The Newell Post

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.

I originally wrote this entry on February 12, 2016. However, it seemed appropriate for a re-posting today as my family in New York awaits a blizzard and over a foot of snow on its way to the north east. It reminds me what I left behind and which I desperately miss. Of course I don’t miss the snow only my family and doggies sitting around the fire. And don’t get me going about our beautiful grandson, EJ, and how much we would love to be with him.

So, back to the past however frigid it may have been.

When I went out to start the car today at 5:45 AM I was greeted with a blast of frigid air. I started thinking about why people chose to live here, East Quogue, New York or the northeast, in the first place?

I mean why would you stay here after that first winter? Surely our indigenous peoples had better options. They crossed the land/ice bridge to get the hell out of Siberia, why didn’t they continue south? Well, of course, some did and maybe others did settle in more temperate climes but were asked to leave by the new arrivals of the fifteenth century.

These new settlers had options, however, and chose to put up with the cold.

I then started thinking about how they dealt with such harsh weather. I am complaining about having to leave a centrally heated home to start a car that would soon be toasty enough to take me to my equally toasty train (I am not going to write about cracked rails or frozen subway switches). I also didn’t have to kill anything to get my coat from Lands End.

Nevertheless, I am not going to go the way of the Iroquois or the people of the Mayflower Compact. I mean to follow the sun, find me a beach, and bang my drum all day at a Tiki Bar.

Happy Friday everyone!

Here we are on the precipice of another year, getting deeper into what we once called “the New Century”.

New Years Eve often has me looking backward rather than to what the new year may hold in store. I rarely limit this act of nostalgia to the immediate year about to expire and frequently look back twenty or more years in the past.

The first New Years Eve I can recall was December 31, 1956. I was six years old and allowed to stay up past midnight and even to welcome the new year outside our apartment building at 1261 Leland Avenue in the Beautiful Bronx.

Like most of my friends, I had purchased the traditional  tin noise makers to scare off the demons of 1956. Consisting of a horn that sounded more like a duck call and a contraption resembling a frying pan equipped with a clanger, a racket was sure to be made by all.

Perhaps the most nostalgic thing about that night wasn’t just the fact that a kid of six years old could be out on the street at midnight but that all the doors to the apartments in my building were opened. They weren’t just unlocked, they were fully opened allowing the tenants to apartment hop unrestrained by doors or locks. Running up to the top floor to see Mrs. Savino and then one floor down to see the Destefanos and onto my second floor to see the Rooneys and Davidsons just seemed like a normal day in the life of Jimmy Newell, age six.

The only thing different about this night and the Fourth of July was that all the residents of 1261 were partying indoors rather than in front of the building. I don’t remember if it was cold, I guess it was seasonable as it was not memorable. Surely, there was no snow and the lot next door had yet to have a single Christmas tree placed there to be set afire as that was what was done to discarded Christmas trees.

There’s much  that I miss about that time. The people especially. You try to keep their memory and joy for life alive but you can’t go through New Years Eve without missing those loved ones who are no longer with you to kiss and hug.

So tonight, make sure you are with someone who you can kiss and certainly give them a big hug and make this night as memorable  and sacred as December 31, 1956 is for me.

Of course, I have had many memorable and sacred New Years eves and tonight will be no exception. Even if you are not present with all your loved ones, you can be sure that they are thinking of you just as you are of them. Whether in the Bronx or on Long Island or in Florida, I will be with all my loved ones tonight and they will be wishing me a Happy New Year.

I wish the same to you and your family and the people who are your loved ones.

Happy New Year

Here we are again celebrating another Merry Christmas.

For me, it never gets old and, even though we may all get nostalgic and feel the loss of loved ones more acutely during the Christmas season, I still feel their love and, perhaps, that is the greatest gift I receive each year.

Our children arrived yesterday and there is not another thing I need under my  tree.

I am sure you all feel the same.

If you are surrounded by your loved ones and the memory of your loved ones, there is no greater gift that you can receive. Christmas is about love and what could make us more merry than that?

Merry Christmas everybody!

I am not sure if today’s anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor is as important a day as it used to be. It certainly should be.

The fall of civilization was ultimately prevented because Japan sucker punched us into World War II. As we were in World War I, the Great War, we were late to the dance but helped the Allied powers to defeat Germany and Japan and, thereby, save civilization.

Back on the eve of Pearl Harbor this country was looking to keep out of foreign entanglements and make America First. Ironically, the war and aftermath achieved the very goal that the Isolationists desired. America was, indeed, first and would be the leader of the free world in its quest to defend Civilization.

As colleges are under siege to educate students to enter the business world, History and the liberal arts have become the step child of academia. That’s something to consider today as we try to remember our past and the brave men and women who helped secure our future.

I am guessing that before anyone reads this entry of The Newell Post another high profile man will be accused of sexual assault/harassment.

There was a time, when I was not working in higher education, that I worked for a guy who used to love using a quote from another moron. He would proclaim proudly, “I live by the Golden Rule, I have the gold and I make the rules.”

I used to laugh to myself ( I needed the paycheck so I didn’t laugh out loud) every time he said it. The sad truth was that he lived his life in this belief. Evidently he is not the only man to do so.

That is what all these men accused of sex crimes share. They are under the mistaken belief that they operate on another plane, above all morality and decency, from the rest of us. In their world there are no rules that they obey unless they are of their making.

These deviants use their position and power and celebrity to coerce women and abuse women because they can. They see someone they want to dominate and maybe humiliate—-put them in their place so to speak—and they act accordingly.

There are of course, hundreds and hundreds of other shoes about to drop and it’s not only Hollywood and Washington that fear the fall. Anywhere there are men of power working with women in a male dominated environment there have been abuses of that power at the detriment of women.

It is hoped that these men who have hurt women are approaching their day of reckoning even if it hurts the organization in which they operate.

Roy Moore and Al Franken should teach us something we may have lost sight of. Neither represent the proclaimed values of the political party to which  they belong. Going after these men is indeed not a witch hunt. It is, however, an exorcism to cast out evil no matter where it exists.

This disease is not limited to any political party, religion, or event to the United States but it is time that it be eradicated here now.

Let’s hope we get this fixed and soon.

I was born on June 23, 1950. At those times when I want to feel older I consider that I must have been conceived sometime in September of 1949. Admittedly, at no time do I wish to feel older.

Nevertheless, we all have thoughts that we don’t want to have, and more importantly, thoughts we shouldn’t have.

A guy cuts you off on the highway and you feel snubbed and disrespected. A normal reaction you might say. But what good is it to brood about this apparent social faux pas and, is it worth speeding up in a frenzy of road rage?

A wise person would respond to such an affront by blowing kisses at the perpetrator.  A good friend of mine with whom I used to commute into the Bronx when I was teaching advised just that. I can’t say that I followed his advice all the time but I did try.

The lesson that my friend tried to convey was that we have control over our thoughts. We can control our response to any given situation.

We can opt for happiness in lieu of anger and frustration.

I have limited my activity on Facebook. This is one step for me to try to take control of my thoughts.

I loved the ability of catching up with friends and family who reside in distant parts of the U.S. Some across the sea. But during our most recent Presidential election I saw the meanness of Facebook emerge and I made an effort to visit on a less frequent basis.

Now, I have taken to write about Trump and I am sure I contributed to the same meanness that I describe but I didn’t resort to the vitriol that I  have witnessed.

I am sure some of it was begun by Russian trolls and somehow shared to my page. On one occasion there was a report that Hillary Clinton had four abortions before she gave birth to Chelsea. This was the straw as they say.

Such a despicable lie spread, not to win an election, but to inspire hatred for a woman drove me off the grid.

Back in the days when I was conceived and born you could disagree with your opponents. You didn’t have to be afraid of being hated by anyone who shared a different opinion.

Today’s political leaders lack imagination.

Neither Democrats nor Republicans ever have the fleeting thought that they may be wrong or that the other side may have a valid point.

You can’t compromise with someone you deem incapable of being right.

You can’t work with anybody you can’t meet halfway on an issue.

It can’t always be all or nothing, unless you’re happy with nothing.