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A Long Long Time Ago

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.

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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.

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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.

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A Long, Long Time Ago

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.

AFebruary 3, 2020Leave a Reply

A Long, Long Time Ago

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.February 3, 2019Leave a Reply

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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.

Till then, Happy 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.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

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.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Peace to you and your beautiful family.

Tonight the tree in Rockefeller Center will be lit in a 90-minute ordeal.

There was a time, however, that the tree was lit shortly after five pm so that people could stop off on their way home.

I used to be one of those people when I worked in Manhattan, but in 1979, I was teaching at St. Vito School in Mamaroneck and living in New Rochelle.

So, it took a little more effort to witness the tree lighting.

Eileen and I were planning to go, and I coaxed a friend of mine, Deacon Bob, who was the Deacon at St. Vito’s. So, we all set out on a train from the Larchmont Metro North Station heading to Grand Central.

We arrived a few minutes before five PM, and Rockefeller Center was jammed with eager witnesses hoping to see the spectacular tree. At one point, I had my right foot on the curb while my left foot was floating next to it with no visible means of support.

There was a young woman with a child in a stroller, and I wondered if this was a safe place for her to be.

Bob, Eileen, and I were no more than three feet apart from one another as the countdown began.
We kidded afterward, wondering if we actually saw the moment when the tree went from dark to lit.

We stood there for five minutes before we started to leave.

It was an hour before we all got together in the same place.

The crowd was like a river with its powerful current that you had no alternative but to ride it out.

Uptown, Downton, Eastside, Westside, we were pushed and prodded in all directions.

I thought of the young woman and her child in the stroller, but I never saw them after that first time.

It was kind of scary, but we were young and had a good laugh as we made our way to the train and back to Larchmont.

Later that evening, Eileen and I watched the news.

The lead story was a horrendous account of how twelve people were crushed to death at a Who concert in Cincinnati.

Having experienced the pushing and shoving at the tree lighting and being totally out of control, I vowed never to put myself in that type of situation again.

There wasn’t a mass shooting or terrible fire, just eager fans trying to get the best seat for the concert.

I never saw the tree lighting in person after that night.

The fact that it is a ninety-minute extravaganza has as much to my missing the lighting as anything.

Still, I can still feel the angst of not knowing where Eileen was for that hour.

My mother would always remind me not to let little things bother me. Of course, at the time, I was too young to understand the wisdom of those words as I would protest I was trying to rid myself of those “little things,” thereby getting rid of them so that they would bother me no more.

The fact is that many of us share my propensity to react to little upsetting things with the explosive fervor worthy of penitents seeking forgiveness. However, we aim to impose penance rather than forgiveness on the source of our anger.

After all, people are the root of our grief and anger.

It doesn’t take much to upset us.

It could be a comment, an opposing point of view, or a Yankee striking out at a critical time.
It doesn’t take much.

But we are compelled to remember that, It doesn’t take much.

It doesn’t take much to set off a wave of joy and happiness in our hearts and mind.

Perhaps it’s a little boy who imitates the face you make and makes it on cue when his mother says, “Make Pop’s face”?

It could be the look of frustration that a little boy has when you are not quick enough to skip ads on YouTube that makes you laugh out loud.

More likely, it’s the texts and selfies he sends to me when he grabs his mother’s phone after a FaceTime call.

It doesn’t take much.

Whatever caused me grief in the past has long since been forgotten.

It may appear that it doesn’t take much, but in reality, a transformation occurs whenever that little boy walks into a room or appears on my phone.

It Doesn’t Take Much but it is a miracle all the same.

It’s very much indeed and such a nice thing to think about on a Monday morning.

Have fun, everybody.

The very notion of a Holiday is the first step in creating a Holiday Tradition.

All of our holidays inspire special celebrations. Memorial Day has always been the official start of summer. Out in the Hamptons, we got our new beach pass, and although it might be chilly, we ventured down to the surf, if for only a few minutes.

July Fourth was the real beginning of summer, and hot dogs and fireworks helped us celebrate America.
Even Labor Day provided a tradition or two. Just as on Memorial Day, we made our way to the beach, so too on Labor Day. Except Labor Day served as the official end of summer. We celebrated at 5 PM on Ponquogue Beach by giving the lifeguards a rousing standing ovation as the last whistle indicated that they were going home for good. See you next year.

But two holidays, in particular, have given us the most traditions.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and you and your family will do what you have done for years and years. A turkey in the oven, stuffing that tastes like your mother just made it, and a nice wedge of pumpkin pie with a healthy helping of whipped cream to put an exclamation point on the Thanksgiving feast.

Of course, food is not the only tradition of the day.

Thanksgiving started with the Macy’s Parade when I was a kid and switched to the Laurel and Hardy movie, The March Of The Wooden Soldiers.

It always seemed that the Packers were playing the Lions which we watched a bit. But for my brother Michael and I, Thanksgiving represented the start of the train season. The Lionel Train season.
We would start looking at the new Lionel catalog, and the day after Thanksgiving, we got to work on creating our layout.

The only thing Black about this Black Friday was the steam engine that would soon be chugging around the loop of track affixed to our sheet of plywood.

The month between Thanksgiving and Christmas was the longest month of the year. Nevertheless, Christmas Holiday Traditions would commence soon after the stuffing was gone.

Listening to Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters, Johnny Mathis, and Nat King Cole was always a surefire way to get you into the holiday spirit.

Making our Santa Claus wish list ( which always made my Father laugh) helped our imagineering skills prepare us for a life of disappointment.

Finally, it was time to decorate the tree.

I have previously described what happened to the last real tree we had at 1261 Leland Avenue, so I won’t bore you again. But in 1966, my mother and I decided it might be time to look for a new artificial tree.

My brother Michael and his wife Margaret were newly married and also needed a tree.
I wonder if we had supply chain issues (not sure if there were even such things as supply chains), but there was not an artificial tree to be had in the Bronx that year. Perhaps there was a shortage of green pipe cleaners?

We looked in every possible store that might have trees to sell. We even looked in the Park Florist on Metropolitan Avenue in Parkchester.

We eventually gave up.

I forget where Michael and Margaret finally got a tree, but I reported to my mother that we were out of luck.

So, she and I got to work and decorated the tree we were so quick to toss out the window.
The result was that we had the best tree we had ever had. Perfect in shape, lighting, ornament placement, and just the right amount of tinsel.

The Ghosts of Christmas Past has so many glorious tales to tell if we can only take the time to remember.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I’ll be back before Christmas.

About this time fifty-nine years ago. I may have been daydreaming about the approaching Thanksgiving Holiday. More likely, I was daydreaming about a girl. In any event, I wasn’t paying attention to Sister Margaret. Although I always loved her stories about her time in the Bahamas, today was Friday, and the three o’clock bell was more interesting to ponder.

But dismissal was a long way away, and even lunchtime was far in the future. Well, when you’re thirteen, you have a distorted sense of time.

We had Math, then History, and eventually English, and all of a sudden, it was lunchtime. We prayed the Angelus, and then, those of us like me who avoided cafeteria food made our way home for a nice PBJ sandwich. Of course, in 1963, we didn’t refer to it as PBJ but as peanut butter and jelly.

It was Friday which meant bologna was off the menu in Catholic homes.

After lunch, I met Freddy, Mike, John, and Lou at Hoch’s corner candy store, and we made our way back to Blessed Sacrament.

That served as the last few moments of our normal life.

The America that we lived in would end in just a few short hours, but no one saw it coming.

The first announcement came around 2 PM.

“The President had been injured” was all that Sister Irene Mary, our Principal, said.

My classmates and I were perplexed and wondered why that announcement was so important as to interrupt our reading of our Catholic Messenger.

A few minutes later, our confusion was replaced by bewilderment.

“The President has died in Dallas.”

Assassinated?

We read about that in our History textbook, not the New York Daily News!

I am not sure any of us ever fully recovered from the shock of those few moments on a previously joyous Friday afternoon.

I know America has never recovered.

Ok, UNCLE!

When I finally retired and moved to Florida, I thought I would be entering the Magical Phase of my life.

Disney and Yankee Spring Training lured me south to the Sunshine State. Who knew it was also the Cat 4 State?

This past week we had another hurricane hit Florida. It was only a Cat 1, so no biggie? Wrong, it was a big biggie for those on the east coast of Florida. And, by the way, it occurred later in the year than any other hurricane that made landfall, but I wouldn’t worry about that climate change thing.

The only wave we were supposed to fear this week was that red wave sweeping through the country. Fortunately, for the remaining 49, Florida was the only state to be hit by the wave, and that’s mainly because God handpicked our governor to do His work.

But I wonder if that is really the case, as Ron’s Realm was struck by the hand of God twice in a very short time, right before the election.

A few weeks ago, I asked, “What Are You Going To Do? Where Are You Going To Go?”

Now, more urgently than before, where can I seek shelter from the storm?