The Newell Post

I wrote A Bronx Boy’s Tale to share my experiences growing up in the Bronx. But it became much more than a memoir. The lesson I learned from writing my book and talking to my readers is that A Bronx Boy’s Tale is as much about life in twenty-first century America as it is about life in the Bronx in the 1960’s and ’70’s.

Families, Friends, and Community helped me through assassinations and social upheaval back in the day and continue to help us all survive ebola scares and ISIS threats and a dysfunctional government.

A Bronx Boy’s Tale is more about now than nostalgia.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18759123-a-bronx-boy-s-tale?from_search=true

Please sign on to Goodreads and rate A Bronx Boy’s Tale.

Thank you. Jimmy

One of my favorite songs from West Side Story is ‘Something’s Comin’. Listen to it on iTunes or just read the lyrics, it’s such a happy, optimistic tune. Ok, it’s a little poignant when we know the singer gets it from Chino and he dies in Maria’s arm, but, it’s still a happy song at the time of its singing.

All too often today we may feel something is coming but that it ain’t good. That’s a shame. Where did our optimism go? It wasn’t always like this. I can remember singing Something’s Comin….

It was Friday, the beginning of Labor Day weekend. It was Friday, September 3, 1971 and something good was coming my way.

I went to work as usual that morning. I took the six train from Parkchester, opted for the local so I could have a seat. I would change at 125th and get the four and take that to Grand Central. the subway was crowded despite the holiday approaching. The subway was hot and steamy and not without its unpleasant smells. Arriving at my destination around 8:30 I proceeded up the staircase passing by the nun who was begging for alms in her usual perch at the top of the stairs. I always thought if she were legit her time would be better spent praying or teaching or doing something other than sitting on her duff begging. I passed her by.

Coming out of the dark, dank subway and greeted by the bright heat of 42nd Street I made my way to 200 East 42nd, the P. Lorillard Co. and the mail room. Eddie was the early man that Friday and asked me if I would go across to the Lantern Coffee Shop to get the coffee and muffins. It was payday and my last day working at Lorillard so I said I would treat the boys to a little breakfast.

The Lantern had the best corn and blueberry muffins and they would grill them and just make them even better and I am sure healthier. I am not sure why but today the coffee and toasted corn muiffin tasted better than ever. Holiday weekends do tend to make things seem better.

The morning proceeded as most mornings had that summer. I made my run and delivered the mail to all the departments on the 5th and 4th floors. I talked to the secretaries who I liked and passed by the ones I didn’t…there weren’t many of those. It was a great job and a great company and I was starting to wonder if leaving was the right thing to do. But I felt something good was coming.

Returning to the mail room I just made the beginning of the entertainment hour as Eddy was in rare form busting everyone’s chops and regaling us with his lovemaking prowess as honed in the second world war while on hazardous duty in Australia. Eddy was a funny guy and we enjoyed the stories more than we beileved them. I started to doubt Eddy’s veracity when he told me his parish priest gave him the green light on adultery.

Morning gave rise to afternoon and payday was Blarney Stone Day. We were a great bunch of guys from various parts of the city. Melvin was from the South Bronx, Myron from East New York, Ray from Brownsville, and Charlie was from Scarsdale. We always went to the Blarney Stone on Fridays, even when it was not payday. At the Blarney Stone one could get a great roast beef sandwich, cold beer and Melvin could get three fingers of Johnny Walker red.

The conversation was always happy stuff. No one had a bad thing to say and it was rare that the laughter even took an intermission. This was 1971 and no one would admit it and men couldn’t really say it at this time but we all loved one another and I was made to feel that my presence would be sorely missed.

To put the finishing touch on our repast,Tiparillos for all.

We arrived back at the mail room, sorted the afternoon mail, and made our deliveries. I made my goodbyes to the secretaries. There was a kiss goodbye here and a hug there. The one girl I would really miss had already left the company but the ones still there were alright and I was very fond of them. But something’s comin.

Eddy had gone home but Wilbur, who was my real mentor and the guy who hired me, was a great guy. He was a taskmaster but he had a heart too. He asked me to make one out of the office delivery and to be on my way. I said my goodbyes to the guys…we didn’t hug in 1971.

Engrossed in Alvin Toffler’s “Future Shock”, I almost missed my stop on the six. Fortunately I realized where I was just before the subway car doors closed. As I made my way down the stairs of the Parkchester station I made sure to go over to the Parkchester Pharmacy. It was my Mother’s birthday and I had to get something for Lizzie. She was sixty-four and I was going to play McCartney’s song on the subject but I needed a gift or two to commemorate the occasion. A nice perfume-scented soap collection and a bouquet of flowers later and I was all set. I was now weighed down by my gifts and the two cartons of Kent that I bought for Uncle James who would just love the heavily discounted cigarettes that he could re-sell at the standard price. I would drop the cigarettes off later. It was birthday time in Apartment six in 1261 Leland Avenue.

My mother was wearing a new apron for the occasion, no doubt a gift from my thoughtful father. The funny thing was, she never minded getting an apron for a gift and was always appreciative. It was 1971.

Getting home early was a blessing for us all. We had a nice early dinner, strawberry shortcake for dessert, and a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday. The rest of the family, Michael and Margaret and their two boys, Maureen and Hank etal, Johnny and Mary etal, and Barbara and Jimmy etal would be all coming on Sunday. By the way, etal refers to my ever growing number of nieces and nephews.

After dinner I made my way to my room for a little nap and rock and roll. My parents were always amazed that I could sleep through the loudest of music. Today I even amazed myself as I soon fell asleep to the drum break of In-a-godda-da-vida.

Waking up after my nap around seven I got up and took a shower. I quickly got dressed and headed out with my two cartons of Kent in hand. I just made it before Uncle James was leaving his grocery store for the evening. I could have left the package with Otto, his night man, but I was glad to see Uncle James. We chatted a bit and he wished me well and annointed me with his “You’re a gentleman and a scholar and a good judge of bad whiskey” and I was off to meet my friends.

Al’s Wines and Liquors was our meeting place and the source of most of our merry making supplies. Cheap wine was our favorite way of making merry and Bali Hai was our favorite cheap wine. The store was well stocked this particular evening with an array of Bronx Boys that made you glad to be alive. In addition to our stand-in proprietors, Freddie and Eddy, PJ, Trent, Mike, Louie, and Andy were all on hand to help usher in the end of summer and the new school year.

I was going to be a senior and I was just getting going as a student. Typical. Just as I finally got what college was all about I was getting pushed out into the real world. I had to come up with something to forestall that eventuality. Something’s comin.

I walked into a real debate. Interestingly, it was not over wines but bars. Everyone had a different bar to recommend for our evening’s entertainment. I had an opinion on this matter, too, but right then I decided that it was more important to go to the bodega next store to get three Ballantines. I always liked a cold beer on a hot night and this particular bodega had the coldest beer in town.

I got back to the liqor store just in time. The decision on our destination made, our means of transportation was next. Only Freddy had a car and he didn’t want to drive. No one could blame him. We decided a cab was our best choice. Freddy and Eddie had to wait to close up the shop but they would meet us at the Castle Keep up on the corner of Tremont and Bruckner Boulevard. I was happy about going to the Castle Keep as I liked this place much more than our alternative, the Hollow Leg.

But that would change, somethin’s comin after all.

As we got out of our cab and entered the bar we all gasped as one. There was nobody there. When I say there was nobody there I mean aside from us, the bar tender and some guy keeled over in a corner table, there was nobody there. Certainly this would change. It was early and we were all sure that within no time pretty co-eds would be populating this very empty bar. We got up to the bar and got a beer. The beer stunk which did not make matters better. Finally we lost patience and got out of this hell. There was nothing else to do but go to the Hollow Leg. We weren’t going to spring for another cab and we could walk to the Hollow Leg. Freddy and Eddie would have to adjust.

We immediately had a good feeling about the Hollow Leg as we had to wait on a line to get in. The bar was packed and not just with guys. There was a sizable number of women of all body types and hair colors. We soon separated and the boys were on their own.

I made my way to the bar…don’t start counting the number of beers that were consumed as I remind you, this was 1971.

I came back from the bar only to catch the eye of a pretty girl sitting at the bar. Could this be the girl that I met last week at Manhattan College? If so, I wondered if it were even worth my while to pursue her. She was extremely pretty and I really liked her but she was extremely frustrating. On two occasions in the last four weeks this girl brought me to the edge of romance only to push me off its cliff. She liked me. She said so. Nevertheless, she refused to go out with m. Her father would not like me. Who gives a shit, I thought but did not say. I guess she did but that was infuriating to me. I wasn’t even upset about the notion that her father would find me unlikeable. I could live with that.

So, as I stood there bobbing and weaving as we used to do back in 1971, she kept smiling at me and gave me that ‘come hithter’ look. Something’s comin alright…another kick in the…

She kept up the smiling and I finally caved and started walking in her direction. Now it was dark and smokey, it was 1971. And how many beers had I consumed? Anyway, as I approached, I realized that she was not she. She was somebody else. A new girl. A nice girl. Something’s comin and here she was right in front of me in all her beauty, with long red hair and the bluest of eyes.

The rest, as they say, is history. Eileen and I started our life together that night in 1971.

AUGUST 26, 1998

August 26, 1998 ended one of my most distressing years. It was a distressing year for everyone in my family. It was, in fact, a distressing year for anyone who knew my brother Mike. On August 26, 1997 we lost my brother and it seemed I relived that loss every day of the year that followed, his wife and sons and daughter in law, even more so. But on the anniversary of his death something happened to make me smile and shake my head and things began to get better.

In order to set the mood for what will follow I must go back to the day of his funeral mass. For some reason I felt that I had to give the eulogy. Although some of you may not believe it, I was never comfortable getting up and talking in front of a crowd. Certainly the prospect of giving my brother’s eulogy was not something I had wanted to do but I felt compelled to say goodbye and to represent everyone who loved him.

One of the things that struck during the days and nights of his wake was the huge turnout of people who came to pay their respect. They were waiting outside on Castle Hill Avenue for over an hour to get into the funeral parlor. My friend Paul asked if Mike had been a Pope. There were so many people there that it was hard to grieve. The crowd overwhelmed us and just made us realize that Mike wasn’t just special to his family but he was beloved to all who came in contact with him. It reminded me of George Bailey in It’s A Wonderful Life. In fact, I used that in my eulogy.

I also quoted a line from the Wizard of Oz. I said, “In The Wizard Of Oz the Wizard tells the Tin Man that a heart is judged not by how much you love but by how much you are loved by others. Mike had a magnificent heart.”

Many of you know that I love Lionel trains and have a considerable collection. I blame Mike for this. He had me loving Lionel trains just like he had me loving the Mickey Mantle and the Yankees and Joe Namath and the New York Jets. Sometimes Mike made mistakes.

One time a few years before he died I told Mike that I saw a beautiful Santa Fe locomotive. Unbeknownst to me the next day he went to the train store. He called me when he got home and said that he saw the engine and put $50 on it for me. He said, “You just have to get it.” From time to time when I am searching on EBay I still hear that voice. Back to1998.

I started my day on August 26, 1998 like I did most days. I called Margaret, Mike’s wife and we talked and cried like we did every other day and we both said that it felt like twenty years or just last week that Mike left us. I then went about my work and had a typical day talking to students and pushing paper. Then before I knew it lunchtime had arrived. I always do the New York Times crossword puzzle at lunchtime and this day was no exception.

I started the puzzle and was going along pretty well for a Wednesday when I came to a clue that had me smiling and shaking my head. “Name of Famous Train”, six letters. It was amazing because the answer was “Lionel”!

I immediately called Margaret and told her of this terrific coincidence. She said, “He’s watching you Jimmy.”

I continued the puzzle and then a clue or two later came upon “Eulogizes”. The answer was “Lauds.” I gave his eulogy! Can you believe this? Now, it was getting freaky. I called Margaret again and she was amazed.

Now, this was one of those puzzles that had a clue for an answer that spanned the entire puzzle going across. I hate those because it’s usually something I am not familiar with like Greek Mythology. I couldn’t avoid it any longer so I read the clue. “Frequently aired movie.” I was hyperventilating. I was sure it was It’s A Wonderful Life”. It wasn’t and I was kind of upset. It would have made a nice trifecta and a great story. But then I had another thought.

Sure enough, “The Wizard Of Oz” was the correct answer. Mike was there and he was messing with my head. I called Margaret and we were both speechless but we knew what we felt was true. Mike was with us.

That puzzle was sacred to me and I stopped doing it upon entering The Wizard Of Oz. I never went back to it. I put it in my bag and there it remained until the summer of 2002.

We were getting rid of our van and as I was cleaning out the back seat I came across my bag. I took it out and reviewed its contents and saw the puzzle. I began telling a neighbor the story of the puzzle just as I have outlined it here for you. I added that I never went back to the puzzle and as I said this I happened upon another clue. “Brooklyn Sch.” The answer for this, as those of you who do the puzzle should already know because it is a repeater like Bobby Orr, is “LIU.” One of the campuses of LIU was Southampton College where I had just recently started working.

Believe what you want but no agnostic, atheist, or whatever named nonbeliever can ever convince me that this life is all that there is. The puzzle of life and death has, for me, been solved by another puzzle and while I got neither a job nor my faith through the New York Times, I sure got a strong editorial in its support that only the clueless would deny.

Fourteen years ago this week I was first diagnosed with Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL).
Not too many years ago that would have been impossible to state. I have to remind myself of that fact every time I rant about how this country is no longer able to put people on the moon. If there is one area in which the promise of the future has been fulfilled, it has been in medicine.

But we still have a long way to go.

At the time of my diagnosis is August, 2000 I was told that expectancy to survive ten years was extremely high. Ok, not quite the news I wanted to hear but it was still reassuring that I was in no immediate danger of being able to answer the immortal question of “What is this all about anyway?”

Ove the 14 years I did undergo chemo therapy and while it was not a picnic, I was able to work and continue a relatively normal lifestyle. Of course, my theory has always been that it was work, particularly the two places I worked when chemo was prescribed, that was the ultimate cause of my ill health. I solved that dilemma by arriving at my current position where there are no “carriers” of the ill health bug. There is no one who makes me sick is what I am trying to say.

Now going into my 15th year and having been declared in remission for the last seven years, I strive to take advantage of my recovery and remission. I don’t want to waste surviving. I try to think of that every time I am walking from the train to the subway and it is not always easy. Old habits die harder than we do. But I catch myself and then try to focus on the beauty and the loving that makes up my life.

I had a great event a couple of weeks ago when I gave my talk at the East Hampton Library. It wasn’t so much the talk as the party afterwards. My family and friends all came back and we had a great time. More material was provided for the next book and new stories were certainly created.

I am not sure the book or that party would have happened had it not been for 14. It’s crazy to say, and it is not the first time I have said it, but getting CLL was a blessing. It freed me of the burden of mindless, arrogant people and they were quickly eschewed and replacements are never ordered or accepted.

I used to say in 2000 that it was still better than 1999. Only a few of my readers, who were my colleagues back then, will understand the reference.

2014 is better still.

The other morning I was listening to WFUV on my iPhone. I like to mix up my music listening from XM and my playlists to a NY radio station and WFUV is the best there in the adult contemporary world. Hot 97 is not for Jimmy.

I am listening to the DJ introduce a song from a group with whom I am not at all familiar. That is one thing I love about the station, it introduces me to new music as well as playing the hits of days gone by. Anyway, this new song promised to present “Nuanced and Compelling” layers of some sort. At the enunciation of these words I once again remembered why I never became a music critic.

I thought about nuanced and compelling and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out what they meant relative to a song. I would hate to find out, for example, that “I Want To Hold Your Hand” lacked nuance while the Byrds were good but short on compelling.

The Boss? Nuanced, no. Compelling? Hell yes.

Pearl Jam? Very nuanced.

Adele?

My mother always used to say if you can’t say something good about someone, don’t say they lack nuance.

Nuance and Compelling brought to mind a song by Harry Chapin, “Mr. Tanner”. It’s one of my favorite Harry Chapin songs. It tells the story of a tailor/would be baritone who tries to break into the singing racket only to be smacked down like some un-nuanced, non-compelling stain-removing, one-hour-martinizing pants presser by a music critic who knew his way around Nuanced and Compelling”.

I remember people telling me back in the summer of 1977 right before I was to assume my duties as a seventh and eighth grade teacher at St. Vito’s that “those who can’t, teach.” I never understood what that meant. It’s not like I was a hitting coach for the Yankees who couldn’t hit himself but had the audacity to teach others. I mean, I was going to teach History, and English, Reading, and Religion. Did these critic wannabes who posed as friends think I couldn’t be a historian and therefore I had to resort to teaching history?

Talk about un-layered people.

Getting back to the morning DJ, I guess all he was trying to say was that the song about to be played was a really good song and I think you listeners will enjoy it. Did he think that he was helping in that regard by putting us on the alert to make sure we don’t skip a layer or miss that compelling, nuanced guitar riff?

Not feeling up to the task and not willing to admit that I could neither identify the nuanced nor the compelling, I went to my Summertime Playlist.

This is probably the first time an author giving a talk can start off by introducing his characters.

First, I would like to introduce my wife Eileen without whom there would be no beginning, end nor dedication to my book.

I would like to introduce my brother John who has promised to keep me honest in my story telling.

My daughter Jeannine

Assorted nieces and nephews including my nephew Michael who is recording this for posting on You Tube.

Now last and certainly not least, The Bronx Boys: Michael O’Connor, PJ Howley, and Fred Cappelletti. John Trentacosta wanted to be here but had vacation plans already made. Another good friend ,Lou Fabrizzio would have loved to be here but business is keeping him away.

Our friends Pat and Paul

The great thing about having this put on You Tube is that many of the women, who I still think of as girls, who were not able to be here will now be able to see this. I hope Jeannie Held Algazzinni, Rosemarie Beitz and Kathy Lynaugh ,as well as Laura Clemente are watching and I wish you all were here in person to share this.

The list of friends that we all had back in grammar school and through high school was too much for me to manage in my writing but they were all there in spirit.

1261 Leland Avenue, Apartment 6

My mother and father raised five children in a two bedroom apartment on the second floor of 1261 Leland. It was paradise. It was hard being humble living in such a glorious place as The Bronx especially on Leland Avenue. You really felt that you were something. I just loved the sound of Leland Avenue whenever I said it. LELAND Avenue! Forget about feeling deprived, we were rich and we knew it.

I had to take Latin as a college student at St. John’s. Apparently the three years of Latin at St Helena’s HS wasn’t enough. Anyway, the professor I had at St John’s would start off each semester (I had him for three semesters) by quoting Ogden Nash, “The Bronx? No THONX”. I made sure never to read Ogden Nash.

Anybody here named Ogden ?

In recent years, my siblings, Maureen, Johnny, Barbara, and Michael would often marvel at my mother’s ability to manage a large family in so small an apartment. Now to be fair Johnny joined the Marines when I was two, so that opened up a bed. Then when he came home from the service Maureen had the good sense to get married to Hank and four years later Johnny got married to Mary. But during those four years when Johnny was still at home you never were quite sure where you were going to sleep or with whom.

It wasn’t until much later when Barbara married Jimmy and then Michael married Margaret that I had a room of my own…my siblings hated me for that. I was spoiled.

Another World

One of the common reactions my siblings have had to the book is the belief that we may have come from different families. I spent a lifetime hearing stories about people I never knew, cousins that lived with us that I hardly knew and other tales of fun and adventure. Now my brother and sisters were reading stories that they hadn’t experienced or hadn’t seen through my eys.

One of the nice things that I have heard from my own children and some of my nieces and nephews was that they loved hearing about Nana and Pop.

YOU ALWAYS HAVE A STORY

I had an assistant director who once said that I always had a story to tell. I think I inherited that from Pop. Pop was always telling stories and sometimes I had heard the story so often that I didn’t always listen. Sometimes I would just recite the story with him. But Pop had great stories and he had a unique delivery. He was always funny but never tried to be. Unlike me, I always try to be funny and very often miss the mark. But I always do have a story to tell.

A BRONX BOY’S TALE

I had a tremendous time writing the book. I am my best audience and I kept myself amused for quite a long time. I first started writing the book back in 1997 because of a friend I met on the Speonk train.

I met a guy who used to play basketball for St John’s when Mike and I were there. He wrote a book and asked me to read it for him. It was a manuscript, not published, and it was about a college basketball player. It was a pretty good story and well written but what struck me most was that my friend had written about something he knew.

I had been writing for years and never getting beyond a page or two because I wasn’t writing about something I knew, or more importantly, I was writing without a passion for my topic. I finally found a topic about which I was very passionate.

I always appreciated growing up in the Bronx and going to Blessed Sacrament and my last year as a student at Blessed Sacrament was something special. So, that’s where I began. I woke up humming a tune on November 22, 1963. Big D Little A Double L A S

It took me no time to get fifty pages written but then I hit a wall. I didn’t know where to go.

Fast forward to May 1, 2011. I started a blog, The Newell Post. I started writing again. I wrote about everything. I had a few Saturday Morning Rants about politics, religion and AROD and steroids. I also began writing stories.

One of the stories I did was an adaptation of something I had written for the Newell Christmas Party, A Very Newell Christmas. I added other stories and kept writing new ones. Finally, I put my original fifty pages on the computer and began to cut and paste my new stories. They weren’t in any order at this time.

Then one morning Eileen sent me a link for Create Space and told me I should publish my book…now I had to write it.

Create Space is a branch of Amazon that provides self-publishing services. I submitted an eighty page draft for editing and critique and a year later I published A BRONX BOY’S TALE.

LESSONS LEARNED

I used to say that my parents lived at a time when life was less complicated than today, less stressful. They worked hard but they didn’t have to deal with email and cell phones or a ridiculous commute. But then as I continued writing I wanted to make sure to include the historical setting in which the story takes place.

It was then that I realized that raising a family through the Great Depression, World War II and the constant threat of World War III had its challenges. Now I wasn’t around to see how my parents dealt with the depression and World War II but I did hear pretty funny stories about those years. Even when I was old enough to appreciate the significance of the Cuban Missile Crisis we had a laugh or two in between decades of the Rosary.

I guess what I learned was that every generation faces turmoil of one kind or another but if they have a family that loves them, friends, that stand by them, and a community that provides a structure for a life well lived, then you survive enough to create your own stories and to share them with the next generation.

Yesterday I had an appointment with my hematologist/oncologist. I meet with him three or four times a year, usually on the day when I have one of my monthly IVIG treatments. This time I was told that he wanted to see me in between treatments. This raised a red flag in my brain.

I was worried that maybe there was something wrong. I told myself that if there were something wrong he would have seen me right away. Nevertheless, as I drove to Southampton I had my worry hat on.

Going to the doctor never really bothers me or causes me any stress but sometimes I think about the time I took my car in for an oil change and was told my gillhoooly rod was out of whack. My care doesn’t have a gillhooly rod and probably your’s doesn’t either but mechanics have a language all their own and I throw myself on their mercy whenever my car is in the shop. So, despite feeling well and anticipating that I would have a good check up result, I still had a little angst as I was driving for my appointment.

I began to think what would happen if I were given bad news. How would my view of the world change? Bucket lists are big these days and I hate that concept. I have been fortunate in getting just about everything I ever wanted. Of course, a Ranger win last night would have really made me happy, but aside from thatI have just about what I need.

But the thing that scares me most about bucket lists is that they seem to be so finite. It’s a list after all and has a beginning and an end. What happens if you achieve all your list items? Do you merely check out and say Ta Ta everyone? It’s not for me.

I have always subscribed to the concept that Wanting is better than Having. How many times in our lives have we pursued a goal or a purchase only to achieve our heart’s desire and say, “Is that all there is?”

Having an unrealized goal keeps us hungry, keeps us in motion, keeps us alive. “I won’t have a bucket list,” I tell myself. But I will see things differently if I get bad news.

It’s a short drive from East Quogue to Southampton but I wasn’t even out of Hampton Bays when, talking to myself (it’s how I write), I say, “Why do I have to wait for Bad News in order to see things differently? Why not let Good News make you see things differently. I finish this thought as I get into the village of Southampton. As I pass the Southampton Movie Theater I note that “The Fault In Our Stars” is playing. Oh Bugger!

This only sidetracks me for a second and I continue my self-examination regarding seeing things differently. I decide that I must change my view of life. Lately I have bemoaned my commute much more than I ever have in the last thirty years. I always was able to put a positive spin on commuting three hours each way every day. The train was my “Den on wheels” where I could read and listen to music and commune with my thoughts. It’s where I could write and record my life experience. I could even have a beer on the ride home. But lately it has been unbearable.

I vowed in my newfound sense of self that I would enjoy the ride.

Then, as I got deeper into the Village, I was just about to let “let little things bother me” as my mother would say. It was like a smack at the back of my head when I knew for certain that the train was not the only ride I must enjoy.

I long for the day when my train ride is over. Retirement seems like a vacation to me. Maybe it shouldn’t? Maybe I shouldn’t be so eager to get off the train? Maybe it’s the ride that matters most when all is said and done?

I had a good report from my doctor. In fact, we talked more about the Rangers than we did about me. He said I was doing great but Nash and Richards had to score.

The ride continues and I mean to enjoy it.

I used to be a fan of Touched By An Angel. I guess it was a time in my life when I really needed a little Divine Intercession. But as I recall, I would no sooner finish watching an episode then switch to the next entry of The Sopranos. Nevertheless, the concept of Angels intrigues me still.

Eileen and I had a recent discussion about Angels and she is a believer in their existence and involvement in our lives. I am not so sure that she isn’t right because I believe in them too and I have a few examples of their intercession in my life and they are the subject of Faith, Friends, And Automobiles.

On the first occasion of Angel spotting that occurred in my life, I was actually the Angel. It was a Sunday evening and I was driving back to the Bronx after dropping Eileen off at St Vincent’s School of Nursing. I was driving my 1973 Chevy Vega. Having skimped on my car purchase by not buying the Nova, it should be no surprised that I avoided the toll on the Tri Borough Bridge and went by way of the no toll Madison Avenue Bridge and 138th street. Those of you who have made this maneuver will recall the ramp coming onto 138th and the lovely environs in which you were deposited.

Just as I was coming off the ramp and making the right turn towards the Bruckner Expressway I saw a stalled car on the side of the street. It was my friend Paul of Pat and Paul fame. He looked at me as I pulled up as if I were a messenger from God. I think I was. I was there just at the right moment. Fifteen minutes earlier and I would have missed him. Had I opted to pay the 50 cent toll I would have missed him. It was God who determined that I would be late and cheap all at the same time. As my wife Eileen is often heard to say, “There are no coincidences.” You will read this statement very often as I proceed.

Fast forward a couple of years and in that same 1973 Chevy Vega Eileen and I are heading into the Bronx from our apartment in Flushing. We were on the Van Wyck heading to the Whitestone Bridge. Just as we approached the bridge my Vega started acting, well, like a Vega. I was able to goose it up the bridge to the last exit in Queens. As we rolled down the Third Avenue exit in Whitestone I looked behind in the rear view mirror and saw Pat and Paul in their car. They just happened to be on their way from Brooklyn going into the Bronx, too. They returned the favor that I had extended a few years earlier. There are no coincidences.

The next visitation occurred sometime in the summer of 1977. Still driving that same 1973 Chevy Vega which I had just picked up from our Irish mechanic, Sean, I stopped off to see my parents at 1261 Leland. Sean was a great mechanic. I asked him how much it would cost to fix my electric rear window defroster and he replied. “How much could it cost?” I never got a real answer and I never fixed the defroster.

Anyway when I was at 1261 I called my friend PJ to confirm that he was coming out to Flushing so that we could go for a run and thereby justify the beer that we would have afterwards. But PJ cancelled. He wasn’t up to driving, running, or drinking. I was disappointed but what the heck?

I set off for Flushing and as I paid the toll on the Bronx side and reved up my four cylinder, aluminum block animal of a car, the very thing that had caused me to take the car to Sean in the first place happened again. As I accelerated the manifold pipe fell out of the manifold and the car sounded like one of those funny cars that used to pop wheelies nine feet in the air. Noise wasn’t my only problem as I was now dragging this pipe underneath my chassis. Once again I got off the Whitestone Bridge at the first exit.

I didn’t know what to do so I called PJ. He was tying up my manifold pipe fifteen minutes later despite the fact that he had been too tired to drive, run, or drink. Now most people would just see this as an extemely nice thing done by an extremely good friend. I used to think that and, in fact, I used this example of friendship in my religion class that I taught at St Vito’s. Had I known better I would have said that PJ was an Angel that night but he never knew it and, until recently, neither did I.

For the next angelic tale we really have to go back to the future. I was working at Columbia and I was still looking to go back into teaching. I had an interview somewhere in the town of Islip. I was driving into work and in those days I was driving a 1975 Mercury Monarch. This was an eight cylinder car that was bad on gas and that we bought twelve hours before the beginning of the gasoline crisis of 1979. Anyway, it was now 1985 and the car was on it’s last legs.

It didn’t have a check engine light as such but one that when lit stated “You’re killing me you bastard.”

So, here I was driving onto the Southern State Parkway near Babylon and my Monarch abdicates and goes and dies on me. I get to the shoulder and immediately a trooper comes and calls in for a tow truck. Not two minutes later I see this car pull off to the side of the highway and out of it came my nephew Jimmy.

“Uncle Jimmy what’s going on?”

Well, Jimmy was driving his parents’ car who were away on a European vacation. Jimmy drove me to the repair shop where we held a funeral service for the Monarch and then we went to his home in Baldwin. He then gave me the keys to the car for the week.

How did my nephew arrive just at the moment when I needed to be rescued? There are no coincidences.

There have been other instances of Divine Intercession that may be considered mere coincidence but I know better. Two people starting to say the same thing at the same time? That’s a coincidence.

People who just happen to appear out of nowhere when you need them most?

You decide.