An Old Man's Road Trip

NOTE: I had written this in September 2017 but I simply forgot to hit the Publish button.

* * *

This is going to be a diary-type entry about my upcoming trip to South Dakota and beyond. I have been blogging about little but politics and I am tired of it. I suspect this blog will exceed 10,000 words and include quite a few photos. I hope I don’t bore you to death, but some of my friends are limited in their travel ability and get a kick out of my vagabond adventures.  Perhaps I should make it a book instead and post it as a .pdf file on my website.

Sept. 5

It is a week before a vacation for Emily and myself. Our primary destination is South Dakota. We will also go into Wyoming and Montana to visit National Parks.

South Dakota is my legal “home.” When I left my apartment in Port Jervis, NY in 2012 to go on the road in an RV, volunteering at state and national parks. I was technically homeless. South Dakota is a haven for “travelers” such as myself. With only a mail forwarding company as a legal address, one can obtain a driver’s license by submitting a current license from another state, a receipt from a local motel or campground for one night’s stay, a birth certificate and social security card. The fee for the license was $20 and you had to pass an eye test, all this was done at the local DMV and you could register your vehicles at the county treasurer. My driving license will expire with my September 15 birthday so I need to travel there to renew it. A major advantage is there is no state income tax and new vehicle registration taxes are just two percent. South Dakota relies so much on summer tourism that its sales tax goes from 5 percent to 7 percent between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Also, though I will probably owe no tax for the current year, I can file my NJ state income tax as an out-of-state resident and pay less.

 

The route to South Dakota gives you a choice of taking either I-80 or I-90. I choose I-80 to avoid Chicago traffic. While the miles are slightly longer, the time is about the same. But there are many construction zones along either route. Once in South Dakota, it's I-80 all the way towards other attractions including The Badlands, Wall Drug, Mt Rushmore, Custer State Park, Devil's Tower and Yellowstone. 

You can even vote, though I only use that privilege for national elections. There are about 12,000 people registered to vote through my mail forwarding company and though most are like me, there is an understanding that we will vote as a bloc against people who campaign against things that would negatively affect RVers.  With a bloc that large, RVers could control the city of Sioux Falls and possibly swing the election on a statewide basis. But most, like myself, feel unqualified to judge people who we don’t know. The state is overwhelmingly Republican and Conservative. However its residents do not really concern themselves with southern issues. The main political concern is gun control. Much of the population is farmers and guns are needed to shoot coyotes and other vermin who attack their livestock. And hunting and fishing are popular.

There are only two “cities” in the state, Sioux Falls and Rapid City, located on opposite sides of the state. Sioux City is near the eastern border, and is only minutes from both Iowa and Minnesota; and about an hour from Nebraska. Its population is about 175,000. Rapid City is on the western border. It is close to several tourist attractions, especially Mt. Rushmore. Its population is about 70,000. It’s close to the Wyoming and Colorado borders. Both cities are closer in appearance to the suburbs of Long Island and Northern NJ than “real” cities. The tallest building in Sioux Falls is 10 stories and houses the headquarters of an insurance company. The tallest building was once the local newspaper, from an era when newspapers were thriving. Most of the six floors are now rented. The state’s entire population, around 865,000, is ranked 46^th of the 50 states, above neighbors Montana, Wyoming and North Dakota. That’s barely more than the population of Morris County NJ where I live.

In between are several small towns, farmland (mostly corn, hay and livestock – the hay is grown for the livestock), prairies and deserts. One of the more interesting things is huge national grassland that is leased to ranchers for their cattle. Back in 2014, I got caught in an early-October blizzard that left 4 feet of snow on the ground. I had no problems even though the power was out because I had a travel trailer whose batteries gave me light; and propane ran the refrigeration and gave me heat. But tens of thousands of cattle died and thousands of bison (wrongly called buffalo) also perished. Interstate 90 was closed for four days as prairie winds kept whipping snow back on the road after it was plowed. The place where I worked lost electricity and they had to throw out food for about a thousand.

I have some concerns, mainly money, about the trip. I only have about $700 available plus a few hundred in credit. But registering my car will cost around $300. That would have been enough for me to go to Sioux Falls by myself to renew my license and registration. When I travelled before, I slept in my travel trailer at rest stops accommodating truckers. Sometimes I sleep in the car at highway rest stops. It was rare that I stayed at a motel. I can only think of once in the last ten years and that was due to a snowstorm. Since I began working weekends a couple of months ago, I have made a few small dents in my credit cards, but I am still close to my limits. But Emily needs a motel, not only for sleep but also her morning showers. She is very fastidious. We have agreed to split the costs, but this is still going to put me back in the hole. The added trip to Yellowstone, with up to five more nights is a killer. Fortunately, my social security and payroll checks will be in the bank just about the time I will need them the most.

I am also concerned about Yellowstone weather. Snow comes early to the region. In the two seasons I have been in South Dakota in late September, part of the park was closed and roads can be hazardous. The forecast for the next ten days is fine with high temps in the 80ºs and 70ºs, and the lows in the low 40ºs and high-30ºs. But there is a steady decline over that period. Today, the high is 84º, but the high in 10 days is 71º. The lows will be in the high 30ºs when we arrive.  It’s going to be close. I will not go into Yellowstone with any snow on the ground at all. There are way, way too many accidents and people going off the roads even in the summer. The roads are contoured to the landscape and there are many sharp curves. In Wall, South Dakota where I spent the summer of 2014, temperatures were in the 70º on October 1. The next day began with rain that developed into a four-foot blizzard.

My main reasons for going with Emily are twofold: First, because she was injured earlier this year and was out for many weeks under disability and thus unable to go on vacation until next week. She works for a “use it or lose it” company regarding vacation days and she cannot carry over the days. So now is the only time she can take a vacation. The other reason is ongoing thoughts I had about sharing the wonders I saw en route. My travels on the road between 2012 and 2015 often increased my sense of loneliness when I beheld great beauty. I shared a lot of photos on Facebook and my blog, but it was still lonely. I strive to understand there is a huge difference between being alone and being lonely, but the two often mixed. This sometimes lead to a mild depression. Most of that time I could accept my situation but I frequently wished either the ex wife or the present girlfriend was with me.

When I was married, we had discussed a summer-long adventure to national parks. I was teaching and would receive checks all summer. But as we started to talk about the trip, I wanted to stop off at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. But she was adamant about going to only the national parks. That ended the trip. I suppose we were both too stubborn. Each of us had to win.  I can’t help but wonder if we had that vacation if our marriage would have been saved. We hadn’t shared a vacation in years and the break would have been good for us.

Lately, this blog has been all too much about politics. I dislike Trump, but there is only so much I can stand about my complaints. I occasionally post something on Facebook, but usually it is to comment on other’s posts or share a funny image, somewhat akin to the political cartoons I used to enjoy in the paper. These days, like most people, I rely on the Internet and cable news for my information so I rarely see a newspaper. Emily has a subscription to the local paper, The Morris County Daily Record, so she tells me about local things. I don’t look at it too much because I used to work for it and it is a shadow of what it once was. I also don't read it too often because, among the many staff layoffs, a classmate of mine was let go after decades of service as a photographer  I sometimes wish that some rich person would run it as a “hobby” and not give a damn about profits. But I can’t see it happening without it turning into a political platform. Every time there is a major lottery jackpot, I fantasize about it. Like my writing idol, the late Jimmy Breslin, I can’t seem to get the old-style newspapering out of my blood. Of course, Breslin had a lot more talent than I ever did.

One of Emily’s concerns about the trip is my constant battle with diarrhea. Over the weekend, I had it for two days, practically staying on the toilet all night. I know, it’s way too much information. But this bout was especially long and messy. I didn’t make it to the toilet in time and wound up crapping all over the floor. Thank God it was tile and so I was able to clean up the mess. I called out sick on Sunday since I was going every 15 minutes. When I wasn’t going, I scrubbed the ceiling, removing mold that had been growing there all summer. Emily, who is barely 5 feet tall, couldn’t come close to reaching it, even on our stepladder. I was recovering from my shoulder surgery and couldn’t lift my arm above my head until recently. I went on a “BRAT” diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, tea) and I am fully recovered. But I only have half a bowel due to an abscess that developed when my appendix burst several years ago. I’m fairly sure that I can deal with it by strictly controlling my diet. God invented rest stops and fast food joints for a reason. :-D !

• • •

Sept. 6

There is a potential problem developing. We had arranged with Emily’s daughter to watch our dogs while we are away. She now tells us that she is expecting an inspection visit from her housing authority and dogs aren’t really allowed, though she lives in a house in the middle of nowhere. Anyhow, the inspection was scheduled for last week. She was home all day except for about ten minutes to pick up her son. Naturally, they came at that time. So if they do come before the weekend, her care for the dogs is fine. Otherwise we will have to take them with us.

Now we’ve gone on vacations with them last year to Ohio and Western Virginia; but we have had to pay up to $20 extra per dog at the motels. Both dogs, especially Pup, shed. I have to use a hand vac on nearly a daily basis to keep up with them. In addition, most of our motel stays will be overnight. We can’t leave the dogs in the room to visit someplace if we have to leave by noon. Our travel plans call for us getting out early most days anyway.

Pup (left) is my dog and a seasoned traveller but Emily's dog, Bella Mae can go hyper at any time. The cost of taking dogs along is in additional fees. Some motel chains welcome them for an extra $20 EACH,  while others won't accept them. 

We can go along with bringing them, but it would be nice not to have to deal with their care. We both could use a break. A couple of the places we are going to, especially Mt. Rushmore, do not allow dogs. They are, however, permitted to stay in the car. At Mt. Rushmore, the parking lot has multiple levels and putting the car in a lower level in the shade with windows cracked and a bowel of water gives them a safe enough environment.  But there are times if pup sees bison (not buffalo) he gets a little crazy. I suspect Bella will be worse if, like the last time I was there, she gets stuck in a bison-filled traffic jam in Custer State Park’s wildlife loop. She barks like crazy when people pass in front of the house walking their dogs. I also wonder how she will react to thousands of prairie dogs at Badlands National Park?

• • •

I rarely iron clothes. For vacations, I usually just toss what’s in the top of the dresser drawer into the suitcase and go on my merry way. But South Dakota is different. My clothes generally are tee shirts and shorts with a pair or two of jeans. But that’s summer wear. Mid September in the Dakotas is definitely not summer. Summer in the Dakotas often means temperature in the mid 90ºs to the 100ºs in the summer desert. But come autumn, the highs can plunge into the low to mid 60ºs. It is also the home of the “old west” with Wyatt Earp, “Wild Bill” Hitchcock and Calamity Jane hanging out there. Tees and shorts are not only too cold, but also a fashion faux paux.

Thus I am ironing. I think the last time I did so was Christmas in 2015. I have a collection of several “western” shirts from Wrangler. You know, the ones with two button down pockets. I have short- and long-sleeves in the same color, no less. Anyhow, they need to look good, along with my rawhide vest, three sets of cowboy boots, five different western belts, my bolo ties and, of course, my blue jeans.

The story of my blue jeans started when Emily bought a two pair of jeans from Kohl’s as a Christmas present. I really liked them. They had pressed creases and expandable waists. Anyhow, I got sick of the tattered jeans I had been wearing since my separation in 2010 and bought two more. But when I got to the register, the woman said I could get 65 percent off if I opened a Kohl’s charge account. Since the jeans cost $30 each, I could save $39 for the two. So I bought three more pairs -- all they had in stock of my size. All five cost $81 so I wound up with a bill I paid off the next month. I had better because they charge 25 percent interest.

Anyhow, I need to press all five along with the shirts in order to look decent. A few days ago, I took a trip to the local Wal-Mart looking for a “suiter,” (no not a potential mate). A suiter is a piece of luggage many businessmen who fly use. It can be hung in a closet and can hold about four suits or other outfits with your underwear and socks on the bottom. There’s even a place for belts and ties. Anyhow, back in the day when I was traveling, they were quite common. I couldn’t find one in the store’s luggage department. They didn’t have them at Kohl’s either and were priced way too high at Amazon. So I’m back to a suitcase. I don’t really understand. I haven’t worked in an environment where I needed a suit since the 1980s, but has the business world gone so freaking casual?

Anyhow, I’m ironed and packed except for personal things like my medicine, toothbrush, toothpaste, electric shaver, deodorant etc. I have what we used to call a dopp kit for those. I really miss the luggage I used wile in the Army. I loved my “AWOL” bag for weekend passes. Everything I owned fit into a duffle bag, though it got wrinkled. Many motels now have irons and ironing boards and there is a great coin laundry I used in South Dakota while I worked summers there. And I am definitely going “cowboy” on this vacation.

Gee, I’ve written more than 2,700 words and I haven’t even started the vacation. Dear reader, I hope I’m not boring you to death.

September 7

Frank, my friend and former boss loves to tell jokes. We worked for a Japanese ad agency that serviced Japanese clients such as Canon. He was the account supervisor and I was the technical//PR writer. This was in the 1980s before the Politically Correct Police began running amuck and making sometimes-senseless demands.

One of his worst jokes came out of the old west, when Chinese immigrants helped build the trans continental railroad. Anyhow, Jones, Smith and Chen were assigned to work on blasting a tunnel into a mountain. The foreman, Malarkey, said to them: “Smith, you use your pick and shovel to make holes in the mountain. Jones, you handle the dynamite and blow it in the holes Smith makes. Chen, you take care of the supplies.” A couple of weeks went by and Malarky returned to find a great tunnel well underway. “Boys,” he said to Smith and Jones. “I’m proud of you. This looks like a great Job.” And so Malarkey enters the tunnel and realizes Chen is missing. He asks Smith and Jones if they’ve seen him and they say Chen disappeared right after they were assigned the task. They continue walking to the rear of the tunnel when Chin jumps out and yells SUPPRISE! (In a fake accent more Japanese than Chinese).

What is the point of all this? Because on Tuesday night Emily had a real surprise. She had just come home from the doctor and she had to share something important. She was pale and nearly trembling. I immediately thought that she had a life-threatening disease. She didn’t. Months ago, she had a bad fall and received a horrible wound to her knee. She was hospitalized twice. The second time happened when her doctor tried to postpone and appointment. I took a picture of the injury, which as you see was horrible, then barged into his office showing him the photo. 

Thank God for smart phones. The doctor took one look at the photo of the wound and ordered her right back to the hospital.

That was months ago. Since then, she’s been seeing a number of doctors, including one who specializes in wounds. This doctor will drain and clean the wound. His hours are limited and he does not do evening hours. Emily has had to leave work early every week for her appointment. Two weeks ago, realizing it was a financial hardship; he said to skip a week. But Tuesday night when he cleaned the wound, he found an infection. This is serious stuff and Emily will have to see him every week. This voids out a trip west. SURPRISE!

The good part is that it is not life threatening. But there is no way she can go on a nearly 4,000-mile road trip.  That means two days of driving for each day of sightseeing. We’ve done trips to Massachusetts, Virginia/Pennsylvania and Ohio for a week, but because I am working weekends, we will probably have to stay fairly close. The fall foliage of the Poconos and the Catskills seem likely. It’s too late to do the Jersey shore. Emily hasn't been to New York City in quite a while. Sightseeing, a ball game, a show and other attractions seem like a good idea; and the senior discount on the train is far less than a motel.

In the meantime, there is still the original reason I wanted to go to South Dakota. My driver’s license is about to expire. I need to renew it. And there is a problem with doing it in New Jersey. In 2010, I tried to register a car in Jersey. In the middle of a bitter divorce, I was living (actually tent camping) in the New Jersey area I grew up in. I was going to use a friend’s address. However, when I attempted to do so, I discovered that sometime in the early 1970s that my driving privileges were suspended. From my memory, there was some sort of problem involving a minor accident where I paid the other person for the door handle I hit instead of going through my insurance company. Anyhow, I had to drive more than 100 miles to Trenton, the state capital, to resolve the problem, which it was. Shortly afterwards, I moved to New York and held a license from that state for more than three decades. Anyhow, I was told I had to go to either Wayne or Trenton to straighten out the problem. I suspect that as things became computerized the problem wasn’t properly entered. About the same time, an apartment opened up in the senior citizens housing in Port Jervis, NY. The town borders New Jersey and Pennsylvania and so I kept my New York license and registered the car there.

So, to make a long story short, I don’t know if I would be able to straighten the problem out by next week when my license expires. In addition, I can't find my birth certificate that I would have to present. 

I am going to renew in South Dakota for several reasons:

-     •It’s perfectly legal.

-     The state has no income tax

-     Auto insurance rates are lower

-     I only have to renew the license every five years. By the time the new one ends, I probably won’t be doing any more driving.

-     It’s been more than three years since I’ve been on the road by myself. I want to go take photos.

I expect that I will eventually get a New Jersey license. But it’s too close to the expiration date to try to do it now.

So, I have my bags packed with newly-ironed clothing. I’m still trying to figure out everything, but I know I am going. It will be a lot less expensive as I will use a coupon for a free night at a Red Roof Inn and probably sleep in the car other times. I’m also thinking of buying a cheap tent and sleeping bag and camp in state parks. But it’s been seven years since I’ve done that and the body will be 70 years old in eight days. Perhaps I’ll compromise and sleep in the car at a campground.

Right now, everything is subject to change. I have thought about going to the reading of the names at the World Trade Center on Monday, but can’t figure out if I can get to Sioux Falls on time. There’s also a part of me that says if I start after work on Sunday, I can make it to the Ohio border in about eight hours and stop to sleep in a rest stop around midnight. There is the possibility of Hurricane Irma going up the east coast and I don’t want to be around if it happens. It seems the thousands of dollars I spent knocking down Emily’s huge front-yard trees might pay off. Emily has in-laws near Scranton she can take refuge with if needed. The closer the day to leave arrives, the more eager I am.

FYI 1200 miles each way = 2400 total miles ÷ 35 mpg = 69 gallons x $2.50 per gallon = $171 gas costs. There will also be about $30 in tolls.

Sept. 9

Forget about leaving Sunday night. The Cowboys and Giants are playing! Go Big Blue!

There are also a few things I need to do on Monday before leaving anyway. I have to make a deposit in my bank account and then drop off some paperwork with my local school district.

Then I’m off. I expect to be in Sioux Falls by Wednesday night, which is about 500 miles a day. Including breaks for gas and food, that’s about 10 hours. My usual trek is about 400 miles per day.

I am very relieved that the Hurricane is apparently heading inland. While I know it will devastate Florida and Georgia, at least it won’t head up the east coast as Sandy did a few years ago. I did not want to leave Emily alone and I would have been very concerned about Matthew, my youngest son, who lives fairly close to the coast on Long Island.

The people I care about in Florida have a good chance of losing their homes. Larry is in the Miami area and major flooding is expected there. He decided to head inland, so naturally, the path turned right into his direction. Joyce is in Sarasota, which is located just south of the Tampa-St. Pete area. She reports that people are boarding up their homes and plan to ride out the storm. Her friend, Rhys, runs an animal rescue operation and is terrified for both herself and her animals. I don’t blame her. In the islands where the hurricane has already hit, 15-foot waves have washed children out to sea, not to mention many pets.

A good number of people on Facebook are showing maps with Mar Del Lego, Fearless Leader’s golf course, urging the hurricane to hit there. I find this type of humor is awful. Even if the storm headed directly to D.C., Fearless Leader would be in Air Force One getting his ass out of the way. But Mar Del Lego has many common people working and living there. I’m sure they will face horrible conditions.

Frankly, my lifetime has seen quite enough weather issues. I’ve been in many hurricanes including the “three furies” of 1954 when Carol, Hazel and Edna hit New Jersey hard within 10 days. The last one, Edna, knocked a tree through our roof. I’ve been in a tornado in New Jersey and at Ft. Knox, KY. I was in the path and eye of Gloria right after we moved to Long Island and had no power for two weeks – on Long Freakin’ Island. A few years ago, my trailer was just outside of Tampa when tropical storms shook it like it was a pair of dice. A few miles away, a trailer park was completely demolished. It was also buried in a massive blizzard that dumped 4 feet of snow on it in Wall, South Dakota. The town couldn’t open its emergency shelter because the snow had drifted so high that they couldn’t open the doors. A nearby motel had drifts cover the entire first floor. People were trapped in their rooms for more than 24 hours. And Interstate 90 was closed for five days due to drifting snow. My memories of the blizzard were part of a book that was published the next year Tens of thousands of cattle perished, as did about a thousand bison (buffalo).

Yeah, I’ve had enough. Even the threat of a hurricane puts me into the “get out of Dodge NOW” mode.

Facebook has a live feed of CNN’s storm coverage. I’m writing this about 5 p.m. and the storm isn’t expected to hit land for several hours. But Lord help those who are in its path.

Sept. 11

This day, like Dec. 7, 1941, marks a day that also lives in infamy. There have been other dates that have shaken my generation, mostly November 22, 1963. But today is extraordinary for me because I was in New York City that day. I was teaching at a middle school in the Bronx. I’ve posted blogs about what I experienced, but what I will say is that looking towards Yankee Stadium from a third floor window, we saw smoke and it appeared that the stadium was erupting. It was, of course, the World Trade Center.

I was torn between spending the morning at ground zero listening to the names. Being there is something on my “bucket” list but I had to make decisions. Before actually leaving, I had to go and deposit a check. I had to drive about 10 miles in the wrong direction because it at was the only credit union that is in the same network as my credit union. Otherwise, I would have to go to Long Island.

And so, after a short trip East, I began my westward journey. Stop number one was Columbia, NJ, where there is a truck stop off I-80. Gas in New Jersey has always been cheaper than in Pennsylvania, so I filled up. But the difference is much smaller than it used to be since New Jersey added another 23 cents to its gas tax.

But I also decided to do a little sightseeing on my route. So I decided to go over to the Delaware River at Kittanny Point. It’s along the Delaware River just before on crossing over into Pennsylvania. This place is often called the Delaware Water Gap, a place where the river has carved deeply through the Pocono Mountains and Jersey Hills. A portion on the Pennsylvania side was blasted back to accommodate railroad trains. As a young man, I thought it would be pretty cool to climb that cliff. 

The Delaware Water Gap borders New Jersey and Pennsylvania. I frequently went through the area on canoe trips when I was much younger. Once, the group I was with actually camped out under the nearby bridge that crosses the river. 

Fortunately, never having an opportunity to do so overcame my complete lack of climbing training and my early suicide leanings. But it is still a pretty place and every time I pass through I enjoy the beauty. And so, a few minutes were taken for a photo. I think I took most of the photos today to share on Facebook so people could share this road trip.

After a few moments of enjoying the solitude and the sound of the water, it was time to get back in the car and make the crossing. Right into the Pocono vacation region. Now my memories of this area have much to do with my life circa 1974. For a while I worked in the mountains photographing honeymooners at the area’s famous couple’s resorts. I remember taking the first wife horseback riding. And the second one went clubbing with me one extended weekend. But that was a long time ago. I drove along State Highway 611 and realized the region was no longer the same. In Bartonsville, there was a truck stop that served great lamb stew. It isn’t there any more. How can you bulldoze a truck stop where there is so much trailer traffic, especially when there are no full service rest stops in New Jersey? Bartonsville also had a great Holiday Inn where I once had a great steak dinner. It’s now a Howard Johnson motel and the bar remains, but not the restaurant.

I drove a few more miles into Mt. Pocono. Once a small village, it was impossible to find the photo studio I worked out of. The town is full of strip malls and a few big box stores. A part of my past has been trampled by commerce.

Driving further into the state, I stopped at Hickory Run State Park. This place also holds many memories. The first time I was there was in 1967. I had decided to go wherever my whim would take me. I camped there for a single afternoon before I accidently cut my hand with a brand new but dull hatchet. Who knew that I needed to sharpen it first? Anyhow, that vacation ended with me heading back home to my hometown hospital with my tail between my legs for a couple of stitches. Other trips have been far more enjoyable. The next year my friend Bill and I did some tent camping for a week. It was then we discovered the park’s main attraction, Boulder Field. Boulder field is where a glacier finally stopped coming south during the ice age. The field littered with boulders for miles.

Boulder Field at Hickory Run State Park is the result of where an ice-age glacier stopped moving and melted. I forgot how long a n unpaved rocky road it was to get there. 

Other times, I have brought my family there and, about five years ago, Emily. It is a place of many memories for me. But one thing I did not remember was the extended drive to reach the field. My GPS described it as an “unpaved road” and it was fifteen miles of rocky roads to get there and back. I sort of feel funny about haven taken three women I loved to the same place, but it is a place that is unique and majestic. I was quite pleased to see that the graffiti that was on the boulders when I was last there has been cleaned up.

I was there, thank God, all by myself when my first bout of diarrhea happened. I won’t describe what happened, but suffice it to say that I had to stand naked in the field while I cleaned up and changed my clothing.

Anyhow, it was a single incident and I managed to continue my journey cleaned up.

The next stop was Bellefonte, in the heart of Appalachia. In 1975, I became the editor of a weekly newspaper. It was a good gig while it lasted, but the paper just didn’t have the financial backing to save it. I looked at the office where I worked and the apartment building where I lived. My son, John, was probably conceived in that building.

Bellefonte is French for “beautiful fountain, and there is a stream that runs through the town. I stopped and photographed it, remembering how I once covered kayak races down the waterfalls and into the town on a stormy day when waves were quick to tip races over.

Bellefonte, PA was named after this stream which runs through the center of down. The name is French for "beautiful fountain. I was the editor of the local weekly newspaper there in the mid -1970s. and sometimes photographed kayak races that began on the top of the falls. In springtime, the melting snow for the mountains made the stream quite difficult to transit. It is found at Talleyrand Park, the outdoor hub of the town where many activities and family reunions are held. 

Leaving town, I went by the county courthouse. When I lived there, a teenage rite of passage occurred every Friday and Saturday night as cars cruised around the town square yelling at one another and hopes of getting lucky filled air. I suppose it was just like the California town portrayed in the “American Graffiti” movie. 

On ka small-town Saturday night, the teens went crusin' around the square surrounding the Bellefonte courthouse. It was like a scene straight out of "American Grafitti" which was released a year earlier.. If the name or the scene is remotely familiar to you, this is also the site of the Penn State football sex scandal trials which began in 2011.

If you look at it and have a vague memory of seeing it once before, you may have. It was the site of the trials involving the Penn State football sex scandal from a decade before. I remember seeing the news showing television vans around the square. Frankly, the town does not have much parking and I wonder how it dealt with the media circus. State College, the town where the university is located, is next to Bellefonte and on a football game day, it’s nearly impossible to get through town due to traffic heading to Beaver Stadium.

It was getting dark and my memories were more than I could write down. I remember photographing lots of “country” events such as a fire department bar-b-que and a sandwich sale by the high school band. I regularly went to the animal shelter to show a “pet of the week” for adoption. Once, I brought the ex and I had to practically tear a couple of kittens from her hands. She wanted me to adopt them.

And then there was the Grange Fair. It’s basically a county fair, but hundreds of people camp there during the 10 days it is held. It’s like a giant family reunion (of which there are many in that region). I had to do a special Grange Fair Edition and walked around handing out copies to each tent. I also had my own tent at our exhibit to camp in.

Night fell and I drove away. I always thought I had unfinished business there, but realized it was so long ago and far away that there was no more business. The newspaper was no more and it was more than three decades since I knew the people there. I'm sure many of them are dead. 

I got through the 315 miles of Pennsylvania and onto the Ohio Turnpike. The Turnpike is actually a merger of I-90 and I-80 and is a toll road both in Ohio and Indiana. I managed to get through three of the many rest stops in Ohio before pulling in and sleeping. I was on a fairly tight budget, especially since Emily did not come along and share the costs. In my travels, I have often slept in truck stops and rest stops by simply climbing into the travel trailer I was hauling. This time I was sleeping in the car though. To save on food, I had bought several cans of Chunky soup and had them for dinners. I tried to avoid the fast food of the truck stops, and I made it a habit of eating at Perkins when I could. They have a nice senior citizen menu, though I wish they hadn’t taken meatloaf off the menu.

Sept. 12

This is a day with nothing to do but drive and stop for rest. After I awoke, I made it two rest stops (perhaps 60 miles?) and was so tired I took a nap. So I really didn’t begin to drive until the early afternoon. One of the decisions I made was to avoid I-90 after the tolls ended. It heads to Chicago and I wanted to avoid the traffic. I figured I would pass through during the evening rush. I’ve been in Chicago a few times on business and my son went to college nearby. I couldn’t stand the traffic, no matter what the time. And so, I vowed to stay on I-80 as I passed through Ohio, Indiana and into Illinois. Naturally, I got lost on another interstate highway and it took me about an hour of going through heavy traffic in the now dark as I found my way back. I then pressed through Illinois and across the Mississippi River into Iowa where after about 13 hours of driving somewhere around 800 miles with many rest stops, I ran out of steam and fell asleep at a rest stop. In case you haven’t guessed, sleeping in a car can be quite uncomfortable, especially for someone like myself who does a lot tossing and turning. I woke up often and couldn’t really get a good sleep. I keep on thinking that the mattress in my long-gone travel trailer would feel soooooo good. That was a great mattress. It lasted me through six years and five different trailers. It was even better after a friend bought me one of those foam toppings. But now, I kept on waking up cramped and needing to go to the bathroom.

My fitful sleep finally ended with me opening my eyes sometime in the morning. I have parked in front of a box of beautiful white flowers and I realize that this rest stop has a theme for the local area. In this case, corn. Iowa is basically a prairie state, as are most of the states west of the Mississippi River and east of the Rocky Mountains. Corn is the major agricultural product of these states along with cattle and hay to feed the cattle.

Breakfast was simple, a bagel, V-8 juice and some peanut butter. Alas, I sometimes have eaten fast food. I have decided that French fries are a major cause of my bowel issues and I may also have a problem with milk. Having recently purchased three boxes of Cheerios while on sale, that could be a problem. I suppose when I return, I’ll find a food pantry for them.

And so, to paraphrase Lewis and Clark, I proceeded on. You have to understand that when I say most of Iowa is corn country, I mean it. I traveled through endless miles of corn fields.

Somewhere about midway through the state, my be- damned GPS advised me to take a northern route. Now my plan had always been to go the way I did before, namely along I-80 to I-29 on the western end of Iowa that would lead me into Sioux Falls. I was looking forward to driving along the Missouri River between Iowa and Nebraska along I-29 as I made my final part of the trip.

But the GPS had other ideas and I. decided, what the hell? At least I would see a different part of the country. So I turned north. A little way north I realized I was near where they shot the “Field of Dreams” movie. You have to understand that this film’s ending always, always, always leaves me in tears and blubbering for at least an hour. For those who aren’t familiar with the movie, this Iowa farmer is told to build a baseball field in the middle of his corn. The ghosts of many famous ballplayers come to play there including, at the end, the farmer’s father. The father is young and vital, unlike the time when the farmer knew him. They were estranged for many years and wind up having a catch. I vividly remember the games of catch my father and I had. You see, before I was born, he was injured in an auto accident. His arm was badly damaged and was permanently set into a position as if he was wearing a sling. He could not bend his elbow. Yet despite this disability, he managed to have catches with me, often dropping the ball. I never realized what was happening until after he died and the thought of once again playing catch with him, especially as a whole person, brings me to a crying binge. Even as I write this. My eyes are tearing up.

I plugged it into my GPS and discovered it would take me 200 miles out of my way. The day was already in mid-afternoon so I continued onward. Perhaps if I did not have the stress of needing to renew my license by my birthday in a few days, I would have made the side trip. Maybe next time, though frankly I doubt if I could handle another trip of thousands of miles.

And so, I continued to head north, waiting for whatever highway would bring me west into Sioux Falls. I suddenly realized the damn GPS had actually taken me into Minnesota and the I-90 I had avoided. I was actually closer to Minneapolis than Sioux Falls.

At least I knew where I was and about two more hours of driving brought me into the Red Roof motel in Sioux Falls. I was very tired from the driving and also from the frustration of not going the way I planned. But after checking in, I calmed down and realized this can be the way life is. I didn’t enjoy the unplanned moments and shame on me.

The first night was free as a result of Emily’s joining the Red Roof rewards program when we vacationed in Virginia and Ohio last year. I paid for a second night as well. By now, I was sick of eating out of the grocery bag and went to the nearby Perkins restaurant for dinner. They have a number of really good senior meals, though I miss the fact they removed the meatloaf from the senior menu. Perkins does great baking. One of their specialties is a no-sugar-added wildberry pie and I took home a slice for dessert.

And then I went to sleep in a bed for the first time in days. Yet I still kept waking up. Half the time I thought I was awake and the other half I thought I was dreaming. My mind would go off on trips completely unrelated to either being awake or whatever I was dreaming. Still, it was better than sleeping in the car. But when I awoke it was nearly noon.

September 10

It’s a day to take care of business. I have to renew my license. But before I would go to do so, I decided to pick up the mail from my mail forwarding company. There, I was told, for the second time, that I would need a birth certificate to renew the license. But they were absolutely wrong. The card I got from the DMV said it wasn’t needed. I also got a birthday card from the governor that day with a reminder to renew my license. That card did not say I needed a birth certificate either. Yet, they insisted they were right.

They weren’t. But I was glad that when I got to the DMV that while I didn’t need a birth certificate, I did need mail from my mail forwarding company to confirm that I did, in fact, get my mail there. The only other ID I needed was my old license and a receipt from the motel. But there was one thing I had to do. And that was passing an eye exam. And I was barely able to do so after about six attempts. I explained that when I returned I had to see a retinal specialist and then was having cataract surgery and the woman kept on giving me additional chances. I knew my eyesight was having problems but I didn’t realize how bad it was. I realized later in the day that I couldn’t read many street signs or exit signs on the highway. I am hoping that certain problems will stop. My retinal doctor told me that the problem with my retinas could be reversed if I got my sugars under control, and I have since the day after. But I am, frankly, a potential danger to others. On the way home, I realized that the glare of the sun made it harder for me to see. It was difficult to read my GPS when it used smaller type to indicate a direction. I did far better at night.

But I remained seriously annoyed at my mail forwarding company. When I originally started to use them in 2011, they had different ownership and a small staff. Their location was in the heart of the city. Now, under new ownership, they have moved about as far out of the city as you can get without actually leaving town. It’s kind of like moving from downtown Manhattan to the Queens-Nassau border in New York City. You’re still in the city, but not really. Between that and the incorrect information, I was peeved. I suppose it was because I had driven more than 1,300 miles to do take care of business. The old company was a bastion of information about South Dakota rules. The new company, not so much. When I called them to tell them they were wrong, they told me it was not their responsibility to know about the laws. The old owners did to the point where they even registered me to vote.

Now all this is trivial. Everything worked out in the end with a minimum of aggravation. But I simply couldn’t let go of the aggravation. The only person it hurts is myself, but I really need time, perhaps too much time, to calm down many times.

I then went to register my car. In South Dakota, you get your license from the state, but you register your vehicles with the county treasurer. I had not re-registered the car since I purchased it. Until last December, the county would not accept anything but cash or a local check to register the car. I tried to go on line to do it but, after putting in a password, all I got was a black screen. Anyhow, I was delighted to find I only had to pay about $80 instead of the $300 I had anticipated. Car registrations are based on the vehicle weight and there was quite a difference between my Dodge Ram and my Ford Focus. I also forgot the last time I paid to register the truck I also registered the trailer and both cost me more than $300.

It was interesting to see people outside of both offices urging me to sign petitions. I wasn’t sure if I was registered to vote – I was – at the old mailing address before the mail forwarding company moved. At the DMV, they wanted me to sign one opposing “government corruption.” It turned out it meant you had to show photo ID to vote and I am opposed to that. There are many people, who don’t want, or need, a driver’s license. Take the people who live in New York City. With mass transit covering five boroughs, why would you need to drive? And who wants to go through the hassle of getting a state photo ID when you have to show a birth certificate and proof of residence? To me, voter fraud is a non-issue despite what Fearless Leader said during the Presidential campaign. And if some illegal aliens managed to vote in the last election, good for them. They live and work here too.

The other petition was much more interesting. A stoner, who was definitely high, wanted me to sign one making marijuana legal. I told him that, as an elder in my church, I didn’t think it was a good idea for me to sign it, though I was sympathetic to his cause.

So anyway, my motor vehicle issues completely straightened out, left me an evening to sightsee. There is only one place I wanted to go, Falls Park. Sioux Falls was named after the waterfalls along the Big Sioux River that runs through the heart of town. They are beautiful at any time, but especially at night when they are illuminated. During the day, Falls Park is much like New York City’s Central Park on a much smaller scale. It’s a place to jog, sit and relax, make out, picnic and more. I’ve even seen a few weddings performed in front of the falls. Every Fourth of July, the town holds a free bar-b-que picnic for residents.

At night, the falls are lit up creating a surreal scene. Photographing them requires a slow shutter speed and you can obtain a flow of motion from the water.

In addition, the park has some historical significance. The Lewis and Clark expedition explored the area and in the 19^th century, the falls were used for manufacturing and an electric generator.

I choose to live in Northern New Jersey because its where I am near people I care for and it is the area I grew up in. I feel safe here after a lifetime of personal turbulence usually caused by my own actions. But if I didn’t feel that way, Sioux Falls is certainly a good place to live. Housing and food are cheap, and so is rent. There is no state income tax and auto insurance rates are low too. The place has all the shopping you could want and there are plenty of cultural events. The downtown area has been revitalized and filled with restaurants and interesting shops.

One of the main industries in South Dakota is tourism. It has Badlands National Park, Mt. Rushmore, Wild West towns, Native American reservations and some truly wonderful state parks. And so, the sales tax is raised during tourist season (Memorial Day to Labor Day) from five to seven percent.

Anyhow, my visit to Falls Park ended, I headed back to the motel for a decent night’s sleep as I realized there would be quite a few more days of sleeping in my car ahead.

Sept. 15

It’s my birthday. I am now 70 years old. There is a significant difference between my last landmark birthday at age 65 and today. Five years ago, I had a wonderful celebration with my son and his family, especially my granddaughter. I was volunteering at an Oregon State Park along the Columbia River Gorge. My granddaughter was crazy about trains and we had many of them going past the park as part of the Santa Fe line. She had a ball and then we went to a railroad themed restaurant for dinner. I remember my granddaughter ordered just a single pancake for her meal, but when it arrived, it was the size of a small pizza and packed with fruit.

This year, I am alone – by choice I suppose – as I had to make the trip to renew my license. But there is a difference between being alone and lonely. And I was pleased to discover dozens of birthday wishes on Facebook. In our age of technology, I suppose social media has replaced the analog concept of sending birthday and holiday cards. But that’s part of the change in our culture. A lot of people wish we could go back to earlier times when things were “simpler” but in reality, those times had challenges of their own. And no matter how much people want to return to those times, it isn’t going to happen.

A lot of Trump’s supporters wanted jobs back in the auto and coal industries to return. But they won’t. Our vehicles are built by robots, not humans. And coal is stripped from the ground now. People rarely go into tunnels anymore.

But I can relate to those people. Much of my time over the last decade has been a personal exploration of my middle and high school years. We’ve had 50^th year reunions and the ability to communicate with others. Why do I do this? Because there was a time when I felt safe, secure and part of something and then my life turned into chaos. I have contacted many people I knew from that era as a touchstone. I have learned about the lies I believed for so many years and to accept the truths. If I were to describe myself today, I would be a food-addicted diabetic whose savings have disappeared. I am mildly bi-polar and that has led me to problems. On the other side of the coin, I am a caring person who enjoys being of service to others. I can live with that.

Anyhow, I’m heading south on I-29 with a destination of I-80, not I-90. I am steadfast in this and will not divert from my plans no matter what “Nagatha,” my name for the GPS, suggests.

The ride starts out quite nicely. The weather is great. It’s going into the upper 80ºs with a slight breeze. It is a longer drive south than I remember and I decide to stop in Vermillion. It is the home of the University of South Dakota and I saw a very interesting piece of sculpture located there when I browsing Facebook. As I pulled into town, I spotted a Wal-Mart. Unlike in New Jersey, many Wal-Marts have auto service centers. I needed an oil change. I was already several hundred miles past due.

So I drove up to the door and seeing no other cars, I figured it would take about an hour. I shopped inside and also ate lunch. I waited in the waiting room and checked outside after well over an hour and couldn’t find my car. Assuming it was finished, I went to the counter only to discover I had about another hour to go. Unlike when I ran the auto service center at a couple of Wal-Marts about a decade ago, they don’t line up the cars, but rather park them. I still had a few cars ahead of me so I pulled out. It was a waste of time and I was unable to find the sculpture I wanted to see.

Back on the road again, I continued to head south to Omaha. I had expected to be able to pull over to photograph the Missouri, but road construction blocked the side of the road and I was unable to do so.

I began to see signs for Omaha. I had passed the city many times. In 2012, I visited Newcastle, Nebraska, which was across the Missouri from Vermillion, which was a pleasant surprise. I had merely wanted to cross the state border to claim I had been there, but I discovered a geographic change. In that area, South Dakota is flat, corn country while Newcastle is hilly and you can see much cattle farming. As I thought of that, I finally realized that Omaha had a famous product – it’s steaks. There is a national company called Omaha Steaks, but I also remember the second episode from The West Wing television series where some team from the University of Nebraska visited the White House and the president had a fit because his secretary hid the steaks they brought him under doctor’s orders. It’s amazing what trivia one remembers.

Anyhow, I crossed the Iowa border and then drove over the bridge into Omaha and saw a sign pointing me to the “old market district.” When I reached it, I asked the GPS to give me the names of steakhouses and the closest one was Sullivan’s. I drove up to it and the place looked interesting, taking up the entire main floor of an office building. I entered and it had a distinct Gay 90s feel to it. In front was a picture of John L. Sullivan, the boxing champion from 1882 to 1892. The restaurant was named in his honor, but he never owned it.

As I write this, I suddenly realize that the term “Gay 90s” had a tremendous difference in 1990 than 1890. I don’t believe I’ve heard the term in years. The Gay '90s term was used in popular culture to describe American social life in the1890s. No, not the "gay" you were thinking of, nor the '90s you were thinking of for that matter. However, there is a nightclub in Minneapolis featuring drag queens that wears that moniker.

I ordered a New York strip and it turned to be quite good. Perfectly spiced and grilled, it made an excellent birthday feast. It wasn’t the best steak I’ve ever had—that honor goes to my father who cooked porterhouses in a gas broiler. But it still ranked right up there.

After dinner, I asked the waitress if there was a park along the river where I could see the Missouri. It turned out that the city’s Heartland of America Park had an excellent view. And speaking of the 1890s, there was a world’s fair there in 1898.

It was starting to get dark and fearful of getting lost, I trekked back into Iowa in daylight and began heading east on I-80 again.

Once I was on the route I wanted, I pulled into a rest stop with a Lewis and Clark theme. The expedition traveled through the area in 1805.

After that, the endless miles of cornfields began and I started to relax and enjoy the road more with less traffic. In addition to improved vision, drivers tend to be calmer. It is rare for cars to drive around 80-90 mph and most of them manage to stick near the speed limit. Truckers also tend to be more polite. They don’t tailgate, even in construction zones where there is only one lane open. I tend to drive long hours on days when I am going to sleep at either a truck stop or rest stop. Some states on my route, especially Iowa and Ohio, have many stops no more than 40 miles apart. Others have few. Along I-95 which runs along the Atlantic coast, most states have just one stop that double as welcome centers along state borders. But this route is more heavily populated and travelled. There are truck stops, motels and fast food restaurants at many exits.

So I drove to the Mitchellville rest stop, near the middle of Iowa and pulled over to get my sleep. I tossed and turned in discomfort but discovered that I am more comfortable if I lowered my seat completely.

About 3 a.m., I needed to go to the bathroom and I discovered the seat would not go up. It was stuffy and the windows would not go down. My battery was dead. I pushed my way out the door, took care of business and went to get my jumper cables out of the trunk. No deal. The trunk wouldn’t open because the lock was electronic. There was no key.

I did manage to open the hood and couldn’t find the battery. WTF? Then I realized it was under a cover. I looked and saw there was a lot of corrosion on one of the terminals. It was obvious I needed help.

As part of my auto insurance, GEICO includes road assistance. I called them and explained the situation. I’m in the middle of nowhere and it’s early – very early—in the morning and the few companies GEICO works with are not answering the phone. GEICO is also having trouble locating me. The weather app on my phone is telling them I’m in Mitchelleville. There is a sign on the rest stop indicating it is rest stop number 11. But they can’t figure out exactly where I am because there are no mile markers. We finally figure things out when I realized there was a “you are here” map on the rest stop wall. From there we figured out the exits.

And around 4 a.m. someone finally answered the phone and my rescue was on its way. In fact the name of the company coming was called Rescue Towing. Despite all the conversation with GEICO, the tower wasn’t told the right place. The driver passed right by the rest stop and went to the next exit, where GEICO told him the car was. He called me and I told him where I really was and he soon arrived. He cleaned off the terminal and successfully jumped the car. I was back in business.

While I was letting the car run, I opened the trunk, only to discover I had no jumper cables. I had left them with Emily’s car when she bought it a year ago.

I looked toward the east and saw a very interesting phenomenon. It was a couple of hours before dawn and the sun’s rays were reflecting off a cloud. As I drove on, the sunrise was beautiful, but brief, as the cloud began blocking the sun.

Sept. 16

It is a Saturday. I’ve been driving into the early morning afraid to stop at a rest stop and turn the car off. But finally my bladder gets the best of me and I pull over somewhere outside of Iowa City. And giant bees suddenly surround me. Actually, they look like people who are wearing clothes with giant yellow and black stripes. More people emerge wearing bright yellow clothing accented by black spots. And suddenly I realize that they are rooting for Hawkeyes.

It’s college football day in the Big 10 and people are gathering for the game about 20 miles away. I approach them and say, “I presume you aren’t Cyclone fans.” They laugh and I tell them I live near another Big 10 powerhouse, Rutgers, and they laugh even harder. Anyhow we discuss traffic and they tell me it is too early in the day for I-80 to start having heavy traffic.

(For the uninformed: Hawkeyes are the name of the University of Iowa’s sports teams, whose colors are yellow and black. Cyclones are the name of Iowa State University’s team – Iowa’s rival though they belong to different conferences. Rutgers joined the Big 10 a few years ago and rarely win, having neither a football nor a basketball win in the conference last year.)

I expected to roll through Illinois and Indiana that day and sleep at a rest stop somewhere in mid-Ohio. But exhaustion was getting to me. I looked at a map and realized the westernmost town of any size along I-80-90 was Toledo. I had slept at a Red Roof Inn because of the free night from Emily’s rewards plan. I called her and asked her to see if she could get a room in Toledo for me. There were three Red Roofs in town and she got a fantastic rate of just $33 per night. I plugged the location into the GPS and found myself there around 10 p.m. With that rate, combined with my exhaustion, I decided to spend an extra night there.

Sept. 17

I woke up around 10 a.m. and tried to figure out what to do for the day. There was a nearby Wal-Mart and I drove over to see if I could get the oil change. They said that would take about 35 minutes and I would be taken right away. I asked them to also check the battery. They said it was working fine. While they were working on the car, I got a sandwich and bought some tee shirts. By the time I was finished, so was the service people… what a difference!

I headed back to the motel and picked up a brochure about local Toledo attractions. Still tired, I decided to lie down and watch NFL football. The Detroit and Cleveland teams were the local broadcasts and I dozed off. I woke up needing to go to the bathroom. I barely made it as I was hit with explosive diarrhea and I spent many bouts on the toilet throughout the day and night before finally collapsing around 2 a.m.

Sept. 18

I’m still weak from the diarrhea attacks from yesterday but I don’t want to spend another day in Toledo. To begin with, the motel room was barely acceptable. It was cramped and had neither a microwave, nor a refrigerator. I drove into Pennsylvania and was less than 250 miles from home but I just wasn’t able to go all the way despite only driving a few hundred miles. The diarrhea had ended, thank God, but the effects hadn’t. I stopped at the welcome center rest stop and grabbed one of those magazines filled with motel discount coupons. I wound up in Dubois and got a room at the Hampton Inn. What a difference! The room was large and filled with amenities – refrigerator and microwave, coffee maker, ironing board and an incredibly comfortable bed with delightful linens. I watched some Monday Night Football but my Giants, alas, continued their woeful ways. I fell asleep and had the best rest I’ve had in a long time.

Sept. 19

It is the last day of the journey. I had a great breakfast at the hotel, with scrambled eggs and ham with cheese. I grabbed a bagel with cream cheese for lunch and was on my way. The miles rolled along as I passed the places I stopped to visit on my way out. By early afternoon I was in New Jersey. I had been having problems with the car ever since the jump start. The car’s clock and calendar were locked onto the time of the jump start and I was unable to reset them. At the dealer where I have the car serviced, I learned that the battery had to be disconnected to properly reset the time and calendar. They also cleaned the terminal and added a felt pad and sprayed an anticorrosion paint onto the terminal. I reached home and immediately put my laundry on.

Emily was at work and I left a text for her letting her know I was home and asking her to go to dinner with me after work. We met at a nice Columbian restaurant we had wanted to try and were delighted with the wonderful meal. After the meal, I stopped at my church for the Tuesday night Bible study. I returned home and watched NCIS New Orleans before turning in.

Everything was back to routine, and I was glad for it. 

A wasted life? Perhaps just a wasted marriage?

As with every St. Patrick’s Day since 2011, I have very mixed feelings about my journey through the day.

While it is great to wear some green and eat some corned beef while celebrating my heritage (I don’t drink so nothing like green beer is consumed), it is also a day of reflection about my 33-year marriage to the ex. It is the anniversary of the finalizing of my divorce.

Some years, I reflect that divorce was necessary. The sometimes violent, often abusive relationship was toxic. When I left on a journey to try to pull myself together, the ex filed for divorce within a month. The process was punctuated by nasty exchanges and harassment on both sides. Instead of taking the high ground, I traded insults blow for blow with her. In hindsight, I am somewhat ashamed of my behavior. At the same time, I had to note that as my lawyer said, “she’s nuts.” There was just no way she wasn’t going to play the scorned and abandoned victim.

But in these last few years, I spend little time thinking about the tumult of the divorce and far more about the good times. We produced two wonderful young men, despite our efforts to impose lifelong emotional trauma. It seems to me that there was any number of things each of us could have done much better. And so, dear reader, I would like to share some thoughts on how to make a marriage work.

It sounds like a strange thing to say, having been divorced, that I would be capable of giving advice. But I simply want to share what I wish I could have done differently.

First, always be honest no matter what the consequences. It’s no excuse, but in order to survive living a trauma/drama filled childhood, I learned to lie a lot. I mainly did it to protect myself from my abusive mother. And unfortunately, since I had no role model, I never learned how to be honest until much later. But even a white lie is a betrayal of trust and they lead to a marriage filled with distrust.

Let me give you an example: during my marriage, I never cheated. But when living in the middle of Long Island, I had taken a job in Union, New Jersey – about a 150-mile daily commute. Unknown to me, I had sleep apnea. My employer had agreed for me to have flexible hours so sometimes I would arrive extra early, or leave well after 6 p.m., depending on my workload. But the constant driving left me exhausted. I was forced to nap, sometimes for hours, to complete the trip. One morning, I pulled over into a parking lot after crossing the Washington Bridge. I fell asleep and just couldn’t rouse myself. I slept until about 8 p.m. and arrived home around 10 p.m. I explained what was going on to the wife and we went to the hospital. I had a cardiac incident and was hospitalized for a week as doctors tried to figure out what was wrong with me. Eventually a psychiatrist figured out I had sleep apnea.

Combined with some very bad carpal tunnel syndrome, I was on disability for several years as I went back to college to retrain myself as a teacher.

But until that day, with clear medical evidence, the wife said she thought I was having an affair. There was no trust left even though I had done nothing to make her think I was cheating.

If you choose to be honest, you probably won’t have such a problem.

Second, you will argue and disagree. Don’t do it in front of the kids and don’t go to bed until it’s resolved or you at least schedule a time to discuss it. The ex and I are strong-willed people and both of us fought to win, and whatever was right or wrong really didn’t matter.

My now-adult son once told me about the many; many times he would pretend to be asleep while we were screaming at one another. All the yelling and drama did was to inflame the situation.

Third, take time for yourselves. Vacations need to be taken, as well as weekly ‘dates.’ We got so caught up in things such as activities that we don’t take the time to take one another’s pulse.

Finally, budget wisely and agree on a financial plan. There is nothing more crushing than debt. If you must use a credit card for an emergency, discuss it with your spouse.

That’s not so hard to do as long as you vow to keep doing it right. The rest is small stuff, made so by keeping the important stuff under control.

A couple of years ago, a photo of the ex appeared on one of my son’s Facebook page. She looked very pale and I asked him if she was OK. My son said it’s none of my business, and I suppose it isn’t, but after more than three decades, I still realized I care – very, very much – about her. And that’s the damn hardest effect of a divorce. You realize how much you’ve thrown away.

Every married couple is the result of the merger of two families. My son’s father-in-law suddenly passed last week. By all accounts, he was a very decent man who raised three daughters and lived a quiet, reflective life. As I looked at the Facebook pages of his children, I could see how very much he was held in high esteem. The sadness of a sudden death was balanced by the joy he brought to others throughout his life.

I have realized for some time that I will never have people respond to my death like that. I recently was very weak and ill from the side effects of a medication and could barely walk and couldn’t get off of a couch at times. I fell several times as well. I thought I was on the verge of needing a nursing home. And I wondered how lonely an existence it would be. And with the death of the “other grandpa” I wondered if anyone would even bother to show up for my funeral.

My life has certainly not been well lived enough for many people to care. It is very depressing and I fight to overcome it each day. It has been made far worse by a recent illness but I still hope for a more productive life each day.

Hopefully, dear reader, you will learn enough from my foolishness to make your life better. If that will be my legacy, I can live with it 

Thanksgivings: Past and Present

A long time ago, before my life became chaos, my family had traditions. When we lived in New York City, my parents took me to the Macy’s Parade. I remember sitting on my father’s shoulders looking at the balloons, marching bands and waiting for the big moment when Santa would arrive. We watched the parade from somewhere around Columbus Circle – 59^th street. And so, we would get home fairly early and head across the Washington Bridge in our 1948 Hudson. We would be having our dinner with Sophie, my Godmother and my mother’s best friend, and her siblings, George and Mary.

The three had purchased a house together in Clark, New Jersey and lived there. It was a fairly large house and my parents and I would sleep in a guest room. As I got older, I slept by myself in the wing which was both a bedroom and guest area.

George was a big football fan. But the NFL didn’t dominate the day like it does today. There was a traditional morning Thanksgiving game in Detroit every year. But the annual game in Dallas was well in the future, as the Cowboys didn’t join the NFL until 1960. In that era, high school and college football ruled. People would go to see the local high school finish the season against its arch rival. And then the afternoon was devoted to college. George always wanted to watch the battle between Texas and Texas A&M and dinner was scheduled for around five after the game was over. By then, everyone had a huge appetite and your’s truly would get a drumstick. That evening, we would gather around the television to watch a family movie such as “March of the Wooden Soldiers” on a black-and-white television with a giant 21” screen.

After my parents separated, my mother and I would still visit them for the holiday. But Sophie was becoming very ill with rheumatoid arthritis. It is a horrible disease. It fiercely attacks the joints and as Sophie became more and more disabled, her fingers were twisted beyond recognition. As she was at her worst, she stubbornly sat in a special chair and slowly broke up the bread for the stuffing. She only added seasoning as cutting vegetables and meats were beyond her ability. At dinner, everyone would rave how good the stuffing was, but we all piled on gravy to take away the dryness.

It was the last time I saw Sophie alive. She died the next year as she spent her last days in a morphine-induced has to relieve her of her incredible pain. By that time, I was living at Bonnie Brae Farm for boys and I didn’t attend her funeral. I cared very much about that woman. She was caring and consistent. She loved me almost as much as my mother. But she was calm and consistently kind, unlike my mother who was ravaged by alcoholism.

The next year, George and Mary weren’t up to it and so we were left to our own devices. George died a few years later and the last time I saw Mary was at my mother’s funeral in 1985.

As I grew older, I would avoid the drama of dealing with the cooking of a huge meal and take mom out to dinner at a restaurant. After I got married, we would have the ex’s family and her at our apartment in Queens. When we moved out to Long Island, Thanksgiving celebrations were held at the ex’s sister and sort of alternated years between her family and my mother. In 1984, my cousin Rita was aware my mother had gotten lung cancer and arranged for a Thanksgiving dinner at her home in rural New Jersey. Her mother, my Aunt Nellie, was mom’s sister. After my parents separated, my mother became increasingly angry with their family and it reached a point where she said she would refuse to go to my wedding if they were invited.

That Thanksgiving was the last one with any family. Before the next one rolled around, both sisters were dead and after the funeral, I lost touch with my cousins for almost 25 years.

In my dysfunctional life, traditions don’t last. The Dover-Morristown High School football game on Thanksgiving is a thing of the past, disbanded when the state went to a state championship format. And Texas and Texas A&M are no longer in the same conference and don’t play one another. Perhaps worst of all was the result of my divorce. I lived in Oregon, where my son and the ex live, for a few years. And my son had to play a delicate balancing act about who to invite for the holidays and when. Once upon a time, I had a hope that my parents would get back together that lasted until my father died. I still hold a hope that the ex and I will be able to go to events involving our granddaughter. But that too, seems unlikely.

***

But even though I’ve managed to ramble for about 800 words, that isn’t what this story is about. It’s about the Thanksgiving of today.

If there is one thing I feel thankful for, it’s my job at Bonnie Brae. On weekends, I sit at the reception desk and connect the boys who live there with their parents, friends and relatives. It is gratifying work. I often have the opportunity to permit parents to unload on me. It’s extremely hard to be separated, especially during the holidays. Most of the boys will go home this weekend. But there are some who can’t.

Some of them have parents who have long since disappeared. Others have parents that the juvenile justice system has been forced to ban from seeing them. Many of the boys have had so much trouble with the law they aren’t permitted to go home for a visit without court permission. And some simply can’t handle their lives as it is. We have ongoing suicide threats, especially close to the holidays. There are those who are still unable to deal with the temptation of drugs that were so available in their neighborhood. Too often we have boys who have been clean and sober for many months come back under the influence and have positive urine test results.

So they will spend their holiday in their cottage. And they will be upset, perhaps to the point of acting out irrationally. Most of the boys in their cottage will be home. But they won’t. I can’t really blame them for their rage.

And so, as you give thanks today, please say a prayer for those who are in crisis. As for me, I will spend my Thanksgiving working with these boys and their families. The feast at home will be the next day.

I weep

I was involuntarily watching the “Family Feud” quiz show today and a survey asked for occupations where one lied a lot. Politicians and lawyers were the top two. But journalists came in third.

This hurts, bad. I have spent much of my life as a local newspaper reporter, editor and magazine writer and editor. To my knowledge, I have never written a lie.

I suppose the “fake news” accusations of the President have had a strong impact on the survey. And I don’t watch Fox and rarely MSNBC because of their bias. There isn’t a single so-called Internet “news” site I give credibility to.

And the newspapers I grew up writing for are either gone or reduced to half the pages they once were. The late and lamented Dover Daily Advance in New Jersey had a circulation of about 20,000 in the early 1970s. The editorial staff included about 10 municipal reporters, a county courthouse reporter, two investigative reporters, three sports guys, three women’s interest women, three photographers, an editor, and four desk editors including a ‘lobster shift” overnight person.

Often, politicians did not like what we reported, especially when we looked at things like spending taxpayer dollars. But while they were angry about it, they never said we lied. 

We tried to be objective. When there was controversy, we tried to get interviews from all sides of a story. And when we were unable to, we noted that a source did not respond to our call.

I started my career with the Morris County Daily Record. There were usually two 16-page sections. Now, the second section is often four pages. Today’s local newspaper survives mainly from two types of advertisers – the supermarket chains and other big box stores and classified legal advertising. Employment advertising used to be huge, as were car classified ads. But we now use Internet sites. Car dealers can show buyers every car in stock and change it on a daily basis. The social announcements such as engagements, weddings, births, service group and church activities are rare, moving to social media.

And with that came a loss of readership, and that meant fewer advertising dollars. So our newspaper industry is near death. Most local newspapers hire kids fresh out of journalism school. But J-school no longer focuses on the newspaper business, opting instead for television and Internet.

In the mid-1990s, Disney bought ABC. ABC, in addition to being a television broadcast and cable network provider, owned a number of other highly-profitable newspapers and trade magazines. Disney quickly jettisoned those businesses, often selling them to their competitors, who absorbed them and often discontinued them. Disney practically gave them away, rightly believing they would be irrelevant in ten years. . . and they were.

So while we know the business of journalism is floundering, if not dying, why is there so little trust in our reporters?

I once heard that the freedom of the press is held by those who own the press. Back in the 1970s, I worked for a newspaper whose editorial staff opposed a major shopping center due to environmental issues such as flooding. But the publisher refused to print editorials opposing the center and ordered only positive editorial coverage. The only thing the staff could do was ignore the story.

I also worked for a newspaper that supported an amusement park in Budd Lake. The lake was already severely polluted due to overdevelopment and the lack of municipal sewage. In this case, the owners relocated their plans to South Jersey and the park became a part of the Six Flags empire. Budd Lake, meanwhile became a hub for apartment complexes and retail sites.

So now we have owners of presses, television networks and Internet sites with agendas. The Murdoch empire, for example, has expanded and changed the political landscape. Fox News coverage of the recent presidential election has emerged as not just a conservative platform, but also one whose coverage included racial bias.

And so, I hang my head in shame. I grew up with reporters and columnists like Jimmy Breslin, Woodward and Bernstein, Murrow, Cronkite, Huntley and Brinkley. And those were people we trusted and respected. Cronkite was called “Uncle Walter” as he led us through the space age and the murders of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King. He was influential in ending the war in Vietnam. Murrow stopped the McCarthy era and Woodward and Bernstein forced a president to resign.

A weeping Walter Cronkite announces the death of President John F. Kennedy. 

What happened? I was ashamed when such icons as The New York Times and The Washington Post published so much anti-Trump venom during and after the campaign. Yet they are so disrespected that even though they have brought forth much to impeach the President, the people give no credit to these reports due to the lack of credibility from the election.

And so journalism has entered a vacuum. It isn’t trusted and in the present environment, I doubt if it will be in the near future. I have Facebook friends who repost both support and oppose stories about the President with regularity. On both sides, claims are often distorted, if not false. Once upon a time, the Internet was referred to as the “new media.” But now anyone can create a news website.

I once lived in an area around Lake Ronkonkoma, Long Island. There were three municipalities surrounding the lake. One was called Ronkonkoma (part of the town of Islip) and the other was called Lake Ronkonkoma (part of the town of Brookhaven). I attempted to create an on-line newspaper called “Ronkonkomas.com” that covered the two towns. If and when I expanded, I would cover the third one. It was the old-fashioned type of coverage that I grew up with in the 1970s. I covered town councils, planning and zoning boards, boards of education, civic groups and more. Though I built up circulation to more than 4,000 daily ‘hits,’ I simply could not get enough ad support. This information was widely available on Facebook and town websites.

So what kind of journalism can survive? Something that provokes outrage. And the problem is that to provoke outrage, one must attack and never, ever tell the entire truth.

It is not journalism. Yes Donald, I can’t stand you but there is too much “fake news.”

And I weep for a time when people believed we had integrity. 

James, Tristian, Tony and Pete

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear not evil  -- ‘cause I’m the meanest S.O.B. in the valley.” (Vietnam-era Tee Shirt)

Has anyone here seen my old friend James? Can you tell me where he’s gone?

I never knew James Alford. He was my grandfather and my middle name is Alford. I passed that on to my son Matthew, who really doesn’t like it. Perhaps the name will carry on among my cousins’ clans?

James died in the trenches of France during the First World War. A patriot, he also fought in the Spanish-American War as a member of Teddy Roosevelt’s famous Rough Riders, His death was only a few months before the war ended.

Having been born after the Second World War. I never knew him, but his death has shaped much of my life. He left behind his wife and three daughters, Margaret, Nellie, and Mary. Margaret, who legally changed her first name to Peggy, was my mother.

Nellie was my aunt and was Irish to the core. She had three children, two boys and a girl. One boy served in the Air Force during the Korean era and the other in the Navy during the Vietnam era. I rarely see them, though. For many years my mother feuded with her sister and now every few years we get together as I travel through the area where they live.

Mary never made it to her teens, dying from Scarlett Fever after a long, slow process. My oldest cousin, Rita, has been a treasure trove of family history for me and says she was remembered as being pleasant and kind, though confined.

But war and sudden death have taken a generational toll. Left with three children, my grandmother, also named Margaret but commonly called Maggie, was destitute. In those days, there was no life insurance for servicemen. So she struggled cooking, cleaning and doing laundry for others. The most regular job was cooking for a Jewish family on their Sabbath. They were not permitted to perform work on that day.

But it wasn’t enough. Nellie had to drop out of school in her teens, dressed older than she was she became a telephone operator; and my mother, at about the age of 9, became “Baby Peggy,” who performed in local Vaudeville in Jersey City. There were many “Baby Peggy” acts at that time. Little Irish girls who could sing and dance were very popular.

But as Peggy grew up into the Roaring ‘20s she became a “flapper” – a very liberated party girl. -- a fashionable young woman intent on enjoying herself and flouting conventional standards of behavior. Smoking, drinking, and sexual experimentation were characteristic of these young woman. Short hair and shorter skirts added to the effect. One thing was certain: Despite the potential political and social gains or losses, the flappers of the 1920s sure managed to have a good time. In this era, Prohibition was in effect; so much of the drinking was in speakeasies, illegal nightclubs that served alcohol. I am certain my mother chose this path to escape the burden of struggling to get past her father’s death. She became an alcoholic and smoked two packs of cigarettes until her final days when she was confined to a nursing home, senile and dying from lung cancer. I remember sometimes seeing her perform her baby act when she was in her sixties and drunk when she thought no one was watching.

Her alcoholism had an effect on me. A touchstone moment was when she drunkenly told me at the age of 7 “Tell your father I’m leaving” and left in a taxi.

Later living with her constant drinking really screwed up my life. It wasn’t until she was diagnosed with the lung cancer in her late 70s that I was finally able to confront her about what her drinking had done to me. Her apology came way too late but enabled me to care for her in her last few years, though she was mostly in hospitals and a nursing home. I sometimes feel I live in a closed loop, traveling into my youth. I live in the town where she left and frequently go to a nearby town where I graduated from high school. The other day, I took my fiancé to the hospital there and as we drove back, I pointed out the place where I lived; where a friend lived; where a candy store was; where I worked; a park where my father and I went during his visits; and much more. I realized that I have probably done it several times before, slipping in and out of a past long gone.

Has anybody here seen my old friend Tristian? Can you tell me where he’s gone? 

Tristian Whitney Hayes was my best friend in my freshman year of high school. We were in Boy Scouts together and I often visited his house. He was a very nice guy, rarely getting into trouble. He was into various toy soldiers, the small metal kind. We went into New York City a few times and he would go to a couple of stores around Times Square and look at them. He knew the many uniforms from many wars.

I was a year ahead of him and as he moved into high school, we slowly lost contact. One day, in the summer of 1967, I was reading the paper and saw his photo from his high school yearbook. He had died in Vietnam, one of the first from our town. The story did not reveal details. I suppose that changed my mind about Vietnam. I had planned on joining the Coast Guard, but wound up in the Army. Stationed at Fort Knox, I would do volunteer work for Presidential Candidate George McGovern in the evening.

Many years later, I chaperoned my son’s eighth grade trip to Washington DC. We visited “The Wall” and I found Tristian’s name. I started to tell the students about the eighth grader I knew so many years ago. I spoke about the war and the many differences that filled that era. I talked about my Army experience, and the counter-culture of that time. And I concluded that somehow we seemed to survive. Somehow America worked. By that time, about 20 other people were listening to me.

The memory of Tristian rarely left me. And I eventually looked him up as search engines like Google became available. I was stunned to discover he had won a Bronze Star for his action in combat. It was like the scene in “Forrest Gump” where his squad was attacked and he took command, leading his squad to safety while carrying his wounded leader on his back. He was wounded and a few weeks later, for reasons unknown, he killed himself.

At that time I was a teacher, and every Friday preceding Memorial Day, I would show my eighth grade students what war’s real consequences were.

In 2011, I learned about my high school’s “Wall of Fame.” The school, whose core building is approaching a century in age. It had a magnificent stairway at the main entrance. In my time there, the staircase was reserved for seniors and towards the end of the school year, there was a “senior skip day” where many seniors simply skipped a day of school. And on that day, the juniors “rushed” the stairs, taking over for at least a day. While it was a fun ritual, these days the school has expanded, more than tripling in size. And the main entrance is further down the street. The area is now open to anyone and has been turned into a “Wall of Fame” to honor graduates and teachers who have made a difference in people’s lives.

Taking resource material I found on line, I nominated Tristian for the wall, and he was accepted. But there was a problem. Tristian had no survivors. An only child, his parents were diseased and there was a cousin somewhere who couldn’t be found. Tristian died before siring his own children. I was asked to speak. Of course, I was honored to accept. It was a very weird feeling returning to speak at the auditorium. I had been on that stage many times – in plays, choir performances, and athletic awards. Here I was, speaking in front of about half of the student body, and more importantly, to some of my teachers. One teacher in particular was Joseph Dempsey, who assigned us reports about Vietnam before it heated up. He knew that it would explode into a war and wanted us to understand it.

I began by asking everyone to stand, in accordance with military tradition, when medals were awarded. I read the Bronze Star citation and when concluded, it was giving a standing ovation. I then spoke about Tristian. I told people about how Mr. Dempsey had made us understand Vietnam and recounted an incident during football practice where he grabbed Tristian’s facemask and told him to “play until the whistle blows.” And I concluded by saying that Tristian had indeed played until the whistle blew. I was given a second standing ovation as I left the stage. But, to me, it was the “welcome home” Tristian never had. I believe it was the noblest thing I have ever done in my life.

Has anybody here seen my old friend Tony? Can you tell me where he’s gone?

Tony was my father-in-law and managed to live through the African campaign of World War II. He was one of two survivors in his unit who fought for a hill in the desert against Rommel’s top Nazi troops. Wounded in his back and butt, he dug a foxhole with a stone and managed to literally crawl back to his lines and safety. Like Tristian, he also received a bronze star and purple heart. But he never, ever, forgot.

Probably filled with survivor’s guilt, and later diagnosed with PTSD.  He spent the three decades I knew him talking about the war and his experiences — except the actual combat. He had seven siblings and he talked about them, and his buddies. Some of the time he was ignored. But he was never disrespected about it. He had a summer home in Orange County, NY where a flag was proudly raised every day he was there. He saved a lot of letters he and others wrote during the war and began doing research. His last task was writing about every one of the winners of the Congressional Medal of Honor. I once told him the only reason he didn’t get one was no one was left alive to see what he went through. He laughed.

As he aged, he became very ill. And became a frequent visitor to the Veterans’ Hospital where he died around 2006; and was buried at Calverton Military Cemetery with full honors. I managed to donate his papers to the history department of my university and a wonderful letter from a professor to my wife helped ease her sorrow. And even after my wife and I were divorced, I visited his grave a few times, taking photos for my children. He was a real war hero and even after the divorce I had to honor him when I was in the east. You may see me at Joe’s grave in Jersey City and Tony’s grave on Long Island this Monday.

Has anybody here seen my old friend Pete? Can you tell me where he’s gone?

Pete was a high school classmate. I didn’t know him very well, though we shared some classes. But when our 45th class reunion approached, I became better acquainted. A man who had recently lost his wife, we met in a bar where he often drank. Four of us wound up trying to bring him back into the world that night and, after he got into a bit of trouble, with the help of friends he managed to get his act together.

Pete, unlike Tony, held his memories of war close to the vest. He was a MP in Vietnam. He opened up to me, a fellow Vietnam-Era veteran, and other vets but rarely to others. We all shared a common thread of the lack of recognition for our military efforts. In many cases we were despised. I vividly remember coming home on leave in 1971. It was summer and I had a convertible. I drove down to the Jersey Shore just to sit on the beach and chill out. I spotted a pair of girls hitching and picked them up, perhaps hoping I would get real lucky. As we talked, they asked me why my hair was so short. I said I was in the Army. The girls quietly talked for a few moments and then asked to be let out. As I drove away, they screamed “baby killer” at me. Hell, I had never left the states. Alas, it wasn’t unusual.

Pete was Vietnam causality, though it took close to 50 years to kill him. He died of complications from his exposure to Agent Orange. He’s buried in a veteran’s cemetery in Texas.

There are others out there in my personal universe. Paul was wounded in Vietnam and Larry served in the Air Force. Mike served along the coast on a Navy carrier. And perhaps the place I most revere is Valley Forge. To walk among the fallen in America’s bloodiest battle is a lesson I wish all of us could understand.

And so, I will skip the Bar-B-Que this Monday and go to burial grounds. And as I go, I realize that I am approaching 70 years of age this year. My health sucks. It’s because I have spent a lifetime binging on food. And I know I have few years ahead of me. So perhaps, if I am truly blessed by God, one day someone will think they saw me walking over the hill with James, Tristian, Tony and Pete. It is certainly something I don’t deserve.

President Chump

I have gone from an attitude of Donald Trump winning and I’ll have to accept it to remembering the Watergate era and a President who was forced to resign.

The sudden firing of FBI director James Comey rings of Nixon’s Saturday Night Massacre.

The Saturday Night Massacre refers to President Richard Nixon's orders to fire independent special prosecutor Archibald Cox, which led to the resignations of Attorney General Elliot Richardson and Deputy Attorney General William Ruckelshaus on October 20, 1973, during the Watergate scandal. Cox led the investigation about Nixon’s role in the attempted robbery of files at the Democratic National Committee’s office at the Watergate office complex in Washington D.C. These days, with everything on computers, a digital robbery is far easier and easier to get away with, as is the case of Russian/Wickileaks release of Hillary Clinton’s confidential e-mails.

Both Comey and Fox were investigating two Presidents whose paranoia is very obvious. Trump also fired Sally Yates, the acting attorney general holdover who remained in the position pending Senate approval of Trump’s nominee, Jeff Sessions. She was allegedly fired because of her refusal to support Trump’s aborted Muslim ban but she was, like Comey, investigating the Russian connection to the Trump campaign.

Towards the end of the Watergate investigation, as evidence mounted against Nixon, the then President became increasingly paranoid and tapes from his office confirmed his increasing anger to the point of rage. Trump doesn’t need to express himself in the privacy of the White House. His rampages take the form of Twitter tweets, often making little sense.

And then there are the attacks on the press. I was the editor of a weekly newspaper in suburban New Jersey during Vice President Spiro Agnew’s and Nixon’s resignations. Even a local weekly newspaper that covered town council and board of education meetings had tons of hate mail. We were accused of being impartial and slanting the news. Hard core Republicans insisted most of the editors were Democrats. In fact the owners of just about every newspaper in the country were Republicans. And how does this resemble Trump’s “fake news?”

Even in the Nixon era, the President addressed the working press. I vividly remember Nixon’s exchange with Dan Rather, the then CBS White House reporter. Nixon was asked a question by Rather and he responded by asking if he was “running for something.” “No,” replied Rather. “Are you?”

But these days, news organizations such as the New York Times, the Washington Post and CNN have been banned from the White House press office at times and Trump as repeatedly refused to answer questions, calling it “fake news.” At the same time, his chief advisor, Steve Bannon, was the CEO of Breitbart News  -- an ultra-conservative news organization well known as misleading and inaccurate according to fact checking organizations.

So Trump has gone way beyond what Nixon ever did in terms of dealing with the press. And that’s just the beginning. Trump was elected on campaign promises that most of those who opposed him said were unconstitutional or against the law.  A prime example is the Muslim ban. It was outright stopped by a federal court judge based in Hawaii. And the Trump administration blasted the decision. And, of course, there was the judge in a civil suit against Trump that was of Mexican heritage that Trump demanded to step down because he supported a wall.

There are many, many Presidential acts that have been embarrassing to the country and have made us look downright stupid in the eyes of the rest of the world, especially in England, Germany and Japan, our main military allies.  And I worry about Trump’s military orders, sending 50+ missiles into a Syrian airport and dropping a huge bomb. His refusal to state that he would not use nuclear weapons scares just about everyone except the terrorists.

I frankly don’t care that Trump has failed to implement most of his campaign promises. There is no wall. Coal miners and steel workers have not returned to work. And this is because their jobs have become automated, not because of environmental regulations being eliminated.

Nothing yet has been done about NAFTA; the Iran deal remains in effect; and we haven’t done much about ISIS.

Nixon once said, “I am not a crook.” What amazes me is that Trump, with his constant refusal to pay suppliers, declaring bankruptcy many times, cheating people with his “university,” and so much more that was known during the campaign still was elected.

The man is a divisive person, and he has done little to be the president of all the people. I know that people who disgust me are his key supporters. I know that his comments about women and minorities have created hard feelings. I see his cabinet as mostly white males and business and Beltway insiders. The swamp has not been cleaned up.

Today, Trump took a “mental health day” according to his embattled press secretary. My biggest issue is Trump’s mental health. Have the demands of the presidency made him unable to function? He is under attack from all sides, including his Republican allies. Can he hold up? It seems he isn’t doing very well at the present time. His sanity has been questioned in the campaign. Now, even more so.

I make many mistakes when I’m under stress. I say and do the wrong things. I frequently fail to engage my brain before I open my mouth. Trump and I are the same age and I can see my mental capabilities becoming reduced. I have a very hard time organizing my day. I have to write things down to organize simple tasks. I’m currently working on the back yard landscaping. I have to figure out the order of things. I find there are a dozen or so tasks to do and I have anxiety as to what to do next. I can envision Trump having the same issues. I am not surprised that he has family members close by in the West Wing. For several decades he has relied on family, and I hope that they and his advisors are enough to support him.

I doubt if he will be impeached unless there is absolute proof of cooperation with the Russians. The Republican Congressional majority will not permit it to happen. And so I ask that no matter how much you dislike Trump, I want you to pray for him. He is an emotionally fragile man, perhaps for a long time. And he is being overwhelmed by both his duties and the absolute political and personal hatred from so many. Trump, unwisely in my opinion, pays way too much to social media. It is the communication tool of the common people. There are millions who revile him as well as many who support him. He simply can’t set himself above the fray. Like most of us, his humanity is facing difficult tasks; unlike most of us, his tasks are overwhelming.