Bah Humbug

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And for the last two years it’s been me.

For the past two years, I’ve stopped shaving sometime in August and that has permitted it to get to near Santa length. I suppose that if I let it continue to grow, by the next holiday season I could get a job somewhere as a “real” Santa and go ahead kid, pull my beard. But I’ve been Santa a couple of times at Wal-Mart and I don’t like doing it very much. The children are either terrified of me (usually the younger babies who have never sat next to a huge beard) or worship me, and I’m not comfortable being their god either.

I have two sons, one is a cockeyed optimist and the other is a sarcastic pessimist. I am convinced the reason for this is one grew up believing in Santa and the other was told that Mommie and Daddy bring the presents. Kids have hopes and dreams anyway and hoping that Santa will bring them what they want is generally a good thing. If you don’t think so, watch A Christmas Story, the holiday movie that will air all day on one of the cable networks. It rings so true, because it is.

So if you forget about the Santa factor, and realize that your only hope is your mom and dad, who REALLY know if you’ve been bad or good and don’t let you forget about it -- well, you can see how the pessimist develops. Did you get my meaning oh daughter-in-law?

So why do I dress up like Santa? Because it’s FUN! When I go shopping, I usually ride around in the handicapped cart because of my disabilities. It’s fun to have kids at my level as they stare in awe at me and I smile and wave to them. It’s also a lot of fun with adults, as I will tease them about being naughty and/or nice. Today, A middle aged woman who was with her friends said a rousing “Hello Santa” and I replied “You better straighten up young lady, you’re on my naughty list…. and at your age you better be!” She loved it and everyone had a smile for the day.

I am, of course, completely insane and it’s a harmless way to express my insanity. The other night I was at the Wal-Mart check out register and after the cashier told me the total, I grumbled that it was “a poor excuse for Sam Walton’s family to pick my pocket every 25^th of December.” She cracked up and I lost yet another small bit of anger at Wal-Mart. But quite honestly, some of the things Wal-Mart has done in the name of “what would Sam do?” since his death would probably make Sam quite unhappy. An elder in his church, I doubt he would approve of keeping the store open on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.

I think a good philosophy came from the leader of a bible study group I once went to. He said “I don’t mind Santa having a holiday, I just wish he wouldn’t pick Jesus’ birthday.”

So as I write out of sight, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

The pecking order

Go into any chicken coop and feed the chickens. You will immediately learn that the biggest and strongest birds will get the first shot at the food. The weaker birds will have to wait for what’s left. And if they try to get some before the social order permits them, they will be pecked without mercy, often by many other chickens. The rooster is not involved in this very often, but when they are, the result is often death to another rooster.

My recent high school reunion reminded me a great deal about the pecking order and how traumatic and cruel people can be to the lower part of the order. I wasn’t very popular and was the butt of cruel jokes sometimes, but I was nowhere near the bottom of the order.

I happened to encounter, via Facebook, a relative of the person who was probably at the bottom of our school pecking order. I am advised that the person I am referring to has needed help to live for some time now.

I hardly knew this person at all. Yet when I transferred into my high school in the middle of my freshman year almost the first thing I learned was this person at the bottom of the order was, depending on the person telling me, weird, insane, a misfit, and more. Yet in more than three years of sharing a homeroom I never observed any of the wild behavior she was alleged to have.

This person, no doubt, had unspeakable cruelties aimed at her. She didn’t dare enter any of the activities after school. She was physically somewhat different and often ran away from the building after school was over. She was laughed at because of her funny running style. There wasn’t much she could do right in the pecking order but scramble around trying to get meager leftovers. The yearbook says she was in a club, but wasn't in the club picture. The most she ever got was pity or people ignoring her. I won’t go into the worst she got. . . except to say that every day produced some sort of sorrow. In the 3 plus years I observed her in my homeroom, she smiled exactly once when our homeroom teacher said something nice to her.

Today, there is a growing effort to stop bullying in the schools. It sometimes meets with success, but more often than not, it is ignored until it explodes into violence such as the many incidents of school shootings we have seen in the past decade. Or, more often, it results in the personal collapse of the victim.

The pecking order is based on status within the group. And sometimes our chicken-people are cruel to others simply to maintain their ranking. They look at the bottom of the order and do cruel things to avoid going there themselves.

This is abuse – child abuse given by other children. As a teacher, I continued to see it for many years. And I reacted with concern but not knowing what to do. I would refer it to principals and guidance counselors. Yet as I look back on my “busy, carefree high school days,” I now know that a few simple acts of kindness would have gone a long way. And I feel some guilt for not doing something as simple as that.

And as I wonder where our ability to treat people with such cruelty comes from, I think about the fundamentalist church. There is a “holy war” against, among other people, the divorced, the poor, those who have had an abortion, other religious beliefs, science, liberal politics, and so much more. And yet they believe that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. What an example of the benefits of salvation! They have placed themselves at the top of the pecking order. And they have produced a culture of hate as great as any jihad of Islam’s extremists.

As Jesus said: "Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye." (Matthew 7:1-5 RSV)

The Way We Were • The Way We are

It’s been a really good week filled with a touch or two of sadness.

It’s really Larry’s fault. Larry is a high school classmate of mine and a couple of years ago he started me on a journey to find those from my misspent youth. It has resulted in a radical change in my life and continues to do so. And so to avenge what he started, I invited him to our high school reunion. But while some of this is Larry’s story, much of that is one for him to tell, or sing about. I will address my own story and, hopefully, touch upon some of my classmates.

On Wednesday, I dragged ‘Vagabond’, my RV trailer, out of its summer residence. The trailer is a symbol of one of those life changes as I have taken it up and down the East Coast despite the incredibly high gas prices we have been experiencing. It is time to travel now, before I am no longer able to do so. The RV park where it was situated closed for the winter on the 15^th and I will be going on a journey to “who knows where” in a day or so. At the moment, the plan calls for heading towards the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY followed by a trek to Niagara Falls and then Cleveland’s Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. But it could just as easily become some rural town in the Carolinas or visiting an old friend in Dallas. One of my classmates, Joyce, put it best in our yearbook when she wrote that her future plans were “subject to change.”

It now sits in a county park as I write at its table and continue to reflect on the way we were and the way we are. The park, Mahlon Dickerson Reservation, is a favorite place of mine as I spent much of last year tent camping there and, despite a minor problem with a bear destroying my tent, I love its solitude. Even as rain pounds my roof, I am filled with a quiet peace, a major contrast from this week when emotions drove me into a near hypomanic frenzy.

The park is rarely used during weekdays except in the summer and here I can walk among the lush fall foliage and allow that peace to descend upon me. It is raining a the moment and the pounding on the roof reminds me I sit here safe and secure – at least for a while – from the pressures the world has in store for me.

On Thursday morning, I picked up Larry at the Newark Airport. Even before arriving there memories of the past started to boil. Having spent most of the last three decades flying out of an airport on Long Island within minutes of my home, I had long forgotten how to get there and had to rely on my GPS system. It took me along a local route through Newark’s Ironbound district, with many traffic lights.

Suddenly, I found myself stopped at Newark’s Penn Station. The last time I had been there was on a hot summer night in July 1967. I had been in an auto accident at the Jersey shore a few weeks earlier and had taken the train there to plead and pay my fine. The return trip took me to Newark, where I would catch the PATH train to Hoboken for my trip back home to Morristown. As I stood on the platform, I noticed a very large fire in the distance. It seemed like a block wide. It was the beginning of the Newark riots between July 12 and July 17, 1967. The six days of rioting, looting, and destruction left 26 dead and hundreds injured. It was the worst of more than 150 urban riots in African American ghettos including Cleveland, Milwaukee and Detroit. There was a lot of political agitation behind this typified by Black Panther Rapp Brown's oft-quoted epithet "Burn, baby, burn." I had lived with and gone to school with African Americans for many years. Two of my best high school friends were Black and the riots changed me in some ways. It was my first experience with black/white fear and for decades I looked at other races with a degree of distrust.

In our high school days, we lived in an area of defacto-segregated housing. The largest Black area was some projects and was in a small dell and was called The Hollow. There were other areas that I had then thought of as “pocket ghettos” where families who could afford to own their own houses lived. My area of houses dating back to the Civil War era, was pretty much white, with the exception of the Jenkins, whose father was a police officer in town. “Sarge” had a son who was our classmate and kept us in line and sometimes gave love and understanding to those who were troubled and needed it, no matter what race. Kids were always welcome when the back yard pool was open and it was a welcome relief in the summer.

The white children of the era thought of discrimination as something from the South, not from Morristown, and it was only later that most of us learned about racism in the suburbs.

There are two African Americans who had a great impact on my life in those days. Michael Sapp and I shared duties as track team managers in our junior year. We usually wound up inside taking care of equipment while the track team practiced. And we would sit and talk and settle the problems of the world. I was invited to his home; he to mine. Early in our senior year, Michael died in an automobile crash. I was astounded to learn that he left behind a pregnant wife. I could never understand why he didn’t share that with me as we sat next to each other every day in homeroom. Perhaps it was race, but I hope not. I think of him often and how such a wonderful young man was lost even before he graduated.

The other boy is David Caldwell. David was one in a series of outstanding Black basketball players the school produced. He was magnificent, leading the state in scoring in his senior year. Lightning fast, he teamed with another guard in mounting a full-court press for the entire game. When one player would steal the ball, he would simply toss it in the air to the basket where the other would lay it up. David also had the most accurate jump shot I ever saw. After losing an early season loss, the team roared through an exciting schedule, winning the county and conference titles before losing in the state championship quarterfinals to a high school in Newark that was the national champion that year. David still had his 24-point average in that game. He was guarded by future NBA Hall of Famer Lenny Wilkins.

Incredibly, David was only 5’6”. There wasn’t a person on the team over six feet tall. I vividly remember watching a game at Bayonne High School. During warm-ups Bayonne trotted out three guys who were over 6’5”. Those of us who took a school bus to the game talked about how this wasn’t going to be our night. David and his teammates absolutely ran circles around these big guys, constantly stealing and scoring. The team scored 100 points and won by at least 40.

David never did well in college. I learned he went to a small college in Southern New Jersey. It was the late ‘60s and drugs were everywhere. I am told that he became involved with them and died way before his time. That one year of spectacular high school basketball being the legacy of his life.

But that one year imparted on me, and I’m sure others, a love for the game of basketball, which remains within us to this day. While I am awed by the incredible skills of people like Michael Jordan, I sometimes think back to a time David took this shot, or stole that bal.

What does this have to do with a high school reunion? It is part of our common experience. It has, in some minor way, made us who we are today. Vietnam, the JFK assassination, The Regan years, wars in the Middle East, computers and the Internet, and much more have become our touchstones. And the touchstones of the Class of ’66 are many.

So I picked up Larry and took him through Northern New Jersey as I drove to my home in Port Jervis, NY. Larry is from Florida and the rich foliage, quiet ponds and steep hills has been something he has long missed. I watched as he was awed by the scenery of his childhood, thoroughly enjoying his enjoyment. He pointed out lakes and streams that I considered ordinary. He also got a kick out of my location, where three states meet along the Delaware River. After picking up some things at my place, we headed for Denville, NJ where we would be staying with another classmate. I made sure he went through Pennsylvania so he could stay he had been in three states that day. And he spoke to others several times about that experience.

While the ride was a touchstone for Larry, it was also a time of reflection for me. While raised in Morristown, I passed places where I had been as a young child. Part of the area was in Culver Lake, the location of a long-forgotten summer camp. And another was Stokes State Forest, where I had camped with various youth groups and later took dates to its serene lake. Many memories came back, both good and bad. For the forest was not only an adventure in my youth, but a place of hiding as my ex-wife and I fought through our divorce. The summer of 2010 was sometimes one of fear as I wandered homeless and lived in a tent. I suffered through the heat of the summer and feared the oncoming cold of the winter as I searched for a more permanent place to live.

That night, several of us had dinner at another classmate’s, Lois. Lois and I were mere acquaintances back in the day. Though we were in the same homeroom, we did not share any classes. But it turned out that she had married a good friend from the high school I attended in the first half of my freshman year. Ross and I were the starting guards on what was possibly the worst freshman football team in the history of New Jersey. I shared last Christmas Eve with her, singing carols at the Basking Ridge town square on the 50^th anniversary of the last time I sang there. We have, like many others, developed a friendship based on the merging of experience over the years.

The dinner was lively and we talked until well after midnight, the first of many nights of talk. One of the common touchstones for Larry and Lois was their heritage. While they weren’t close in high school, they shared much. In addition to the tightly closed racial discrimination of that era, there was anti-Semitism. And while most of us as students weren’t aware of it, it surely existed. A classic film of that time, “Gentlemen’s Agreement,” addressed the issue. Although belonging to different temples, the Jewish students tended to stick with one another and the common experiences and memories of friends and events shared between the Larry and Lois made me envious as I never lived long enough in one place to develop such roots. Yet each of them are part of my root system of support these days.

Larry is a folk singer and on Friday he managed to grab a 15-minute spot during a local folk fest, as did the husband of another former classmate. So we went there the next evening. I had heard him play before and thoroughly enjoyed his contribution. But more importantly, I discovered yet another personal touchstone. The open mike was being held at the local Unitarian/Universalist church. It was, in fact, across the street from where Lois grew up.

For me, however, it is the descendant of The Thirsty Ear, a Morristown folk club where I spent many wonderful hours listening to folk music, waiting on tables and occasionally performing poetry and telling tall tales. I talked to several people who remembered the club and they sell water bottles, which feature the ear logo and read “quench your ear” on them.

The classmate whose husband performed was Trylla Thermond. I had a small crush on her during our freshman year when she sat near me in French Class. The years have treated her very, very well and she retains both a beauty and sharp wit. But I remember Trylla most for her courage. She dated a Black classmate and became ignored by the white girls and treated with distrust by the black ones. I admired her courage for being so public about it, especially during times like lunch. The guy she dated was supposed to show up and never did. I wasn’t surprised, but I had been very curious as to what their reactions to one another would be.

After the folk singing, the talking went on into the night. I had to leave early to finish a website and got perhaps a few hours more sleep than they. I needed it.

In the morning, I drove to Morristown High’s football field to set up for the homecoming game. It was the start of my weekend mission. One of our classmates, Ed Hinds, was both a swimming teammate and a friend. His goal was to become a Catholic priest and he did so. His senior paper discussed the difficulties of remaining celibate in a time when teenage hormones were raging.

As a priest, Ed was stationed in several parishes around Morris County, the last one being at St. Anthony’s Church in Chatham. According to police, the church custodian murdered him when it was discovered that the custodian was wanted on several charges of child abuse in Pennsylvania. One of the things the custodian was charged with was impregnating an 11-year-old girl. The custodian stabbed Ed more than 20 times. The murder trial was scheduled to begin the week after the reunion.

Last year, I was able to nominate a friend who was a Vietnam War hero into the school’s “Wall of Fame”. This year I wanted to have at least 50 classmates join in nominating him as a group. I had printed up co-nomination forms for people to sign and some of my classmates showed up at the football game and signed them. I also had some important alumni do so.

Homecoming held its own touchstones for me. I played freshman football but that spring I blew my knee playing freshman baseball. Though I tried out for the football team in my sophomore and junior years, the knee just wouldn’t hold up and I couldn’t make it through practices for more than a few weeks. But I love to watch high school football and especially enjoyed photographing it in later years as a newspaper photographer.

In those days, there was an annual game between Morristown and Dover every Thanksgiving. But sometime in the 1970s, the rivalry ended when the state athletic association instituted a championship playoff format. While always the “big” game of any season, my most vivid memory was in the 1963 season during my sophomore year. Morristown was undefeated that year but in the previous week, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. The game was held in Dover that year and the stands were packed. Morristown picked apart Dover, but everyone was very, very quiet. The bench lacked the usual shouting and bravado. The cheerleaders cheered less and the band played less. For our class, it was our loss of innocence. Kennedy inspired young people to be a force in the world and was admired. He had pulled us through the Cuban missile crisis and the threat of nuclear annihilation. And each of us took something from that event. I still mourn Kennedy at times. I recently visited the Kennedy Museum in Cape Cod and purchased a button that reads “If I were 21, I’d vote for Kennedy” – something I wore in 1960 when I went to school in Basking Ridge which was overwhelmingly Republican turf.

Getting back to the homecoming, it was a day for pink. Students, even the guys, were wearing pink tee shirts as part of the effort to combat breast cancer. The shirts had “Morristown Colonials” on the front and the pink ribbon logo on the back and I picked up several for friends as well as a ball cap for myself.

Except for my pickup, there were not other vehicles announcing class years save one. It belonged to an old man named “Dub” who played football in the early 1950s. He has created an exhibit of photos, newspaper articles and other memorabilia and exhibits it every year. His truck is a focal point for many of the older men who show up each year, all of whom lament the loss of the Dover game. Although the Dover game wasn’t the actual homecoming game, it was a reunion time for recent grads that returned from college for the Thanksgiving recess.

The alumni association was there, giving out sandwiches and selling memberships and “bricks”. There is an alumni garden near the field and bricks with the names of those who have passed can be purchased for $75. I went over to the walk and looked for people I knew. I was saddened that some of my teachers’ names were there.

Another thing that had changed was the refreshment stand. Back when I was a student, the Varsity M Club managed the stand with the proceeds going to the club. I remember standing over a huge pot of boiling water trying to keep up with the huge demand for hot dogs at halftime. Now adults who are part of the football booster club run it.

About an hour before game time, music started playing from the speakers and I hated it. It was rap and it certainly was the music of today’s student body. But as game time approached the marching band appeared. The school’s team name is the Colonials and they wear colonial era uniforms. When we were freshmen, we were in a school play called “Take Time Out” which raised funds for new band uniforms. Previously, the uniforms had been more along the lines of a traditional marching uniform, but the ones we raised money for were these colonial ones. I wondered if, over the years, some of those uniforms were the original ones.

But what made me exceptionally happy was the band played the very same tunes they did 45 years ago. Morristown scored an early touchdown and they erupted into the same fight song. I left with a smile on my face knowing something was still the same.

That night was the reunion. There were a lot of “old” people there. About 50 of our classmates and their spouses, with the exception of what I suppose was a trophy wife, exhibited grey hair, wrinkles, larger bellies and other signs of aging. The nametags were copies of our yearbook photos and the names were in small type. We stared at one another’s chests trying to read the name and then reacting with joy and delight upon recognition.

I continued to plead for co-nominators for Ed’s Wall of Fame and almost everyone attending signed on. Earlier in the week, I had been interviewed for an article in the Morris County Daily Record about the push to include Ed. Another person interviewed was Norm Smith, another swim team member, and he brought me an incredible tribute in the form of memories by the people Ed ministered to that was sent to him after the article appeared. To be on the Wall of Fame, the criteria is about what you did after school, not in it, and this documentation will more than be adequate to support the nomination.

A special pat on the back goes to Arnie Lazalow, who has been organizing these class reunions for many years. In addition to arranging the event, he keeps a diligent list of the current status of the members. It was truly a memorable event.

But that class directory also had a list of those who had passed away. I was stunned to find that Debbie Lake, who had doubled at our senior prom with Bill Stevens, Emily Huth and myself, had died. Debbie always wanted to be a nurse, and in those days, with a height of 4’ 8”, it was nearly impossible to get into a nursing school. She wound up going to a small school in Princeton. Bill and I took Debbie back to school one mischief night and I remember foaming a very expensive sports car whose owner left the top open. Take that Preppie!

My best memory of Debbie was her appearance in "Bye Bye Birdie," our senior class musical. One of the characters is a kid brother. After weeks of searching for a boy to fill the roll, I suggested Debbie and we drafted her. She was the right height and did a great job in an era where there was no such thing as microphones. We grew up knowing how to project to the rear of the balcony. I remember once using that voice for a radio commercial and completely screwing up the first take. Another person listed as dead was Phyllis, the female lead from the show. She had enormous talent and died soon after graduation, another victim of drugs. After Debbie and Bill broke up, I dated her and in a post-reunion get-together on Monday night I discovered that she was engaged to Peter, another member of our class before he joined the Army and went to Vietnam.

Most of the people who attended the reunion were not close to me. But as we sort of emerge from our callow youth, we discover the self-centered jerks we were no longer exist. It was fun to share with them. One friend, Andy, is now deeply involved with a drum and bugle corps and agreed to connect with one at a school where I lived during my middle school years. Another, Butch, was pleased that I remembered him not only for his track championships, but also that he was hampered by a hamstring injury in his senior year. I was pleased to discover his uncle, my homeroom teacher, is still doing well and agreed to forward a letter I plan to write to him.

Of course, our class had Vietnam as a touchstone most of us wished we never went near. Many of us served in the armed forces. Some of the talk was about that, but those who were in combat are still reluctant to share the experience. It remains for many something that just must be a closed part of their lives.

And then there was the counter culture. I have to admit being a “wanna-be” hippie. I had a beard and long hair. And I sure as hell tried to score with hippie girls. Yet I was absolutely terrified of drugs. I never tried them. One of the people there, whose name I won’t use to protect the guilty, went way out and embraced all the concepts, including open marriage. It was somewhat of a shock to hear her talk about it, but she is also one of the happiest people I met at the reunion. I guess, like me, she just refuses to grow up.

But there were also people who simply could not be found. And they were some of the people I really wanted to touch base with. There was much “unfinished business” between some of them and myself and I had hoped to share a memory and in some cases, an apology. It is part of making amends and I have to learn to accept that they will never be in my life again.

As the reunion ended, there was a 50-50 prize and I won. I never win stuff like this but somehow I expected to do so. As I accepted the money, I told the class the proceeds would be used to buy a brick for Ed Hinds at the Alumni Walk. Emily, my companion, said to another friend “watch, he’s going to give it away” as I walked up there. She knows me well. I have come to a point where I don’t really give a damn about money as long as I have enough to take care of me and pay the bills.

After the reunion, there was more talking. As we all remembered the past, I found many of us remembered what was important and the other touchstones of our lives.

The next morning, Larry visited his brother. The pair had rarely been together over the years and this was the second visit in a few days. I recognized that there had been some sort of healing. That afternoon, Larry was determined to do more. He visited a classmate who didn’t attend the reunion. He then took Emily and I to dinner and then we dragged Lois and another classmate who didn’t attend the party to a bar for some drinks. I don’t drink and it was the first time I had been socializing in a bar for about 40 years. I placed a photo of us on Facebook and it drew dozens of comments. One was from Terry, who missed the reunion because he is in India with a back injury. It was great to hear from him and sad at the same time as his twin brother was on the list of the dead. The pair were track stars and running backs on the football team. Both had shaved their heads at the beginning of our senior year for reasons I could not comprehend.

On Monday, Larry and I tried to put a website together for his woodturning business. We were just too wacked out and exhausted from the events of the previous days. I took him to the airport and returned to Emily’s house to pick up my stuff before heading towards another road trip. As I left, I couldn’t help but share the words of our alma mater

“When time and fortune cast their spell

And youth’s bright years are o’er

Our memories shall finally dwell

On scenes that are no more

For busy, carefree high school days

And comrades tried and true

For these we lift our songs of praise

Dear Morristown, to you.”

Thank you to all and I hope to see you and many more in another five years. In the meantime, don’t be strangers.

Depressed in a depressed town

Photo: Crossing a bridge to another state means lower prices.

Right now I am somewhat depressed. And I can't help but wonder if where I live has something to do with it. I reside in a small town, Port Jervis, NY, where people lived in a recession well before housing prices crashed and they are now in a depression.

For example, the other day, the remains of what was once a thriving strip mall featuring a K-Mart decades ago was taken over by the bank. We lost a Rite Aid – the town’s only chain drug store – plus a dollar store, pizza place, and nail salon. We don’t have a McDonald’s, 7-Eleven, or much else. There are plenty of banks near the post office; and there is a Save-A-Lot food store. There is one gas station (where there used to be a half dozen) but it survives mainly through repairs and as an Avis car rental operation.

Much of the problem is an accident of geography. Some is a matter of politics. But both lead to poverty.

Port Jervis was once a thriving town. It is the end of the railroad line into New York, and its riverfront along the Delaware River was once a booming port, as barges floated agricultural goods downriver to Philadelphia. After the Second World War, the area attracted tourists with its beautiful scenery and location close to the Catskill and Pocono Mountains. Yet it continues to have an ever-increasing number of empty stores while the stores in the neighboring towns thrive.

But those neighboring towns are in other states. Port Jervis is where the states of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania all meet. The other states offer far less taxes. As soon as you cross the line into New Jersey, there are four gas stations offering prices up to 60 cents per gallon less. No rational person gets their gas in town. In that area is also a small shopping center – about the size of the one that closed down the other day – and it thrives with a ShopRite supermarket, TJ Maxx clothing store, GNC, furniture store, a dollar store and pizza place.

Go across the bridge into Pennsylvania and you’ll find the K-Mart that left town, a Home Depot and Lowes, Staples, a movie complex, and further down is a Wal-Mart. Restaurants abound. Why did the K-Mart end up there? New York has a sales tax on clothes. Pennsylvania does not. You can’t compete with Wal-Mart if your clothes are nine percent higher.

Even the small things are an issue. You have to make an effort to find a carton of Coke or Pepsi. There are no deposits in our neighboring states.

A part of the downtown area has tried to revive itself with about a half dozen antique shops. But go about 6 miles to Milford, PA and you will find a much more attractive area. You don’t have to deal with limited parking and the general gloom of closed stores.

Without retail revenue, the town is just about broke. There is a cosmetics factory, the towns largest employer, that was planning to leave town and the town and county worked out a deal to keep the factory here with tax incentives. The town’s largest ratable is paying practically nothing in order to save the jobs. Speaking of jobs, the local newspaper reports today that a nearby state prison is going to close, losing more than 300 jobs for the area. How can a state known for its overcrowded and violent prisons, shut one down?

And as stores close, homes are abandoned. This summer, you could purchase at least a couple of dozen houses between $30 and $50 thousand. And yes, you would pay more in taxes than your mortgage. In New York, Port Jervis is surrounded by a town called Deerpark (one word). A rural area, Deerpark’s taxes are much lower as town fathers don’t provide things like city water and sewers. School taxes are much more economical as there is a larger population. Port Jervis has a K-12 district but the tax base is much smaller, thus more dollars per taxpayer.

So what am I getting to here? I haven’t a clue. If the Republicans get what they want, senior citizens, who constitute a significant part of the town’s population with more than 200 apartments in two complexes, will lose both income and Medicare benefits. And the hospital that serves the area could shut down as well since Medicare and Medicaid cuts seem to be an issue. And the Democrats stance is to spend our way out of it.

My thoughts about the whole thing are simple: get the hell out of Afghanistan. Today. We got bin Laden. Who gives a rat’s ass about an incredibly corrupt government?

But then, no one listens to me anyway.

“Up in Massachusetts, there’s a little spit of land. The men who make the maps, they call the place Cape Ann. The men who do the fishing call it Gloucester Harbor Town. But the women left behind, they call the place Dogtown” – Harry Chapin.

Ever since Harry Chapin’s classic “Heads and Tales” album came out in 1972, I have felt the best song he ever wrote was “Dogtown” about the widows of sailors lost at sea from Gloucester, a fishing town in Massachusetts where the Massachusetts Bay Colony was established in 1623, a few years after the Pilgrims arrived in Plymouth. In most high school history books, the settlers are referred to as the Puritans, who dominated the population.

Fishing and shipbuilding were the basic industries of the town and are still so to this day. It is the home of the Gorton’s Seafood company. And commercial fishermen leave the port on a daily basis.

Gloucester is a part of Cape Ann, which town boosters refer to as “the other cape” in Massachusetts. Like Cape Cod, which is on the other side of Massachusetts Bay, there is a lot of tourism there. And summer homes along it’s shores tend to be extraordinarily beautiful.

Anyhow, when I realized that Cape Ann was only a few hours away from where I was staying in Plymouth, I had to make a (don’t pardon the pun) pilgrimage there. I wanted to see the “endless rolling whispers of the waves,” “the silence of the granite and the screeching of the gulls” and what else inspired Chapin’s song. And as I toured Gloucester, I did my photography with the song in mind. Along the harbor are two statues, one of a widow looking out to sea and a better known one dedicated to fishermen lost at sea since colonial times. In fact, the monument also features a list of every person who never returned from a fishing expidition up to 2001.

My mind was sort of set on the “Dogtown” song. And there is a part of Cape Ann called Dogtown. It is a deserted village where widows and the poor went to but has no roads and is a nature preserve now. I drove there, but a roadblock combined with gunfire from a shooting range at the entrance ended any thoughts of exploring there. I had been warned a few times that people become lost in there. Dogtown is a reference to the fact that most sailors had dogs and they guarded the women left behind when they went out to sea.

I knew my mind was obsessed with the song that had been with me nearly four decades. And I was certain I was looking at the town through the eyes of the historian rather than the town of today. Yet I couldn’t help myself. But that changed with a drive from Gloucester to Rockport, another town along the cape. I followed a sign that described the upcoming road as the “scenic route” and it certainly is. Along the rocky coast, waves from the Atlantic Ocean explode as they crash headlong into the huge boulders. The color of the sea is an incredibly pure blue. And while I was there I realized that this was perhaps the most beautiful landscapes I had ever seen.

I went there with a friend, who had her own thoughts that were probably impossible to penetrate, though she tried. When she was married in the early 1970s, she and her husband spent a vacation there. And they returned there about a dozen years ago as her husband was weakened from the cancer that would take his life a few months later. I wondered how she compared her widowhood to the widows of the song.

But the incredible beauty of the land overwhelmed me. With every turn, I saw even more stunning scenes and my mind begged me to stop driving because it couldn’t take any more of the glorious views. I told my friend that if I never went to Heaven, I would have this place to remember because I could not comprehend how Heaven could be more beautiful.

Good Friday thoughts

I don’t deserve to preach the Gospel. I’ve had more than my share of sin over the past year. But I’m going to preach anyhow.

I’m writing this on Good Friday. I’m sharing a rustic campground with perhaps three or four others. Last night I went to a Holy Thursday service at an Episcopal church. The only reason I went was because I was with a friend observing the date of my leaving my ex wife a year ago. But perhaps it was a divine appointment. Whatever it was, it started a lot of thinking on my part.

The Episcopal Church considers worship from Thursday until Easter Sunday a single worship event. At the end of last night’s services, today’s walking of the Stations of the Cross that I also attended, and Saturday’s Easter Vigil, there is no formal blessing or dismissal. It is considered one continuous observation of the passion of Christ. I find this to be a beautiful concept as one is guided not just to a few thoughts about Jesus, but a four-day period of time.

While I disagree with some of the beliefs of this denomination, most of Christianity can agree with the Apostle’s Creed. And despite the trivial things that divide us, Christ’s sacrifice on Calvary unites us.

I prefer to view Palm Sunday as the beginning of the observation of the Easter period. In fact, I can relate to this incident more than the death of Jesus. It seems to be far more about the foolish person that I am, rather than the perfection of a sinless life. Here the people were celebrating Jesus and laying palms at his feet. In only a few days, they were screaming for his death. I am sort of reminded of sports radio, which I listen to a lot. Joe from the Bronx says he has been a Yankee fan for decades, then rips into them for not getting enough pitching or because a hall of famer is in a slump. Whatever happened to being faithful?

It seems I turn to God when one of two things are happening – when things are going great (namely I’m getting my way) and when what I have been done has put me in the depths of despair enough to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness. The other times I seem to be just living for myself and enjoying life instead of praying regularly and trying to do what God would have me do.

Of course, Holy Thursday focuses on the last supper -- the breaking of the bread and sharing of the wine. I won’t drink wine or any alcohol. But it’s because how alcoholic parents affected my life. I can’t help thinking that Jesus liked to have a good time. His first miracle was turning water into wine (in response to his mother nagging him no less) and sharing wine with his followers at the last. And even at his death, he was offered wine. But I also remember how he washed the feet of his disciples, even knowing that Judas would betray him and Peter would deny him three times. It was his final way of teaching us to be servants, no matter what our station in life. Many years ago, in the mid 1980s, I observed this in a Roman Catholic Church. To see a priest washing the feet of some children was quite a departure from the way I had perceived priests from my childhood who were the ultimate threats when sister whomever was teaching and I was being a problem.

I long ago came to the conclusion that I am much like Peter, being bold for the Lord sometimes, yet covering my butt in the time of a threat. But I also feel I am not really like Peter in that I will not evangelize very much. I will respond to people’s questions about my faith and perhaps discuss a philosophical or historical thing. For example, I mentioned to the co-pastor of the church today that a description of the Roman whip was far different than the bullwhips we have today. It included metal barbs, like you would find in barbed wire and the thorns of large bushes. It was designed to inflict real torture and I sometimes wonder if the crucifix was more of a relief after the lashing.

Anyhow, it has been a very, very long time since I asked someone to accept Christ. I just don’t feel I am worthy enough in my life to ask that question. I think about my example to the world and realize that I’m not much to look up to as an example of Christ, but more than enough to be an example of Christ’s mercy.

During the Holy Thursday service, the scripture reading was from the book of Exodus regarding the Passover. I had often thought of the many times Jesus has been called the “Lamb of God” and that many choose to eat lamb on Easter Sunday. But I realized that the lamb was probably also served at the Last Supper as part of the Passover meal. I had roasted a leg of lamb and sliced the meat on Wednesday before leaving on my current camping trip and will have it on Sunday. But now I shall regard lamb as my Thursday meal. Perhaps some chops instead. In Exodus, the Hebrews were told to eat their fill and then destroy what is left over before the dawn. I find it interesting how much that is against our human nature. A highlight of our annual turkey feast on Thanksgiving is the leftovers. Yet God ordered that there be none. I wonder if it was because of simply a practical thing such as the lack of food preservation, or telling us that not only must we make a sacrifice of an animal, but then sacrifice the days of feasting on the leftovers. At any rate, next year I’ll stick to a couple of lamb chops.

Today’s Stations of the Cross service was a little different from the one I remember as a child. In the Roman Catholic churches I grew up in, the stations – in some form of art such as plaques, statures or stained glass windows - were in the church throughout the year, with a walk from station to station as part of the service. There were no stations in this church, which has its roots in colonial times. And so, a program illustrating each station was handed out. And at each station, prayers were said for different groups. For example, where Pilate sentences Jesus, prayer is offered up for all those convicted of crimes, regardless of if the conviction was just or not. Everyone was prayed for, setting aside prejudices against criminals. For we are all children of God, no matter what our sins are.

I thought of two high school classmates. One was always picking on me in school and shortly afterwards became involved in drugs and crime and was sentenced to the county jail for 364 days. I thought of how personal justice had been done. But as the days continued, I wondered if he was able to turn his life around. I was told by some people he did. The thought of vengeance had departed and was replaced by thoughts of concern.

The other classmate had a run-in with a crazed off-duty cop and did some hard time. I can clearly see how the injustice of the conviction has left him scared and bitter. I have told him more than once that it was in his best interest to forgive. But he can’t.

So I prayed for both of them.

At one station, the minister offered prayers for those who hate and those who have felt the hate. In the last year, my family has endured more than anyone deserves to have in both aspects. And so I began praying for the haters and the hated, and came to realize that I am both. We so often cite hating in others but don’t acknowledge the hate that is in us. And as I came to look at it, I realized how much more I hate than I think I do. I begged God to take it from me. Hopefully, he will replace it with something more worthy.

The Lord’s Prayer says for us to receive forgiveness only in measure as to how we forgive others. The Jews have their Day of Atonement. I suppose this day is mine. I cannot go to the people I have hurt, but I hope that through today’s Internet that they understand I am begging for, but not expecting, their forgiveness. This especially applies to my ex wife and children. But there are also so many others.

So what can I do about it? The Bible talks of the woman whom the Jewish priests wanted to stone because it was their law. Jesus said that the person who was without sin should throw the first stone. When all of the accusers had left, he told the woman to ‘go and sin no more.’ I will try to take that as my personal commandment from him today.

No matter what your religious beliefs, may the peace of God find you, revive you and renew you in this holy season.

How to Wash and Dry Your Laundry in a Florida RV park

With apologies to all those in the Northeast

Washing the Laundry:

1. Place laundry & soap in washing machine and start.

2. Sit in the rocking chair on the porch and enjoy the gentle breeze; listen to and watch tropical birds and talk to friendly people for about a half hour.

3. Remove the wash and place it in the dryer.

Drying the laundry:

1. Start the dryer.

2. Take a walk over to the spa and spend about 20 minutes in the warm whirlpool letting it sooth all your aching arthritic joints while watching palm trees and talking with friendly people discussing the 20 degree weather in New Jersey.

3. Spend another fifteen minutes in the pool, cooling off from the heat of the whirlpool. Emerge completely refreshed. Take a nice soapy shower.

4. Remove clothing from the dryer.

It’s a tough life but SOMEONE has to do the laundry!

Springtime

So here I am, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch outside the laundry room writing this. I’ve got country music running on the computer and enjoying a petty sunset and a warm breeze. My laptop is in fact, in my lap and life seems to be not too bad.

I’m doing the laundry simply because tomorrow is moving day. I spent much of the trip to date learning about RVs and trailers. I decided to upgrade to a new one from my 11-year-old Mallard that I purchased a few months ago to a new Summerland. Basically, I bought the Mallard cheap up north and here at Lazydays, just outside of Tampa and the world’s largest RV dealer, I moved up to a new model. I actually got almost what I spent on the Mallard in trade-in. I’m bringing the Mallard into the prep area here at Lazydays where they will set it up side-by-side with my brand new Summerland and I can take my time moving in. They are about the same size but the new one has much, much more storage area. The floor plan is much more roomy and three windows on the back and rear of each size makes it even more open and inviting. I have a separate freezer and an oven and extra burner on the stovetop. Lots of improvements are obvious, the best being far, far more storage room, especially in the outside compartments. The brand new décor is nicer too.

In the meantime, they’ll be giving me driving lessons so I can back the thing up, which has been a chaotic (and funny) situation a times. My first attempt to back in took nearly two hours. My latest attempt was unsuccessful and I put the truck in 4-wheel drive and drove through another site to get where I am.

In the meantime, I’m multi-tasking. Since I’m going to be here at least six more days, maybe more, I’m taking the truck into a body shop to have the scar on the side fixed on Saturday morning and will have a rental car at least five days. The scar was the result of an unfortunate incident with a light pole at a shopping center. After the RV is shaken down, Lazydays will tow it back to the campground for me. When the truck is ready, I’ll just hitch it up and move on.

Taking care of some other business too. Talked to my real estate lawyer to ensure that the proceeds from the escrow go to me, and not my darling bride. Talked to Metropolitan Insurance Co. about the homeowners insurance refund today. They are insisting that they credited my card for the refund. I read them off the check number my wife has and they then insisted that they can’t cancel it until April 1 because their records show that my account was credited! I said the date seemed appropriate since they were being complete fools.

RV people continue to amaze me with their friendly ways. Was talking to another spring training person from Tennessee and we talked baseball, RVs and laundry. He was about 30 minutes ahead of me on the cycle and he gave me about a half hour on his dryer, which was enough to take care of my clothes. It’s the small things about these people. They’re always willing to lend you a hand and I could swear they are, as a group, just about the most honest people I have ever met. When I was checking in here, an older man had a $100 bill in his hands that the wind blew away and a kid ran after it for more than 100 yards and returned it. He adamantly refused a reward.

At the pool today, I talked with people from Canada and Washington State. I am really getting a handle on the “snowbird” mentality. I think it is a lifestyle I like. I saw a tee shirt with a trailer on it. It said “home is where you park it” and my mindset seems to be there. At the senior citizen housing where I live in New York State, people are waiting to die. The big event of the day is waiting for the mail. Here, people are living in the here and now, enjoying their lives. For them, the “golden” years are gold. And because they follow the sun, winter is something you only hear about. This week – the first full week of spring – it was snowing, sleeting and icing. March is going out like a lion. I’m sitting here in mid-80 degree weather swimming and using the air conditioner.

I kind of expected a “class” system here but you have half-million-dollar bus people, getting along just fine with $15,000 trailer people. It’s fairly cheap to camp here, especially since they give you a free breakfast and lunch. It’s not anything great, but it’s adequate. It is southern, however and biscuits and sausage gravy wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for breakfast yesterday. They had a sort of sausage McMuffin today. There's always cold cereal and sometimes grits. I hate grits dating back to my Army days.

After I get my laundry done, I’m heading back to the pool. Thought I could get there earlier today, but the cool of the evening sometimes works better than the heat of the day. The pool is screened off so insects can’t get in and by-and-large, there are very few bugs. That wasn’t the case in Georgia where gnats started buzzing around. The first few days were fine but the last few they were really intense.

Saw a spring training game last night as the Yankees beat the Blue Jays. It was really good to be in a ballpark again. I hadn’t been to a game since chaperoning my NYC kids back in Spring 2001. All the players I’ve been watching played last night and there was a great rally in the 7^th inning where they scored four runs and just about every one of the stars got a hit. Saw Phil Hughes start and Mariano Rivera pitched an inning. On Monday, the last game of the Spring, they’re giving away replica championship rings, this one of the 2000 champs who beat the Mets in the only subway World Series. Someone who got one last year tells me that they’re very nice. The games start for real in six days and so these last training games feature the best players as they get their final tune-ups. And while the intensity isn’t like in the regular season, they’re playing hard.

Baseball is something that is very much a part of me. As a kid, I played sandlot ball after school every day and some high school ball before wrecking my knee. Both my parents took me to the games. My favorite memory is one summer day in 1961 at the height of the Maris – Mantle home run race. I was sitting in the 75¢ per seat right field bleachers and I saw my favorite player, Roger Maris, knock two into my area. Then, after being deliberately walked twice, Mickey Mantle rocketed one against the wall of the back of the third deck in right field. It was still going up when it hit the wall. If it had been about 10 feet to the left, it would have gone out of the stadium, and no one ever hit a ball out of Yankee Stadium. Early in my courtship with Rosemary, I took her to a ball game. She hated sports and we frequently fought over it when I wanted to see a game. So I took my mother a couple of times, but over the 30 plus years, I only went a few times with my church groups. But now, I’m seeing three games in a week. It feels really good.

Thoughts about battle

I’m a history major, but would hardly describe myself as a historian. But a visit to Gettysburg certainly sheds some light on the price of war. On television, we see war reports from a limited area. We more often think of war as a football game in the confines of a stadium. Even in my personal reality, war had a limited perspective limited to perhaps a half mile while on Army maneuvers.

A visit to Gettysburg is different. We think of massive bloodshed as the tragedy of 9-11. But it is dwarfed by comparison where nearly 8,000 were slain and more than 27,000 more were wounded in just three days of fierce battle. They are numbers that are mind numbing. They far exceed our casualties in both Afganistan and Iraq.

It was here that Lee’s quest to bring the war to the north ended. It is here that the largest battle was ever held on North American soil as about 165,000 men fought one another without ceasing for three days.

Gettysburg takes the numbers and makes you understand the scope. Throughout the park are scores of monuments for various military units which took part in the carnage. The battle was not fought in an arena, but over miles of fields and woods, whose ground was soaked with blood. Many of the final resting places of the dead are marked with simple three-digit numbers.

I stood at the site where Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address about four months later. By then, the battle lines were back in the south and there were still years of conflict to come. I couldn’t help but think about how America today is still being torn by strife, with red states and blue states and media and mad men fighting over power and political positioning. And I wonder why we have any enemies at all?Because we shall surely destroy ourselves without any help from terrorists.

Finially I think of my personal civil war, with its mauled and wounded barely clinging to the hope that we can survive and maybe even thrive. I realize that the casualties extend far beyond the combatants. And as Lincoln noted “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us” what that task is, I’m not quite sure. I hope it involves healing the wounded.

I guess I’ll settle for “With malice toward none, with charity for all, ...let us strive on to finish the work we are in, ...to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

On the road to Gettysburg

It has been raining since the moment I woke up about 14 hours ago, and it shows no sign of letting up. In a moment of relative lightness, I have rescued my computer from the truck and I sit at a campground whose name I can’t remember. It’s been that kind of a day. Give me a moment to look it up: Round Top Campground.

I have journeyed from Port Jervis, NY (a town whose depressed community is desperate for change) to Gettysburg, PA, and a town that is clearly living in the past and thriving on it. But the journey, not the destination, is the story of this day. I decided to leave on this day to avoid the flooding that is accompanying this torrential downpour that is leaving two to four inches of rain throughout the entire east coast. In other words, I’ve been heading for the hills!

Most of the trip has been along Interstate 81, through Pennsylvania’s Appalachian Mountains. And while I encountered no flooding, at least until I settled into my campsite, the fog created by the melting mountain snow has been thick and sometimes terrifying. There were many times along the highway where I could barely see more than a car length ahead and I slowed down and put on my emergency flashers in hopes that the vehicles behind me wouldn’t crash into Vagabond2011, my small travel trailer. I was very tempted to cut short my day’s journey when I passed through the Hershey area but certainly going to the park would be a wet waste.

As I passed through Hazelton, it brought back memories from the 1960s. My friend Bill’s parents were dying and I drove him in my Ford Falcon to pick up his aunts and take them back to New Jersey to help with the family. It was the first time I had driven on an Interstate highway in the rain and I desperately coped with the never ending flow of water washing off eighteen-wheelers as well as the rain itself. The weather for both days was remarkably similar.

The experience didn’t kill me so I suppose I am stronger. At least I feel far more comfortable handling the trailer. What was supposed to be about a five hour trip was close to seven hours and I arrived at the national monument around 4 p.m., too late for the last two-hour bus tour. The rain let up for about fifteen minutes at the time of my arrival and I was able to grab a few quick photos and gather information. I was given directions to the ¼ mile walk to the site where Abraham Lincoln gave the famous Gettysburg Address. But as I started out, the downpour resumed so I headed back to my truck, getting soaked along the way.

The town itself seems to be deliberately quaint. There is a small circle in its middle and you can head in about six directions. There are no institutions like fast food joints and big box stores in this town, and the motels have a muted brick façade that fits in easily. After all, people come to Gettysburg to view history and the residents are here to find ways to part them from their money. There are many museums, art galleries, antique stores and shops such as those specializing in civil war toy soldiers and other souvenirs are interspersed with various restaurants and lodging facilities with historic names such as the Iron Horse Inn, the Dobbin House Tavern, General Pickett’s Buffet and the Battlefield Bread and Breakfast. There are several competing bus tours and you can even rent a Segway.

One of the rangers recommended the RV park I am in because she said it was the only one she knew for sure was open at this time of the year. Many do not open until April. It’s not very much to look at for the moment. It is packed with trailers without trucks, apparently permanent or winter residents. I have seen only a few people around and there is no green on the ground nor in trees as winter is still very much here. Of course the downpour adds to the gloomy atmosphere.

For some reason, the office closed early today, at noon, so my 4:30 p.m. arrival left me fending for myself. I filled out an envelope, placing $35 in cash into it. As I did so, a pizza delivery driver asked if I had change of a $50, which I didn’t since I was tying most of it up in the envelope. The place was so dreary; I was tempted to give him the change instead. But I chose to tour the place. With the weather showing no sign of easing up, I hoped to find a spot but everything was of the back-in kind. The last time I backed into an RV site, it took nearly two hours for me to figure out how to back up. I was about to leave when I realized a deserted group of sites, actually right in front of the showers, were pull through sites. I moved into one site and stopped but found I could not connect to the electric system since I was too far away from the box. Rather than back up, I went around the circle again and came within an inch the second time. I plugged in and headed for the trailer to change clothes and microwave a leftover burger for my dinner.

I took a nap and woke up to the sound of silence. Instead of the constant beating of water on my roof, there was no noise and I took advantage of the break to drop off my registration envelope and check out the bathroom and showers. It began to rain again and now the hooks on my bathroom door are drying out two changes of clothing. This time the rain included some thunder and lightning. I hoped the storm would not spawn tornados, as it had done earlier in the week in the Midwest. I’d been through a couple of tornados many years ago and the thought of being in a trailer when one hits is not at all very appealing.

Anyway, the heat is keeping me comfy and it’s time to try to sleep. If the rains have eased enough, I’ll go for a walk tomorrow and then travel on to Western Virginia where I hope to meet a friend who lives in the Shenandoah Valley, and perhaps see a sign of Spring, before moving on towards some warmer weather.