I am baking my St. Patrick’s Day soda bread as I type. Getting used to baking with gas after thirty-three years using electric ovens posed a challenge that I think I have overcome. So, my advice is to make sure your bread is done by inserting a toothpick in the center of the bread just to ensure that it is done. The next issue is how to serve the finished product.
I always loved the first piece that my mother would give me nearly right out of the oven. It was hot and melted the butter to a glorious topping for any fine bread. Jam and marmalade of course make a delicious alternative, but always on top of the butter and always after the first piece.
That’s my habit but you are welcome to enjoy your technique for eating your own slice of Heaven..
Enjoy and eat well.
Every culture that has sent its representatives to our grateful shores has, along with hard-working people who had dreams of a new life and guts of cast iron, given America its language, folklore but, most of all, food. This morning our subject is Irish Soda Bread.
I have always viewed Irish Soda Bread the way my Italian friends thought of gravy, what we call sauce. Just as any self-respecting Italian would rather go hungry than be forced to eat pasta covered in Ragu, so, too, do I have my standards when it comes to Irish Soda Bread for no two soda breads are ever alike.
No matter how nice they look in their bakery wrapper, and regardless of the wonderful aroma that permeates the bakery, when you get the bakery-bought Irish Soda Bread home and attempt to slather it with butter, well, let’s just say it sucks. Supermarket Irish Soda Bread may suck even more. The only recourse true Irish Soda Bread Aficionados have is to only eat homemade Irish Soda Bread. But even here one must tread carefully. There are a lot of wannabes out there, but Jimmy is here to help you. Take this down:
Lizzie McHugh’s Irish Soda Bread Recipe
First. My Mother never had a recipe. She winged it. One day when Eileen and I were still living in New Rochelle, I called her for her recipe. She obliged, and I baked. I love having the first piece when the bread is still piping hot and the butter melts right into it. I didn’t love it this time. It didn’t even taste as good as a supermarket bread. I called her back and told her. She was confused and had me repeat what I had done. “I never said a tablespoon of sugar, you need at least a third of a cup.” Ok, I wrote the corrected recipe down and made a terrific Irish Soda Bread, just like Momma’s. Here it is for your baking and eating pleasure:
Ingredients
Combine
3 1/2 cups of flour
2/3 cup of sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1-tbsp caraway seeds (I like more I’m just saying)
1/2 half box of raisins
2 eggs
Buttermilk
2tblsps-melted butter
Beat the two eggs and add butter (let melted butter cool down) and enough buttermilk to bring the total mixture to 2 cups.
Add the liquid and dry mixtures and combine and place into a greased baking pan, round or loaf.
Put into a pre-heated 350-degree oven and bake for about an hour. Ovens vary so I would check at the 50-minute mark.
Let cool…but not that long as there is nothing on Earth quite like a warm piece of Irish Soda Bread.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day everybody.
Jetpack
Share this post
To re-share a post, you need to upgrade to the WordPress.com Premium plan
I am baking my St. Patrick’s Day soda bread as I type. Getting used to baking with gas after thirty-three years using electric ovens posed a challenge that I think I have overcome. So, my advice is to make sure your bread is done by inserting a toothpick in the center of the bread just to ensure that it is done. The next issue is how to serve the finished product.
I always loved the first piece that my mother would give me nearly right out of the oven. It was hot and melted the butter to a glorious topping for any fine bread. Jam and marmalade of course make a delicious alternative, but always on top of the butter and always after the first piece.
That’s my habit but you are welcome to enjoy your technique for eating your own slice of Heaven..
Enjoy and eat well.
Every culture that has sent its representatives to our grateful shores has, along with hard-working people who had dreams of a new life and guts of cast iron, given America its language, folklore but, most of all, food. This morning our subject is Irish Soda Bread.
I have always viewed Irish Soda Bread the way my Italian friends thought of gravy, what we call sauce. Just as any self-respecting Italian would rather go hungry than be forced to eat pasta covered in Ragu, so, too, do I have my standards when it comes to Irish Soda Bread for no two soda breads are ever alike.
No matter how nice they look in their bakery wrapper, and regardless of the wonderful aroma that permeates the bakery, when you get the bakery-bought Irish Soda Bread home and attempt to slather it with butter, well, let’s just say it sucks. Supermarket Irish Soda Bread may suck even more. The only recourse true Irish Soda Bread Aficionados have is to only eat homemade Irish Soda Bread. But even here one must tread carefully. There are a lot of wannabes out there, but Jimmy is here to help you. Take this down:
Lizzie McHugh’s Irish Soda Bread Recipe
First. My Mother never had a recipe. She winged it. One day when Eileen and I were still living in New Rochelle, I called her for her recipe. She obliged, and I baked. I love having the first piece when the bread is still piping hot and the butter melts right into it. I didn’t love it this time. It didn’t even taste as good as a supermarket bread. I called her back and told her. She was confused and had me repeat what I had done. “I never said a tablespoon of sugar, you need at least a third of a cup.” Ok, I wrote the corrected recipe down and made a terrific Irish Soda Bread, just like Momma’s. Here it is for your baking and eating pleasure:
Ingredients
Combine
3 1/2 cups of flour
2/3 cup of sugar
3 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp baking soda
1-tbsp caraway seeds (I like more I’m just saying)
1/2 half box of raisins
2 eggs
Buttermilk
2tblsps-melted butter
Beat the two eggs and add butter (let melted butter cool down) and enough buttermilk to bring the total mixture to 2 cups.
Add the liquid and dry mixtures and combine and place into a greased baking pan, round or loaf.
Put into a pre-heated 350-degree oven and bake for about an hour. Ovens vary so I would check at the 50-minute mark.
Let cool…but not that long as there is nothing on Earth quite like a warm piece of Irish Soda Bread.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day everybody.
Jetpack
Share this post
To re-share a post, you need to upgrade to the WordPress.com Premium plan
Politicians usually sound stupid to me, but never more so when they use “WOKE” in every sentence while attacking liberals as they adroitly avoid actually speaking about a policy that will make America great AGAIN!
God Almighty, must we relive that torture again!!!
Even Tucker passionately hated the PMURT administration.
I hear they are starting an old-time radio show down here in Florida on NPR, of all places. Yes, Lake WOKE-BEGONE will fill the airwaves with pithy stories about life before Brown v The Board of Education and other wokenesses from our ancient past.
The funny thing is I have a sneaky suspicion that I am woke, and I don’t even know what the damn word means.
Every time I hear the word, I drift back to the 60s, and deep within the recesses of my mind Jim Morrison is singing:
“When I WOKE up this morning I got myself a beer.”
Some of you may understand the significance of today’s title. Some might be aware, and that is a very good thing in its own way.
Elvis Costello once asked, “What’s So Funny About Peace Love And Understanding.”
Of course, the short answer, requiring no specialized knowledge. is nothing.
Nothing, indeed, is funny about peace, love, and understanding.
No, they are not funny. However, they may be in short supply.
The shooting of teenagers in Parkland, Florida, was remembered on its fifth anniversary a few weeks back. The following day I started volunteering at the cancer group where I go for treatment for CLL. I was stuffing envelopes with a woman about my age or, perhaps, older. She could have been a grandmother, but we never got that close to speaking about such things. The first thing I said to her was, “What a terrible thing that shooting in Parkland was.”
Her reply:
“I just worry about the Second Amendment.”
I was incredulous.
I was flabbergasted.
I was dumbfounded.
I never said another word to gun totin granny, who cared more about the second amendment than human life.
In all the Constitutional Law classes I had (and I had two), the second amendment never was discussed.
But arguing over this and other hot-button issues has added to the need for my title today.
Love is rarely discussed except maybe in Hallmark movies, and we make fun of those.
What happened to America?
It’s astounding to me that we choose to identify all that is wrong with the other side. We never listen to the other side. We just know they are wrong, and some think they/we are evil.
Today is a case in point.
I could write something like, “When did America change and accept that it’s ok to hate and to say it out loud?
But you know when.
Americans claim to be a religious people. It’s time to read the tenets of our religions and apply them to the modern world. Don’t just cherry-pick your justification for applying two-thousand-year-old norms to the 21st century.
If He really does get us, He will forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Some may consider it to be a sorry exercise in nostalgia when looking back on your life. But, recently, I began to wonder if I am the same person that I used to be.
On the cellular level, it has been said our body renews itself every seven years. Some cells are more enduring, but the notion of such a dramatic re-birth of our cells is a fantastic concept to ponder.
I am sure I have changed in many ways from the college student in 1970 who read and wrote from a particular vantage point to the person with a more eclectic taste in music and who gravitates to the murder master genre more than science fiction.
For this reason, as we approach spring and summer, I try to recreate my 1970s playlists and book list just to return home for a few months.
This keeps me grounded by reminding me who I was and, hopefully, still am.
Then, too, I have a touchstone of sorts consisting of six or seven Bronx Boys (and the occasional girl) who have been part of my life, some in excess of sixty years. I must confess that there are times that I am reminded of the person I really didn’t want to be, but that’s all part of your evolution. Isn’t it?
And, while we are not in daily contact with one another, once we renew the conversation, we take off where we left off. It is the purest form of mind-tripping that you can safely endure in your seventies.
Nevertheless, I have struggled to remind myself who I was and, more importantly, who I am.
It has never been more urgent to remain skeptical of what you see on television or what you need on your electronic devices. Especially now when there are so many definitions of “fake.”
It has become all too easy to hop on the wrong train of thought. That is where your touchstones, whatever they may be, are most important. They can reveal the gems from the grit and help you remember who you were. But enough with this.
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 6th 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.)
The birth of your child is always amazing. 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 red head like her mother. The maternity nurse took her and got her ready for her crib and then 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 that 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 years 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.
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 listen 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 6th, 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.)
The birth of your child is always amazing. 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 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 that was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue, and her lips were puckered, and the nose that I would spend most of her early years 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.
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 listen 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 6th 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.)
The birth of your child is always amazing. 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 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 that was holding her. Her eyes were wide open and deep blue and her lips were puckered and the nose, that I would spend most of her early years 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.Leave a Reply
Here we are on January 6th. In the old days, we would have called this The Epiphany, and some would have referred to it as Little Christmas, the day when the Magi appeared with their gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
The term First Friday had its own special significance to those of us who attended Catholic elementary school in the 50s and 60s.
First Friday was not quite a feast day, but it was a day we were required to attend mass, after which we could return home for breakfast (one which was always made special by my mother) and then return to school for a delayed opening.
What a way to start the weekend!
We never used the phrase TGIF, but the sentiment originated back then. A shortened school day on the last day of the week?
Oh, how delightful that was.
I know I have, once again, time-traveled to my long-lost past, but I am only trying to stay positive and write about happy times. For more than a year now, I have avoided going political as much as to spare myself the negativity that I might espouse as to spare you. In 2023, I will remain as quiet, politically speaking, as possible.
I might drift into the trials and tribulations of the New York Jets from time to time or argue that the Yankees continue to strike out way too much or that the heat in Florida is stifling, but if you want political crabbing, tune in to Fox or MSNBC.
It’s essential to accentuate the positive as the holiday season comes to a close, and the return to work and the chill of winter winds and driving snow conspire to make the next three months a test of our moral courage.
Well, being retired has its benefits as well as living in Florida.
We have NFL playoffs to get us to the first week of February, soon followed by pitchers and catchers reporting to spring training. Our light at the end of the white tunnel. (No, not that white tunnel, just the snow heading our way)
Six years ago, Eileen and I and our friend Connie celebrated our First Friday in Florida. It has a different meaning here. It’s a big party day. We had reservations at a restaurant located in Lakewood Ranch in a shopping and dining area known as Main Street. Main Street was sponsoring a First Friday street fair celebration.
I dropped the ladies off across from the entrance to Main Street and proceeded to look for parking. It was impossible to find a space, and when I finally did, I would have had to Uber back to the restaurant.
We canceled that reservation and searched for another restaurant, but we were sure the same experience might face us at every restaurant on our list.
We were lucky to find an odd little place that will serve as the topic of another posting some other First Friday.
The trouble with Auld Lang Syne is that it is sung at midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Probably not the optimum time to comprehend the meaning of a song. I used to think that Auld Lang Syne championed the idea of forgetting the past and those that made up the past. But no. (The notion of acquaintances may have changed over the years as a more modern comprehension of the term implies that these acquaintances are not close friends at all but merely people you come across in life with no hint of a deep connection.)
The questions sung at the beginning are, of course, rhetorical in nature and certainly do not encourage us to forget the friends and family that comprise our history on the planet.
I am not sure I ever understood that, having often imbibed just enough holiday cheer to make understanding a moving target. To be fair, however, until recently, I misunderstood I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus with not so much of a sip of hot chocolate on my breath.
So, that settled, I will look back (as I often do) on a New Year’s Eve spent with old acquaintances.
The old acquaintances go back over fifty years. The particular New Year’s Eve I choose to remember occurred in 1969.
I have found that the happiest, if not the most significant, of events happened when no one was looking. No plans were made in advance, and not a second thought was wasted on what we later endeavored to do.
The night began, as most happy nights of that particular time began, in PJ’s basement. This in itself would have qualified as a party, except that it happened so frequently that it served as our usual start to any weekend evening.
There were cocktails to be had, and a punch of dubious origins was served. In any event, the Boys were well on their way to bidding adieu to 1969.
I have no memory of whose idea it was or even how the suggestion entered the conversation, but someone spoke of going to Times Square to watch the ball drop.
The modern reader must understand that in 1969 going to Times Square on New Year’s Eve was not the ordeal it is today. There was no heightened security to navigate. You could freely roam the streets, meaning you could go to any bar for a drink and a pee. Therefore showing up at noon for an event twelve hours in the future in which your access to a toilet was so limited as to require wearing adult diapers was not a challenge we had to endure.
So, it was decided that we would go to Times Square.
The trio, comprised of Lou, PJ, and yours, truly set out on the Six train and headed to 42nd street.
There was one concern that was serious.
The MTA Union (Subway and Bus drivers) threatened a New Year’s Day strike. Of course, they did. We were on notice that all transportation would stop at 2 AM on New Year’s Day. Therefore, our plans had to escape a relatively early escape from New York City, which, in fairness, was just as well.
In the meantime, we adjusted our schedule and set out for the west side to join the festivities. Times Square was crowded as, of course, you would expect, but navigating the area was rather easy. Right on 42nd Street, there were spotlights, the kind you see at Hollywood premiers. I thought it would be a good idea to put my hand in front of one light giving the crowd the peace sign (it was 1969, remember), much as Commissioner Gordon flashed the Bat Signal to get Bruce Wayne to get into his Bat Suit.
Fortunately, PJ grabbed my hand in the nick of time, preventing me from coming too close to the heat of the powerful light.
I remember later that evening, before the ball had fallen, the three of us crowded into one of those picture booths that were often situated in amusement parks and places like Times Square. As PJ has often noted, “Thank God we didn’t have smartphones back then.” I carried one of those photos for quite a while before it disintegrated in my wallet.
Eventually, the ball fell, and after we noshed a late (or would you call it early) breakfast at Childs, we made our way back to the subway.
We happened to be at 125th Street and Lexington Avenue waiting for the Six train when the clock struck 2 AM.
There was a bit of a crowd waiting nervously with us, but soon the rumble of the Six relieved us of our anxiety. The MTA and the Unions reached an agreement that forestalled the strike.
Before we knew it, we were getting off the train at Parkchester, making our way to the warm bed awaiting each of us.
Here’s hoping your New Year’s Eve will be as joyous.
Days like today always have me looking back to special moments of my life.
Christmas Eve, in particular, is a day fraught with whispers from the past. If only the Ghosts from these Christmases past could visit us!
Still, their memories are so vivid fifty and sixty years later.
Decorating the tree with my mother’s guidance making sure I didn’t just toss the tinsel onto the nearest branches.
Getting ready to decorate a beautiful real tree with my brother Michael but was forestalled by a phone call to my father alerting him that an artificial tree was on its way, and then being directed to open the living room window for an early dispatch of our soon to be, but never quite making it into a beautifully decorated real tree.
Whoever threw out a real tree on Christmas Eve?
Then there were the years when I got older, and we started exchanging gifts on Christmas Eve. Midnight Mass was often one of our usual Christmas Eve rituals that were actually held at Midnight. Two, in particular, Midnight Masses remain joyful memories.
In 1970 a bunch of the guys, some of whom were home from college, collected as we usually did at Al’s Wine and Liquors for our holiday libations. However, since the store would be closing long before Midnight, we made our way to PJ’s house, our alternate meeting place. At PJs, we made short shrift of our Al’s Wine and Liquors purchases and proceeded to sing along to the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar.
This, plus the spirits we consumed, put the gathering in a festive mood, making them more receptive to my suggestion to go to Midnight Mass, where we rejoiced and sang hymns and carols with gusto and reverence. Afterward, we returned to our homes and continued the celebration with our families.
In 1971, I started going out with Eileen, and we decided to attend Midnight Mass. The idea caught on, and the rest of her family joined us, and after our religious obligation was satisfied, we returned to her house for a Post Midnight Mass Breakfast.
There’s something about eating breakfast at two in the morning while watching Scrooge as his own Ghosts haunt him.
Then there were the many Christmas Eves with our children and going to Midnight Mass at six PM in East Quogue.
But one Christmas Eve in those years was truly miraculous.
When Sean was four, he had a bad cold aggravated by asthma.
We had an extremely busy GP who hardly had time for us, but he could prescribe the appropriate medication. However, Sean could not tolerate the drug, became sick to his stomach, and lost all benefits the drug was supposed to provide.
Eileen then called a pediatrician who she knew from the hospital. He said to meet him in the Emergency Room, which we did.
Sean was admitted and put on an IV containing the same medication previously prescribed. Because it was slowly administered, he was able to tolerate it.
The bad news was Sean had to spend Christmas Eve in the hospital.
That afternoon Santa appeared and wanted to make our little boy happy. Instead of greeting the jolly elf with open arms, we shouted at him to stay out!
We explained that we weren’t telling Sean that today was Christmas Eve or that tomorrow was Christmas. We would just reset the calendar and celebrate the holiday one day later.
We then settled in, and while Sean was watching television, there was a commercial for a particular toy that elicited an “I hope Santa brings me that ” comment from Sean. Eileen gave me the eye that, indeed, Santa was unable to fulfill this hope.
As I was going to be visiting a local McDonalds for Sean’s dinner, I said I would visit the two toy stores in town just on the chance that one of them would have the toy.
With Happy Meal in hand, I proceeded to the toy stores.
The first store had already closed as it was nearing five pm.
I went to the second and rejoiced that the store was still open.
Realizing that time was short, I went straight to the cash register to ask the young sales clerk if the store carried this particular toy. I was stunned to hear her say that it was right behind me. I nearly jumped for joy and started to tell the young lady why this was such a great thing to find. I continued my tale as I pulled my Mastercard out of my wallet.
Seeing my card, the young lady informed me they didn’t accept credit cards.
I was dumbfounded. I had all my cash back with Eileen in the hospital, but I could never get there and back before the store closed.
My young sales clerk was upset, too, and we were overheard by someone in the back of the store. I looked up and saw an elderly woman slowly make her way to the register where we were standing. She asked what the problem was, and the clerk explained that I really wanted this toy for his son in the hospital but that I only had a credit card.
It was at this point that my Christmas Eve Miracle occurred.
“We can just bill him.”
“You can just bill me,” I refrained.
The woman explained, “Give us your name and address, and we will send you a bill, and you can send a check when you receive it.”
I did as advised and made my way back to the hospital with the toy that would make my son’s Christmas and a tale that I love to share every Christmas Eve.
It’s the memories we had as young kids.
It’s the memories we had as young parents making memories for our children.
It’s the memories we have of our grandchildren as they stand in awe of the Christmas tree and the gifts that will greet them on Christmas Day.
The great thing about Christmas Eve is that it really is the start of a forty-eight-hour celebration that began over two thousand years ago in a little town known as Bethlehem.
I’m seventy-two, and I still believe in Santa Claus.
Yes, Virginia, I do believe in Santa Claus.
Why else would I continue to play with the toys I was given when I was 10? Why else would I continue to believe that Peace On Earth and Good Will Towards Men are achievable goals?
Why else would seeing my two-year-old grandson greet each ornament on his tree with a “Hi!” (that is more melodious than Bing, Johnny, and Nat singing their classic Christmas songs) be the greatest Christmas gift I ever received or would ever receive?
It’s Santa doing his thing is why I react this way.
So, it may not be a theorem that can be proven in a test lab, and indeed, I am in the minority when I proclaim and avow as to Santa’s continued existence and spiritual invasion of our hearts every Christmas season.
Look at the evidence in your own lives and tell me you don’t agree.
Do you exchange gifts with dear friends and family, even if those gifts are a smile and well wishes?
Do you remember the Ghosts of Christmas Past who no longer appear (at least visibly) at your Christmas gatherings?
Do you remember your best Christmas ever? Was it more recent than when you were 10?
Do you have special traditions that you repeat every Christmas, including Christmas Eve?
Of course, we have been taught that Christmas is much more than gifts, trees, or decorations.
The birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ is what Christmas is all about. Even Charlie Brown now knows this. Santa is the spirit sent to us each year to remind us of all that Christmas is about.
After all, giving of ourselves to others and treating them as we want to be treated were part of the message brought to us by Christ.
So, whether Santa is a rolly polly man in a red suit or just someone who looked remarkably like your father or mother, Santa visited you on Christmas, and you are now continuing the work of this jolly old elf.
The Newell Post 