Five Guys

I grew up in the years when McDonalds was starting out. One day, the director of the farm for boys where I lived said we were going out to dinner, the only time we ever did. He gave us each a buck and told us if we really wanted to pig out, to bring another one.

And so we took the school bus to one of the first McDonalds in New Jersey and we did, pig out that is. Burgers were 19 cents, so were fries. A large soft drink was about a quarter and milkshakes were 39 cents.

Of course, I became addicted to McDonalds and have about an extra 50 pounds on my body to prove it.

I’ve tried Wendy’s and Burger King. But they just didn’t measure up in those days and Mickey D’s has been my preference  -- especially when I’m on the road.

In fact, as I write this, the prom date and I are on the road in Ohio and the Mickey D breakfast menu is just about the only one designed for a take out breakfast. We drove 11+ hours the day before and so I picked up a couple of orders of oatmeal and we split a big breakfast. But McDonalds is rarely a place I go to for burgers anymore. Now it’s Five Guys.

Although one of the smaller burger chains, it’s clearly the best. The prom date was sick today and she spent much of her time in bed. So at dinnertime, it was clearly Five Guys and when I came back with the plain brown bag containing our burgers and fries, she was well pleased.

I first discovered Five Guys somewhere around Milwaukie, Oregon, where my son and his family live. I was on the way home and a little hungry and so I stopped and ordered a large fries. The cost was a little high, until I was handed a bag containing a 20-ounce cup of fries and they took two extra scoops and put that into a brown bag.

Now that’s a lot of fries. The serving will easily feed four adults. But the thing was, they were fresh. I mean these fries had never seen a freezer. On the floor were cartons of raw potatoes with a sign saying where the spuds were grown. Five guys employees run the potatoes through a French fry cutter. They don’t peel them so a lot of the fries have skin on them, which not only make them taste better, but the skin provides better nutrition.

Everything is fried in peanut oil, which is also less greasy and healthier too since it has no cholostrol. Now I’m not saying that fried foods are good for us, just that these fries are better than the ones you get out of a freezer at a fast food joint.

But it is now time to discuss the burgers. A burger is two third-pound patties, which have been freshly ground and hand shaped. The place does not have a freezer. You can also get a “junior” burger with one patty for about a dollar less. There’s an old advertising jingle for McDonald’s Big Mac – “two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.” But if you order a Big Mac, that’s what you get. With Five Guys, you choose your toppings ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, barb-b-que, hot sauce and A-1 sauce are the condiments, then the veggies include lettuce, tomato, green and jalapeño peppers, pickles, onions (raw or grilled), and mushrooms (again raw or grilled).

 

You can order whatever you want and if you want extra onions or mushrooms, for example, they’re all your’s  -- all included with the burger. And because the burgers are cooked fresh, they come out tender and juicy. Ever looked in the back kitchen at McDonald’s? They cook burgers in bunches and put them in heating bins. It just isn’t the same. Most fast food places also season their burgers. Five Guys has salt and pepper packages if you want the spice.

They also sell hot dogs; also with the condiments you want and grilled cheese, a veggie special grilled cheese and a BLT. Bacon on the burgers and dogs cost extra.

As for drinks, they also have home-spun shakes with about ten different flavors. I sometimes will have a cherry-strawberry-banana shake. But more often I will have a soft drink chosen from the more than 100 varieties from Coke’s advanced dispenser system. For example, Sprite Zero can be poured into your cup with lemon, cherry, orange and other flavors. Today I had a vanilla diet root beer.

Since everything is cooked to order, you have to sit around and they offer free peanuts in the shell while you wait.

I usually take out my meal, but there is a dining room. It’s nothing fancy, but there are plenty of seats and stools.

All I can say about this is that in more than seven years of blogging, I’ve never endorsed a place to eat (though I did once mention a great Florida juice stand). Simply put, check it out and you’ll find that instead of a ‘happy meal,’ you will find yourself quite happy with your meal.

Ike

The 34th
President lived rather modestly after finally retiring. He was the Supreme Allied Commander of our forces in Europe during the Second World War and the head of NATO forces after that. He “retired” to become the president of Columbia University until being the President of the United States.

The first time I heard of Dwight David "Ike" Eisenhower was in November 1952 when my mother took me inside the voting booth at our Upper West Side polling place. She voted for the other guy, Adlai Stevenson. Adlai was crushed – twice – becoming the Democrat's sacrificial lamb in 1956. 1952 marked the first time a Republican was president in three decades. And Ike, as everyone called him, was also wanted by the Democratic Party to be their nominee.

We recently toured the battlefield at Gettysburg and the Eisenhowers spent their last years at a farm near the site of that conflict. Ike, and his wife Mamie, had lived in an estimated 40 homes during his military career and had some rather fancy temporary housing for eight years in Washington DC. But the Gettysburg farm was the couple’s first and only home.

The home was rather modest. In fact, he had to write a book, Crusade in Europe, to afford to purchase it. I had read a first edition of the book about a quarter century ago from my mother’s estate. But alas, it has been lost.

We had a guide, another New York social studies teacher, who reminded me of some of the events of his Presidency, such as the Suez crisis. The Israelis, British and French invaded Egypt to gain control of the Suez Canal without Eisenhower’s knowledge. Ike was livid and had strongly warned Britain not to invade. He threatened serious economic damage unless the three invaders pulled out, including major financial damage to Britain’s economy. Historians say that the crisis signified the end of Great Britain’s role as a one of the world’s major powers. Egypt was allied with the Soviet Union at that time and the threat of a possible nuclear war was realistic. Yet in any high school history course, this crisis isn’t even mentioned. It drives me crazy that events I consider as touchstones in my lifetime, such as the Cuban Missile Crisis, the JFK assination, the 1968 assinations of Malcomb X, Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, Woodstock and the first lunar landing get so little attention. The wars in Korea and Vietnam have been consolidated into a day’s study of “the cold war era.”

But Ike’s role in history has been well established and I need not go any further into that. What I was astounded to discover was how ordinary and simple his home was.

When the Eisenhowers purchased the home circa 1950, the house was falling apart and had to be completely rebuilt. In fact, there was a colonial-era house found underneath the house. The couple built a small stone house next to the main brick house and then spent much time renovating the main house. But the house, when completed, was modest. The main living room was only slightly larger than most people’s living rooms. And the other rooms were all within the normal range. There are eight bedrooms, but two were allocated to a maid and an aide. In addition to the master bedroom, Ike had a smaller bedroom which doubled as a study.  What surprises me is that the home is so simple. Ike and Mamie spent a lot of time on the back porch, doing things most people did in that era. They watched black-and-white television. Ike loved westerns while Mamie was obsessed with the soap operas. There was a card table, and Ike loved to paint. The house has several of his paintings and it is estimated that about 250 paintings are in private circulation. Move into the bathrooms and you’ll see nothing special. A simple toilet, sink and bathtub were the mainstays throughout the house. The kitchen had appliances of the era, such as a mixer. The bedrooms had portable radios – large ones, many times the size of today’s alarm clocks. The beds were generally twin size.

About the only special thing in the house was some wallpaper Mamie had put in. It contained the great seals of every state. The pattern was a standard one offered by the manufacturer, and the company simply changed the background color to suit her tastes, which was usually a light pink.

It’s such a contrast to the way we view the homes of former presidents. The Clintons live in a mansion in an exclusive enclave outside New York City. The Bush families own a sprawling ranch. The Kennedy compound in Hyannis is large and isolated. But the Eisenhower family simply craved privacy. The farm had no identification that a former president lived there. Today, the driveway had a “do not enter sign at the street, but nothing to indicate the former president lived there. About the only concession to the life he led was a small Secret Service building next to a barn.

According to our guide, Ike loved to take visitors to the Gettysburg battlefield and he also had a small golf hole installed. But it was a working farm as he raised Angus cattle and frequently showed them.

Ike was a president who apparently cared more about what was right rather than himself. What a contrast to the very rich candidates of the election of 2016. Could you imagine The Donald or Hillary spending their time in a manure-laden barn instead of being full of bull?

Reunion

It’s been a long day and will be a short night. There is a gentle summer rain that should be lulling me to sleep. But I am too filled with joy and contentment. I have just attended the 50^th year reunion of the Ridge High School (Basking Ridge, NJ) Class of 1966.

Reunion is a funny word. it is not just a gathering of people who once knew each other, but the union part of the word indicates a bonding that once was and, from my perspective, still is.

I only spent half of my freshman year with this group of people, but I also was part of the class during middle school – 6^th through 8^th grades. And these people are very dear to me, possibly much more than my classmates at Morristown High School (NJ) where I graduated. This RHS class, numbering just over 100, was small. But their beauty was immense.

In previous years, I had gone to five schools and lived in 11 apartments in the four years since my parents separated. I lived with my mother, an alcoholic drama queen. The best way I could explain it was I had a mental breakdown by the time I was 12 years old. I wound up at Bonnie Brae Farm for Boys in Millington, NJ. The stability of having an ordered life and consistent treatment helped me to settle down while I attended the in-house school there.

About nine months later, I returned to the public school system while living at Bonnie Brae. Even though I had to repeat 6^th grade, it was OK. I had learned little in the previous school year and realized it was best for me. And so I spent the last few months in school with the children who eventually became the class of ’66. Those first few months, I felt very much like an outsider, as usual, because I not only was the new kid in school, but also a Bonnie Brae Boy. I had no idea what the “townies” thought of me, or any Bonnie Brae Boy during that time. I pretty much kept to myself, but there was absolutely no way I wanted to go back to the in-house school.

The Friday evening meet and greet

The next year I returned to the same school, with the same classmates. We moved from class to class with new teachers, rather than staying with one teacher. And the transition was smooth. I was with the same group of classmates for the first time in my life.

Slowly, very slowly, I came out of my shell as seventh grade began. And I started to learn things. Mr. Whittaker, my English teacher, spent endless days on sentence structure and diagramming. With that instruction, I was able to become the professional writer that was the backbone of my career. I became comfortable with my classmates. Eventually we began supporting one another with both life and schoolwork.

Then suddenly we were in Oak Street JHS and in the 8^th grade, a different building with some new teachers. But by now, I was comfortable with my classmates. My grades improved and I became involved in sports and clubs. I learned a little about soccer and played on the school team. I also played football and baseball. Suddenly, I was something of a class leader. I was in Mr. Koza’s camera club, and guess who later became a professional photographer? The social studies teacher, Mr. Mitchell, refused to take my BS and inspired me to teach that subject after a middle-life career change was forced upon me due to injuries.

But the most important thing was that I felt I was an important part of this group. I felt accepted.

And that was the year I discovered girls. 

After a few false starts with girls with whom we laughed about during the reunion, along came Valerie. It was kind of weird, the way I had discovered her. I had asked a couple of girls to a dance at Bonnie Brae.

A midday bar-b-que at a classmate's home. It ended just before torrential rains began.

The first girl I asked was with her BFF and I couldn’t get them separate. So I finally asked the girl and the BFF burst into laughter while the other girl, the object of my two years of unknown, unbridled affection, politely declined. This incident turned out to be a major factor in my life as I became extremely fearful of rejection for some time. The next girl I asked said her father would not let her date until she was 16. I thought she was just brushing me off but later learned it was true. The third girl said she would ask her parents, who said “no.”

Now you have to understand, these three girls were some of the most attractive in the class. I spoke to Mr. Persico, Bonnie Brae’s director, about it. He suggested I ask a girl who was a friend, not necessarily a pretty one. And so I asked Valerie. And she said yes. I felt glad I had a date for the dance, but somewhat apathetic because she seemed to be so plain.

But then came the night of the dance. Valerie, who didn’t primp too much at school, suddenly was an incredibly beautiful woman, drop-dead gorgeous, and perfection beyond belief. A dash of makeup with a beautiful dress with a modest neckline and an incredible hairdo made her the belle of the ball, though she didn’t realize it. There was a song by The Lettermen, a popular group at that time, titled “The Way You Look Tonight,” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSsTguCePLk) that I considered “our” song, though I never told her that. But every time I hear it, I still remember that night when I discovered that girls were clearly the most wonderful things ever! When my son married his wife, I chose that song to play as I danced with her at the reception. 

And all my Bonnie Brae friends who saw Valerie agreed. A few days later we were hanging around the day room where we studied and played board games. They started an A cappella doo-wop song that began with: 

“Valerie, (Aaaaaaah)  oh my Valerie, (Oooooo)) Valerie, I love you so, so, so (so, oh, so)

And Valerie, (Oooooo) oh my little Valerie, (Aaaaaaah)  I just want you to know, (know, oh, know.)”

The lyrics continued with her being so fine and having kisses like wine; possessing eyes that sparkled in the night, etc.

It was, of course, what was then called “puppy love.” But the feelings, and hormones, were raging. But the thing was, when she said she loved me, I didn’t know how to respond. I really never had an example of it in my chaos-filled home life. I often wonder if I still don’t understand love. At that point, we hadn’t even kissed.

Through those elementary years, our music teacher was Paul Grossman. Several years after the class graduated, he had a sex change and became Paula Grossman. In recent years, trans people have become somewhat accepted. But at the time, even though she was tenured, the school board fired her. Sometime around 1973 I was working for the Dover Daily Advance newspaper and when I mentioned in the newsroom that she was my teacher in elementary school, I was sent to get an interview. After finding a 10-year-old Plainfield phone book (does anyone still use them?) I made contact and got an interview. Ms Grossman always had a great sense of humor in school and greeted me with “you’ve changed, but who am I to talk?”

And here we get serious. Bonnie Brae boys were accepted. Most of my classmates didn’t know we had juvenile records. For example, I was charged with B&E. I saw a baseball in the basement door where I lived and broke in to get it. Others ran with street gangs. Some were sexually abused and some, who never made it to public school, were sexual abusers. But the classmates treated us like equals. And it helped us incredibly. Mr. Grossman cast one of us, Jimmie Shields, as the lead of a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta  -- something most of us Bonnie Brae boys marveled at. While we were always part of athletic teams and clubs, we were rarely thought of as having that kind of talent. We were proud of Jimmie, a gentle giant, albeit it a lonely one. When my father visited me every other week on Sunday, he hung out with us like a puppy wanting to be included.

And then I was a freshman. The previous years had strengthened my mind, body and soul. No longer did I feel like an outlaw and outcast. There I was, playing football, even if we were the worst freshman team ever. We never even scored. We only had about 15 boys start the season. That meant most of us had to play both ways. By the second quarter, we were usually exhausted as the teams we played against sometimes had two to three times as many players.

Top: 1963 yearbook photo of the freshmen team, Bottom, the RHS football field today posted by Joy Monroe. 

We got close to scoring once. After being behind by at least 40 points, we got near the goal line and the opposing coach put his starters back in and they stopped us. A small squad, we wound up with only eight players after injuries and our season was cancelled. Those who were left played a little with the jayvee team. But it was something we owned, and it united us.

Dinner is served at the reunion

I joined the music appreciation club and we even heard a song by some British group called the Beatles. We breezed through French I, having had three years of it in elementary school, but the guys paid little attention as the teacher was very beautiful. Algebra I was a little tough as we were taught learning the “new math.” RHS was only in its second year of existence. But all the teachers, most of whom were quite young then, were great people who cared. It was an experience where we learned from each other.

And then it was time to leave. On the day we broke for Christmas vacation, the people at Bonnie Brae told me it was time for me to go home to my mother. They said she had been sober, had a good job and a much better apartment. Well, I suppose two out of three weren’t bad. 

The next date I had with Valerie was at a youth nightclub run by a local Morristown church. My mother drove us between Morristown and Basking Ridge. It was a chance to simply talk and on the ride home, we were in the back seat and finally kissed well over a year since that incredible first date. But I discovered mom was driving drunk after letting Valerie off. I never wanted to risk Valarie, or any other person, again. From then on, I paid for taxis but I was so ashamed about my mother I didn't contact Valerie for nearly 50 years. 

Morristown High was very different. A class of more than 400 to start with, those from Morristown came in from several different elementary schools. Then there was another group from nearby Morris Plains, and yet another from Harding Township. When we were sophomores, yet another larger group from Morris Township joined us. These diverse groups formed all kinds of cliques even before entering high school. There were also groups based on religion and color. There were greasers and preppies. And I was the new kid. At Ridge, we were far more homogenous.

At Morristown, I never really fit into a niche. I did some sports, drama and debate. I never played football again because I blew my knee playing baseball and it wouldn’t hold up. The only sport I was any good at, swimming, was worse after the injury as my knee actually rattled when I was kicking.

I once visited a juvenile court judge and begged to go back to Bonnie Brae. But since I wasn’t committing any crimes, I couldn’t. My mother’s drinking prevented me from inviting friends into my house. I spent most of my evenings working to avoid her rantings; lifeguarding at the Y, ushering at the movies and delivering Chicken Delight instead of doing homework. I did not attend activities such as parties that I might have made friends in. I survived several courses simply by getting top grades only on final exams. In junior year history, I had the top grade in the entire school in the final and the teacher, who only lasted one year, wanted to give me a F for the year. Somehow, after screaming at the guidance department, I wound up with the only A I had in the three plus years I was at Morristown. I had made the honor roll several times in the Bernards Township system.

Despite having a recorded IQ of 132, I graduated 380^th out of 400 students. In the past five years or so, I have become much closer to my classmates than I was in those high school years.

I do not look back at the Morristown years with nearly the affection of my friends of my Bonnie Brae years, but the lessons they helped me learn then, and the support they gave me, probably meant the difference between a productive life and a life sentence.

I have been a professional writer, photographer, advertising executive, marketing manager and social studies teacher. I am the first in my family to graduate from college (with honors no less) and I even obtained a masters degree (magna cum laude).

I throughly enjoyed talking to many people and exchanging life stories. I didn't know many of the students because I left before they arrived at Ridge. I spent time talking to a Bonnie Brae Boy whom I knew only briefly even though we shared the same cottage. I simply came home late from school every day after practice and crashed into bed after dinner and homework. But talking to team mates and others was wonderful. Some of the people who were in my class had incredible lives.

I think my reunion experience was highlighted by a single moment that shows how much friendship means. One of the women, Joy, was best friends with Carol during 8th grade. But they had separated. Carol happens to be a dear friend and so I dialed her on my cell phone and handed Joy the phone. The two talked until the battery was nearly dead, and while I didn't listen to the conversation, Joy's joy went into orbit and I came home to a thank you note from Carol. Within a brief time, the two became Facebook friends.

I was saddened to learn of several friend's deaths.  Greg Noll, Donald Tucker, Jim Knox and Ross Bloom were team mates. Vicky Welch and Christine Jeffers were always very nice to me and died way too young.  I admired Tom Shoudy and Azlyade Mitchell, expecting them to be wildly successful. Suzanne Thomas and I became fast friends after an 8th grade co-ed basketball game after we both went for a rebound and became entangled with one another as we crashed to the floor. We were both teased about it after our hands wound up where they really shouldn't have been. 

Speech time. I had the honor to say a few words about how Bonnie Brae boys were welcomed

Friendship. I once heard a saying that real friends are the ones you don't see for years and are there the minute you need them. And so, to the Ridge High ’66 classmates I met at the reunion, and others from those days, thank you and I guess I finally learned how, and why, to say: “I love you.”

Profile of the Sociopath

Michael Munzer 

Found the following after Googling 'Sociopath" (http://www.mcafee.cc/Bin/sb.html). There is much more info on the lower part of the site.

I don't care who you vote for but I suggest you compare the candidate you support with this list. Of course, the one you oppose has all the symptoms.

This website summarizes some of the common features of descriptions of the behavior of sociopaths.

Glibness and Superficial Charm 

Manipulative and Conning 
They never recognize the rights of others and see their self-serving behaviors as permissible. They appear to be charming, yet are covertly hostile and domineering, seeing their victim as merely an instrument to be used. They may dominate and humiliate their victims. 

Grandiose Sense of Self 
Feels entitled to certain things as "their right." 

Pathological Lying 
Has no problem lying coolly and easily and it is almost impossible for them to be truthful on a consistent basis. Can create, and get caught up in, a complex belief about their own powers and abilities. Extremely convincing and even able to pass lie detector tests. 

Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt 
A deep seated rage, which is split off and repressed, is at their core. Does not see others around them as people, but only as targets and opportunities. Instead of friends, they have victims and accomplices who end up as victims. The end always justifies the means and they let nothing stand in their way. 

Shallow Emotions 
When they show what seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion it is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive. Outraged by insignificant matters, yet remaining unmoved and cold by what would upset a normal person. Since they are not genuine, neither are their promises. 

Incapacity for Love 

Need for Stimulation 
Living on the edge. Verbal outbursts and physical punishments are normal. Promiscuity and gambling are common. 

Callousness/Lack of Empathy 
Unable to empathize with the pain of their victims, having only contempt for others' feelings of distress and readily taking advantage of them. 

Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature 
Rage and abuse, alternating with small expressions of love and approval produce an addictive cycle for abuser and abused, as well as creating hopelessness in the victim. Believe they are all-powerful, all-knowing, entitled to every wish, no sense of personal boundaries, no concern for their impact on others. 

Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency 
Usually has a history of behavioral and academic difficulties, yet "gets by" by conning others. Problems in making and keeping friends; aberrant behaviors such as cruelty to people or animals, stealing, etc. 

Irresponsibility/Unreliability 
Not concerned about wrecking others' lives and dreams. Oblivious or indifferent to the devastation they cause. Does not accept blame themselves, but blames others, even for acts they obviously committed. 

Promiscuous Sexual Behavior/Infidelity 
Promiscuity, child sexual abuse, rape and sexual acting out of all sorts. 

Lack of Realistic Life Plan/Parasitic Lifestyle 
Tends to move around a lot or makes all encompassing promises for the future, poor work ethic but exploits others effectively. 

Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility 
Changes their image as needed to avoid prosecution. Changes life story readily.

My vote goes to. . .

The primary campaign is over and the conventions are to come. But because the primary elections are so long, more than a year, I have come to a conclusion as to whom I am voting for.

To be up front about it, I have never voted for a Republican, though I feel that Eisenhower and Regan were good presidents. But Nixon and the Bushes? ‘Nuf said.

I’m not especially fond of Hillary, despite the fact that as a former New York resident, I voted for her as a senator. I think it’s her rather cold personality. But that is a cold efficiency as well. Her experience as a senator and secretary of state is impressive. I think that Republicans have overdramatized an honest mistake about the e-mails and Ben Gazi is something well beyond her control. But Hillary is like Teflon; scandals never seem to stick to her. Remember Whitewater?

Then there is The Donald. Assuming that he wins the nomination at the convention, he is simply a nightmare.

The businessman and reality star has appealed to what is the worst of America. He has picked out two minority groups, Mexicans and Muslims, as the reason for all our problems. It reminds me of Hitler and the Jews.

I don’t like Trump’s business decisions either. He has deliberately bankrupted his casinos several times, closing one of them. He has more than 200 lawsuits against him for not paying his bills. As I write this, the workers at one of his casinos are on strike. He has failed with many different businesses ranging from golf resorts, to wines and steaks. And Trump University is considered a complete fraud.

It seems that just about every day, he says something outrageous. Yet, despite his views, they appeal to many whites, especially the middle class. The fact is that the middle class has significantly disappeared for the first time in our lives. I am outraged by the way the one percent thrive. It’s not that I wish them harm, but I want good jobs.

I think that the reason why so much of our manufacturing has departed to other nations is simply labor costs. We invented television, now even the Japanese have lost that base to Koreans and Chinese. On my street, most of the cars are from Japan. Our clothes are made in Asia and South America. I still remember hearing “Look for the union label” commercials on radio in my childhood. We’ve gotten rid of tungsten light bulbs and got fluorescent, and then LED bulbs from China. Furniture? Ask the people in the Carolinas about that. And the list goes on. Most of our appliances, except washing machines, are made in Asia. The washing machines are from Mexico, as are our car batteries. Railroad cars, once the province of Pullman, are mostly from Canada. And what drives me insane, Apple computers and other products are generally Asian made. And when I need tech support, it comes from India. About 15 years ago, I got a masters degree in educational computing. When teaching didn’t work out, I figured I could get a job in tech support. No way. Tech support is in India.

These are the jobs that enabled out middle class to prosper. And The Donald’s bluster about them isn’t going to get them back. What is going to get them back is the refusal of the American people to stop buying foreign products. That ain’t gonna happen…ever, just ask the Walton family. You know, the family that owns Wal-Mart. Nearly all the clothes and hard goods they sell are imports. When did you last go to Wal-Mart, not because you liked it. But the price was cheap. Alas, so is the merchandise.

Of course, I could vote for no one. But that doesn’t give me the right to complain. I am tempted to vote for the candidate of a “minor” party, whom I may agree with but has no chance to win. But that would be a waste. I like a lot about what the Libertarians say. I don’t really care a whit about what happens to Iraq, Syria or Afghanistan. I don’t want my tax dollars to be spent in areas where people oppose us – or the puppet governments we support. Has anyone learned lesson from Vietnam? Nope. Bush took us to Iraq and Afghanistan. Obama kept us there. I want to see that money spent on schools. I want socialized medicine because I’m fed up with paying insurance companies who, in turn, spend billions on their political agendas.

This is the first time in my nearly 70 years of being a member of the American population that I feel I must vote for a candidate I don’t like. There was a time when our Presidents were people to be admired. What happened to the Ikes, JFKs and LBJs? And even the losing candidates had honor: Stevenson, Humphrey, Goldwater, Dole and Gore. Politics was once something to aspire to. When I was a child, kids wanted to grow up to be cowboys, cops, astronauts and Presidents. Now, they want to program computer games.

Our current President has been the victim of more hate than any President in American History. Is it because he is a Democrat, or because of his race? All he has done was oversee an economic recovery and the death of bin Laden. He has improved health care, despite what those who oppose him say. And he has suffered through this abuse with grace and dignity. It used to be that the opposing party didn’t make it their business to paralyze the country because it didn’t like the president. When Clinton faced a Republican Congress, the business of the people still continued despite the rancor and even the bullshit impeachment attempt.

Republicans remind me of spoiled children these days. They are furious that they failed to get Former President Clinton impeached (over a blow job, no less), and so they want to destroy the woman who stood by him. But they are so full of rage that they have created a monster for their candidate.

The only way we will be able to have a functional government is if we have the same party control both houses of Congress and the executive office. The last time that happened was when Obamacare was passed, based on the Massachusetts plan formed by the eventual Republican Presidential nominee. Despite the massive opposition funded by billions of dollars we have paid to the insurance industry, there has been no dramatic change in health care. The insurance companies, once non-profits such as Blue Cross, are still turning obscene profits, mainly because Obamacare forced more people to get health insurance. America’s greatness was when the Democrats took power in the great depression; When the Democrats stopped illegal racism and created a “Great Society” in the 1960s which included vital things like food stamps, Head Start and Medicare, and these days, when Obamacare gave health care to millions more before the tea party rose and strangled the government in a deliberate attempt to seize power instead of working within the system.

I am currently reading a series of science fiction books where an industrialist has created terror in order to foster his control of the country.  In the plot, mankind is faced with two alternatives, a peaceful but totalitarian state; or a state determined by individuals. The central power of our life force has been damaged, and there is a potential for the universe to collapse if it is not repaired. Totalitarian equals a saving of the life force, because there will be no conflict, as well as no freedom. But you take your chances with self-determination and the possibility of saving the life force?

How close is this to Trump, or for that matter Hillary? I don’t know. So here’s whom I’m voting for – are you ready? I have an absentee ballot and as I look at it I’m going to pray about it. Then I’m going to flip a coin. Heads=Trump, tails=Hillary.

I am open to suggestions.

Jubilee

"And ye shall hallow the fiftieth year, and proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof: it shall be a jubilee unto you; and ye shall return every man unto his possession, and ye shall return every man unto his family."


-- Leviticus 25:8-10, KJV

Yesterday, June 22, 2016 marked a day of jubilee for members of the Morristown High Class of 1966 as we celebrate 50 years since our original graduation. 

A few of us marked the occasion by joining with this year’s MHS graduates. We will be having our actual reunion in September. 

It was very different than our graduation day. Ours’ was held at the MHS football field with 80-plus degree temperatures creating sweating people under our caps and gowns. Many of the girls, and even a few guys, wore shorts underneath,. But for the most part, we wore school clothes – dress shirts and slacks for the guys and dresses or skirt-blouse combos for the girls.

Members of the MHS Class of 2016 enjoyed the comfort of an air conditioned hockey arena, while we suffered in 80º + temperatures in direct sunlight at our football field 50 years ago.

It was hot with many speeches droning on from people we didn’t know of or care about such as the school superintendent and board of education president. My late father said he was most impressed with Class President Dave Edwards as he noted the class had elected “four negroes” (this was 1966 after all) as our class officers. The fact was that race had little to do with it. We were just fed up with the “popular kids” not only running things, but also screwing up badly. In fact, the African-American population was only about 10 percent of our class. As we started our senior year, the class was broke and had to have several fund-raising events like dances, plays and bake sales. As it was, our senior prom tickets were higher than any previous class. We simply elected people we both respected and thought would do the job. 

The class of 66 is a group of people who lived different lives but shared a common history. We experienced the Cuban Missile Crisis and JFK death in Dallas while we were in school. We learned to type on a manual machine and evolved into the digital age. We were torn apart by Vietnam and classmate Bob Moore’s death and several others who were wounded, both physically and mentally. We were the first to widely experiment with drugs, pioneering an epidemic and seeing several of our classmates die from them. One was a star basketball player. Another starred in our Spring musical. It was such a waste of wonderful people. Musically, we discovered the Beatles and were part of Woodstock, either in person or spiritually. We emerged into Disco and universally hate rap. Time flew by until suddenly it stood still on Sept. 11, 2001 and we thank God that this endless war is one we don't really have to fight.

Classmates from Morristown High Class of 1966. We walked with the current graduating class exactly 50 years to the date from our graduation. Members included Nancy Cacchio Prestige, Robert Cutter, Wendy Fleming Toye, Marcia Heiiden, Kenneth Heiden, Edmund Johnson, Arnie Lazaro, Patricia Mariano Mercurio, Pamela Meslar Tromans, Frank Saccamona, Carol Schoder Zamrok, Diane Trullo Ciatto, myself and Audry Zudick, who coordinated the event on our behalf. Top, in an adjacent room, getting ready; bottom: At Tiff's, a restaurant in Morris Plains after the graduation.

And so, a few of us took a walk with the class of 2016, but in an enclosed arena usually used for ice-skating. The building was quite cool, a welcome difference. I suppose we all did a lot of face watching as the graduates received their diplomas, in the same maroon frame that we did. I saw people who were ready for the future and others who didn’t have a clue – just like us. 

All of us looked at each other when one last name was mentioned – Sapp. Michael Sapp of our class was well loved. The two of us spent our junior-year spring as track team managers. After issuing equipment, we would sit around solving the problems of the world. In the autumn of 1965, Michael, who was parking cars at the local hotel, took a sports car and smashed it into a tree, killing himself. We were shocked to discover he was married and a baby was on the way. The day of the funeral, we had previewed "Goodbye, My Fancy," our autumn class play, at an assembly. Many of us then skipped school to attend Mike's funeral. The play opened that night and at an after-play party, Edwards and I sat quietly in the dining room reminiscing about Mike and wondering 'why?'

I suppose each of us wondered if Mike's legacy somehow lived on. Michael probably could have been a grandfather, or even a great-grandfather of the new grad. I tried to find the young man to see if he was descended from our classmate, but was unable to do so in the mob following the ceremony. 

So much of our history has been lost. At the 45^th reunion, we had already lost more than 10 percent of our class, probably more since many of them are unaccounted for. I never liked the concept of class reunions because I despised the cliques in the school. I decided to go because there were some things I felt I needed to say to certain people. And I did. But what I enjoyed the most was that there were no more cliques. As I moved about greeting people, what drew us together was the common history we shared, not the need to cling to a small group. 

And yesterday was the same. I wasn’t close to the people who joined me, but I was comfortable with them. We had played baseball together. We had a woeful freshman team, which won the state championship in out senior year. Alas, I blew my knee as a freshman. I tried to play football and baseball but my leg couldn’t hold up to it. I spent four years on the swim team, but throughout my leg was constantly popping as I tried to kick. And so I became involved in drama and debate. In our junior year, we started a fencing club but the next year it became a varsity sport and I couldn’t do two sports in one season.

At the end of September, we will have an actual class reunion. It is to be the last event in a year of jubilee. Last month, Bonnie Brae, a farm for boys where I spent four years held its 100^th and I was honored to speak at the ceremonies. Of course, yesterday was the 50^thanniversary of our high school graduation. But I am also thrilled to be attending the 50^th year reunion of the Ridge High School class of 1966. 

Our class at Ridge was much smaller than the Morristown class – about 100 compared to 400. In many ways, I consider this a more important reunion. I was with them from 6^th to 9^th grades while I was at Bonnie Brae. These classmates formed strong bonds with me. We played sports (including being on the worst freshman football team in New Jersey history), were in clubs together and my first girlfriend was there too. Ironically, most of the people I was close to transferred to other schools. But because the class was so small, everyone who had been a member at one time was invited.

Prior to attending Bonnie Brae, I was forced to be a vagabond. I went to six different schools in four years. I was always the ‘new’ kid and friendships rarely held. And I entered Morristown in the middle of my freshman year, once again the new kid. By then, just as at Ridge, friendships and cliques were firmly formed and I wasn’t really able to form more than a couple of lasting friendships. 

So I am involved in four days of jubilee. I have been looking forward to these days ever since my wife and I separated and then divorced five years ago. Those who know me understand that I have been on a quest to understand these school years and how they have affected me. And so in the final months of this quest, I am forced to conclude it. I will, of course, write my book – more of a life history than a book and probably to be read by only my children and grandchild. I also am in the process of printing my photo book. It will contain 30 pages of landscapes I have photographed in my travels.

But after that? 

I find myself in a relationship with, of all people, my senior prom date. I want to deepen this relationship. But what else will I do? I suppose it is part of the adventure we call life. And while this summer is a season dedicated to the past, it will soon be time to be back in the present. Yet one thing is different. I will do it with close friends, both past and present.

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.