Causalities of War

I’m having a hard time putting my thoughts into words. Memorial Day weekend was physically tough as we ended up with three 90-degree days with incredible humidity. There were also violent thunderstorms to deal with. Much of this time was spent outdoors in the heat watching Emily’s granddaughter play in a softball tournament. And while I wanted to publish this on Memorial Day, I was overcome by sleep and now it is several days later. At the same time, much of what concerns this entry was helped by correspondence with my cousin, Rita, who is older than me and can remember much of what I want to write about.

On Memorial Day, my son John blogged a beautiful column about the causalities of war, focusing on his grandfather, the father (Tony) of his mother Rosemary, who never got over what happened to him in a horrendous battle in the North Africa during the Second World War. I know how that battle severely affected his relationship with his family and thus his mother’s relationship with our sons and me. Please read it at: http://munzermusings.blogspot.com/2016/05/memorial-day.html

But that is only half of how war has affected my children, so I am going to write about the other half. The characters include: James Alford (my grandfather on my mother’s side), Margaret Alford (James wife, better known as “Maggie.”) a second Margaret Alford (my mother, better known as Peggy and the youngest daughter of James and Maggie), Mary Alford (my mother’s oldest sister), Nellie Alford (my mother’s older sister), Rita (my cousin, daughter of Nellie) Tony (my late father-in-law who was wounded in Africa during World War II), Rosemary (Tony’s daughter and my former wife for more than 30 years) and John Munzer, my son who wrote the blog that inspired this.

On Memorial Day, I made a trip into Jersey City to visit Grandfather James’ grave. It was just the second time I visited the grave. Peggy never spoke of the grave. I couldn’t get her to tell me where it is. She once said, “they’re dead. It doesn’t matter. Who cares?”

The Jersey City gravesite, 2016, where James, Mary and Maggie are buried. I placed the flag there because the cemetery did not have him listed as a veteran.

What I did know of my grandfather was he was one of those young men who was placed in an untenable situation. He died in France during the First World War. Each war is usually very different. James’ war was called “trench warfare.” Armies dug in to defend themselves and for more than a year the front never differed by more than a mile. In the meantime, many new weapons such as aircraft and tanks bombed and shelled the trenches. Men were forced to take up their rifles and charge into unobstructed machine gun fire. It was wholesale slaughter. France lost 90 percent of its male generation. It was useless and impossible to stop the deadlock. And this all started because a crazed terrorist killed a minor member of the Austrian nobility.

Ironically, it was the second war James was involved with. My cousin Rita tells me he was also a member of Teddy Roosevelt’s “Rough Riders” of the Spanish- American war of 1898. But the two battles that group was involved in were one-day events with few casualties on the American side. And they were a cavalry unit, unlike James second turn as an infantryman.

Grandpa "Jim," James Alford, who served with the Rough Riders during the Spanish-American war and died in France about a month before World War I ended.

He died on Oct. 14, 1918 in France. It involved the last German offensive of the war, which ended five weeks later on November 18. Ironically, on that same day a British gas shell exploding in Belgium temporarily blinded Hitler.

As I said, this was my second visit to the grave. The first time, was in 2011 after I uncovered papers about its location long after my mother’s 1984 death. At that time, I discovered my mother had a sister, Mary, whom she never spoke of.

While I suppose that James’ death would be an incredible shock to his family, I discovered Monday that about 40 days after that, Mary, died. Peggy was probably around 6 when this happened. Mary was 12.

How could anyone cope with such a situation? These became hard times for the Alford family. According to Cousin Rita:

“My mother (Nellie) said Mary never complained about being sick. They talked a lot apparently. Your own mother (Peggy) would have been very young at this point and possibly didn't remember much of Mary. Another thing my Mom said often is that Mary always smiled. When she died, my mother, still a child herself couldn't believe it. She believed that, even though Mary spent most of her life in bed, she always seemed happy (and therefore healthy in the mind of my mother, another child). She told me she was shattered by her sister's death but she tried not to let on because her mother was suffering and she wanted to help. Thinking back, I realize how much like my mother that was.

Maggie loved Mary so much and talked of her throughout her life. She never really told me anything about her (at least not that I remember). Just that she was such a joy to her.”

Let’s take this a step further. Here you have a widow who is also in shock. Record keeping was haphazard and it took some time for Maggie to get survivor’s benefits. She was employed as a housekeeper.

According to Rita, “Maggie didn't begin to get her benefits for some time afterward. She took on a job as a kind of caretaker for an apartment where she and her daughters lived (possibly free or low cost, I don't know or remember). My mother (Nellie) who was about 11 or 12 piled her hair on top of her head to look older and got a job as a telephone operator to help out. Maggie told me Mom would come home from work and scrub the apartment floors so that she (Maggie) didn't have to. But according to my mother, it was Maggie who mostly did the scrubbing and everything else. She did sewing, and other odd jobs, among them handling some cooking for Jewish neighbors on days they were forbidden to do any work, and she nursed the sick. Only once, when Mom said it was a matter of putting food on the table for her two daughters, did she accept money for that. Even later in life, Maggie was one friends and neighbors called on to care for the sick. She couldn’t support two girls on that kind of money.”

And my mother, so young, became “Baby Peggy,” a Vaudeville act. Now I don’t know how a child so young could think of going into Vaudeville. So it must have been Maggie’s idea. It surely must have been another way of getting vital money in such a bad time. Now little Irish girls singing and dancing on stage was a staple of Vaudeville shows. Perhaps the most famous family of that era was the Four Cohan’s, with daughter Josie doing the singing and dancing. Her brother was the famous George M. Cohan, whose life was portrayed in “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Also famous in that era were Eddie Foy and his seven children.

"Baby Peggy," one of many cute Irish girls of that name who performed by singing and dancing in the Vaudeville era. It is likely she performed only in Jersey City, never making it to the New York Stage. In her older years, she sometimes got drunk and performed her songs and dances when she thought no one was watching, then cry herself to sleep.

But my mother “Baby Peggy,” wasn’t the only little Irish act of that name. A Google search reveals several of them and it is unlikely that my mother ever made it across the Hudson River to the New York stage.

But I have to speculate that the backstage environment had to influence Peggy. Vaudeville featured a variety of acts from singers to strippers -- some of whom weren’t exactly ideal companions for a child. From my own experiences in amateur theater, I know that the intensity of the stage brings about and breaks apart relationships. And I now wonder how much my mother experienced it? Rita says Peggy was always supervised, but how much did she pick up? She was a very intelligent woman. Is it possible that being forced into Vaudeville further traumatized this little girl?

Why do I say this? Because my mother’s life was filled with rage long before I was born, I wonder if being forced into Vaudeville, and hating it, combined with the twin deaths formed that rage?

As I look into history, my mother was part of something called “The Lost Generation,” who came of age during that war and its aftermath. The term was popularized by Hemingway who used it in a novel called “The Sun Also Rises.” This was a generation who matured during the 1920s, often called the “roaring twenties.” That decade was one of incredible change. Emerging from the shock of war, the era was one of technological achievement. By now, everyone had electric power and inventions like refrigerators changed the economic situation. There was great growth and prosperity.

And into that era came my Peggy, a “flapper,” a young woman who was intent on enjoying herself and flouting conventional standards of behavior. She smoked to excess (which killed her eventually). She drank way beyond excess (which destroyed her family relationships). And the sexual mores of the time were revolutionary. And Peggy lived in the center of it, New York City, with its many speakeasies (nightclubs serving illegal alcohol – it was prohibition). To her, I suppose, it was a wild and wonderful time, filled with excitement.

And then suddenly the stock market crashed in 1929. And Peggy somehow survived the Great Depression, hanging on to a job as a legal secretary at a large law firm. And that was followed by another world war. After Peggy died, I discovered that she had been married and divorced to a man named Walter Cannon during that war era. An unsuccessful songwriter, according to Rita, he was mostly supported by Peggy. But it was wartime. Is it possible she couldn’t handle the thought of another loss so she made a pre-emptive strike in divorcing him?

 

Peggy's life (clockwise): Left, with grandson John circa 1980: With husband John, circa 1946; With me and my dog Pupcorn, circa 1953; The flapper, circa 1920s; "Baby peggy," circa 1919; With Judge Harold Price, her boss from the 1960s through 1980s; and in adult one-piece baby pajamas, circa 1977.

Much of this is speculation. But it makes sense to me that I should inherit the trauma.

By the time she entered her 50s, Peggy was severely alcoholic. As a teenager, I sometimes watched her drunkenly singing “Baby Peggy” songs while dancing; and then crying herself to sleep. She frequently battled with Nellie’s family. I am not sure why. Rita speculates that it was because of the stability of that family. I am very aware of the contrast between my cousins and myself. All three of them had generally stable lives without much drama. The brothers were long-term employees while I bounced from job to job (though that was also the nature of the businesses I was in).

But then, Peggy battled with everyone, especially her mother. But she told me often how horrible her mother Maggie’s death from cancer was. A few years before I was born, Maggie joined James and Mary at that grave in Jersey City. Perhaps that additional trauma was why she refused to let me know the locale of the grave. In my entire life, she never visited the grave, though sometimes on Memorial Day she would say to never forget that my grandfather was a hero in World War I.

Shortly before she left our family around 1954, she posed for this photo which included my dog and Cousin Luke (Red) on right. I'm in the middle and on the left is Bruce, a friend.

Much of this is speculation. But it makes sense to me that I should inherit the trauma.

And so, war has, without doubt ,impacted both Rosemary’s and my lives in many ways -- and our own children have been influenced by these wars that never ended in our families. Our marriage was filled with conflict and we sought counseling. One of the counselors said there was nothing wrong with either of us. We were simply survivors of our parent’s traumas and quite courageous. And make no mistake; Tony caused a lot of hell for Rosemary. I once bought her a Ginsu knife for Christmas and she wouldn’t go near it. She said it was memories of her father waving a kitchen knife at her and babbling his “I killed Germans with by bare hands” routine when she was a child.

And so, I must conclude, that in many ways war has also impacted my children, even after three generations. I find it ironic that, after living with the stress of my mother’s trauma and the stress of the my marriage to Rosemary, that after being diagnosed with depression for decades, then bipolar, my shrink finally figured out I was suffering from PTSD.

It isn’t just the causalities of war to think about on Memorial Day, but also the descendants – casualties in our own way.

Time Passages

Well I'm not the kind to live in the past

The years run too short and the days too fast

The things that you lean on, are the things that don't last

Well it's just now and then, my line gets cast into these

Time passages

There's something back there that you left behind.

Time passages

Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight

-  Al Stewart, Time Passages

On Saturday, May 21, 2016, my line certainly was cast into some passages. A little background is necessary. Bonnie Brae Farm for Boys is celebrating its 100^th anniversary today, and much to my amazement, I was asked to be a speaker.

I was greatly honored. Bonnie Brae is a place where I found safety and sanity between 1959 and 1963. The draft of the speech will follow, but I wanted to share some of the moments today.

Judge Harry Osborne in 1916 started a haven for us troubled boys. The judge questioned the effectiveness of locking up teen boys instead of providing a place where they could overcome their issues and be productive members of society.

Two of the men I played football with in those days were there, and others joined us as we spoke of a time long ago and far away. In that time, the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, we were perceived to be the dregs of society. But you know what? We all have college degrees and several of us have master’s degrees. A few of us became ministers.he Instead of being burdens, we are successful men making a contribution to our community.

Myself (left), Gary Minion (center) and George Tate. We played football for the Bonnie Brae football team and later at Ridge High. George is in the school's hall of fame. We each grew up a few years apart. Back in 1959, Gary was at least six inches taller than me, and I was a couple inches taller than George. But as we all had growth spurts and this is the result.

We are proud of our heritage, no longer ashamed of being different. As a younger alumnus who spoke said, ”I’m awesome!”

Some random thoughts along the way  -- I was asked by one of the residents who were parking cars if I was an “illumini”? I had to explain that illumini are authors of original ideas that create value; while alumni are people who attended a school.I didn't try to go through the difference between alumni and alumnus 

The dining room we ate in has been converted into a theater, but most of the men who were there in my era still called in the dining hall.

This is a rendering of the proposed new 18-room cottage, We slept four to a dorm room while the new cottage will have individual rooms.

Today, it featured a display of a proposed 18-room dorm. I lived in cottages with four bedrooms with four boys each. These boys will each have their own room.

The alumnus who gave the invocation is the pastor of a Mennonite church located next to the gym where I work out. I’ve been looking for a church where I’m comfortable in. He invited me to join them tomorrow. Perhaps I will.

Because I was a speaker, I was considered an “honored guest.” I thought how in 1959 I considered myself a 10-year-old juvenile delinquent.

When I wrote the words I shared, I considered it to be a speech. Many people congratulated me on my “testimony,” a word that is often used in church when people share what God has done in their lives. I suppose it was.

I thoroughly enjoyed the drum corps that Bonnie Brae has in place these days. Did you know they represented New Jersey in President Obama’s inaugural parade?

The Bonnie Brae Drum Corps has marched in President Obama's inauguration, the only band from New Jersey in the parade.

Bonnie Brae was originally a working farm. It sold off its farmland after I left, but many shared the memories of the farm. When I was introduced by the grandson of the founder, he had just spoken of the chickens we raised. As I stepped up to the microphone I said “and cleaning their coops wasn’t very much fun” to much laughter.

We had a buffet, with much variety. In addition to hot dogs and burgers were sausage and peppers, chicken and many salads. It was easy for a diabetic like myself to find plenty of food, not to mention diet cola.

There was a game area set up for visiting children. I watched one boy, somewhere around 9 years old, try over and over to sink a foul shot as the current residents kept giving him the ball while coaching and encouraging him. The venue was the same as an ice rink/basketball court where some of the older boys did the same for me more than 50 years ago.

I lived at Bonnie Brae at a time when the ice rink/outdoor basketball court was installed. In the foreground is the dedication plaque.  the venue was used for a children's game area Saturday.

Unlike in my time, Bonnie Brae boys do not go to public school. Their school is self-contained and has many activates such as an ultra-modern video studio.

I did not realize it, but there is an alumni association that I will be joining. We already started talking about re-working their website.

When I submitted my speech, it ran about 15 minutes. I had to cut it to five and while it made sense, I’ve decided to print the entire speech. There’s too much in it to ignore.

* * *

Good Afternoon, I am very honored to be asked to share with you today.

My name is Michael Munzer and I was a resident from August 1959 to January 1963.

Bonnie Brae’s structure was very different then. We were a working farm. And many of us were involved in the agricultural part of Bonnie Brae.

Behind Osborne Cottage, the only surviving building of four Tudor-style cottages we lived in, was a chicken coop where I helped feed the chickens and gathered their eggs for the dining hall.

Osborne cottage is the last of the oreginal Tudor cottages we lived in.

Boys mowed down hay, and harvested corn. We sheared sheep, took care of pigs, fed and sometimes milked the cattle that gave us our milk. Some boys even slaughtered the animals that were served in the dining hall -- and somehow coped with the nastiest flock of geese who made it their mission to attack in numbers every time one of us would get too close. One of my greatest thrills was being allowed to ride a tractor for the first time with an older boy as we cleared a cornfield.

Between what was once the administration building and the swimming pool were cherry and apple trees. The apples were turned into a wonderful homemade cider. But we frequently climbed the trees to grab some fruit. If we were caught, we were fined.

The area between the administration building and the pool once contained an orchard. Alas, only one tree remains. 

At a talent show Pee Wee Clark and a couple of others did a quick skit. Pee Wee was caught picking an apple by Coach Macomb Billows.

“That’s going to cost you a quarter,” the coach said. Pee Wee’s response: “What? I can get them cheaper in the store.“

Life on the farm was far from ideal. We came here as troubled boys. It was well before Bonnie Brae’s current mission of working as a special education school. My story is fairly rough, but typical for those days.

You have to understand that in the era when I arrived, our society was very conformist and nuclear families was the norm. Single parent families were made to feel like outcasts.

Four years before my arrival, my alcoholic, drama queen mother staggered out of the house one afternoon saying, “Tell your father I’m leaving him.”

Unfortunately, she came back to take me with her. In four years, I lived in 11 different apartments, a transient hotel, plus several summer sleep away camps. And I attended six different school systems. By the time I arrived at Bonnie Brae, I had been in the juvenile system since the age of 10. I was definitely nuts and terrified of this strange new place.

But let me tell you the most important moment of my life. It occurred on the second or third day I was here. They had a football team for middle schoolers. Well, I liked to play football with my friends so I checked it out. They started off by having us run a couple of laps around the athletic field. Running laps certainly wasn’t fun and I told the coaches it wasn’t for me.

But a week later, I decided I needed to be a part of something. Most of the boys went to public school then. And I was confined to the small in-house school. I simply wasn’t ready to handle public school again but I needed to have friends.

I approached the coach and asked for another chance. And I got it. No one had ever done that before. I got bumped around quite a bit by boys who were a few years older and larger than me, but I stuck it out.

Photo of me after football practice taken by my aunt. Note the "old school" jersey made out of heavy wool. In the background on the left is a chicken coop i worked in.

I only got into one play that season. The other team, Manville I think, was punting. Coach put me in and told me to block the punt. I was so psyched up that I blasted past the lineman and the punter had a wild look on his face, as I was about to hit him even before he started to kick. He ran away from me, right into the arms of my teammates. The next year, I was a starter.

The game, the discipline of learning plays and techniques and relying on my teammates started me on a more balanced path. By the time I was a freshman at Ridge High, I even made the jayvee squad for a few games, though, with only 13 players, we probably had the worst freshman team in the history of New Jersey.

Football gave me a chance to be part of something greater than myself.  And it happened because Bonnie Brae gave a very troubled kid a second chance. 

And there was more than sports. There was consistency. When living with my mother before Bonnie Brae, I was cooking for myself because I never knew when my mom would get home – at the age of 10. Here, we got three great meals every day. And at each meal, Mr. Persico, the director, kept us well informed of goings on at the farm. To this day, I still use the grace we said at every meal:

For our homes, our Lord’s blessings, our lives, our health, 

our food, our father we thank thee, Amen. 

Best of all were the houseparents. I started with Mom and Pop Wolfinger. Like most of the houseparents, they were imported from the coal country of Pennsylvania. They taught us traditional values, and enforced them. At first. I regarded them as my jailers, but over time I was treated with kindness and, most of all, consistency.

While each set of houseparents in the four cottages I lived in had different styles, they were all fair. And they lived with us. They had an apartment right in our cottage. And they took care of things like laundry and other needs, just like regular parents.

 After nearly a year studying at Bonnie Brae’s small in-house school, I was allowed into the Bernards Township school system, where I prospered athletically, academically, socially, and intellectually. More importantly, I was with the same group of students for four grades and I developed friendships with people I am still in contact with today, thanks to social networking.

There was so much more I loved about Bonnie Brae. In the summer, there were weekly trips to various shore destinations. I loved the Steel Pier in Atlantic City where we saw Brenda Lee and Bobby Rydell entertain. Those were top acts in that time. And, does anyone remember Palisades Park.

Bonnie Brae also gave me leadership opportunities. To my knowledge, I was the only boy to ever reach the star scout rank. I was made senior patrol leader and was deeply involved in planning camping trips with the scoutmasters. And then I shared those skills with other scouts.

I also served on the Cottage Council representing Osborne. I was in 8^th grade then. I convinced the council to let the 8^th graders attend the dances in our library. But then I couldn’t get a date. I was rejected by three different girls, all of whom I had crushes on. Now simply crushed, I spoke with Mr. Persico about it. He suggested I ask a friend instead of a “girl.” And so I asked Valerie. One would think she was rather plain in school. But dressed up and made up, she was an extraordinary beauty. All the guys were jealous. Shortly after leaving Bonnie Brae, I invited her to a teenage nightclub in Morristown. On the way home, we shared our first kiss. And then several more. I’ll never forget those delicious moments of innocence. Thank you Mr. P!

I entered Bonnie Brae pretty much crazy. I left as someone who could be successful. And I needed the skills Bonnie Brae gave me. My mother soon returned to drinking and drama. I worked a lot of jobs in high school, mostly lifeguarding at the local Y, and doing other things like ushering at the movie theater and delivering chicken delight when I got a license. I worked most evenings simply to avoid the insanity. But by then, Bonnie Brae had given me the support and skills to deal with it. Many employers have commented on my strong work ethic and drive to succeed. I learned those things here.

I finished high school. Entered junior college and found my true calling in writing. I started as a part-time reporter for the Morris County Daily Record. After serving in the Army—which was fairly easy for me since I was used to regimentation – I wrote for newspapers in Morris County for many years. When my wife became pregnant, I began writing for corporations, such as Canon, about photography. I also worked for the inventor of the MRI scanner, providing advertising, sales and technical support.

While writing was my passion, I was in an auto accident and developed carpal tunnel syndrome. Unable to type for several years, and inspired by teachers at Bonnie Brae and Ridge High, I went back to college at the age of 43, getting both a bachelor and masters degree -- the first in my family to do so. And I had a second career as a teacher, including stints working with incarcerated students. I was fairly popular because I understood what they were going through. I gave them the fairness, respect and consistency I had when I was here.

When I retired about six years ago, I was living on Long Island. I decided to revisit my past. There is a huge difference between truth and perception and the first day out I returned to Bonnie Brae to meet with your outgoing director, Bill Powers. Bill graciously gave me several hours, talking about my time here and going with me on a tour.

It was wonderful to see the same things as well as the changes. Towards Metcalf cottage, there is a small field where we played baseball every day after school. I showed him where home plate was, and the tree we used for first base.

Cars were parked on a small field that we played baseball on after school just about every day. Unless, of course, it was snowing.

But I was in for an even greater blessing that day. As we talked, I mentioned how we had to say “Bonnie Brae” to the public school cafeteria cashier to get our free lunch. I told him how I felt so different from the other kids. Bernards Township is a very affluent community and we were the only ones who got free lunches. Bill told me that I was indeed different. But, my reaction to my circumstances was perfectly normal. It opened my eyes about a period where the shadow of an outcast was always behind me. And it gave me a feeling of peace I haven’t had in years. And so, nearly 50 years after leaving Bonnie Brae, this wonderful place is still helping me.

I’d also like to say a few words to those who are considering becoming donors. At the beginning of our time today, I mentioned I was, at the age of 10, already in the juvenile system. I grew into a productive member of society and in my retirement years I have travelled all over the country volunteering at state and national parks – giving back. It is also something I learned here.

And so, instead of being a career criminal due to spend many years in jail -- if I survived, I am honored to share my story with you. If you look at the anniversary logo, it says Bonnie Brae has served 10,000 boys and 10,000 families. And that’s also 10,000 people who were given the second chance that saved me and so many other boys. Donating to Bonnie Brae is simply a way to make all our lives better.

Thank you for allowing me to share and may God bless you as much as He blessed me by leading me to Bonnie Brae.

Signs of the times: The top sign was taken in 2010, but was also the same sign that's there in the early 1960s when I was there. Below is the new sign to celebrate 100 years of service.

Letter to an aspiring writer

“Hi Michael!  I would love to talk to you about your experiences in Journalism as a whole. As a young journalist starting out, I find myself covering things that I sometimes do not understand. I'd also like to talk to you about freelance work and things like that. My cell is 908-XXX-XXXX. Please reach"

Dear writer:

First a poem/song about writing or singing:

There's a kid out on my corner hear him strumming like a fool


Shivering in his dungarees but still he's going to school


His cheeks are made of peach fuzz, his hopes may be the same


But he's signed up as a soldier out to play the music game

There are fake patches on his jacket


He's used bleach to fade his jeans


With a brand new stay-pressed shirt


And some creased and wrinkled dreams


His face a blemish garden but his eyes are virgin clear


His voice is Chicken Little's, but he's hearing Paul Revere

When he catches himself giggling


He forces up a sneer

Though he'd rather have a milk shake

He keeps forcing down the beer


Just another folkie, late in coming down the pike


Riding his guitar, he left Kid brother with his bike

And he's got Guthrie running in his bones


He's the hobo kid who's left his home


And his Beatles records and the Rolling Stones


This boy is staying acoustic

There's Seeger singing in his heart


He hopes his songs will somehow start


To heal the cracks that split apart


America gone plastic

And now there's Dylan dripping from his mouth


He's hitching himself way down south


To learn a little black and blues


From old street men who paid their dues


’Cause they knew they had nothing to lose


They knew it, so they just got to it

With cracked old Gibsons and red clay shoes


Playing 1 4 5 chords like good news


And cursed with skin that calls for blood


They put their face and feet in mud

But oh, they learned the music from way down there

The real ones learn it somewhere

Strum your guitar, sing it kid


Just write about your feelings, not the things you never did


Inexperience, it once had cursed me


But your youth is no handicap, it's what makes you thirsty.

-- Harry Chapin - There Only Was One Choice

What Harry is telling us about this kid is he wants to be a folk singer. He can't sing very well, bur he tells the kid to do it anyhow. He sees a passion in the kid and wants to encourage it.

And so I have to ask you, is writing your passion?

Here's what my favorite author, Robert Heinlien, says about writing: "Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards."

But just in case you still want to write, I will tell you a secret : WRITE. Write like it was your full-time job. Research like it is your full-time job. Edit like it's your full-time job. Because writing is your full-time passion.

You must write. You can't talk about wanting to be a writer. You won't become one by taking courses. You have to put your hands on a keyboard and start typing. And finish what you start. You'll never sell a damn thing if you don't. And as soon as you submit it for publication, write something else.

So let's talk about journalism. If you want to be in print media such as newspapers and magazines. There is little chance you will be able to do so. After all, there are thousands of unemployed journalists out there because print is dying and everything is electronic. That doesn't mean a damn thing. Do it anyhow because you'll become a far better writer. 

Newspapers don't pay very much. I started writing for the Morris County (NJ) Daily Record in 1968 when I was a college freshman. They paid a magnificent sum of $12.50 to be a "stringer" -- a freelance writer hired to cover a town meeting. My first assignment was to cover the Victory Gardens town council. Victory Gardens is the smallest town in the state. But the mayor was getting very worried because the Borough had seen it's very first drug bust earlier in the week. He made a quick statement about it at the beginning of the meeting and gave me the copy. There were probably a dozen more important things going on.  There were zoning approvals, budget issues, master planning and the cost of utilities. But that little statement was what I grabbed.

I got back to the office and sat at a typewriter in complete panic. "How would this read in the  Record?" I asked myself at least a dozen times before I just wrote about what I had. Who?--the mayor; What? drug abuse: Where? Victory Gardens (the dateline); Why? Because the mayor said drugs were spreading; How? The mayor thought pushers from the town next door were moving in on town.

I took those basic questions and managed to spit our eight paragraphs. The desk cut it down to four 'graphs and used it as a filler on page 5. No byline.

But I had published something and I kept on getting assignments. I learned to know what the issues of town government was. Or so I thought. And I just kept writing the stories, about four nights a week. Copy began to flow much easier. I remember I went to a very controversial board of education meeting which was attended by more than 100 people. I immediately called the news desk to get a photographer and I wrote 8 takes (pages) about the meeting. They published every word and I had a front-page byline.

After writing for about six months, I went into the Army Reserves. When I returned, I began working for the competition, The Daily Advance.

And I had a beat. I started writing about Hackettstown, Mount Olive and Allamuchy. Two of those towns were the only ones in Warren County we covered so I covered the county freeholders and occasionally the county court. 

I got to know a lot of politicians and civic leaders, as well as just plain people. This was the time when young Christians were becoming known as "Jesus Freaks." and that stirred a bit of controversy. And I looked for controversy throughout the town. And I found the most at the Hackettstown Council meeting. There always seemed to be problems. And I wrote about them. My editors loved it and gave me pretty much free rein on my articles.

And then came election night. The Republicans had a five-to-one majority on the council but lost the two seats that were up that year. After getting a couple of quotes from the Mayor, I went over to the Democrats party. Suddenly all the people who had been complaining about the "problems" were there. I felt I had been sucker punched. 

I spent the next year trying to be more balanced. And we endorsed the Republicans the next year.

I also managed to get a number of feature stories. Google Paula Grossman. She was a transexual music teacher who lost his job when he became a she. This was happening in Bernards Township, well out of our circulation area. I mentioned to my editor that he/she was my music teacher for three years. He got that manic grin on his face and insisted I go to Plainfield and interview her. 

And so I wrote my first major feature story. It was more than 1,000 words and it started on the front page and jumped to page three, tying up nearly half the page. 

The lead was like this: "

PLAINFIELD -- "My, you've changed," said Paula Grossman as she welcomed me to her modest Tudor home. "But then, who am I to talk?"  Paula has indeed changed. When she taught me in the Bernards Township schools, she was a he named Paul.

The story was one of the hardest I ever had to write. I had to do research on sex changes, and it wasn't available in our local libraries, nor in the newly-opened library at the local community college. I had to do my research at Rutgers University's main campus and also had to talk with the Board of Education members and their lawyer. I also did phone interviews with doctors. 

It took about 20 hours to do the story. I did the interview on a Monday morning and turned it in on Tuesday close to midnight. That story was a turning point for me. While I did a lot of town meetings, I also began to search out human interest stories. And I was trusted with more assignments. I became the reporter on the Presidential election, following candidates as they stumped the state. I was very tight with our convention delegates and had on-the-scene accounts of what was happening at the national conventions. 

I finally ended my days as a beat reporter and covered the courthouse, which included the prosecutor's office. I had a solid relationship with then Judge Brendan Byrne and managed to get him to pose for a photo by his office door (photos were banned in the courthouse in those days) as he left to run for New Jersey governor. The photo made the state AP wire.

There were a lot of good times with my fellow reporters. Most of us were single (It's kind of tough to find someone when we worked every night until 1 a.m.). And so we went to a local diner to solve all the problems of the world, staying until about 3 a.m. One night, we spotted a man wanted for murder and called the cops from the pay phone. Within minutes there were at least 20 cops there. Our Photographer was hanging with us and he got a photo that went national. We made the new guy go back to the newsroom and write the story, but we also phoned it in to back up. It's the only time I've ever seen six bylines. 

Four years after that Victory Gardens story, I had it with writing about the same things. I took an opening with a weekly newspaper. I wanted to do more than just write. I wanted to learn layout, editing and general newspaper management. Those days we had type set and pasted up our weekly 20 pages. In addition to doing some reporting, I wrote a weekly column and one about off-road motorcycles won a New Jersey Press Association award,

It was a great run, but Journalism never paid enough to support a family. I hated to stop it, but a pregnant wife forced me to take a job pushing photographic products as a technical writer. After a couple of years, I had a reputation and was offered a job editing a trade magazine for professional photographers. After that, five years working for Canon USA’s ad agency writing technical materials, press releases, price lists, and more.

The career went on. I wrote stuff for the inventor of the MRI scanner, countless articles for business trade magazines and more until I developed carpal tunnel syndrome after an auto accident. And so I had a second career as a school teacher, making kids write about history.

These days, I don’t write for anyone but myself. I don’t care who reads it. I’m retired. But I still have a passion for it. I’ve travelled cross country four times and have gone up and down the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. I’ve been in 112 degree heat in the Badlands, and under four feet of blizzard in the same place.

So kid, if you want to be a writer. Just write.

Nixon's the one

In this brave new Republican world, I have suddenly realized that Richard Nixon would be a far superior candidate to any of the remaining GOP contestants --- not to mention those who have dropped out. Trump? Did you know the Brits call farts "trumps."




Trump vs. Obama, it is such a contrast. The hater compared to the reasoned intellectual. It seems like Karma is triumphant! For eight years we've had loudmouth, vicious group of people determined to oppose any and all proposals, no matter how reasonable. And now, America could get the epitome of this mindless opposition that has ripped us asunder in the White House.

As I recently saw on a post: “If Trump wins the election, it will be the first time in history that a billionaire moved into public housing vacated by a black family.”

Yes, I am seriously thinking of becoming  an ex-patriot. I have a friend who has lived for decades in Costa Rica. Canada is a better option, but I hate the cold. 

I am no big fan of Hillary either. But she will probably be the first woman president. It could be the first time in memory that someone could win every state. But somehow we are in a political mess that has never been seen in our history. I began voting in 1968. The bottom line for me has always been that I will vote for the candidate who has the most integrity, no matter what their politics. How can I make a choice?


A few quotes from my son's Facebook posts:




"I'd like to remind everyone that voting for the devil you know is still voting for the devil. That is all"




" I could be talking about some carpetbagging bitch who deliberately used our state as stepping stone to get where she's at now or some billionaire douche that campaigned to kick a little old lady out of her house to build some shitty building. I just find it offensive that certain campaigns keep saying "New Yorkers KNOW this candidate". Yeah we know them real good... as complete fucking assholes. Not naming names or anything. Just pointing out that they seem to think us New Yorkers are the stupidest people in the nation."




Matt -- You have expressed it far better than I could.

Diabetic Decisions

Note: From time to time I will update you regarding the diabetic numbers and pounds. When I wrote this, I was 252 lbs. I am now 245, having lost seven lbs. My sugar levels, which were averaging in the 280s--380s, have come way down, ranging between 103 and 237 (right after meals). (May3, 2016)

For nearly a decade, I have lived with pain in my shoulders, the worst being in the rotator cuff on my right side. It was a result of an industrial accident. Within a few weeks, the pain deadened somewhat but I had a great deal of pain when I reached up -- which wasn't much fun when I had to change oil filters, which I was doing at the time.

But that, plus a number of other issues, put me on permanent disability. After turning 65. I could work if I could and I did some seasonal work for a few times while on the road from 2010 until last year. But the pain continued to worsen. I tried having steroids injected into my back. The first time I had some relief, the next time practically nothing. So the pain doctor referred me to a spinal surgeon, who in turn had me see a neurologist and an orthopedic surgeon. The orthopedist took an X-Ray and discovered there was some calcium build up by my rotator cuff which was the primary cause of the pain.

He said I'm not a candidate for surgery because of my diabetic condition. So he gave me a cortisone shot and that helped. A second one about a week ago further relieved the condition to a point I could comfortably swim and throw a ball -- which had been impossible since the original injury in 2004.

And then I had a couple of falls. The first one wasn't too bad really. I tripped on an old fashioned slate sidewalk in my home town of Morristown, and wound up landing on my stomach. I was on the way to the Mayo center at the old Community theater. A couple of people stopped and helped me up. I had the wind knocked out of me and my clothes were a mess, but I got away with a mild sprain to my left wrist. In a way, it was ironic. I used to jog along the sidewalk which was near the church I attended. It was also the first time in more than 59 years that I went to the theater, where I ushered in the 1960s.

A few days later, I had a fall that was much worse. While planting a garden, I tripped ontte a landsctape log and as I stumbled forward, I tripped over a six-inch slate  wall in the garden. I wound up smashing my face into the wall and landing on both elbows. I needed Emily to help me get up. My left elbow was in incredible pain and my right elbow had some major abrasions. My face was also a mess, but no doubt somewhat improved.

The pain in the left elbow was such that I was unable to lie down to sleep. Any pressure from the bed resulted in jolting pain. So I slept on a recliner where I could simply drop both elbows over the edge.

This happened on a Saturday, so I was unable to see my doctor until Monday morning. He ordered X-Rays. There is no fracture, thank the Lord, but there is a bone bruise. It's going to take more time than the normal healing process. Again because of the diabetes.

So we had a talk about the diabetes. The last time I was in the Hospital in October, my sugar levels were off the scale. I had a stroke, followed by a cardiac incident and am now taking medicine for both. And diabetes could have been a contributing factor. My feet have gotten bad. They are numb on the balls of each foot and the numbness is sneaking up to my toes and the sides of my feet.

We discussed medication. My current meds do now work well. And the three alternative meds he proposed will cost me hundreds of dollars a month, even with some coverage by my prescription plan. I simply can't pay it. While insulin is a possible option, the chances I would gain another 15-20 pounds were good. We then discovered that for nearly two decades, I had been taking my current meds wrong. I took them in the morning and the evening. But I would take the a.m. doses around 8 a.m. and not have breakfast until 11 a.m. I was taking the p.m. doses before going to bed.

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.

I was supposed to take the meds with food--breakfast and dinner. It is why I have been plagued with diarrhea (a major side effect of the medication) for some time. It has reached a point where it is violent and strong. Over the past year, I have been unable to go from the living room to the bathroom in time and have made enough messes that I have been considering adult diapers. I keep several back up pairs of underpants and towels to clean myself up as I often haven't been able to reach a public restroom in time.

So this morning I took the meds with breakfast. And a normal bowel movement followed. Same with this evening. I know, -- way too much information. But it was important.

So the diabetes, which was discovered back in 1985, has been a slow and silent killer. It often makes me dizzy and I lose my balance. I've lost teeth because of it. My heart has A-Fib symptoms, my blood pressure is high and I'm taking around 20 pills a day. Not to mention ED.

It's time to decide to change. Today, I got up and my blood sugars were over 300. Normal is around100. I got it down to 169 after spending two hours in the gym doing treadmill and bicycle. I walked two miles, cycled five miles and burned nearly 500 calories. And I have to keep that type of thing up, not to mention stop pigging out. There are days I have only one meal. I start eating around 9 a.m. and keep it up past midnight. it's called "grazing" and it's killing me.

So here's what I'm going to do. The people of Facebook are very important to me. Once a week, I'm going to list my weight. It will give me motivation to work out daily, not just once in a while. I have two 50th year high school reunions coming up. I intend to show up not being the complete mess I am now. Please wish me well.