The Newell Post

Seventy-four 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 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 and the only wall erected was built by the Russians.

It was a much different time.

It’s getting a little lonely in the Oval Office.

How many more of the President’s closest advisors will resign in the next few weeks?

It’s getting so Trump is like Reg in the Great Outdoors. For those who may not remember, Reg got struck by lightning 66 times. Like Reg, no one wants to stand near Trump anymore, lest they die!

And of course, despite all the scandals and pending catastrophes looming over Donnie’s head, he continues to tweet. His staff is so desperate that they have hidden his iPhone and replaced it with a Walkman and headphones along with a cassette tape containing his favorite top ten songs.

Here they are:

Number 10:            I Fought The Law And The Law Won

Number 9:              In Some Secluded Rendezvous

Number 8:              There She Is Miss America

Number 7:              Stranger In Moscow

Number 6:              Theme Song: From Russia With Love

Number 5:              A Town Without Pity

Number 4:              This I Swear Is True

Number 3:              Back In The USSR

Number 2:              Help

And Donald’s NUMBER ONE SONG!

Number 1:             Stormy

The easy listening list for Presidents with a lot on their mind.

I was teaching religion when religion education shied away from the Catechism of my youth to a more humanistic approach.

The standard of memorizing the answers to catechetical questions was replaced by a more new age approach. Loving and Caring and Sharing were the rote replies to the questions of the day and you only had to hear your students reply with a sarcastic sing-song retort to understand that the lesson hadn’t sunk in.

It’s not that loving and sharing and caring weren’t worthy ideals but that they seemed to be the answer to everything. How ironic that one of these standards has now fallen into disrepute. I am writing, of course, about sharing.

How many times have we found ourselves, as loyal Facebook users, sharing articles or surveys or any other type of information not our own? How many times have these postings resulted in passing propaganda that was not only false but was initiated by the Russians? I don’t have the answer to that but I am sure Facebook does.

How sad that this mainstay of social media has been allowed to be used in such a way. Of course, we are to blame. We allowed our biases to shape our sharing and to spread things that were not only false but, in many cases, mean-spirited and downright hateful if only because we felt self-righteous in our own beliefs because the article proved our point.

Trump is a bigot. Hillary hates white people.

It has gotten to the point that I no longer believe anything I read on Facebook unless it is something about the New York Yankees.

That is why I have taken the pledge and I no longer will share any article about anything.  I am even going to resist commenting on any post unless it is positive and one of my real friends has initiated the post.

Twitter is even worse and I have taken to blocking tweets from people filled with hate.

The good news about social media is that we do control the information we read. Like other forms of media, we can just “turn the channel” or, in the more modern form, delete the post, and move on to something more entertaining.

I am guessing some of you, if you haven’t already, will delete me from your Twitter feed and Facebook page.

Good for you!

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.