New Year's Reflections

The Scottish poet Robert Burns is the most regarded source for the words to the “'auld lang syne” song we hear every year. But Burns' version builds on earlier works. The phrase refers to a long time ago, perhaps closely to the “once upon a time” we have in our current culture.

But another version, the earliest that contains a form of the 'auld lang syne' phrase, is attributed to poet Sir Robert Ayton (1570-1638). I think these words are more appropriate for me on this day:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,


And never thought upon,


The flames of love extinguished,


And freely past and gone?


Is thy kind heart now grown so cold


In that loving breast of thine,


That thou canst never once reflect


On old-long-syne?

May the blessings of God carry you through 2011.

Hurt, Pain and Agony

James “Doc” Counsilman, perhaps the most innovative coach in United States swimming history, was an icon in the competitive swimming world when I was a high schooler.

He was the head coach of the United States men's swimming teams that won 9 of 11 gold medals in the 1964 Tokyo Olympics and 12 of 13 in the 1976 Montreal Olympics. Australians coached by Counsilman at Indiana University won the two gold medals that eluded Americans in 1964.

Counsilman swam the English Channel at the age of 58 and noted it hurt only once, when he got in until he got out. He had developed many mechanical and psychological techniques that had revolutionized the swimming world. One of his theories was there are three levels of physical discomfort. He felt swimmers could experience hurt, then pain, and finally agony. Those who emerged from the pool in agony were the champions.

I was reminded of this theory recently when I received another onslaught of e-mails from my soon-to-be ex-wife today. Prior to my leaving, there was a lot of hurt. And early on, it graduated to pain. But now it is at the level of agony. If one could think it over, most people would begin to start healing after five months. In my case, it has gotten worse as the level of anger has increased.

I have received 68 e-mails in the last month alone from my spouse. They are mostly nasty. I have been emotionally unable to open them any more. On either Wednesday or Thursday, I will finally have a court hearing on the divorce. I reach this moment completely exhausted. I do not want to go. I do not want to face her any more. It is something I have to go through, but also will be full of bitter accusations and controversy. I expect that by the time the hearing is over, the tears will flow. And that is a good thing because they will be needed.

What is bringing about the agony? There were many horrible times in our marriage, but also some good times. I want to focus on the good ones, but the anger is pushing them out of the picture. And that is truly sad.

In my heart, I know that the life I have now is better. I am overwhelmed by the love, friendship and support I have received. My self-image has gone from worthless outcast to grateful participant in life. Yet I continue to ask myself if the hurt, pain and agony is worth it? I don’t have an answer yet.

Birthday Thoughts

For the past weeks, I have been dealing with much sorrow. So much of what I had a year ago is no longer here. It is mid-day of my birthday, and my family has chosen to ignore me. And that is my fault. They see me as having deserting them.

For those of you reading this who don’t know me well, I went on a road trip last April and when I left my house, I also left my home. I am not wanted back and I have had to start a new life. There is pain here.

I knew that people would support me on this date, and I do have some e-mail and Facebook wishes, but I was shocked to find, even on the eve of my birthday, about a half dozen cards have been slipped under my door by my neighbors. I moved in only about six weeks ago, and was gone for three weeks since. Yet they have expressed good wishes to me.

It is so different from where I was. For years, my children rarely acknowledged my birthday – as is the case this year – but I am used to it. But my wife had her birthday two weeks ago, and they didn’t acknowledge her day. I had to browbeat them into doing something for many years. I had sent her an e-mail wishing her well. I was the only one of her family to do so, and probably the only one not expected to do it.

And so, I say to myself, what have I done to deserve all these good wishes? I am not used to being treated this way. I have frequently thought of love and friendship being a transaction, with conditions. And yet there are none today. It is as if I am an infant learning about how these things are, on my 63rd birthday!

I have often reflected on the Beatles’ “When I’m 64” song from the Sgt. Pepper Album. I had kind of looked at my marriage in that way, wondering if it could go into old age. It hasn’t. I cannot accept it going on the way it was and she, I guess, cannot accept what I would need to make it work. Next week at this time, we will be in front of a judge trying to figure out how to make the divorce work. We can’t even agree on that.

But I digress. In thinking it over, my only conclusion is God is once again working on me. My point is that we don’t have to act in a certain way to accept his love. It is that of a father for his children. No matter how much grief they give you, you still love them and want the best for them.

There are two Bible verses that come to mind. “Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days,” is from Ecclesiastes 11:1. Some interpreters (not unreasonably) understand by "bread" the seed from the produce of which bread is made. Seed cast upon the fertile soil flooded by the early rains would be returned to the sower in autumn with large increase. Others feel it means the casting of rice upon water fields and that it would also have a harvest.

Since leaving home, I have tried to be an honest, decent, caring human being and perhaps the cards are part of my harvest. I don’t know if it involves the law of my particular harvest, because I have also spread much bad things over the years. My only wish is that I could have somehow behaved the way I do now in my marriage. But too many years of sowing bad seeds have left that a wasteland. What I am grateful for is that I still have the opportunity to discover things like this.

The other Biblical verse goes: “For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in. (Matthew, 25:35)” In this verse, Jesus is talking about the way we treat others, as if they were sent from God. I have been fortunate enough to be able to do some things, but I feel that it is more the people who I come in contact with that are treating me as if God sent me to them. Getting this from others is something that I find something very new, even though I try to practice it.

So for those who have been kind to me on this date, I am very grateful. For the Lord who has sent them to give me meat – both real and spiritual, quench the thirst that comes from being fearful and alone, and took me in, I also am deeply grateful that a wretch such as me should be given such wonderful rewards.

I have had a very wonderful chance to see the beauty that God has given us over the summer and I would like to share it. If you care to, either click the title above or go to http://www.michaelmunzer.com to view a brief movie.

Peace to everyone.

9-11 Thoughts

My memories of 9/11 were once vivid but have eased with time. I thought it would be a good idea to share them before the effects of old age overwhelm me.

It was an absolutely gorgeous morning. Even as I entered the school at 7:45 a.m. it was warm, but not a day where the heat would be oppressive. I noticed it was primary election day and there were a number of people from the South Bronx neighborhood waiting to cast their vote as they dropped their children off for the day.

My first class was an effortless one with no problems from my special ed students. I went to the second period feeling great. It was clearly going to be a great day. I was a “cluster” teacher. What that means is I spent the day relieving special ed teachers during their prep periods. I had two bi-lingual ESL classes and three others consisting of children who had emotional and learning problems. I also filled in twice a week with a hearing-impaired class.

During the second period, I said our ritual “adios” to the ESL teacher I was relieving and began a lesson. It was about how Native Americans adjusted to their environment in the way they obtained food, built shelter and the clothing they wore. The teacher burst back in the room announcing that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. My initial reaction was being really angry with her for interrupting my lesson with this nonsense. I wondered what kind of crap she was up to? I already knew she wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but this was really dumb.

Anyway, the period was over and I was off for the next one. I went to the computer lab, which was usually empty but had a television. There, with horrible reception from our “rabbit ear” antenna, it was. By this time, the second jet had smashed into the other tower. I watched the replays in horror and looked at the other teachers who had gathered in the room. How were we going to deal with this? Surely some of our children’s parents and relatives were trapped there?

And then came another report: Another jet had hit the Pentagon! And by the time I left the room for my next class, another plane had crashed in Pennsylvania.

I had just gotten a cell phone and tried to call home. It wasn’t working. I managed to get through on the pay phone in the teachers lounge and let my wife know I was safe.

During the next period, the teacher I was relieving refused to leave her charges. They knew that both towers had been hit and several of them were very worried. Family members were there. In the culture of the South Bronx, there were few marriages. But both fathers and mothers tended to stick around in the neighborhood and multiple partners produced a wide number of stepsiblings and cousins. With such an extended family, it was inevitable that there was serious trouble.

About that time, the first tower collapsed. A half hour later the second one did. I moved on to my next class. As I entered, the children were looking out the window. About five blocks away, it appeared that the entire block was on fire. It wasn’t. It was the smoke from the towers dozens of miles away. We just silently watched the smoke, knowing that a lot of people were dead.

It was about this time that parents began picking up their children. We were under attack and a school is as good a terrorist target as any. But there was a need for children to be with their parents too. I went to the main floor and discovered that the election had been shut down. Workers were standing around wondering what to do next. I learned that traffic, including mass transit, in and out of the city was shutting down. I had only a couple of dollars with me so I went to the nearby bank to get some money out. Despite the fact that the officers and tellers knew me, I couldn’t even withdraw $20 to tide me over. The bank’s computers had been in the area of the WTC and had crashed when power was lost.

I went back to the school and got a free lunch. We usually paid $3.50 for it but we were allowed to charge it. A number of teachers were in the same boat as me. The first paycheck of the year was due that Friday.

After lunch, I went to my final class. These kids—4th and 5th grade ESL students--just didn’t seem to understand what the signifince of the event was. They had lived with a lot of gang violence and even when I explained to them that as many as five of their entire school populations had died, it didn’t have much of an impact. The destruction was far too vast to comprehend. As an aside, I mentioned to them that their television service would probably be out when they went home, that is when they became enraged. They would not have their daily dose of cartoons.

By the time we dismissed the students, few of them were left. A couple of dozen students were not picked up. Manhattan was closed off even from the outer boroughs and parents could not get out to pick their children up. They remained with us as the principal called for a staff meeting in the auditorium.

“It’s been a very bad day for a lot of people, including us” she said and thanked us for our efforts. We talked about the next day and she had us separate into groups depending on where we lived in order to arrange transportation home and for the morning. I hitched a ride from another teacher who lived on Long Island. As we drove over the Whitestone Bridge, we had a view of the towers. A dark, mushroom-shaped cloud was still rising from the fires and ashes of the site. Yes, it looked like a nuclear bomb.

The other teacher dropped me off in Mineola and I connected with a train that made all the local stops. It was a crowded diesel powered train (our branch had become electrified a few years before) and I was standing most of the way. I tried the cell phone and eventually was able to let my wife know I was on my way home. Others borrowed the phone as their service was not restored or they didn’t have a cell phone. Some people tried to pay and I refused. We were in this together.

The next day, schools were cancelled. But the shock remained. A local church was gathering supplies to be distributed to rescue workers and we were able to provide many quarts of sterile water and other medical supplies that was left over from my wife’s home nursing cases. I thought it ironic that the death of patients gave life-supporting supplies to the rescue workers.

I went to my grad school class that night to learn that the professor had lost two children who worked there and class was cancelled. It turned out that his children, who worked together, had been sent to a locale in Connecticut for the day and escaped the carnage.

On Thursday, schools resumed. To get to my school, I had to travel through both Penn Station and Grand Central Station. I was scared. And I took advantage of the counselors who were sent to the school. We had lost seven people, but more than 40 students were related to them. In the coming weeks, one of my grad school projects was to create an E-zine – electronic magazine for the web. I wrote background information and I had my students write articles and draw pictures about the event.

On the home front, my wife had become obsessed about the event.My oldest son, John, was getting married in Oregon in about six weeks and we had an appointment with the florist to pick out flowers for an East-Coast reception. That Saturday, we went to the florist. The florist was next to a funeral home and we observed a wake for one of the firemen who died. We then walked in and were asked to wait a while as a young, very pregnant woman was being served. She was the wife of another fireman. We knew, in the back of our minds, that Lake Ronkonkoma (where we lived) was an enclave for NYC cops and firemen. The sudden shock of it hit home -- the woman was from our neighborhood -- and it added to our rage. We lost 11 people from our town, including seven firemen and a cop. I had to teach in the city, but my wife attended every funeral she could. She didn't know any of the victims, but felt compelled to show her support. Ironically, in November on the morning when we were scheduled to return from the wedding in Oregon, a plane crashed in Queens and I was terrified of flying that day. We got through it only because we had a cell phone that we could contact people on our layovers to ensure that there were no more crashes.

My wife also spent a lot of time buying she more than a dozen tee shirts that had come out. Her cousin was late for work that day and missed the mayhem by minutes. Our flag was outside for months.

I went to a church I had left several years before that Sunday. The pastor asked for a special offering to support churches in the WTC area. He got more than $12,000.

The days went by slowly. In late November, I injured my knee and was out for nearly five months. When I returned, three of the teachers I had been relieving were gone. The assistant principal was told she would not be re-hired at the school. There was a general chaos with children running amok at will. I finished out the school year and transferred to a school on the lower East Side less than a mile from ground zero.

On the first anniversary, the class had a low-key observance of the day and continued the school year. A couple of days later, there was a sniping a few blocks away. Helicopters circled the building and the school was locked down. The children freaked out and it didn’t get better for the rest of the year. My teaching days were over. In a very small way, I was just another victim of the attacks.

An unanswered question

Was it worth it?

On April 21, I was very sick. I could no longer function in the relationship I was in. I had lost all hope that it would work out anymore. I looked around and saw continued anger, a battle over control, and just plain pain. I had enough. I left.

Did I abandon Rosemary? That depends on how you view it. On whose side you are on. I believed that my leaving was a matter of weeks at the most, not forever. She certainly had enough money to carry on for a month or so.

And so I went on the journey. Many good things happened. Some really bad memories were replaced by many good ones. I did some things I had hoped to do for many years, if not at least a decade.

I renewed some old friendships and strengthened some current ones. It seemed as if I was constantly being pursued as I did so. On one side I was being asked to stop. On the other, I was being vilified. I could not find a reason to go home, so I didn’t.

Today, there is much I have going for me. My shrink told me I really don’t need a shrink any more. I have gotten healthy. Yet I am homeless. I am either camping or, more recently, renting a room with friends until the summer heat stops crushing me. If you look at the photo of me camping, I am none too happy. I am now on a waiting list for a couple of senior complexes that I can afford, but they can’t give me a time frame. It could be weeks, could be years. It depends on the openings they have. In other words, I am waiting for people to die. I have paid a heavy price for this so-called health.

I am bombarded with e-mails from my soon to be ex. She struggles hard now. The money she was left with has run out. Part of this is her fault; part is mine. We are far apart on a settlement, mainly because of her needs for money. I go back and forth on this. On one side, I offer some help, which she refuses as not being enough. On the other side, she is the one who filed for divorce about five weeks after I left. So she has more than contributed to her problems. There is no hope, even for an optimist like me, of any reconciliation.

From my “old” life, there is a wasteland. People who knew me through my wife refuse to talk to me or outright hate me. My older son has sent me two e-mails since I left, basically saying to get out of his life. My younger son has made a threat on my Facebook wall and on father’s day he wrote: “Happy Worthless-Ass Sperm Donor Day!” I placed a birthday card in his car and he did not acknowledge it. But his mother tore into me for not giving him money. Hell, he hasn’t acknowledged my birthday in years.

I have some friends. They are important to me. They keep me sane and focused. Without them, I would be in very bad shape. The thought of being alone is unbearable. So I somehow carry on.

I have a few new things in my life. Country music is especially important to me. It has taken on a role once held by Harry Chapin, a folk singer/story teller who died decades ago. The plain speaking, get it off your chest lyrics appeal to me and the music is better than the urban stuff that has taken over the music world.

I am struggling with God. I consider myself a Christian. But I struggle to find a church that works for me. I met with a friend from my old church where I went many years. I had driven there for a morning prayer meeting, but when I spotted someone whom I didn’t very much like, I didn’t go in. I didn’t want to share my pain with that person, despite wanting to get some touch. I have gone to a couple of Episcopalian services. There are priests/rectors on both coasts that I have a great deal of respect for. But at the last one, the mass was officiated by a woman. I still can’t figure out how I stand with that. I don’t think it is fair for women to not serve, but I also don’t think it aligns with Biblical thinking. One church a friend attends seems very attractive. The minister seems to be a sincere person who loves God. But the friend’s slim knowledge of her faith leads me to wonder what the rest of the congregation would be like. I still feel I can somehow serve in some sort of ministry. I see many things I think I could do. But I am homeless and haven’t a clue about what I could do.

Was it worth it? I just don’t know. If things could go back to where they were, I wouldn’t want it like that. What I wanted were things I just couldn’t have – much of which was because I did to that relationship. But breaking free of it means starting over at the age of 62 and it is very hard. As a friend of mine likes to say “future plans subject to change.”

I wanted to say that I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. But I’ve finally figured out I never will grow up – at least by other peoples’ standards. So I’ve got to look in the mirror every morning and carry on. I guess what I really wanted to say to others is something my Dad used to tell me, which I ignored: “Be careful what you wish for. You might get it.” I do know that there are some who envy what I have done. Believe me, it isn't worth rushing into.

Whatever happened to Baby Peggy?

Today (July 1) is my mother’s birthday. Had she continued to live, she would be 102. She was many things to me, most of them unpleasant. Yet I found myself missing her as the clock reached midnight.

A friend asked me if I was going to her cemetery today. I told him that she is part of the earth. Her ashes were scattered along a beach at Montauk, New York when she died about 25 years ago. Although she lived her last three decades in New Jersey, her real “home” was Manhattan and Montauk was where our family vacationed when I was a young child. I’m sure she has other memories of that area, but I certainly don’t know about them and those who did are also long dead.

But my earliest memory of Montauk was one of being in a small cottage without hot water. We would walk across Old Montauk Highway and go to the beach. I vividly remember being afraid of the Atlantic surf. But my mother held my hand and held me and I felt safe. I also remember picking wild blueberries in the area. We would have them with milk and sugar and they were wonderful.

My father would take me to Montauk’s fishing piers where we would get the catch of the day or some lobster. My parents loved fresh seafood but I never developed much of a taste for it. I just didn’t like the “fish” smell.

A memory of Montauk that I only vaguely have is one my mother remembered vividly. I was about two or three years old and my mother took me to the local IGA supermarket. She was busy planning for dinner or whatever. And after packing the car, drove away – leaving me in front of the store. She got back to the cottage and emptied the car. Then realized I wasn’t with her. In a panic, she returned to the store where I was found still standing there. My memory is very vague. I just remember standing there, but no feelings of being lost or anything remain. The IGA is still there today and when I visit Montauk, I sometimes stop by simply to observe the family memory.

In general, I thought my early childhood was pretty happy. There were a few ugly incidents, but there wasn’t the constant drama that I remember in later years. My parents moved to Denville, New Jersey around 1953 and my first two years of school did not seem abnormal. I was too young to understand her alcoholism and chain smoking at the time.

But as a history teacher, I have used my mother’s own memories to understand her youth. She was born in 1908 and by the time she was six or seven, her father had died in the trenches of France in the First World War. She became a vaudeville performer going by the name of “Baby Peggy.” Cute little Irish girls were a mainstay of the circuit. In her later years, when she had too much to drink and thought no one was looking, she would sometimes do one of her routines.

She came of age during the height of the Roaring ‘20s and was a flapper. For those too young or too uneducated to remember, a flapper was one of the first major groups of female social rebels to appear in our history. The women of the suffrage movement preceded them. In fact, they were probably enabled by it. Flappers did not focus on politics. They were a social phenomenon. Unlike their predecessors of the war era, they wore very short skirts, smoke, drank and were sexually liberated. They were viewed as party girls and would populate the speakeasies and private parties on Long Island. If you’ve read “The Great Gatsby,” you will have an idea of the era.

But decisions made in youth have the tendency to stay around into old age. Her alcoholism destroyed her marriage and eventually her brain. Her smoking lead to an agonizing death via lung cancer. Her sexual liberation led to a couple of abortions. I was born when she was 40 because she was finally married and she was desperate to have a child. There was also a tremendous amount of social pressure to have children as the Second World War ended. She was married on New Year’s Eve in 1946 and I was born on Sept. 15, 1947, a honeymoon baby and one of the first of the boomers.

Old habits die hard. The flapper of two decades before remained the partygoer when we moved to Denville. We lived in a lake community and the club there frequently had many social events. I remember the holiday picnics and my cousin performing in a talent show. But the adult events were a time of drinking and more. One night, I remember they went to a costume party, possibly around Halloween. My mother dressed up as a nurse. My father was in a straight jacket. As I look back, it seems fitting, but in a more modern era I would probably think she was the one who should have been in the straight jacket. What I do know about these events was there seemed to be arguing after each of them.

Anyway, though I have little knowledge of it, some events at the club set the wheels in motion for my mother leaving my father. It was in the spring of 1955. I was 7. She stood in the living room and it was dark. My father had not come back from work yet and she said, “Tell your father I’m leaving him” and walked out the door.

After a few days with my father, I lived with my aunt for a couple of months until school was over. My mother claimed me for a few weeks where we wandered a lot winding up in a cheap hotel in Morristown. I spent the summer at a sleep away camp and at the end of the summer; my mother had rented a small upstairs apartment.

Things did not go well. She was constantly moving and changing jobs. We lived in 11 different places and I went to five different school districts in four years. I cracked up and wound up in a home for boys while both of us tried to pull our lives together.

When I came home from Bonnie Brae, things seemed to look up for a while. She had worked a couple of times for a Judge and when he retired from the bench, she returned to work at his law firm. She apparently was a crackerjack legal secretary and was decently paid. And though she started drinking frequently in the evening, she always seemed to be ready for work.

But the drinking increased at a slow but steady rate. Within a year, I spent my nights working at the YMCA as a lifeguard. Then there were other evening jobs, like an usher at the movie theater and delivering chicken. I figured I didn’t need the hassle. Now it stands to reason that if you are spending your afternoons and nights at work, you are not going to do much homework. I survived high school by passing tests. If you max out your final, they couldn’t flunk you no matter how many Fs you got during the school year. But survival is a relative thing. I graduated 380^th out of my class of 400 despite a 142 IQ.

After high school, I got my own apartment within a few months of graduation and I lived with her very little for a couple of years. Then, I began college and asked to live with her. Things were OK for a while. But then came an event that was seemingly minor, but had a huge impact on me. I had gotten my first college report card. I received an A, a couple of Bs, a C and a D. For me, it was an incredible job. I never had decent grades in high school and I was really proud of this. My mother ignored the A and Bs and focused on the D. I was crushed. But it also was the last time I tried to please her. I really bombed out the next semester and wound up in the Army a little bit later. It took me 25 more years to finally get a bachelor’s degree.

My mother had a history of sabotaging my relationships with girls. When I returned from Bonnie Brae as a high school freshman, I had left a girlfriend a few towns over. The first time I dated her she got drunk and after dropping her off at the house turned mean. I never did date the girl again. Another time I had a girlfriend who was Jewish. She went into a drunken tirade about the Jews that sounded like it was straight out of Hitler. I had asked the girl to marry me a few days earlier and after that, we never saw one another again. In general, she would alternate between being nasty and nice with girlfriends. I learned to stop letting them into that part of my life and, as a result, did not permit several potentially good relationships to develop. When I lived with her, the apartment was located on the second floor of an old civil-war era Victorian house. I would meet friends downstairs and say they couldn’t come in because my mother was sick. Eventually, I didn’t have that many friends.

But her greatest moment of drunkenness came at the Christening party for my first son. I had very few relatives. I had wanted to invite my aunt and three cousins, but she threw a fit. So she and my friend who was the godfather and his wife were the only ones from my side of the family to attend. Meanwhile, my wife’s parents each had six siblings and so there were well over a hundred aunts, uncles and cousins at the party. The booze flowed freely and my mother found a drinking buddy, Uncle Robbie, from my wife’s family. The two of them had a great time.

Now her usual pattern when drinking was to first become mellow and often very outgoing and fun loving. But then she turned really mean and vicious after a bit and finally she collapsed into a comatose state.

She was thoroughly smashed by the time the party was over. She was spending the night at my house because she lived in New Jersey. As per her usual pattern, she became mean, verbally abusing both my wife and I because we didn’t pay enough attention to her. Unlike her usual pattern, she didn’t pass out. She was roaring most of the night. At one point, she walked out of the house to find a bus. She knew we lived on 43^rd Street and the Port Authority bus station was on 42^nd Street. The only problem was that we lived on 43^rd Street in Queens and the bus station was in Manhattan. I had to show her the 42^nd Street in Queens in an attempt to make her realize her error and she just became angrier. I finally had to pick her up and carry her back to the house. She finally went to sleep around 9 a.m. and I had to spend the day exhausted at work.

Run ins like this happened often enough that there were stretches of around six months when we didn’t even speak to each other on the phone. One day, I got a call at work saying “I think I’m in serious trouble” and could I come to see her. She had gotten a chest X-ray and there were spots on her lungs. She had to go to the hospital for a biopsy. The results were well advanced lung cancer. Her doctors in Morristown gave her about 9 months.

The woman had guts. After getting the bad news, she went to an attorney she knew and had a will and power of attorney drawn up. Then she went to the funeral home and arranged and paid for her own funeral. We then went to her home, now a senior citizen apartment, and talked. I had been going to Al-Anon for a while and confronted her about the drinking. I told her how it had nearly destroyed me and that many of the ways I acted was a result of the way she treated me. It was a very long conversation and she gave me a very sincere apology. It was enough for me to let go of the past to some extent and help her through her final days.

She lasted about 18 more months. She stopped drinking that day. But smoking was another issue. As the disease progressed, she also became senile. She thought she had lost her electric when every single light bulb in the apartment went out over a period of time. People in the complex would ask her if she needed anything and all she ever asked for was cigarettes.

Eventually she became too disoriented to live alone and I took her to my house. Caring for her was nearly impossible. With her cigarettes, she was a fire waiting to happen. The pain from the tumors had extended to pushing on her nerves and she was in agony. She had refused radiation treatment and we finally convinced her to have it to relieve the pain, not slow the disease. She spent a couple of months in a local hospital. She was once so disoriented that she walked out the front door in her hospital gown with her bare butt hanging out and asked to get a taxi. She thought she was in a hotel. After that, she had to be restrained. Eventually she was moved to a nursing home and grew worse.

But when I visited one day, I mentioned the tumor. She took me aside, completely lucid, and told me she didn’t like to think about the tumor and asked me not to talk about it. I wonder to this day if the senility and disorientation wasn’t an act – her way to avoid reality.

One of the biggest issues for her was her religious views. Born into an Irish Catholic family, she had many battles with priests after separating from her husband. She turned against the church completely. The only times she had been in a church was for weddings and funerals since I was in high school.

As Christians, my family despaired about her salvation. My son, then about eight, once spoke up in an evening service begging people to pray for his grandmother since she was not “saved.”

There came the inevitable day when the nursing home called and said I should get over there now as the end was in sight. In a coma, I talked to her for a while. My wife left the room and I didn’t quite know what to say. But I asked her if she minded if I prayed for her. There was no response, but I asked God to forgive her sins and be good to her. At the end of my prayer, she smiled and her face turned peaceful. It was the face I remembered as a child when she held my hand in the Atlantic. She took a few more breaths and was gone. After a lifetime of trauma, her last few moments were of peace.

I don’t always remember her birthday. And usually it is a simple acknowlegement of the fact. But how I yearn for that peace she had in the end. I am overwhelmed with tribulation at the moment and could really use that hand reassuring me as I wade through an entirely different ocean. Wherever you are mom, I hope you are at peace and that we will someday meet again. I love you.

This train is bound for ...

Déjà Vue, all over again

It’s something I haven’t done since 1976. But from the ‘50s until then, it was done often, namely talking the Lackawanna Railroad.

You say you’ve never heard of the Lackawanna? How about the Delaware & Erie? Well, to tell the truth, it’s now New Jersey Transit. But when I moved to Denville, NJ in 1955, it was called the Delaware & Erie-Lackawanna, which everyone called the Lackawanna.

The ride started in Manhattan with the Hudson Tubes. Oh, I’m sorry, the PATH (Port Authority-Trans Hudson) train. Even I’ll admit to calling it the PATH because the Port Authority bought the bankrupt line when I was in elementary school (or was it middle school, or junior high?). Nothing unusual there except for the electronic tickets and a ride that used to be 50 cents is now $1.75. Still cheaper than the NYC subway (or is it the MTA?)

Upon arrival in Hoboken, the first stop had to be the hot dog stand. It was still there. At one time, the world’s absolutely greatest dogs were grilled by the most amazing man who could grill, hand out dogs with whatever toppings you want, sell beer and make change as if in a ballet. It was part of a bar. It still is, but now the dogs are cooked on one of those circulating grills you find at any 7-11 and the woman serving me was, to be kind, slow and clumsy. She had to wear those latex gloves and had to constantly switch hands as she somehow managed to get me a couple of dogs. I dread to think what she would do at rush hour. Way back when, the lines were three across and 15 deep and the guy didn’t miss a beat.

I then found out that I would be taking a train on the Gladstone Branch. Had to switch at either Newark or Summit. There were no direct trains to the Morristown Branch. They now run out of New York’s Penn Station. I didn’t even have to come to Hoboken. Though I’m really glad I did.

As I was waiting for the train doors to open, I wandered over to the water. There is a fantastic view of lower Manhattan from the docks. I saw the ferry and remember my father taking me on one circa 1956 when he wanted a break from the tubes, they were the Hudson Tubes then.

The train was certainly more modern. The lighting was fluorescent compared to the clear tungsten bulbs in lanterns at every other seat. The windows, of course, were sealed for the air conditioning and instead of straw; the seats had fake leather covers. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that the seat backs still moved back and forth, permitting you to be seated in a forward direction no matter what way the train was going.

I had to change in Newark. The last time I waited for a train there was in 1967, the night Newark erupted into rioting and I could see fires about a mile away while standing alone on the platform. The idea of switching trains was not comfortable, but it was broad daylight and I rationalized there really wasn’t any need to fear. As we travelled from Hoboken to Newark, I was surprised to remember what some of the landscaping was about. It still is swampland and motionless rivers ran by. But then, there were also changes. Interstate Highway 280 now runs parallel to the tracks.

And when I reached the Newark stop, I realized it was different from the station I saw fires at. It was the Broad Street station, not the one on the Pennsylvania Railroad (now Amtrack) line I had stopped at more than 40 years before. Across from the station was a minor league ballpark that is the home of the Newark Bears. It was a really nice place, not as sterile as the field on Long Island where the Long Island Ducks hold sway. It was brick and looked more like Ebbits field than the new Mets park is (another change from Shea to Citi Field).

Minor league ball had been out of style in the New York metro area for many years but it is now making a comeback. The Newark Bears were the first opponent Jackie Robinson faced when playing minor league ball for the Brooklyn (now Los Angeles) Dodger’s Montreal Alloutte team.

As I boarded my next train, I noticed there was a change in the seating system. There is now a spot for people to park a bicycle and reserved handicapped seating. And the toilet system had changed radically. Once, you dumped or pumped through an open hole onto the train tracks. If you were a guy, you could watch the ties pass by as you relieved yourself. Now there are chemical toilets. They don’t smell very good.

Another connection to the present was an electronic sign, which, between announcing stops, told riders to be aware and report suspicious activities to the police. I can’t even take a ride down memory lane without some of the issues of the present hitting me in the face.

As I continued my journey, the familiar names of the route returned to me – Summit, Chatham, Madison, Convent, Morristown, Morris Plains, Mt. Tabor and Denville each station had different memories for me from making chicken deliveries to making love in the parking lot (and being scared half to death because it was across the street from the local police headquarters).

Some of the stations, such as in Orange, hadn’t changed a bit. Others had been completely refurbished.

I finally arrived in Denville, the town where I spent some of my younger years. It hasn’t changed much, which is a small comfort in a world that is changing way too fast to be comfortable any more.

The Bird

I had seen them in Florida in plenty, but the concept of an exotic bird in Hacketts-town, New Jersey was mind blowing.

Yet there it was, standing on a rock in a stream at Stephens State Park. It was completely motionless, its long neck not moving a muscle. A large bird, at least three feet tall. Its coloring was a deep blue-grey.

I spotted it while crossing a bridge in the park. I got out of the car and watched for many minutes, photographing the bird. I have photos of similar birds at Centenial Park in Sarasota. And the ones there moved in the shallow water. But this one did not move. Suddenly, its head turned ever so slightly, and it remained still for several more moments. I thought my eyes deceived me, that someone had actually placed a statue there.

As I exited the bridge, I found a truck with a couple of park rangers. Yes, the bird was real. It was a blue heron. It was feeding; waiting in absolute stillness until an unlucky member of the newly-stocked trout population passed by.

A little research revealed the blue heron is not just a tropical bird but is found throughout most of North America, including Alaska. Birds east of the Rockies in the northern part of their range genrally migrate and winter in Central and South America. But in the warmer climates such as Florida and Southern California, they live year round.

They can be found always close to bodies of water, both salt and fresh, usually nesting in trees or bushes.

I had visited Stephens State Park for nearly four decades. The stream that runs through it bubbles with a peace-inducing noise that if Thoreau ever found, he would have stayed there and never found time to write. Yet all the wildlife I had ever seen there – deer, bear, chipmunks, robins, bluejays. etc. was what one would consider native to the Middle Atlantic Region.

Seeing this one didn’t just leave me awed, it did serious mind damage on what perceptions are. Something just didn’t fit into a lifelong comfort zone. It was kind of nice.

The bear facts

Gators and Panthers and Bears, Oh My!

It happened in broad daylight no less!

I was visiting with some friends and upon my arrival back at the campgrounds, I discovered my tent poles were destroyed and my food was missing. Three coolers and a milk box were gone.

The park police were nearby investigating a problem at another campsite. I told them and the immediate assumption was bears. I would normally agree with them, but there was no evidence of food being opened. Mostly all of it was canned and the other stuff was in sealed containers. How could a bear take four items leaving everything else, like an air mattress, intact?

The police took my report and then left for another part of the park. I went to the picnic table and found a note from the ranger. A bear did indeed go after the tent. But the ranger had the missing items. I never, ever, leave food in the tent overnight. I always pack it in the car. But this was in broad daylight and I didn’t even think about the bears as daylight raiders. In the morning, I got my things back unscathed. The bear was chased away. The ranger told me bears were “opportunists.”

I’ve lived among gators and panthers in Florida and Bears in the Middle Atlantic region. I’ve actually camped in this area since I was seven years old. And nothing ever happened like this. I’m not frightened of the bear. I’m frightened of my stupidity. I think that maybe it’s time to stop camping.

Afterword -- Bears are not dumb. I left two water containers at the site the next day. One was a clear plastic gallon bottle of water. The other was a two quart container with the red and white markings of a cooler. When I returned to camp that night, the red container had been knocked to the ground and opened up. the clear container was ignored. The bear also checked out a white plastic grocery bag which had some newspaper flyers in it that was under the tarp covering my wood. I was using that to ignite my campfires.

Raining and reigning

To the people who care:

Yesterday (Wednesday) was a day of not much going right. I started out heading to Long Island and was overcome by fatigue. Fell asleep in a McDonald’s parking lot and left my lights on, killing my battery. Had to get jumped and then gave up on the trip. Was just too tired.

Spend most of the day sleeping before having dinner with a friend. Then returned to my tent. I watched to the north as I saw heat lightning and it began to drizzle about a mile from camp. Went into my tent and in a minute or so real lightning and a torrential downpour surrounded me. I am getting pounded at the moment, but thus far there are no leaks into the tent.

Where am I? I am paranoid about the stalking my wife has been doing and also the harassment she has given innocent people. So I won't give an exact locale. I am somewhere in New Jersey camping in a park. I change locations about once every 10 days or so. Sometimes I am in North Jersey, sometimes South Jersey. The lightning and torrential rains continue and I have just felt a few drops on my feet. There is minor leakage by my door but my bedding is on an air mattress and away from it.

This is the third storm I have gone through. I lay sick and felt exhausted about two weeks ago but the tent held up. Then on Sunday, it was a complete disaster as I had set up my tent at a new locale and left for a while. I didn’t bother to stake it, leaving it erected by the tent poles alone and everything got saturated. I kept rolling into puddles while trying to sleep and finally gave up and spent the night in my car. Monday was spent drying out.

Tuesday was difficult because the woods were so wet. It took a while to get a campfire going. So I purchased some firewood from the park and covered it with a tarp. I should be good for tonight (Thursday).

In general, I am doing well. I have kept my sense of humor and am finding it to be my greatest asset. At times, I have been pounded by e-mails from Rosemary making demands and many vicious comments. But since the divorce papers were served to my lawyer on Tuesday, the mailbox has remained somewhat quiet. My lawyer says to stay out of contact with her.

The rain continues, but no major leaks have developed and I am exhausted. I will continue to write when I wake.

I awoke around 5:30 a.m. to the continued dropping of water on my tent. But mother nature called and I had to get out to relieve myself. In the pre-dawn light, there appeared to be not a cloud in the sky. Yet the water continued to drop. A miracle of Biblical proportions? Hardly. My tent is under a canopy of many trees, some at least a century old. The water drips from them. I can walk 30 feet to the road and there is no rain.

After dealing with the morning ritual, I cooked breakfast on a charcoal grill. The Eggbeaters and apple juice are somewhat more nutritious than yesterday’s breakfast of champions: Goldfish crackers and diet cola.

I will journey through Pennsylvania to upstate New York today to get a Post office box in Port Jervis. It is to give me a New York address to make the divorce easier and to give me a place to send mail.

So what have I learned from my journey throughout the East? First, I have a feeling of who I am. Over the last 30 plus years, I had immersed myself so much into my marriage that I lost the identity that I once had. For better or worse, that has returned. I love to make jokes and laugh and enjoy being with people. In fact, I have found that people are far different than the perceptions I had developed over the course of the last few decades.

In general, people are very decent. I take the time to talk to them. For example, a dog, mostly Labrador retriever, walked up to me and I said, “Hi buddy.” Its ears perked up and then from the distance the dog heard “Buddy, here!” Apparently I had accidently told the dog his name and after a confused minute, he returned to his owner.

As the owner passed by my campsite, along with a couple of scotties, I told him what had happened and he stopped and we chatted about life for about 20 minutes. He lived near the park and was careful about campers because “city people” did not understand his dogs. The lab was so large that it scared them. Buddy, like most labs, was a gentle, loving animal whose entire ambition in life ranged from giving unrequited love to chasing squirrels and chipmunks.

So I’m more open with people. What else? I feel at peace. I don’t need to fill any role. I don’t have to be what others, mostly my wife, expected of me. I don’t spend the days hiding in a room trying to avoid the conflict the day would inevitably bring. Even when it does rain, I try to enjoy my life. I go for frequent walks and write – a whole lot – about my trip. I’m tending to focus on the little events such as seeing a gulf coast sunset and a meal shared with a complete stranger. The highlights of my trip have been visits to friends I haven’t seen in as many as 48 years. I am constantly surprised by what they share with me and I delight in learning about their lives.

My soon-to-be-ex-bride will tell you that I am hypomanic and crazy. I don’t think so. I certainly feel saner than I have been in many years. But if I am, despite being a nomad without a home, it sure feels like a good place to me.

Weekend Campers

Live from New Jersey, it’s Friday night.

Camping in the various states I’ve done it follows a weekend pattern. As the sun begins to set, many campers start arriving, their lights moving through the woods like phantoms and one can hear calls like “here it is” as the right number campsite is found.

Then comes the hassle of trying to put up a tent in the dark. Where I am at the moment, Stokes State Forest, is by far the most isolated and rustic place I’ve camped. Only a few lean-tos and platforms are available. I’ve been here since Monday and have had a chance to look at various sites. Few have ground that is level enough for anything but a small tent. It is a vivid contrast to the county park I had moved from where there were platforms, level areas and hot showers nearby. Of course, there were also bears there while all I have seen here are deer. But the cursing of trying to find missing stakes and assembling poles fills the air. It’s a macho thing. As I listen, female companions usually are not involved and the simplest question brings a curt response.

The cars continue to pour in well after sundown and it is around 10 p.m. by the time the camping area settles down. The silence is broken by an occasional baby crying or the screaming of teenagers as they perform the rites of adolescence.

But the noise does not stop on Saturdays. There is an assortment of jerks with boom box radios inflicting rap music. And the teen rites are in full bloom. I enjoy the solitude and silence of camping, but Saturday nights can be incredibly different. There is usually beer (even though it’s banned) and loud voices and sometime fights also are likely.

Weekend campers are also uninformed about camping in this area. We are in the wilderness, not suburbia. They frequently confuse a bear locker with a garbage can, which brings the bears out with the smell. And, of course, many of them leave their tents open for bugs to camp in.

Yet they also offer companionship. Campers are the most friendly people I know. And the contrast between the isolation of the weekday is something to enjoy.

I had a friend visit my campsite last week. He told me there were significant changes in me. I had purchased some firewood and it was way more than I could use. I saw a young couple dragging wood along a path and gave them what I didn’t need. I also gave away half a bag of ice to another camper because it would have melted and I couldn’t use it. He said the generosity was a change in my personality.

I suppose that I have been looking for ways to relate to people. I am out of practice. But I am frequently surprised at the response my fellow campers have given me. On my first morning in camp, I cooked some steak and eggs, terribly burning the steak. Some campers walking their dog walked past me and I offered the dog the burnt food. “He hasn’t complained about it yet,” I was told, and they gladly accepted the offering. I am used to hostility, but am learning.

Another time, I mentioned a book, “Travels With Charley” by John Steinbeck, to a fellow camper, also a single older fellow. Steinbeck’s tale written in the mid-1960s forms much of the basis for my wandering. The camper mentioned how he loved how Steinbeck’s dog, Charley, said “pffttt” when wanting to go and how he went crazy near bears in Yellowstone Park. It was good to know someone else thought the way I did.

I am learning that more people than I imagined also feel the same way.

A Small Incident on a Long Trip

I started the day in Northern Georgia. I had pushed my way along I95 through the Carolinas amid many rest stops and was exhausted by the time I reached the Virginia border. I stopped at the state welcome center to see if I could find a cheap Day’s Inn which had a business center—a computer that permits one to go on line to check e-mail, etc. The three that were called did not have this service and the center was closing. I grabbed a flyer with motel discounts and started North again.

I came to a small town about 50 miles up with several motels and an apparent price war and found something cheap. After settling in and getting a shower after the hot ride (my car has no air conditioning) I asked the desk clerk for a place to eat. I had been living on fast and canned food for several days and wanted a cooked meal.

The restaurant he recommended was across the street, but a look at the menu told me that it was way too expensive.

I decided to drive down the state road and it appeared that as soon as I left the motel area, it was deserted. But less than a mile from the hotel was Nanny’s, and it was packed with cars, a sure sign of good food, service and prices. It turned out to be an all you can eat place that was only open on weekends. The price was right, about half of what the other restaurant was.

I had my doubts about it because people were milling around outside waiting to be seated. But I went inside and was delighted to learn that if I took a seat at the counter, I would be seated immediately. I sat down and ordered my drink. Then went to the buffet. This was southern food – barbque, fried chicken and much more. There was a carving board and there were veggies like collard greens among the other fare. Gravy was everywhere in many forms.

I had a nice slab of roast beef carved for me and grabbed some meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green beans and sat down at the counter.

The person seated next to me was an old black man. Almost as soon as I started eating, a voice inside me said to pay for his meal. I looked at his hat and saw he was an Army vet. He was about my age and I struck up a conversation about where he served. Turned out we had both been at Ft. Dix and Ft. Knox. He served his two years as a draftee and then stayed in the Reserves for twenty years. He was a year older than me and looking forward to turning 65 when he would not only get his social security but an Army pension too.

He had spent his life working in menial jobs such as at retail outlets and it turned out he was also an assistant pastor at a small Black church down the road a bit. He said folks called him “Doc” because he had received a doctorate from his church denomination. The voice inside me continued to say pay for his meal. So as I went to get a second round of the best meat loaf I’ve ever had, I stopped at the cashier, handed him some money and pointed out the man. I said the meal was on me and to refuse to accept payment. Seems this sort of thing happens in this restaurant often and the cashier had no problem with it.

When I returned to the counter, we talked some more. He told me of his church and a little more about his life. He finished eating and he took out his checkbook. I watched as he struggled with the idea of writing a check for his food. He certainly didn’t have enough cash on him. I suspected there wasn’t much in the bank either. He asked the waitress if he could pay by check and she told him it was OK. He then went to the cashier and I watched as the cashier told him the bill was paid.

He came over to thank me and I told him that he had served his country and he was serving the Lord and it was my pleasure to be able to bless him. He gave me a huge smile and left me to my thoughts and another helping of meat loaf. It was wonderful.

That night, as I thought about him and many other things, the thought occurred to me that Jesus was like that too. He paid for our sins so we would not have to worry when the check came due if we had enough to pay. It had been a long time since I had done something like that. The cost of both meals was less than I would have paid at the restaurant the clerk recommended. I slept very soundly that night.

Time with myself

It is nearing 7 p.m. on Memorial Day. I am alone camping in a state park. All the holiday weekend campers have gone and it is quiet. I am the last and will depart tomorrow. The heat of the day is leaving. Birds are chirping. The wind is rustling through the vividly green leaves and I hear the crackling of wood from the campfire I have built as I write.

Somewhere along the way, someone told me that campfires make you warm twice – when they are burning and when you remember them. I think back on past campfires, as a child in summer camp, sitting with friends and lovers, and as a parent with my children.

There are little moments, like toasting a marshmallow. Oh how I was tempted to buy a bag tonight, but I knew I would devour the entire bag if I did. And there are times remembered of sitting around solving all the problems of the world. And simply sharing the moment. There are events, like camping and canoe trips, which come to mind. And there are the memories of songs, stories and tall tales as well. All of them hold a special place in my heart.

I am filled with temptation to rip into my soon-to-be ex – to let the world know “my” side of the story. But I will not do so. Things between us are bitter enough and it simply is not worth the time and effort to do so. There is nothing wrong with things being left unsaid, especially since they are no one’s business anyway. And so what I will write will be about the good things on this adventure of mine. I have taken many photographs. They warm my memories and help me to remember the small things. I will share them in chapters to come.

A gentle rain has come in from the East. It is enough to force me to retreat into the tent to protect my computer, but it cannot even begin to reduce the heat of the embers in my campfire as I watch it. In the West, the sun is setting among the trees. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of distant thunder. It reminds me that there are still challenges from my old life that lie in wait. I am truly saddened that there is so much anger. This started out as a voyage to change the perspectives from the past in order to deal with the challenges of the present. I never meant to inflict harm, and I really believe I didn’t. The anger my wife feels is, I fear, self-inflicted. But while I care about her pain, I cannot do anything to resolve it. She owns it and must deal with it in her own way. It is a role she is well rehearsed in.

The rain has stopped and the birds are continuing their evening song. I hope the clouds go away. Night out here has little ambient light and the stars are glorious. My first night of camping, I watched in awe as they once again revealed their true glory. After looking at them without the glow of civilization interfering, I wonder how one can even begin to question the existence of God.

Dealing with God – perhaps more with religion and religious people – has been a major factor in this journey. There is a beautiful country music song that is very popular today. It is about a singer who tells God he is down on his knees because there is nowhere left to go. He begs and pleads for just one more chance for his relationship with his wife. He asks for help to make him the man he wants to be.

Right now, I am very unsure about what kind of man I want to be. I know that it has nothing to deal with meeting the expectations of others. There have been some who expect me to do things which fit into their notion of “right” yet use vile words in an attempt to rouse me into their agenda. My friend, Larry, spoke of the concept of “thinking outside the box” and yet we create the parameters of the box itself. The fundamentalist Christian concept of a never-give-up marriage has driven me for many years. Countless professionals have told me the marriage is toxic and to leave it. Yet until recently, it has not been an option. It has been a matter of sheer willpower to keep it going. But alas, keeping it going and keeping it meaningful are two different things. Living together in a house is not the same as loving together in a home. One can find love in the most humble of dwellings, and never see it in the largest palace.

Some of these religious people cannot comprehend the marriage is over. They tell me to go back, but I am not welcome there. In my mind, there is little I have done wrong. I struggle with what new life I am to have, and what new person I am to become. I am enjoying the current vagabond status. I can go anywhere I choose, and see anyone who wants to see me. And last night I thought about living alone in one place, without friends and isolated. It would drive me to suicide. Yet I lived with intense loneliness for well over a decade. I was afraid to express my feelings unless they were of such intensity they screamed to be heard despite the consequences. To submerge one’s self to conform to my perception of what was expected by my mate was driven by the fear of ridicule, condemnation and worthlessness.

And then came the miracle of 2010. I began to discover I had a past, and a life that was far different from my present. As I made contact with people from many decades ago, I learned their perceptions of me then are far different than mine are. I learned that many of the things I do today are based on lies of the past. The thought of being less than good enough was replaced by people who validated my feelings. It is a heady and intense emotion. To feel worth when one was filled with worthlessness and despair is a metamorphous worthy of the caterpillar and the butterfly.

Events that are no one’s business but within my family led to thoughts of somehow making things different. I felt a desperate need to examine the past in order to resolve the problems of the present. In addition, there was a desire for a last adventure. A “bucket” trip to go on before I died. I thought I was fairly close to death. I have a number of medical issues and they were running much of the way I lived. I was becoming weaker by just giving into them. I wanted to live, not lay in bed waiting for something to happen. I hadn’t seen my best friend for more than a decade, and never met his grown children. I had read a book about traveling from my area to the Florida Keys. I dreamed of being able to put a foot into the Atlantic Ocean and then putting the other into the Gulf of Mexico a few moments later. I wanted to see Key Deer, small dog-size deer that are perfectly proportioned and exist on only one island. I wanted to see sunset at Mallory Square in Key West, a tradition begun by some of America’s greatest writers.

And I did. And I did even more than I ever imagined. I drove through the Shenandoah Valley, one of the most beautiful places on the face of the earth. I met and had my picture taken with a real Apollo astronaut at the Kennedy Space Center. I watched the sunset on the incredibly blue-green waters of the Gulf and was inspired by the sun kissing the sea. I paid for the dinner of a complete stranger and was the one who reaped the true reward. I visited the house my parents bought and replaced the memory of my drunken mother saying “tell your father I’m leaving him” with the beauty of my home, the good times like fishing, playing with trains, the childhood friends, the peace of fires in the fireplace and much more.

But the people were the most meaningful part. From near and far, the support and love I received has been wonderful. I had dinner with my prom date from more than four decades ago. How cool is that? I did see my old friend and met his children. I had time with high school and junior high school friends who I hadn’t seen in an eternity. And as things became difficult as my wife stalked me, they gave me support despite themselves being harassed. Others did not do so. And while I was sorry they came to what I considered the wrong conclusions about me, I accepted it. And then there was the kindness of complete strangers. There was the woman at my old home who invited me in to see my old room and tour the house. I was a complete stranger to her and in our current society I could have been someone horrible.

There were also the librarians at the Morristown library. Morristown is my home town. They were able to find yearbooks from a half-century ago and permitted me to photograph pages and spend hours enjoying the memories. Incredibly, only a week later, there was an electrical-gas explosion right in the area I was using. Some of the treasures I touched may never again be seen. To make matters worse, asbestos was discovered after the explosion. It could take years to rebuild this once-beautiful Victorian era building and restore its treasures.

There is now little glow left in the embers of my campfire. The sun has disappeared and the shadows of twilight fill the forest now. The song of the birds has given way to the hum of insects. The fatigue of being on the road for more than a month is setting in. It is time to close this chapter and prepare for the night and hopefully the stars.

Even at my age I don't understand women

I’m old, and I look it. If I walk into Friendly’s or Denny’s, I automatically go to the senior citizens part of the menu. I became gray prematurely and someone at a Wendy’s automatically gave me a senior citizen’s discount before I hit 50.

Looking old has some distinct advantages. People hold doors for me all the time. If I have an item or two at the supermarket, as often as not the person I am behind will absolutely insist that I go first. I have a bum knee and frequently go shopping using a motor cart. People ask me if I need help.

I have grown old enough to not care what anyone thinks about how I look. I recently re-grew my beard, which I haven’t had since I’m was in my 20s. It is a Santa-white and makes me look even older. But I like it. But there is a distinct difference between men and women about this. All it takes is a look into social networking sites like classmates.com and Facebook.

In my circle of Facebook friends, the guys have no problem showing themselves. Larry is a gray-haired folk singer who is sitting down wearing a tropical shirt with guitar in hand. George stands proudly in front of Mt. Rushmore, his dark skin in contrast to the presidents and his white hair matching them. I change my picture constantly, alternating photos of myself with cartoon alter egos on a near daily basis.

But older women are very different. Carol, a true beauty in school days, has a sketch. Yet the one picture I see of her in an album playing in the snow shows she has aged to perfection. Susy recently changed her picture. She was on a beach with her image in silhouette and a bright sandy background. Now there is a close-up of her face with huge sunglasses. And I remember her having beautiful eyes. Emily uses a cartoon to disguise her appearance. She is a little heavy and looks old. But she is a grandmother. She looks like anybody’s grandmother. Joyce puts herself in a group photo. The photo is small and can’t be enlarged like most FB photos.

Other women refuse to put up a photo at all. I suppose it is a generation thing. The young adult women tend to make funny faces with bizarre poses. To me, they look far worse. But unlike their older counterparts, constantly change their photos.

Anyway, I have to go now. I just found a photo of me when I was a child and can’t wait to put it on my page.

The Digital Time Machine

In My Life
There are places I remember All my life, though some have changed Some forever not for better Some have gone and some remain All these places have their moments With lovers and friends I still can recall Some are dead and some are living In my life I've loved them all
-- Lennon & McCartny (The Beatles)

This windy, rain soaked weekend has been one of introspection and, at the same time, reaching out. I have been having a lot of insomnia and at the same time have been amassing a collection of music dating back to my childhood, high school and young adult years thanks to iTunes and YouTube. This collection exploded when a friend showed me how I could convert --apparently legally -- YouTube videos to .mp3 files.
Musical memories from more than 40 years old have been assaulting me for weeks and somehow, probably because of my manic issues, I felt a need to act upon them. I started looking up old classmates at classmates.com and linked my high school and year of graduation to a list of people on Facebook.
On classmates.com, the system leaves a note when you visit someone’s page and I received an e-mail that was both funny and filled with pathos from an old swimming teammate. And I in turn sent facebook messages to several people. I then found my very first girlfriend by googleing her name and home town and came up with a listing from junior high school. I then traced her via classmates.com and sent her a message. She had a new (married) name and, like me, moved to a different school after junior high. She is a private person and I’m not going to share the contents with you other than a tremendous flood of memories of an innocent, pure first love were shared, mostly from me to her.
But as I "friended" others on Facebook, memories of the smallest details from things I hadn’t even begun to remember came out.
Sometimes the memories were of seemingly insignificant things, like a meeting in a park. Others were of a funeral of a man I called my best friend. And more than the memories, came the feelings about them. It was almost as if I was there again. Some were of things that were unshared ever in high school, but easily shared with an intimacy that would have been impossible decades ago as the angst of our youth would never permit it.
I’ve spoken to many people who wish they could return to the past, knowing then what they know now—and making things different. With the Internet, we are able to time travel in a way and though it is close to 50 years since I last saw people, the need to make things different still lives deep within me. In some ways, I think it’s sick and in other ways I think there only is one choice. It also scares the hell out of me, which I suppose a re-visit to adolescence should do
I sent a message to one person telling them I remembered a moment with them following a class play. She e-mailed me back and told me I had the wrong person and I then e-mailed her back with my other memories of her and she realized I had indeed known her. We shared some things that we would have kept in our deepest secrets in our youth. It’s incredible how you can be so open with people you haven’t been in contact with in such a long time.
Anyway, I just want to say to Joyce, George, Larry, Susan and Valerie thank you for making such a really dreary weekend so wonderful and I’m glad you once were, and still are, a small part of my life.

And for Rosemary:
Though I know I'll never lose affection For people and things that went before I know I'll often stop and think about them In my life I love you more