

It was also common that these discussions would serve as a gripe session where participants would share their favorite millennial anecdote.

Having three millennial children, all of whom I loved and liked, I never quite understood the sentiments expressed. Now, their parents were a pain in the ass but the students were usually a pleasure to deal with.

Of course, I was not without my own sarcastic observation particularly when it came to the resume of community service activities that, in my estimation, had the primary objective of getting the student into a competitive college.  Mea Culpa.

This past Saturday we saw thousands of millennials parade through major thoroughfares of major cities, not just in the US. They marched, not for the sole reason of getting into a good college, but rather, simply to survive high school.

How can you argue with that?

How can you be critical of these heroes?

Many had seen classmates and teachers torn to shreds by guns too sacred for the NRA and their supporters to surrender. Yet, you had those who mocked their effort to defeat the gun lobby. I won’t repeat the nasty things said about these heroes.

I understand these people. They hate government. They hate what government does. They hated Obama because he was a socialist. He let Wall Street get away with the greatest theft in American financial history and he’s a socialist? Sorry, I digress.

The gun lobby is afraid that their guns are going to be taken away. Even as the Democrats cower at that thought and refuse to even utter anything stronger than “We’re not going to take your guns”, the gun lobby won’t give in an inch. They refuse to allow even the most basic regulation.

But, the millennials are not going away.

Thanks be to God.

Anytime you have to explain a joke it’s probably not that funny in the first place. Nevertheless, I feel I have to explain the title of this entry lest you think I cannot spell.

Today, of course, is the Ides of March and I am writing a piece on some ideas I have had. You get it now? The Ideas Of March.

Perhaps I should have quit while I was ahead?

Well, maybe you should quit reading this while you are ahead?

Here are some ideas I have had in no apparent order of importance or pithiness.

Politicians should be like NASCAR drivers and wear suits containing the logos of companies and entities that finance their activities.

Baseball is about reliving your youth with your kids right next to you. You certainly don’t want to speed that experience up. The longer the game, the greater the enjoyment.

Cheating baseball players are more reviled than cheating political leaders.

There’s nothing easier than being a loyal friend.

You have to be wherever you are.

Listening should be taught in college.

It’s good to remember yesterday but don’t let it get in the way of tomorrow.

Fathers should listen to their daughters and sons should listen to their mother.

Social Media should require social behavior.

What’s the good of having opinions if I have to keep them to myself?

Well, that’s my ideas for the Ides Of March.

The good news is Saint Patrick’s Day is right around the corner.

There is a movement.  High school students in Parkland, Florida will be marching on Washington.

They are not protesting the two wars in the middle east. Nor are they protesting the meddling in our democracy by the Russians.

They are, instead, calling out our leaders to put an end to the war in our schools.

These brave students are tired of going to school in fear.

They are tired of being caught between the NRA and a hard place.

They are tired of being targets.

I learned very early in my development as a parent that it is always a good idea to listen to your kids. It’s time for America to listen and to heed what our children are saying.

Instead of paying attention to incessant tweets and pointing fingers at the “enemy”, how about we listen to our children when they are begging for our protection?

Is that too hard for us to do?

Is it more important to pay attention to gun runners and those that seek to protect them than saving our kids?

It’s ironic that only the FBI is taking any kind of responsibility and, because of that, they want Wray’s head.

No one is looking at the guy who sold this kid a gun.

No one is looking at the governor who supports guns in the hands of everybody.

No one is even looking at the lunatics who want to arm our teachers as if shooting this deranged kid with an assault rifle is the answer.

How about we never let anyone buy an assault rifle in the first place?

Well, that may not be the answer but it sure is a good start.

When The G Man and The Judge bring Law and Order to Yankee Stadium peace and love will reign in The Bronx.

Not since the M&M Boys of the 1960’s has the prospect of Opening Day at Yankee Stadium been so anticipated. Will Stanton or Judge be the first to homer on Opening Day? Will they go back to back for the first time?

As we approach the first spring training day all Yankee fans will be asking these questions and many more. It’s like Christmas Eve all over again just thinking about what will be.

Then you start thinking about all the other participants waiting to do their party.

Sanchez and Gregorious.

Hicks and Bird.

Oh My!

Not to forget Gardner and Frazier as well as the rookies who may surprise.

And, I wouldn’t write off Ellsbury just yet.

This may well be our Booneified return to the World Series and maybe a run at the 1998 record for most wins in a complete season.

Happy New Year everyone.

Those of us who knew and loved Father Peter Colapietro were  devastaed when we heard the news of his passing.

For me, I immediately thought back to the first time I met Father Pete.

I had just started teaching at St. Vito’s and, on the Friday of the first week of school, Father Peter hosted a faculty party to celebrate the new school year. Father Peter and I were standing outside the rectory next to my 1973 Vega as I was putting my books into my car. He approached me and extended his hand as he smiled so brightly. I immediately felt happy to meet him.

He had that effect on everybody.

We started talking and he asked, “So where are your from Jimmy?”

This started a long, sadly not long enough, friendship.

For some reason, he called me Jimmy while I was Jim to everyone else at St. Vito’s

I answered Pete’s question saying I lived in Flushing but that I was from The Bronx.

I didn’t think it was possible but his smile grew even brighter.

Then, of course, he asked what parish. I told him Blessed Sacrament.

By this time he was busting as he revealed he, too, was a Blessed Sacrament graduate.

Then he asked me where did I live. I replied, “Leland Avenue.”

“I lived on White Plains Road”, he blurted out.

I then told him my wife grew up on White Plains Road.

He then asked me her name. “Eileen Rooney”, I said.

That was all it took to seal the deal.

He grew up across the street from my wife and knew the Rooney family very well.

We both shook our heads at our good fortune to share such a common history.

Then, Peter looked down at the back bumper of my car and the bumper sticker stuck on to it.

It read, “HAPPY DAYS IN HAMPTON BAYS”

Peter now knew I was a fellow traveler.

Then my new friends and I joined him on his patio for a terrific way to end the week.

Over the years at St. Vito’s I had many occasions to be in Peter’s company and I cannot recall any time that he did not light up the room when he entered. He was always happy to see you and never had an unkind word about anybody.

My friends at St Vito’s can understand when I write that St. Vito’s was a very special place. It was a special time for me but I always knew my stay would be a short one. I always thought of St. Vito’s as Heaven On Earth or at least Eden.

Once you entered its doors your problems were left behind. Sorrow was replaced with Joy. You never wanted to leave. I used to hate the summers because I had to stay away for over two months. By August it was sheer torture for me.

So, the prospect of leaving St Vito’s was not a pleasant thing to ponder.

On one occasion I was talking to Pete about this very thing, the idea that we might have to leave St Vito’s one day. I was upset about it and listed all the beautiful things that St Vito’s had given me; my friends and colleagues; my children who I got to teach and their parents who sacrificed so much to allow me to teach their children; and, almost as important, the personal gratification that I was doing something real, something that mattered, something that would have a lasting effect.

Then, after confessing all of this, Peter just put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Jimmy you just have to take St. Vito’s with you.”

And you know what? I did just that.

Every where I worked after St Vito’s I brought something special. I brought joy. I brought cheerfulness. I brought laughter. I always prefered comedy over drama and I think that for the most part I succeeded in bringing comedy every where I went.

I would think of Peter often, especially when I changed jobs and I know he might be embarrassed to read this but I always saw Christ in Peter. I always saw that.

When he was on the altar, I saw Jesus. When he was on the pulpit, I saw and heard Jesus.

But what surprised me most as I thought of Peter this week is that HE saw Christ in ME.

Think about this. He saw Christ in YOU!

I always thought that when I left St Vito’s it was like leaving the Garden of Eden. I had snatched that Apple out of the serpent’s hand and cashed it in for a house in the Hamptons. I had caved. I gave up the spirtual world for the material world.

I was wrong to think that and this week I realized something else had happened.

Thinking about the conversation I had with Peter when he advised me to take St. Vito’s with me, I realized he was commisioning me to make the outside world a better place. It was like Jesus sending the Apostles out to spread the good news. He had faith in me that I could do it.

The Father Peter who saw so much in each and every one of us is the Father Peter I will always remember.

The Saloon Priest is an interesting story and reveals the humanity and the need to share his life with everyone but Peter was much more than a celebrity priest. To be sure, many of the celebrities benefited from his friendship and I hope they, too, saw Christ in him. I am confident Peter saw Christ in them as he did in all people.

I decided not say goodbye to Peter. He will still be with me as I am sure he will be with you.

Keep him in your heart for a while and remember what Peter taught you.

Earlier this week I told Jeannine that I  would, once again, post this entry of the Newell Post in honor of her birthday. I told her I had to do this and she said, “You could write something new.”

I thought about it but, quite honestly, I don’t think I could have done any better and, so, here is my memory of two memorable events (and one life-changing) events.

I first posted this entry on February 3, 2012. Though the sentiments expressed within may not do justice to the craft of writing, they remain noble sentiments notwithstanding. I have often been accused of repeating myself and I do try to avoid doing so as not to annoy. However, I have learned over the years that Truth and Beauty are not one-occasion pleasures. Perhaps Jacqueline Susann said it  best, “Once Is Not Enough”.

So please indulge this brush with repetition if not for your own enjoyment then to help keep the memory of Buddy Holly alive and to wish my daughter a Happy Birthday.

The Day The Music Died?

February 3, 1959, was a day I will forever remember. I can still see my brother Mike and me watching our Mother prepare breakfast. I cannot tell you what the weather was like. If there was snow on the ground, I could not tell you. What I do remember, though, is listening to the green Zenith radio that was up on the shelf over our refrigerator.

In those days my Mother would often have on a rock and roll channel. It would be years later that she would turn to listening to Rambling With Gambling. So, back in 1959, she was probably listening to Herb Oscar Anderson or someone like him. On that particular day it did not matter what channel you had tuned into nor did it matter who the DJ or radio host was. That day it was all the same news and music. Buddy Holly had died and that is all we heard that day. Even as an eight-year-old I saw the irony in his most recent recording that every station was playing. ‘It Doesn’t Matter Anymore’, written by Paul Anka, just about summed up the feeling of that day.

We also heard that Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper had died as well, in the same airplane crash as Buddy Holly. Twelve years later Don McLean would refer to this day as The Day The Music Died. While music most certainly did not die that day in February, it was never the same. I am not sure what impact The Big Bopper would continue to have had on the course of music but Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens would surely have continued to provide terrific music and, no doubt, to inspire new artists and bring new innovations to rock and roll. It is not coincidental that The Beatles recorded ‘Words Of Love’ in deference to Buddy Holly’s contribution to music.

Twenty Five Years Later

Now it is February 3, 1984. Eileen and I are expecting our second child. The plan was that we would go to the hospital that Monday, February 6^th for the birth of our child. That taught me a lesson. There are some things you can plan and some that you cannot.

It was a Friday evening. We had a nice dinner and I was just about to put a fire on and watch the Winter Olympics. No sooner had I had the logs in the hearth than Eileen called out from the bathroom that we would need to be going to the hospital instead. My first reaction was to push my way into the bathroom and to take a shower. To this day I cannot fathom why I thought it necessary for me to be showered and shampooed. I guess I was recalling when Sean was born and that it was going to be a long night/day.

Now we had made plans with friends to take care of Sean on Monday but they were nowhere to be found. So, we called our friend’s mother who promptly drove over and picked up Sean. Eileen and I then made our way to Southampton Hospital. Upon arriving at the Hospital, Eileen’s doctor came in shaking his head saying, “I thought we agreed this was going to happen Monday. I was just about to watch the ice skating competition.” I told him I was too but that at least I did get my shower in.

We then made our way to the OR room and I got the chance, again, to sit next to Eileen as our baby was being born. (Let me tell you, that’s the type of sex education we need in our schools.)

It is an amazing thing to behold. One minute she wasn’t there and the next minute she was. Before that minute had elapsed, however, we named her Jeannine. It was 9:30 PM.

She was a sight to behold. A beautiful round face trimmed with a wisp of reddish hair. We always thought she would be a redhead like her mother. The Maternity Nurse took her and got her ready for her crib and then the both of us walked Jeannine up to her room. Eileen was in recovery and would join us later.

When we get to the room the Nurse asked me if I wanted to hold her. So, I picked her up out of the little crib and took her in my arms. She turned her head up to me and, I swear, she looked me right in the eyes and I think she was a little miffed for being disturbed while she was napping. She had a look and I also think she was eying me up wondering what her fate would be with this big doofus who was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue and the lips were puckered and the nose, that I would spend most of her early childhood stealing and hiding, was as cute as could be.

It was then that I first sang ‘You’re Sugar….” but it was by far not the last time.

Happy Birthday, Jeannine.

Though the music may have died back in 1959, it was resurrected in 1984.

Faith is a fleeting thing for me. There have been times that I have totally given up on the whole religion thing. This was especially true during the period when all the sex abuse cases were coming to the surface. I felt the Church was revealed to be nothing more than an institution that had forgotten its mission. Rather than trying to heal the injured, the Church practiced damage control. It was at this time that I wondered if I really believed anymore. But then I realized that it was never the Church that made me a believer in the first place.

When I see tele-evangelists I guess my southern bias comes out and I see these Goobers as characters right out of Mayberry RFD. I had the occasion to watch a bit more of them recently on vacation and I found myself asking how anyone could fall for their crap. I mean, when someone closes his eyes and prays that the Holy Spirit inspires you to cough up twenty dollars for this sure fire guide to Heaven…Really??? Come on! the guys on the corner playing three card monty are more legit. Well, this got me thinking about what I believe and why.

I attended Catholic grammar school, Catholic high school. I went to a Catholic university. I got my masters at a Catholic University and I went to a Catholic law school. You would think this would be sufficient to establish my faith in Catholicism. No, that was just the effect, not the cause of my faith.

Unlike the preacher on TV who touches the head of a seeker of the lord and causes the penitent to pass out, my faith had a far less dramatic origin. My faith started by observing one individual and has been reinforced over these last sixty or so years by observing other individuals. Nobody in my list of faith-givers ever had beatific smiles, over sprayed hair, or said alleluia after every sentence. They were just saints, is all.

The list starts with my parents who taught me years before I ever went to school. They taught me about God. They taught me what a family was. They taught me about the Yankees and Lionel trains and how to play. They lived a life of faith and expected me to do the same. They did this by living not by preaching. Then I went to school.

School was not always the place where faith was nurtured. There were times when fear was more common than faith. We had nuns and priests that scared the hell out of me and I am sure that if this had been my only experience there is little doubt I would wind up being the heathen my mother was always worried that I would be. However, around the fifth and sixth grades two new priests came to Blessed Sacrament and my faith would be set on a new course.

Father Dolan was an amazing priest but he wasn’t always so amazing. When he first came to Blessed Sacrament he was a bit out of control. He would run over us while playing football and if anyone dared to do anything to tick him off he would suffer the consequences. Father Dolan was not opposed to corporal punishment. But then something happened to resurrect him, Father Gorman.

Father Gorman came to Blessed Sacrament the year after Father Dolan. Father Gorman was as calm and even tempered as Father Dolan was out of control. But then Father Dolan was transformed and I was able to see his saintliness. Now, Blessed Sacrament had two saints to guide us and guide us they did.

Between Father Dolan and Father Gorman the children of Blessed Sacrament were provided the opportunity to see faith, to hear faith, and, if you were really paying attention, to feel faith. They strengthened my faith with the words they said in their sermons ( I think this is what I miss most about the both of them) but it was how they dealt with people that inspired me most. Father Dolan always had a smile and there was not a kid in the neighborhood who failed to respond to that smile. Father Gorman also had this effect on us. You always went out of your way to reach out to him with a “Hey Father” as they walked down Gleason Avenue. A few times I would do my Jimmy Cagney, “Hey Fadder, Whadya hear, Whadya say?”

They were the Dynamic Duo of priests and now when I am dealing with a crisis of faith I ask, “What would Marty do, what would Vinny do?”Between the two of them, the faith that was given me by my parents was solidified and got me through high school and college still believing and practicing my faith.

It wasn’t cool to go to church during the 60’s so I went on Sunday nights when no one was looking. Honestly, I am not sure if I was going to church because I was so devout or because of my mother. I was going to anti war protests, getting mail from the SDS, and listening to the Woodstock soundtrack but there was no question about missing mass on Sundays. It was around this time that I met Eileen.

Now, at the time when we first met there was no way that I would have recognized this little, Irish cherub as a woman of faith. To be quite honest, faith was the last thing I had on my mind when I looked into those eyes. It would be years later that I would learn to appreciate the fire and conviction and intelligence that she possessed. The trouble when you fall in love is that you are so overwhelmed with being in love that you don’t always have a deep vision of what’s before you. It has been my good fortune to learn that the beauty that appeared on the surface was supported by a deep faith and understanding of what the future would hold.

We knew on our second date that we were beginning the journey of a lifetime. It may not have been our first fight but we did quarrel early on about the name of our first son. I wanted it to be Joseph William in honor of Joe Willie Namath, but she would not have it. The point is, we knew there would be a first son.

Since that time in 1971, Eileen has kept me believing just by the way she has lived her career, raised our children, and taken care of me through all sorts or traumas.

Not too long after Eileen and I were married my life of faith took a beautiful and life changing detour. For what turned out to be an all too short time I entered the world of Saint Veto’s. It was here that my faith was forever fortified and where I met such extraordinary people of faith.

The two most incredible and inspiring nuns I ever met were Sister Joan and Sister Barbara. I learned so much from them. You just felt good being in their presence. From the moment I started working with them I was part of the family. The teachers that I worked with also made me part of the family (even though one of them continues to make fun of my polyester suit that I wore on my first day.) I knew I was ‘home’ when we had a party on the first Friday. It was at this party that I first talked to Father Peter.

Father Peter and I talked for a while and learned that we both were from Blessed Sacrament. He grew up on White Plains Road and actually knew Eileen. Later he noticed a bumper sticker on my Vega which proclaimed “HAPPY DAYS IN HAMPTON BAYS” and he had a twinkle in his eye that was explained later. I don’t think anyone gave a better sermon than Father Peter.

I was still teaching at St Vito’s when my son Sean was born. Sean was born on a Friday and I went to mass on Sunday and Father Peter was the priest saying the mass. Peter saw me in the congregation and adlibbed Sean’s birth into his sermon. Like Marty Dolan and Vinny Gorman, Peter just has this aura of saintliness about him that continues to affect me and inspire me.

When I think about the heathens who run our Church who failed to protect children from abuse and thought only of the institution I get so angry and I question the validity of the Church. I mean how could they let the hands of priests, who desecrated those poor kids all those years, to continue to consecrate the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ? These church leaders must not believe in their own mysteries, they must not have faith! Why then should I continue to believe?

For a long time I didn’t believe.

But then, I thought of Lizzie and Mickey, Father Dolan and Vinny Gorman, Eileen, Joan and Barbara and Father Peter. They all believe and they are better people than I am. They are the reason that I can fight through the anger, overcome my doubts, and feel my faith restored.

Eileen had been after me for years to read The Five People You Meet In Heaven. I finally did and it was a great book. But, it is The Eight People I Met In Life that has most deeply affected me in my quest for truth and understanding. It is this group that has taught me that faith is not a ghostly apparition that possesses you. Faith is simply recognizing the Divine that is in all of us. For me, this Gang of Eight, has allowed me to see the Divine in my children, in my siblings, in my in-laws, in my nieces and nephews and grand nieces and grand nephews and I think I even have a great grand niece.

I am also blessed to see the Divine in all my friends who care for me and worry about me and who stand behind me through every ordeal and who are at the ready to hoist a beverage or two in celebration of the Divine they see in me.

I continue to struggle but I do believe and while it would be easy to abandon my Catholicism I will not because smarter and better people than I have believed and continue to believe.

I had the misfortune of watching 30 seconds of the Pro Bowl on Sunday. I opted to watch something else after one play. The quarterback threw a little dump pass to a running back and after gaining four yards the receiver was quickly boss nova’d to the sideline.

He wasn’t tackled. He was do si doed.

It was football at its most pathetic worst.

Unlike baseball where the All Star game can pretty much be played as a regular baseball game where defensive plays can be made and home runs can be hit, the NFL Pro Bowl cannot.

The players in the NFL Pro Bowl are the league’s best and most exciting players and we do not want them to get hurt in a meaningless game. So, we, therefore, accept that the game will resemble a church social more than a football game. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

I thought of the alternative while watching the Grammy’s later that evening.

Why not select the same players and display them in all their skill and glory?

Put together a fifteen minute highlight reel of all their fantastic plays of the season and then call them out and give them a statuette?

It certainly would be more entertaining than watching an inept display of football.

I was watching an old episode of Taxi the other day and heard a great line from Louie.

In this scene, Reverend Jim and Tony’s sister played by Rhoda’s sister were humming a song. At which point Louie came out of his cage and uttered:

“I never thought I would have to make this a rule, but NO MORE VIVALDI IN THE GARAGE!”

I also heard the other day that we are soon to be celebrating the 20th anniversary of Clinton’s impeachment which came about largely because he lied about having oral sex in the oval office with an intern.

So, I thought, maybe we should have some rules for the White House?

Rule number 1: No oral sex in the Oval Office. That should be off limits as it is our Oval Office. Go to the residency or get a room!

Now, after hearing what has been alleged about our current occupant of the Oval Office, here comes a second rule.

Rule number 2: No use of the term “shit-hole” in the Oval Office. It seems reasonable to me.

You will note that I hyphenated the offending term. I couldn’t decide if it was one or two words so I settled on a compromise. Doing so I wondered about George Carlin.

Carlin must be rolling over in his grave at the thought that one of his seven dirty words has not only been said on TV but it has appeared in print on the crawl bar underneath the news anchors repeating and repeating it.

A couple of newscasters were so incapable of saying it that they either said asshole (thinking that was less offensive presumably) or only said the complete phrase once leaving out the “shit” on following utterances.

When the president said shit-hole, he was, of course, referring to countries that politically incorrect people refer to as Third World Countries while those in the politically correct column refer to them as Developing Countries.

Regardless of which term you prefer, I think we can all agree that “shit-hole” is unacceptable, if only for diplomatic reasons.

Here’s hoping no additional rules will have to be forthcoming.

I was about to download Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury if only to have my opinion of Trump validated. Instead, I picked up the Christmas present that my daughter gave me, Promise Me, Dad by Joe Biden.

Picking up this book to read instead of Fire and Fury was the best decision I have made this year.

Instead of reliving the disastrous year endured by us all who watch too much TV, Joe Biden serves to remind us all what it is to be a good person.

I don’t know if Joe Biden would make a good President. I am not sure anyone can be these days, there are just so many people out to destroy rather than construct. Certainly Joe Biden would attempt to do good and not to take advantage of the office.

I have not endeavored to make a list of New Year’s resolutions but I think Joe has provided me with at least one.

I am going to try to see good.

Maybe seeing good will help me be good?

We can only hope.