The Newell Post

Sunday will be the sixtieth anniversary of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Beginning on October 16, 1962, and keeping my family on its knees praying the Rosary until October 29, 1962, it’s hard to believe that we are still living in fear of the mad inhabitants of the Kremlin and all their nuclear bombs.

As the modern-day version of Khrushchev, Poutin Pootin unsuccessfully tries to destroy Ukraine, maybe our strategy in 1962 to survive the blast of Soviet nuclear bombs would have prevailed.

Maybe Duck and Cover was a damn good way to face Soviet annihilation? They probably would have failed as miserably in 1962 as in 2022.

I guess the whole Sputnik thing and rushing to successfully put a man in space made it seem that the Soviets had a thing for technology.

Now, not so much.

They can’t even seem to keep their Generals out of harm’s way, much less launch a successful military campaign.

By today’s standards, Duck and Cover was sheer genius

I’ve gone through my share of hurricanes.

The earliest one I remember was Donna when I was a kid on Leland Avenue in The Bronx.

I don’t remember any others until Gloria when we first moved to East Quogue.

Then there was Bob.

And Irene, of course.

Sandy was the last one we went through while living on Long Island.

We lived in East Quogue for thirty-three years and experienced four hurricanes.

Not one severely impacted us save the loss of electricity for a week or so.

Given the destructive capacity of hurricanes, this was nothing to lament.

Five years ago, we moved to Florida and were immediately greeted by Irma, bless her heart.

We have heavy metal shutters, which, with the help of my nephew Nick, were installed, and we were safe from harm. Losing electricity, with which we are well experienced, was the worst of it.

We were spared Michael, but the panhandle of Florida was not.

Then along came Ian.

It was first aiming for Tampa, which is forty or so miles to our north, but then he changed his mind and veered off into Fort Myers.

You’ve seen the videos, you’ve read the reports, and it is uncertain still as to the number of fatalities.

It’s terrible to see the destruction of property and the loss of life, knowing you were only a few miles away from enduring the same.

It has me wondering what can we do?

We can eliminate all the carbon in the atmosphere, but I fear it is too late to turn back the geological clock.

So, should I move to higher ground?

Well, where exactly is that?

I left Long Island weary of the annual angst of the hurricane season.

If I leave Florida for the same reason, where do I go?

Give up the sun for the snow?

Blizzards can be just as devastating and deadly.

How about out west?

Arizona and Nevada are popular for retirees.

Oh yeah, no water and wildfires. Not ideal for your leisure years.

I can go back to The Bronx, but flooding and freezing are common phenomena there, too. I really don’t want to be a prisoner in my apartment for the entire winter.

I’ve been thinking about Ireland, but that’s a heck of a trip to see my kids. So, the answer to the questions, What will you do? Where are you going to go? have no good answers as far as I’m concerned.

It’s funny that we may all wind up being immigrants of a new variety…Climate immigrants.

Pray for those suffering the effects of Ian and all disasters, both natural and of human origin.

The autumnal Equinox will appear in just under three hours if you believe in such things.

This is another myth that has been perpetrated by those who insist on believing things.

For example, some still believe that Neil Armstrong took a giant step for mankind on the moon!

Then some defy flat-world logic and continue to accept that Christopher Columbus proved that the earth is round. As if!

This whole thing about equinoxes is ridiculous.

The only Equinox I believe in is the Chevy Equinox sitting patiently in my driveway waiting for the autumnal Equinox to arrive…yeah, right.

See, the thing is, the autumnal Equinox is supposed to usher in cooler weather when everyone here in Florida continues to wear white even after Labor Day because it is still ninety degrees. OOOOH, BRRR, I’m freezing.

So, go ahead and believe all that nonsense and savor your pumpkin latte.

I prefer to reside in a world where facts are for dreamers.

This entry might not make much sense if you don’t know about Stuckeyville.

In the early days of the twenty-first century, we were brought to Stuckyeville every Wednesday night on NBC.

For me, it began a perfect evening of television.

From Stuckyville, we were brought to the West Wing, and thereafter HBO gave us a taste of the mob as portrayed in The Sopranos.

Three different shows, but each is a special show in its own right.

You probably know more about the West Wing and the Sopranos than you do Stuckyville.

Stuckyville was a small town, probably in the midwest though it was never clear.
Ed Stevens was the lead character, and his name served as the show’s title.
But ED had several interesting and lovable characters, of which Ed Stevens was only one.

There is Ed’s childhood buddy, Mike, a local doctor. Mike’s wife Nancy, their friend Molly and then the love of Ed’s life, Miss Carol Vessey.

I don’t know how many seasons we waited for Ed and Carol to get together. But they finally did.

Stuckeyville appeared to be the small town that America wishes it still had.

There were no gerrymandered districts or failing infrastructures. The school provided a quality education, and there was no bullying, and of course, there were no social media to incite it. Thankfully, only flip phones existed in 2000.

There were teenagers with angst either because they were in love with the wrong girl and didn’t recognize the perfect mate right before their eyes.

There were heroes and villains, although the villains always appeared to be a love interest of Carol, who was not Ed. They were rightfully hissed whenever they slighted Ed.

It was a fun show that depicted a delightful town, and there don’t seem to be too many fun towns around anymore.

Ed was like a decaffeinated Seinfeld. The humor was there to be enjoyed, but it was soft and more functional than dysfunctional. It was like Cheers because, in Stuckeyville, everyone did know your name.

But in the end, it was too good to stay on the airwaves for too long.

It was so nice to visit there even if it was for only one hour a week.

Here we are at the waning days of summer and my biggest concern is time.

(It really isn’t but I’m trying to be entertaining this Saturday morning.)

So, I ask you, what time is it.

As I type it is 10:46 EDT but is it really?

Time is never a constant. It’s probably the one thing that started to divide our nation.

Some states, and even counties within states refuse Daylight Saving Time or is it Standard Time that they reject? Anyway, there is a movement, that I thought proved to be successful, which would do away with the biannual ritual of resetting all our clocks to conform either to daylight savings time or to revert back to standard time.

But, apparently, we are destined to once again fall behind on November 6th.

To be sure it has become a less arduous task as many of our devices automatically make the switch. iPhones, iPads, cable boxes and other devices will all make the task easy for us. Of course, I will have to change the time on our microwave and oven and the big clock that we have high up on a kitchen wall. So, I really shouldn’t be complaining.

But come on, this is a rather simple fix if we could all just agree to fix the time issue once and for all.

Who am I kidding?

There is absolutely nothing that we can agree on but so far no one appears to be willing to riot in support of one position or another.

I think we can agree that this, at least, is progress.

Well, maybe not.

You know where you were.

You know what you were doing.

You know who you were with.

You know how you felt.

You can’t help but remember.

You may have had one other event that lives in your psyche as real today as when it happened.

Twenty-one years has done nothing to alter your sense of that day.

And that is a very good thing.

As we approach the last full week of summer, change is already in the air.

It’s been quite an eventful summer in which the world lost a beloved Queen ( I wonder what our so-called beloved Founding Fathers would say to America’s reaction to the death of Queen Elizabeth II?)

Then, of course, America has its own drama unfolding every few minutes on our HD televisions (Again, what would the Founding Fathers say to that?)

But I chose to ignore the drama of the day to dwell on the Last Of The Summer Ale.

The changing of the seasons is as much symbolized by the changing of the food that is available for which we are now ravenous to enjoy as the cooler weather and darker days.

The lure of the barbecue no longer appeals to us as the prospect of fall comfort foods admittedly too dense for our summer palates.

Of course, we can include our choice of beverages in this mix.

Light wines give way to hearty reds. Gin and tonics cannot compete with a whiskey on the rocks. So, too, is our taste regarding beer.

Lager and pilsners no longer intrigue us as much as a malty stout or hoppy IPA.

The summer ale that I so enjoy as early as Memorial Day (previously dubbed the official start of summer), I regrettably savor the coming of a cinnamony pumpkin ale at the expense of my beloved summer ale..

A delicious brew sipping right out of the bottle is even better in a glass rimmed with brown sugar and cinnamon.

Scrumptious.

Tale gating and pumpkin ale!

America’s favorite pastime, well, mine, even if the tale gating occurs in my den while watching the NFL Redzone.

Of course, the ebb of summer ale can only serve as a warning that the demise of the pumpkin ale is nigh.

Before I drain the first bottle of this fall libation, I will be thinking of Christmas and Winter Ales approach.

To think that people once drank the same beer all year long?

Interesting.

My siblings always referred to our Mother as Mamma. My father did, too, when he didn’t call her Bett.

Today Mamma would have been 115 years old.

She has been gone nearly forty years, but I can still hear her laugh and smell her peach pie and rice pudding.

But today, I will remember her 64th birthday.

September 3rd in, 1971, fell on a Friday. It was payday, so the guys from the mail room at Lorillard Corp gravitated to our Blarney Stone of choice for a roast beef sandwich and a cold draft…maybe more than one?

It also happened to be my last day working there as I would be entering my final year at St. John’s the day after Labor Day, which happened to be Monday.

So, the boys celebrated the upcoming three-day weekend and my forthcoming departure with a cherry-flavored Tiparillo. This was ironic because we worked for a tobacco company but elected to smoke another company’s brand.

It was a glorious September day in the City, which is often the case in the waning days of summer. On most Fridays, I took the express bus to The Bronx instead of the IRT. It was my weekly treat and well worth the buck it cost me to ride in air-conditioned splendor.

An overly packed and un-airconditioned subway car was no match to the cool comfort and luxury seating in a spanking new motor coach.

It was my Mother’s birthday, so I had to stop and pick her up something to mark the occasion. I opted for the traditional perfume and powder collection of one Estée Lauder. To be sure, it was my tradition and not necessarily my Mother’s.

When I arrived at 1261, dinner was ready to be served, as was a lovely birthday cake decorated with a politically correct number of candles. Just enough to offer a faint glow in our humble kitchen.

We sang Happy Birthday, but the real celebration would come tomorrow with my siblings and grandchildren to offer their congratulations.
(It’s hard to believe that I ever thought 64 was old!)

Knowing what was in store for tomorrow, I had no qualms about going out for the evening with my friends.

We met at Al’s Wine and Liquors which served as a pseudo clubhouse and a source of our desired beverages.

From there, a few of us decided to go to one of the local clubs along East Tremont Avenue. The Castle Keep was one of my favorites, but on this particular Friday night, the echo that its emptiness offered was deafening. We then moved down the avenue to The Hollow Leg. Previously known as the Bronx Irish Center, I was never a fan of the new rendition and thought seriously about giving up on the evening and going home.

It’s funny how life offers you a flashpoint that may decide your future, and you have no immediate sense that such a momentous decision awaits.

I decided to go in with the rest of the boys because I had already had a few and thought there was no point in going home so early.

Before I knew it, I was standing rather unsteadily by myself, perusing my surroundings.
I must have been quite the sight. Because as I bobbed when I wasn’t weaving, my eyes rested on a sight at the bar.

She was sitting on a bar stool, sipping a drink and smiling, if not fully guffawing, as our eyes met.

Momentous decision 101.

I made my way over to her to see her more closely and learn what was so funny about me.

I was awestruck by her beauty, and where I am usually glib and charming in such situations (I may be exaggerating just a smidge here), I was lost as to what I should say.

“I’ve been admiring you all night.”

It wasn’t Shakespeare, Browning, or even Edgar Allan Poe, but it did the trick.

Because fifty-one years later, Eileen patiently awaits my return to the lanai so that I can clean the glass slider in preparation for our Labor Day party tomorrow.

This tale began on my Mother’s birthday. All of my tales began on my Mother’s birthday.

How nice it would be if she could only read it and smile while saying, “Very nice, Luv.”

Happy Birthday, Mamma.

Well, here we are on the last Friday of Summer. Of course, that’s not exactly true, but it will have to do for a nation that can’t tell the difference between truth and lies.

Labor Day has always been considered the end of the summer, much as Memorial Day is its’ beginning. Neither sentiment is supported by the Julian calendar or the Farmers Almanac, for that matter. But Labor Day unmistakably is the end of summer.

Of course, here in Florida, summer doesn’t end until Christmas Eve and arrives on St Patrick’s Day.

The days in between those sacred holidays are pure joy in Florida. We can wear jeans and socks and sometimes you even have to put the heat on.

One morning last year, I woke up, and the house temperature was 66 degrees! Oh, bliss!

Still, the end of summer awakens memories of past summers and Labor Days of yesteryear.

Traditionally, we would always go to Ponquogue Beach in the Hamptons, Hampton Bays to be precise, and enjoy one more day at the beach with family and friends. Eileen would make The Big Sandwich, and frisbees and footballs, as well as bubbles, would pierce the air under a bright blue sky.

The sky was so blue that it almost hurt your eyes to look at it.

Finally, the ocean water temperature reached a level of comfort, allowing extended boogie boarding for the kids. Unlike me, they were not filled with the angst of another summer coming to an end. They just enjoyed flying through the waves with no thought about the approaching first day of school.

We always did our best to extend the day and soak up the last of the summer rays that would be remembered on those approaching cold and rainy days of November.

We were sure to stay at least until 5 PM because that is when the lifeguards signaled the end of their watch for the year. At that moment, before the shrill of their whistles evaporated in the air, the entire party of beachgoers would stand and applaud their service provided all summer long.

Somehow that last gesture of ours was as much for our benefit as theirs.

Gratitude does have that effect on you.

It’s a bit ironic that a day devoted to labor and those that provide it delights more in the days free of work.

We may think that working is a noble experience that is good for the soul, but the truth is that one day at the beach, hands down, beats any day stuck in front of a computer.

Work, in fact, is the curse of the beach-going class.

Happy Days In Hampton Bays.

Today, my father would have been 115, just a few years older than Bilbo Baggins, but no less a joyful and inspirational man.

My father lived and worked for his family.

I always considered him a Man Of The Twentieth Century.

He was seven years old when World War I broke out.

He was 22 when the stock market crashed, and the Great Depression began.

He got his job with ConEd in 1930 and was soon going to be laid off. When told of this, he proceeded to the office of a Vice President and told him he couldn’t be laid off. My mother was pregnant with my sister Maureen, their first of five children.

The VP had a heart and called a supervisor and instructed him to put my father on the paint gang.

Pop painted everything in sight. He would paint these huge gas holders (you may remember the Elmhurst gas tanks) higher, hanging on a scaffold.

Pop saw Ruth and Gehrig, DiMaggio, Berra, Ford, and Mickey Mantle.

I even took him to his last game and the last season at the Babe Ruth Yankee Stadium before it was renovated.

I took him to see Joe Willie.

What a life!

But all of that meant nothing compared to the superstars that made up his family: his children, grandchildren, and most of all, our mother, Bett.

It was Mickey (or Mick) and Bett to all their adult friends and neighbors.

Pop loved to laugh and make other people laugh along with him. One Christmas, he put an inverted lampshade on his head, imitating a chef as he carried a huge platter of turkey to the dining table.

When I told him we were moving out to the Hamptons, he was visibly angry. I guess he thought I was abandoning him. He asked me what I would do for a job, and I told him I would commute on the Long Island Rail Road. He responded:

“Don’t think you’ll be staying with me!”

Little did he or I know that a short three years later, I would be doing just that as I started law school in 1986 and lived with him four days a week until I graduated in 1990.

The first night I stayed with him, I put a few sofa cushions on the floor, wrapped a sheet around them, and went to sleep.

When he woke me up the following day, I saw him shake his head.

I came home that night after class, and he told me that he had taken the subway down to Macy’s at Herald Square and bought a $900 sofa bed.

He was 79 years old.

He begged the salesman to expedite the order because “My son is sleeping on the floor.”

It was clear to all of us that my staying with him provided much joy and purpose to Pop. He was proud to help put me through law school.

He taught all his children what it meant to be a parent, and we have all tried to emulate him.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about him and my mother.

I only wish he was here to have a slice of strawberry shortcake for his birthday.