John Delach

February 2023: Originally published, October 2018

The young man who worked at the bike shop in the port town of Avalon on Catalina Island began his five to seven-minute tutorial as soon as we signed the waivers holding them harmless for all liabilities including injuries we could sustain by riding electric powered bicycles (E-Bikes) during the next two hours.

He walked us through how to increase and decrease the gear ratios to help us pedal the E-Bikes up and down the numerous hills we would encounter. He explained how to work the electric motor throttle and the front and rear brakes. “Remember, these are disc-brakes, not traditional hand brakes. To use them, don’t press and hold them. If you do, the bike will stop suddenly and you may go flying over the handlebars. Squeeze them gently, on and off.”

I knew he didn’t see the weird look on my face as he explained braking. As if by magic, his words transported me back to the summer of 1957 in Cutler Ridge, Florida. My father had put me on his Vesper motor scooter and was explaining how to brake it. The old man was bit more elegant but less P.C. than this young man, “John, touch the brake like you are squeezing a girl’s breast.”

Mary Ann returned me to reality with her worried question and plea, “Do we really want to ride these things?”

“Yes, yes, of course we do. C’mon, lets do it, we’ve been looking forward to this.”

I hoped my adamant reply concealed my own doubts or any panic in my voice.

Our guide raised more red flags as he took out a map and set out his recommended route. “Head out on the coastal road that gives you about a half mile to get used to the bikes. Remember, they weigh over twenty pounds so don’t make sharp turns or brake hard. Use your electric motor judiciously and brake easy and often on the downhills.”

When he warned us about watching out for other tourists driving rented four and six-passenger golf carts, I really became nervous.

Again, came the warning, “Do we really want to ride these things?”

Thanks to male ego and my stupidity, I assured my mate to stay the course with, “C’mon, let’s do this.”

And so, we started off. Leading the way, I had only gone about fifty feet when I was forced to stop for a woman inching a golf cart out of a parking area. Seeing me she stopped. I clearly had the right-of-way and began to move forward. However, she looked beyond me to see if the road was clear and pulled out. “Son of a bitch,” I murmured to myself as I jammed on the brakes to let her pass. From the back seat, one of her companions who witnessed this near miss said as he passed by, “Sorry, she’s a rookie driver.”

I learned what I could during that first half mile but any confidence I acquired evaporated as we climbed a series of switchbacks that led us up the side of a mountain, especially those stretches where we had to navigate on the outside half of the road. I was able to climb even the steepest hills by peddling while keeping the motor at full throttle.

But I had to force all my attention on keeping a line away from the edge while not straying out of my narrow lane. By the time we reached a scenic overlook, my state of mind was such that I really didn’t observe the spectacular scenery. The many houses that clung to the hillsides should have been impressive as well as the beautiful harbor filled with boats big and small. But my preoccupation with death trumped enjoyment.    

Realizing how high we had climbed only intensified my state of near panic. A group of twenty-something young adults took a photo of Mary Ann and me and asked us how we were doing? “Okay, so far, but we hate having to stay close to the edge.”

One young man responded, “You don’t have to, this road is one way. How do you say “relief?” “One way!”

We made it the rest of the way to the highest hill and down-hill back into town. Still in the lead, I decided to take a break at a stop sign to check our location and discuss where we could go next. After I brought my bike to a stop, I turned off the battery to prevent inadvertently using the throttle and stepped off to use the kick-stand. I moved my left foot onto the ground. Holding the bike steady, I lifted my right foot to clear the relatively low bar.

My right leg failed me. The combination of a seventy-four-year old knee, a replacement hip, the weight of the bike and gravity won out and over I went. First response: check all my body parts. All good, but my left leg was pinned under the bike held fast by my right leg that remained on top.

Slowly I lifted the bike to free my left leg. It was then that Mary Ann arrived. “Oh my God, are you all right?”

“Yeah. A few bruises, nothing of concern.”

I was able to stand and right the bike. We biked for a while longer before returning them. My left knee had the kind of blood wound that seven-year-olds regularly suffer on a baseball field.

God bless Mary Ann for remaining silent about the folly of our adventure. Instead, she accompanied me to a local pharmacy to purchase Neosporin and over-size band-aids to cover my wound.

We had a pleasant dinner before boarding the ferry for the return trip to Dana Point and our car ride home to Carlsbad. Final score: E-Bike-One; Delach-Zero!

I promised George that I would investigate the place where he spent his happiest summer vacations during the early 1950s, Sanita Hills Camp. This is what I discovered:

Mayor Fiorello took office in 1933 as a reformer dedicated to cleaning up the ruins left behind by Jimmy Walker, who had been forced from office. However, the Little Flower’s greatest challenge was to take bold steps to lessen the stranglehold the great depression had on the city. He appointed men who dared to do great things. Robert Moses was his most effective commissioner, but another, forgotten today, was William F. Carey, Commissioner of the Department of Sanitation. “Carey demonstrated admirable concern for his workers known as the ‘White Wings’ for their white uniforms.”

Shortly after Carey’s appointment, he proposed to La Guardia that he purchase a Long Island estate for the exclusive use by sanitation employees. Morale was awful as the department had lower salaries than almost every other municipal operation. Carey explained to the mayor that he had a separate fund generated from revenue earned from a series of baseball games played by his department’s team against the Police Department in Yankee Stadium. The Little Flower didn’t object and encouraged Carey in his quest.

Carey purchased Oheka Castle in Huntington, Long Island. Otto Kahn, a Morris County based Jewish businessman, had bought the land in 1914 after being shutout one time too many for membership at one of the New Jersey golf clubs. He commissioned leading architects to design his mansion. Construction of the castle and the grounds including its own 18-hole golf course took five years to finish. When Kahn passed away in 1934, his estate put Oheka up for sale in a lean time when few “want to be” dukes or barons could afford such a luxury.

Enter Carey with a fist full of dollars who submitted the best offer on behalf of sanitation. The estate accepted his offer, the best they could expect. Carey deemed the new property to be: “Chateau Sanita.”

Huntington, even then, was an upscale community populated by influential families and individuals, so it didn’t take long for their quiet rage to force the castle’s estate to renege on the deal. “Sorry, old boy, but seriously, garbage men vacationing here. I mean, what’s next?”

Carey backed off. Hat in hand, he met with La Guardia for help to find a suitable tract of land in southern New York State to establish a vacation camp for his workers and their families. The mayor prevailed on both Eleanor and, her husband, Franklin, to help the city find the land he needed. With their help, “he was able to purchase land in in Duchess County, NY in the hamlet of Holmes to establish Sanita Hills Camp.

Information about the purchase or the development of facilities is not readily available so I have used what I could find and make assumptions about the rest.

“The property eventually had three camps; one for families, one for single men and a third for single women. The complex included a dining hall and recreation center. Four small lakes were expanded, cleaned up and beaches were created for swimming, sailing and other water sports.”

The problems associated with building cabins from scratch was solved by a fortuitous coincidence. At the same time that construction on the camp was beginning, the City of New York gained control of the old IRT and BMT elevated lines which they closed in preparation for demolition. Hundreds of wooden elevated cars were taken out of service. Commissioner Carey had the wheels removed from dozens of them and retro-fitted the units before hauling them upstate on flatbed trucks.

“The open-ended platforms were mounted on concrete supports, were fitted with simple wooden porches, railings and steps. Typically, this porch was shaded by a stripped awning and could be entered through a door cut into that side of the body. Referred to as “Pullmanettes,” Sanitation workers paid a nominal amount to vacation in Camp Sanita for as long as a week. Those Pullmanettes intended for family use had a center kitchen-dining area, a master bedroom and two berth children’s rooms. These interiors were trimmed with Philippine mahogany and equipped with an electric refrigerator and a tiled bathroom with a shower.

The camp had four lakes for fishing, water sports and swimming, the largest being Whaley Lake. Another, christened, Sunset Lake had separate lakeside areas for open air dancing, a theatre and communal dining and other recreational activities. A number of baseball and softball fields dotted the property as did courts and fields for other popular sports popular in those post World War II years.

Information about the why and cause  for an audit is sketchy, but apparently in 1943… “ it led to an investigation into how Sanitation was able to buy 1,100 acres of land and who authorized the requisition of city elevated train cars, not to mention the use of materials, supplies and city labor to build the resort.”

In 1943, The New York Times reported that Commissioner Carey admitted to authorizing  the project for the good of the department and the city. LaGuardia ordered the department to get rid of the camp, but this mandate was never made a priority as Sanitation employees and their families continued to make use of the property until the spring of 1956. In a ceremony conducted at the camp on May 18, 1956, then Commissioner of Sanitation, Andrew W. Mulrain, formally transferred the title of Sanita Hills to Boy Scouts of Greater New York Council.

Over time, interest in scouting diminished especially during the turbulent 1970s and the greatly reduced need for camps led to the shedding of unwanted property. Sanita was one of those casualties. Today, only past memories of past summer fun remains in those hill of Duchess County.             

Late last year, I published a piece about a 1956 weekend camping trip to Camp Sanita Hills in upstate New York. What made the trip special was having my father join my scout troop as an adult adviser. (My father left my mother before I was one-year’s old.) Having my father there was very important to me as it validated his existence proving that I actually had a father.

Shortly after I published that piece, Ria called to tell me that George, her long-time friend from the East End of Long Island, had told her that he was going to head upstate to find out what had happened to the summer camp where his family vacationed during the early 1950s. He told Ria that those summers were the happiest vacations of his life. The place was owned and operated by the city’s Department of Sanitation for use by the families of their employees.”

“John,” Ria continued, “I am not certain about his details, but it seemed to be the same place you wrote about. He was quite sure his family lived in old railroad cars, but other than that, he can’t discover anything else about that place”

“Ria, that’s Camp Sanita.”

“He can’t find anybody who can confirm any details.”

“Ria, I can. Give him my number,”

George telephoned me a few days later. I told him everything I knew about the camp, but it became obvious that I knew very little. He asked why the NYC Sanitation owned the camp, why they lived in railroad cars instead of cabins and other questions.

I told him what I remembered as best I could. He asked where it was located? I told him that I had learned that it was in Holmes, NY.

 “Sorry, John, that doesn’t mean anything to me. I do remember that we made trips for groceries and treats to Pauling, NY.”

“Let me look that up on my I-Pad.” Sure enough, I discovered that Holmes is part of Pauling.

That mystery solved: George wanted to know when his family actually vacationed there. We are contemporaries, so that helped me to zero in. “That trip with my dad in 1956 was the only time I stayed in Camp Sanita.”

He asked how old I was and I replied, “Twelve.”

George now knew the basic facts about his family vacations to understand the location of the camp and the time frame for those vacations.

“John, What I do recall is that when my family vacationed there, the camp was part of the NYC Department of Sanitation. My father was in the FDNY, but my grandfather had a career with Sanitation. He booked our vacations at Sanita.”

George, shared some of his other experiences with me, but it became obvious that there was much about Sanita that I didn’t know. “George, so far, that’s all I can tell you, except for the fact that ‘Sanita’ is an abbreviation for ‘ Sanitation,’ but, leave this with me. Let me do the research and I’ll get back to you.”

I already knew that George has a place in the Virgin Islands where he escapes winter on the East end of Long Island. I’m sure the storm that struck the East Coast on December 23^rd reinforced George’s desire to escape winter’s discomfort. This would give me time to complete my research, but I also needed this delay to recover from my knee surgery that was performed on January 9, 2023.

(To be continued.)    

The events, characters, people, places and anything else you can think of contained in this story are purely fictional.

Before beginning this story, let me note that as bad as it can be to be discharged from a hospital, it is an infinitely better ending to a hospital stay than the alternative.

I entered the hospital early on a Monday morning for a full-knee replacement and by 8:15 AM the old one was long gone. About 8 PM I was transported to a regular room without a roommate to begin transitioning to my hospital routine of blood pressure tests, blood tests, temperature checks, timely dosages of prescribed pills, chats with doctors, P.A.s, nurses, compilers of facts and information, dieticians, clergy, physical therapists all the while answering repetitive questions.

My roommate arrived almost two hours later allowing me to re-live this routine by witnessing his version.

The rest of the night was ruined by a semi-planned cavalcade of tests, bathroom breaks, etc.

My ultimate goal, getting released to go home, began to come into focus on Tuesday morning. My orthopedist had predicted that I would most probably go home by Tuesday night. This became my Holy Grail and anything I did, ate, drank or participated in was influenced by my desire to make it home that day.

It wasn’t too long before I was informed of two impediments that were coming into focus that would block the fulfillment of my quest; I had yet to demonstrate the ability to urinate on my own without the need to use a caterer and my body had to meet the minimum sodium levels. My minimum level was 128, considered low, and my count seemed to be falling.

That dear reader is the essential issue of this story which we are going to let unfold.

One of the doctors explained that morning, “You can’t get out of here until you achieve both goals, but right now you are receiving medicines to make you pee. Unfortunately, these same medicines have a habit of reducing your sodium level.”

“So, what you are saying is that the same medicines that will get me to pee will fail me on my sodium count?”

He replied: “That’s right.”

“Great, that makes me a Catch 22, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

I was failing on both fronts. They had to get the sodium count up and re-cauterize me for 12 hours to empty my bladder. At the end of the 12-hours, I was allowed to let the open channel do just that, then I had a four-hour widow to do it on my own. I failed miserably.

When my sodium count dropped to 126, my dream team decided to go in a different direction; use medicines to increase the sodium level while I took responsibility to make my body achieve free-flowing urine. We tried the cauterization / free flow route one more time with the admonition: “Don’t screw this one up, soldier.”

At first, zero! But that night after several dry holes, mother nature ran her course in her own sweet time that allowed me to produce enough liquid to pass their test. “Thank God Almighty!”

I texted my wife: “Peed! One down, one to go.”

On Wednesday morning a kidney specialist who let’s call Dr. Salt joined my dream team. He was greatly concerned about all my sodium issues and though he liked me, he didn’t trust my sodium production ability. Never-the-less, he prescribed a single dosage pill to fix me. Later that day when my sodium count came in at 128, there was joy throughout the known universe.

I had achieved lift-off. All of the responsible top docs signed off and discharge was only a review away until one last impediment raised its oily head. It turned out I was taking a water pill, a terrible no-no. After a lengthy delay of five hours, compromises and promises were made and I was cleared to go.

My nurse ordered a wheelchair from Transport. We waited and we waited sitting in my room. After about another half-hour had passed, Mary Ann got up and left without saying anything. I figured she needed to make a stop at the lady’s room, but not too much later she re-appeared pushing an empty wheelchair. “Let’s go!” she commanded. As we made it passed all sort of hospital personnel, I asked her, “What if somebody stops you?”

“I’ll tell them I’m certified to move patients.”

Turns out there is truth to that. In any event, no one said anything. With some help, I squiggled into the front seat of her Jeep Renegade and she drove us home without further incident.

The next day after everything had calmed down, I asked her why she did it. “I was about to explode. My hair hurt. I had to get us out of there.”

I for one am only too glad she did.

It is nice to be back, but at this stage in my recovery, I cannot say for certain that I will be publishing “On the Outside Looking In” weekly. Please stay with me and I will do the best I can.

One morning, not too long ago, WCBS News Radio informed me that the former baseball pitcher, Don Larsen, had passed on New Year’s Day at 90. Both this announcement and his obituary deserved proper recognition as Larsen had pitched a perfect game against the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1956 World Series.

Curiously though, this announcement also took me back to the weekend following his perfect game. I was twelve at the time and an active First-Class Boy Scout in the Rattlesnake Patrol of Troop 178 then domiciled in PS-81 on Cypress Avenue in Ridgewood, Queens.

Although I was aware of Larsen’s accomplishment, I was more excited about our upcoming weekend camping trip to Camp Sanita, located in Holmes, NY. The camp had been developed years before by the Department of Sanitation as a summer getaway and vacation spot for department employees and their families. It had been recently seeded to the Boy Scouts.

The camp’s main attraction was fifty former New York City elevated subway cars that Sanitation had salvaged from the hundreds scrapped after the Manhattan els ceased operations in 1940. Called, “Pullmanettes”, they populated the camp providing indoor living spaces for families that included, “…a central-kitchen-dining area, a master bedroom and a two berth children’s room.”

Running water, an electric refrigerator and a tiled bathroom with shower topped off these rural laps of luxury.  

But, what excited me most about this trip was that my father would be joining us. He was then a Major, stationed at Homestead Air Force Base in Florida, at that time, home to B-47 bombers belonging to the Strategic Air Command.

John Sr. made periodic trips to Long Island to see his sisters, Ann and Joan, his brother, Marco and me. When he informed me of his upcoming visit, I explained that I was supposed to go on this camping trip that weekend and I asked if he could join me. Surprisingly, he said yes. The sequence of how this all came together is lost to history, but I do know that it worked out and he joined me as one of the adult supervisors.

I was ecstatic that he would be there with me, for me.

Understand, back in 1956, divorce was rare in my blue-collar neighborhood. Husbands went to work, and wives were homemakers. My father was absent, and my mother went to work. I stood out as being different when no twelve-year-old wanted to stand out as being different. I was a kid without a dad.

As much as I tried to explain who John, Sr. was and what he did, I felt diminished each time I did so. Other kids’ fathers were real flesh and blood and they were present be they office workers, beer truck drivers, construction workers or mechanics. My father was nothing but an idea.

But, not on that weekend. Once John Sr.’s participation was confirmed, our scout master, Bernie C, (a Polish name that included complex consonant combinations like “CJZ”) invited my father and me to ride in his 1953 monster Chevrolet station wagon. This was a high honor and one never before offered to me. I wasn’t one of Mr. C’s favorites so reveled in this honor.

The weekend didn’t disappoint. My old man charmed Mr. C and the other fathers as only he could do. John was a slick fox and a bit of snake in disguise.

As for me, that radio report of Larsen’s death awakened my memory of the moment when I knew that John’s being there finally validated my standing as a member of our troop.

Mr. C was driving on 69^th Street in Maspeth, Queens about to turn onto the service road for the Long Island Expressway when my Dad turned toward Mr. C and the three of us in the back seat.

He put his left arm on the seat and said: “I hope you all appreciate what happened in Yankee Stadium last Monday. Don Larsen threw a perfect game. Twenty-seven men up at bat, 27 men out and he did it in the World Series. This was the first World Series perfect game ever and you will probably never see the likes of that performance again in your lifetime.”

Don Larsen’s perfection and the old man’s eloquence allowed me to become a made-kid at Troop 178, at least for that weekend.

RIP Don Larsen.

“On the Outside Looking In,” will not publish in January 2023 while I recuperate from knee surgery.

I look forward to resuming our connection as soon as I am able.

Meanwhile, let me take a moment to thank you for loyal support and for the nice things you say about me and my blogs. I am forever grateful.

May you enjoy Christmas as appropriate or your choice of holiday and a healthy and beneficial 2023.

I can’t believe I’m here. Didn’t I vow that I’d never do anything again that the Army made me do. That included being awakened at insanely early hours, playing with guns, marching, climbing telephone poles and camping. But, no! Here I am staring out from inside of a tent while rain generously falls into our camp grounds on the New Hampshire side of Lake Umbagog.

Except for carrying a gun, I’m with three other jackasses, my buddy, Mike Cruise, who talked me into this mess and to whom I’m currently not speaking and two guys he knows who organized this outing, Lou, a yenta and a general pain–in-the-ass and Brubaker, our self-appointed leader who thinks he’s a Green Beret or Navy Seal and tries to treat us like plebes. He carries a shot gun that he affectionately calls “my alley cleaner” and insists that we paddle our two canoes this morning in the rain across the lake to our next campsite on the Maine side.

I prefer to wait, but Lou is Brubaker’s toady and Mike put this whole thing in motion so the next thing I know, the vote is three to one in favor of pressing on and I’m alternately paddling a loaded canoe in miserable weather or bailing it out. This is insane. I could easily be home at our camp in Marlow, NH watching television, reading, playing a game or taking a nap. Damn, that’s what my wife and Mike’s wife are doing at this same moment. (Later, Mary Ann tells me, “We thought of you and Mike out there in the rain having to schlep tents and gear and we agreed, ‘rather you than us.”)

One evening, following another of Lou’s horrible meals, Brubaker assigns Mike and me to KP. As we un-ecologically wash our pots, plates and utensils in the here-to-fore pristine waters, we watch in horror, the birth of a nation as hordes of mosquitoes rise-up from the shoreline attacking us with the viciousness of a sworn enemy. We hurry to finish our task, collect our gear and retreat to our tent, spraying the entrance after zipping it closed.

This all happened in the summer of 1999, but, I didn’t think about writing my story until something similar appeared in the August 4, 2016  Escapes section of the New York Times entitled, Paddling Through a North Woods Refuge, by John Motyka.

Take my word for it, Motyka left out a good bit of reality as he waxed poetically about Lake Umbagog (pronounced um-BAY-gog). Oh sure, there are lots of loons and their call is haunting, moose sightings are not uncommon and, with luck, we saw eagles. But nowhere in his writing does Motyka discuss, much less even suggest the existence of this creature that controls the lake before dawn and after dusk, the mosquito.

Motyka also omits any description of the sanitary facilities available at the camp site. So shall I, but let the potential camper beware.

Of course, Motyka didn’t have to contend with Lou and Brubaker. Lou had no problem indulging my cigars or Irish whiskey until I cut him off. In return he treats us to his cooking until we also cut him off from serving his abominations,  especially his breakfast special, and his piece-de-resistance, eggs and Wolf’s Kasha. He brags about it for days and when he ultimately sets the finished product before us, Mike and I look at each other silently asking the question, “Have we been conned or his he nuts?” The look of pleasure on his face is not that of a practical joker but rather, a man pleased with his creation. “Yup, he’s nuts.”

Our last campsite is on an island where we stay for two days. Brubaker explains that a ranger warned that a female bear with a yearling is possibly occupying the island. Great: This is when females are at their most dangerous as they still protect the cub even though the cub is active and could easily be attracted to our camp. “Don’t worry; my alley cleaner is ready and so am I.”

“Swell, Brubaker, the great white hunter.”

The island is in sight of our final destination, the campsite where we parked our cars. On the first morning, after we arrive, Mike and I have had enough of Lou, his cooking and Brubaker. We  announce, “We’re going to paddle to the car and drive to the closest town, Errol, NH (pronounced Erl) for breakfast.”

I don’t remember if they protested but I know I didn’t care. The local café serves an Errol McMuffin. I could have eaten three. When we return, all Lou and Brubaker want to know is what we brought for them. We are savvy enough to bring them some cold beer and two Earl McMuffins. Their need for fast food ends the seemingly endless cycle of their trying to be the tough guys.

Fortunately, real or conjured up, we never see a bear and the next day we say our good-byes to the two of them. “Next year, let’s do this again,” Brubaker remarks. “You guys ain’t half bad and I know a trip we can make on the Delaware River.”

“Fantastic,” I reply.

As we pull away, I ask Mike, “You ever hear that old joke about the woman who learns how to politely respond to her neighbors’ exaggerations about their kids’ achievements?”

“No.” he replies.

“She learns to say ‘fantastic’ instead of ‘bullshit”

My here-to-fore hidden problem, a problem I didn’t even know I have, explodes on the morning of my scheduled departure from Bermuda in 1998. I am preparing to leave the Southampton Princess for my ride to the airport when the realization hits me squarely between the eyes: I don’t have a clue where my passport is.

“Oh shit, oh damn, oh Christ Almighty; f***, f***, F*** me!” I was operating in full panic mode. “Damn, damn, damn, I know I had it when I cleared Immigration to enter the island and I haven’t used it since my arrival. Where the f*** can it be? Damn, damn, damn.”

Finally, I calm down enough to retrace my steps; nothing. With everything packed, I call the front desk from my room to explain my dilemma. Of course, I stupidly begin by asking the clerk on duty if someone had turned it in. They are courteous enough to send up a manager who accompanies the housekeeper who serviced my room.

It becomes obvious to me that this is a waste of time, so I say, “Thank you both for coming, but what ever happened to my passport was my doing.”

The manager asks, “What do you plan to do?”

“Go to the airport. I am a long-time frequent traveler and they should have a file on me. I believe I can convince US Customs to let me fly back to New York.”

I thank them for their troubles and apologize for any disruption I may be causing. In the cab, I go over my game-plan to put the US Customs Agent on my side. First off, I decide to aim for a woman. The odds are, she will be more empathetic and caring than a male agent.

Plan A works. The agent enters  all my information into her computer and validates my clearance to leave the island and legally board my flight back to JFK. Since I clear US Customs and Immigration in Bermuda, I don’t have to repeat the process at JFK. I thank her for her assistance and her parting words are: “First thing when you arrive home, cancel your passport so it can’t be used for nefarious purposes.”

(I think to myself as I walk away, “Wow, nefarious is a big word and its meaning is even bigger!”)

The flight is uneventful, but my day isn’t over when I arrive at JFK. I had made a commitment to attend a black-tie dinner honoring my colleague at the New York Hilton that night. My tuxedo is hanging on the back of my office door, so, instead of going home, I grab a taxi to take me to my office.

Once in the office, I hang my sports coat over the tux and close my office door. I call my son to tell him what had happened in Bermuda: “Michael,“ I begin, “You won’t believe what happened to me…” As I say these words into the phone, I find myself staring at my sports coat.

Suddenly, I realize what had happened… “Hang on a second, Michael.

I stand up, and exclaim, “Son of a bitch.”

I already know what I will find and where. Sure enough, there it is in the right inside pocket of my jacket, my passport, exactly where I put it on arrival in Bermuda after the immigration agent returned it to me after adding his official stamp of approval for me to enter his island nation.

I shake my head and tell my son what happened. Now that I was once again a relaxed and a happy man, I could enjoy a good time at dinner where I tell the story of my day’s adventures until exhaustion overtakes me and I retire to my hotel room where I sleep like a baby.                

December 2022: I wrote this piece in June of 2016 in tribute to my teacher.

Last Saturday afternoon, the Nassau County Poet Laureate Society honored my teacher by presenting members of his family with personal tributes by poets and writers. This is my interpretation of the man who taught me how to write that I presented that day. 

Maxwell C. Wheat Jr, poet, parent, preacher and a man of peace.

Activist, protester, man of passion, letters, understanding and always; a poet.

Teacher, facilitator, critic, editor, advisor, arbiter, encourager, friend.

Witness excerpt from his eulogy to Pete Seeger’s genius saving the Hudson:

Now Pete Seeger belongs to his Hudson

His outreach of rousing songs

Are the frisky breezes, tall winds coming off the hills,

Touching, stroking the waved back of this 315-mile

Pleistocene invertebrate of a stream

He concludes his poem:

Pete Seeger’s song now parcel of the river’s song:

listen for his voice in the rustling of its autumn leaves,

listen for his voice in the rock slashing of the white capped waves.

Max often referred to his beginnings: reporter, New York Geneva Times Daily.

Assigned obits, his editor explained: “Human interest.” Max never forgot.

This from his poem about 9/11 he called, “Everybody Has a Story,”

Eamon McEneaney 46 in the first attack, 1992,

Led sixty-three people down one hundred flights of stairs.

Senior vice president, brokerage firm, Cantor Fitzgerald.

Calling his wife at her office, shouting “Is Bonnie there?

I love her and I love the kids…”

He was – in the Newsday obit,

The ending of a poem to his wife:

“…The end

is a bend in the road

That we’ll never find

A death I will always

Defend

us from.”

Maxwell Wheat a man of peace who served his nation as a Marine toward the end of World War II, did his duty and yet espoused Whitman and Melville; do no harm.

First Poet Laureate of Nassau County, a national treasure; did no harm.

Adios my teacher, my friend: Via con Dios!

November, 2022 (Originally written in 2016)

Monday, March 1, 1962 was one of those superb winter days, moderately cold but crisp and clear, the perfect day for a parade. The Daily Mirror’s morning headline commanded:

Go! Go! To See

Glen Today

   Their accompanying story began: “The heavens will turn off that chronic drizzle of the past few days for the man who conquered the sky.”

    The parade actually honored all seven Mercury astronauts and was conceived following America’s first space flight by Alan Shepheard. But that flight and Gus Grissom’s subsequent success were so brief that the parade was postponed until John Glenn made our nation’s first orbital flight. Glenn became an instant hero and his flight was so well-received and applauded by the American public that the parade became known to all as “The Glenn Parade.”

   I was so excited to see the parade in person. March 1 was also important to me for another reason; I had turned eighteen in February. So, before I made the trip to Manhattan, I first travelled to Jamaica, Queens the location of my local draft board where I registered for the draft and received my Selective Service card. While this card demonstrated that I had fulfilled my civic duty, it also provided proof that I was eighteen and could legally drink in New York.

   Armed with my new status I boarded a Manhattan bound Jamaica elevated subway train at the 168 Street Station for the long ride to Lower Broadway.  For the most part this was a monotonous ride as the train meandered through lackluster neighborhoods like Richmond Hill and Woodhaven. It did have one interesting view though. At one point the el lifted up above the surrounding apartment buildings to clear the Long Island RR’s old Rockaway Line providing a stunning view of Jamaica Bay, Idlewild (Now JFK) Airport and the Rockaways. I stood up on that clear, cold day to take in the view only to notice a plume of smoke rising high above the bay making me wonder what had caused that to happen?

   On reaching Broadway I joined the masses that lined sidewalks five and six deep becoming absorbed by a crowd estimated to be as many as four million strong who stood along the route. I didn’t see very much even with my height advantage so I can’t say that I saw John Glenn but I think I did. I didn’t stay very long but I didn’t feel disappointment either. Everyone was so happy and proud to be there that it felt good to be part of it.

   None of us standing there knew that the plume I had seen earlier came from the remains of an American Airlines 707 that had crashed earlier in the morning after taking off from Idlewild. American Flight No. 1, non-stop service from New York to Los Angeles, began its takeoff roll at 10:07 AM, about the same time I arrived at the Selective Service Office.  The airplane carrying a crew of 8 and 87 passengers climbed to 1,600 feet over Jamaica Bay where the flight crew commenced a left turn. At this point something went terribly wrong with the rudder, the moveable part of the tail. The 707 banked beyond 90 degrees, flipped over onto its back and began a fatal dive toward Jamaica Bay. One minute and 49 seconds after beginning takeoff, the 707 smashed into the bay upside down at an angle of 73 degrees exploding in the shallow waters killing all on board.

   The crash of American Flight No. 1 was the largest single-plane domestic air tragedy up to that time and forced next morning’s newspapers to come to terms with all that had happened on March 1…

  The headline on the Daily News read:

IN ONE DAY:

95 Die in Jet; Busman Strike;

Millions Share Glenn Triumph

  The Daily Mirror stayed the course with:

‘WONDERFUL’

  The only notation, a box at the bottom right-hand corner of the first page noted:

95 Die Here In

Worst Air Crash

  The New York Times went with twin banner headlines separated by a single column story about the Fifth Avenue Coach Company strike.  The left side banner headline covered three columns and read:

CITY TURNS OUT FOR GLENN

PARADE IN PAPER BLIZZARD

‘OVERWHELMS’ ASTRONAUT

    The right- side headline covered four columns and read:

ALL 95 ON JETLINER KILLED IN CRASH

INTO BAY ON TAKE-OFF AT IDLEWILD

PRESIDENT SPURS FEDERAL INQUIRY

   Finally, the New York Herald Tribune separated the stories top to bottom of the front page with:

Triumph – The New York Way

and

TRAGEDY – End of Flight 1

   They began at the top of the page with this overview:

  “Man reaches for the stars but he stands upon the earth. And his fallibilities and failings go hand in hand with his capability and achievements. Yesterday this city honored a space hero – even while stunned by a great air disaster. Today it still feels the pride in John Glenn – and it mourns the ninety-five who died at Idlewild.

  We may be sure that there will also be other tragedies from the mines below the earth to the skies above it. But we know, too, that man will persevere and prevail and progress, for he knows no other way.”

If a nation divided cannot stand, so what in hell is holding our Republic together?

Consider this verse from Simon and Garfunkel’s breakthrough hit: Mrs. Robinson:

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon

Going to the candidates’ debate

Laugh about it, shout about it

When you’ve got to choose

Every way you look at this, you lose

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you

Woo, woo, woo

What’s that you say, Mrs. Robinson?

Joltin’ Joe has left and gone away

Hey, hey, hey

Hey, hey, hey.

Election day was held on Tuesday, November 8^th. By the time you read this just after the third Tuesday in November, the people should have spoken and ordinarily what’s done should be done. But in this era of our national division, disagreement and litigation, I fear a plethora of court challenges will be the next cycle for our 2022 elections? I hope not, but I fear this may be our new reality.

Here’s what really sucks, both parties have become stupidly predictable. While we were sleeping, they became captive by their own extreme elements. The crazies on the right led by The Donald, have far too much influence on the Republicans while a coalition of left wing, so called, progressives seem to control the Democrats and their policies.

Ordinary men and women, those folks who think of themselves as Citizens, don’t buy into either philosophy. They want a government that will do the right thing. The problem for free-thinking independent voters should be obvious; for them, both parties are rigged by the inordinate influence of their most radical members. Moderate candidates who they may have favored are regularly defeated in primaries. Many reasonable voters are usually ambivalent when it comes to their party’s primaries and don’t participate in primary elections. Unfortunately, radicals on the left and right figured this out and incentivize their followers to vote while we, mainstream voters, abstain.

Add to that our modern age, greatly influenced by social media and other electronic venues, bombard us with seemingly endless attacks against any candidate who runs against their favored son or daughter. And what about those slick carboard flyers that clog our mail boxes? Stop already, do something nice and save a tree.

“He’s against a woman’s right to choose.”

“She’s soft on crime.”

“He supported, Trump.”

“She’s responsible for the uncontrolled inflation.”

“If he wins, it will be the end of our nation as we know it.”

If she wins, it will be the end of our nation as we know it.”

When you’ve got to choose

Every way you look at this, you lose.

If the Democrats retained control of both the Senate and the House, they will still face dissention in their ranks from Joe Manchin and if the Republicans take control of either house, grid-lock will prevail.

I can only imagine what a three-ring circus it will be for the 2024 Presidential election, especially if it includes The Donald which is likely.         

And as I pen this two days before Election Day, even though I put my civic duty above my doubts that this is an exercise in futility, I do so as a citizen of the greatest democracy on earth. I vote to protect and preserve the United States of America now, and for future generations.

POST ELECTION REVIEW:

Glory be, reasonableness prevailed at the polls! Granted, extreme partisanship did prevail in many individual elections, but overall, the country decided on moderation. Everything considered, the voters produced reasonable results. The predicted Republican wave failed to materialize, except on Long Island. The Democrats retained control of the Senate but lost the House of Representatives so grid-lock will prevail.

The Donald promises to make an announcement next week. We should all mark our calendars to register that November 15^th was the day that the circus came to town.        

God bless the United States of America. Come 2024, we will surely need His blessing, if not His Divine intervention.

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?

Our nation turns its troubled eyes to you…