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.