I'M GONNA WASH THAT "PAIR" RIGHT OUTTA MY HAIR

It was never easy for me to maintain a car or a dog, never mind both at the same time. This story relates my sorry attempts to handle the chore. 10/4/2016

I’M GONNA WASH THAT “PAIR” RIGHT OUTTA MY HAIR

My acquisition of a mixed-breed dog and a ‘69 Cadillac occurred entirely by happenstance. Had anyone informed me it would be my duty to clean and maintain them both, I would have renounced my right of ownership. These chores aggravate me.

Consequently, the dog and the Caddy usually appear grimy and dingy. It takes a heap of nagging to get me to hose down these critters. It gives me no pleasure to see them in their original colors, one white, the other brown, as I can best recall.

My old dog, Molokai, is indifferent to his appearance. He is a nephew of the dog with the same name that my daughter, Laura, reluctantly gave me many years earlier after she moved into an apartment complex that banned pets. The original Moly had the same attitude about his looks. Each seemed to say, “Take me or leave me, but don’t bother to groom me.”

One reason I don’t wash them more frequently is that they give me trouble.

Does the current Moly bark at strangers, performing the role of watchdog? No. Does he bark at and terrorize our mail carrier? Yes. As a result, the postal authorities suspended our home delivery service for a few months. That’s a high price to pay for owning an animal who won’t obey my only command, “Shut up.”

Does he stay outside in the yard all day as a good dog should? No. Does he sit at the bottom of the stairs, refusing to move, causing me to leap over him every time I go up or down them? Yes.

Did Moly ever learn any tricks, or play fetch? No. He would look at me, questioning my intelligence, yawn, lie down and wait for supper. Who wants to spend time keeping a dog neat and dapper if he will not even play games with you? He is about as playful as the old Cadillac, which I may add, could care less about its appearance. All it wants to do is sit in the driveway, snooze and drip oil.

It came into my possession after its owner (who had no kin) died and left it to my wife, her Personal Representative. At the time, it had 42,000 miles on the odometer. It has 50,000 now. Did it ever provide me with a sense of pride while racking up these 8,000 miles? No. Most of the 8000 miles added to the Caddy’s odometer resulted from driving to gas stations. I fill the tank, drive home, and discover the gauge is near empty. Four miles to the gallon does not define an economy vehicle. OPEC nations send me Christmas cards.

Did it provoke me to anger? Yes. The first time happened when I stepped on the parking brake and couldn’t find the release mechanism. After spending fifteen minutes sitting behind the wheel, cursing the gods, a perfect stranger informed me, politely, that the brake released automatically when the ignition is turned on. What a stupid car.

Having learned this trick, my confidence allowed me to take the car anywhere, including the mall. You ask: Does your Caddy like to go shopping? Yes, but it has to be parked a mile from the store entrance. Where else can you find sufficient space in which to dock a 22-foot long car?  It’s so damn long that it will not fit in my garage. Its imposing size deters friends from ringing our doorbell.

I tried to shower love and affection upon the Caddy. It responded with icy indifference. It becomes temperamental. Often, it refuses to start after we go somewhere far from home. Not now, darling. Mechanics say it is has carbon build-up on its valves, like plaque on Molokai's teeth.

This brings me to discuss an indelicate subject, hygiene. Washing the dog is more than a simple chore. As soon as I approach Moly with the hose, he starts to wriggle, writhe, twist, turn, shake and bake. Five minutes later, he looks the same as when we began the process. I wind up soaked, wearing most of the lather.

Washing the Caddy can be an all-day affair. I rinse one side, race around to hose down the other, by which time the first side is dusty again. More water is consumed washing the car than the amount needed to refill my pool every week.

The dog and the car are getting more alike. They rarely move. The dog sheds daily while the car sits out there in the street, aging ugly.

Once a year the authorities demand the car be emission tested. The same day, the dog makes its annual trip to see the vet. In advance, they both get a ritualistic bath. They are warned, “If you fail to get a clean bill of health, you are ‘history.’ If you think I am going to spend a whole day making you appear presentable in public only to have you cost me money to fix you up, you had better think again. I’ll replace you with a cat and a Chevy.” They ignore me.

I wish I could remember which one of them is white. 

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WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?

I could have lived my life happily without owning dogs, but if I had, this story would not have been told.
10/1/2016

WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?

My parents never owned a dog. I grew up without a dog or a cat in my life. In my childhood, a friend’s German shepherd bit through the back of my jacket before his owner could control it. This incident convinced me that my parents were wise. My sister must have been a slow learner because she owned a dog after being married. While visiting her, it became evident that her dog’s dander made me sneeze endlessly. The combination of fear and allergic reactions to them made it a certainty that I would ever own a dog. That resolve faded while living the American Dream in California (married, ranch house, many toddlers). The children implore me, “We want a doggie, Daddy.”

   In a moment of weakness, I brought home a puppy from the pet store on a trial basis. That one didn’t work out, nor did the next two. The dogs caused me to sneeze and scratch for days on end. The puppies would nip at the kids and they would cry in terror. After a few weeks of enduring this torment, it would be necessary for me to foist off the dog for someone else to rear. They would not take the kids.

Once the family moved to Arizona, the thought of owning a dog never crossed my mind. Fate intervened. One Christmas, my secretary insisted on giving my children a puppy from a litter of Chinese Pugs her son bred and sold to supplement his income. The last litter included an oversupply. My oldest daughter picked one from the crowd, the cutest darned dog you ever saw. She gave it the best name a Pug could have: Wrinkles.

The doggie gift came with the stipulation it would be registered with the American Kennel Club. In a moment of creative genius, this name popped into my mind: Finn-Chin-Chin. The name did not amuse my secretary. Unfortunately, our new little pet died within a year. The children were heartbroken. How it came to its untimely demise is not a story you wish to hear.

To make up for the loss I bought a used Pug, part of a package deal, as the seller insisted we take a second dog off his hands, the first one’s longtime pal. They were an unholy pair that drove the family nuts. No one cried when I relegated these hounds to the pound.

   Angie and I lived a happy dog-free life for many years afterwards. This ended when our daughter, Laura, moved to Hawaii and left us her German shepherd, Molokai. Given my youthful experience with a dog of this breed, you cannot imagine my apprehension. Once Moly arrived, two unexpected things occurred. My allergic reactions began to abate, and my love for him became unbounded. A gorgeous and regal looking dog, he made me feel proud to be his new owner. He assumed the role of King, but restricted his realm to our kitchen area, choosing never to enter any other room. For some reason, he hated our mail carrier, yapping at him incessantly. My heart broke the day Molokai disappeared from our back yard. I grieve to this day over his disappearance.

Molokai left some offspring. We adopted his nephew and named it Molokai in honor of the first one. The second Molokai turned out to be a wonderful replacement. He lived with us for 19 years, as gentle and loving as the original. His death filled us with sorrow. It seemed unlikely that we would ever own another dog after this second loss. We were mistaken.

Shannon (our oldest granddaughter) lived with us briefly. In 1999, she brought home an abused dog from the pound named Nala after the lioness in Disney’s film, The Lion King. Shannon moved out. Nala did not. My wife finds Nala to be a great watchdog and a constant companion. Should Nala move out or move on, no replacement is planned. My appetite for pooches is sated. My wife, who may have different ideas, has the deciding vote in this election.

Although no dog lapped at my boyhood tootsies, I filled my childhood life with other diversions such as building model airplanes. The finished product always looked as though it had just crashed. Collecting things such as stamps or coins never appealed to me. At one time I had a two foot long collection of interlaced matchbook before my interest in this pursuit waned. I tossed away my modest collection of marbles, baseball cards, and 78-rpm recordings when my employer transferred me to California from Manhattan in 1954. My treasured collections had gone to the dogs.   

As my retirement life began, people urged me to try my hand at woodworking, photography, cooking, painting and gardening; none of these activities appealed to me. Golf consumed too much time while I could only swim in my backyard for about five months a year.. My wife and other family members constantly yapped at me to find a genuine certified HOBBY and to pursue it with dogged determination. They were doggone worried about my bleak future.

They need not have been concerned. Life presented me with numerous opportunities to enjoy myself. I became proficient with the use of a camcorder, began writing my autobiography, and started conducting reminiscence writing classes, performing volunteer work for blind and dyslexic students, became a genealogical guru, a computer geek, and a chorister. My new-found activities appeal to my heart and mind. Retirement life is not a dog's world after all. Those pessimists found themselves barking up the wrong tree.

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WHATS NEW, PUSSYCAT?

This story describes how a certain feline made its way into my life. 10/3/2016

WHAT’S NEW PUSSYCAT?

I have cat fever. It's a disease of the heart brought on by witnessing a love affair between Ally, my five-year-old granddaughter, and a very young and very homeless Siamese cat.

This animal entered my life a few weeks ago when Ally discovered it trapped in my storage shed, meowing for deliverance. Ally brought it into the house, draped around her neck, wearing it like an expensive sable. The furry feline purred as she stroked its ear.

The cat has a distinctive tawny brown coat, and the most luminous turquoise blue eyes I have ever seen. Other family members fell under its spell, smitten by its appearance and temperament. Close examination determined it to be a male.

Ally asked her mom, my daughter Carol, “Can we bring it home?" 

“No. I am extremely allergic to all sorts of animal dander. No pets! That's final."

However, this cat has sly and beguiling ways, and is attempting to have that law repealed. While awaiting a decision on this matter, Mister Kitten will live in my garage. My sixteen-year-old dog, Molokai, while making his way through the cat’s new abode, heading for his outdoor potty, politely ignores this interloper. He is not taking sides in this matter.

The first time I set out their respective dinners for the dog and cat, each made a beeline for the other’s dish, which they cleaned with gusto. I had no idea that my old dog would enjoy a change of diet, but who knew that cats would favor dry dog food? 

Cats are portrayed as finicky eaters, but not mine. (Dear Reader: Notice my use of the possessive, 'mine'?)  My cat is continuously hungry, and eats anything given to him, three times a day, if you please. Yes, he has grown chubbier since moving in.

Ally chose to christen the cat, "Jacob Freckles," a name not likely to be duplicated in our neighborhood. Jacob appears less interested in what name we call him than how timely we maintain his feeding requirements.

Our new boarder, whose name I shortened to “Jake” almost wore out his welcome the day he zipped past me into our living room where he proceeded to soil a new carpet. He came within a cat’s whisker of getting the old heave-ho that day, but I have since forgiven him his shabby-tabby behavior. Jake is now my good buddy. He has won me over.

One reason he appeals to me is that he permitted himself to be found, unlike the Siamese cat that escaped from a Railway Express car into the wilds of Hoboken in 1945 during the time I worked for this company as a dockhand. (Read my story: HOLD THAT TIGER!)

Maybe Jake is descended from that rebel. I would like to think so. Jake has a city-bred air about him, a con man's cool. You gotta love him. He knows he has wormed his way into my heart and figures I won’t crate him up and send him to some other destination. Should this come to pass, let me assure you, he won’t travel by rail. He’ll go Federal Express. My cat deserves the best.

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                                                           JAKE, THE CAT 

BROKEN HEARTED MELODY

This is my sad story of Game 7 of the 1962 World Series which my favorite team lost.

BROKEN HEARTED MELODY

            The year 1958 was the first year my favorite team, the New York Giants, played in San Francisco at Seals Stadium. I had moved to California in 1954, and thought it was a tribute to my loyalty that persuaded them to follow me there. They had a few stars I remembered, including Willy Mays, but the new kid on the block was the Baby Bull, Orlando Cepeda. That team also featured Felipe Alou, Leon Wagner and Jim Davenport, while Johnny Antonelli, Stu Miller and young Mike McCormick were the starting pitchers.

            I never saw any of their games that initial season for a number of reasons. My second child was born in July, and she exhibited no interest in the sport. You might think that I would have made the effort, but traveling to that park from San Mateo, about forty miles to the south, would have taken me forever by car. Commuting to that city from any of the towns on the Peninsula is singularly difficult. I know from personal experience.

            In 1961 the Giants played their first game in their brand new stadium, Candlestick Park, located on the Bay, near San Bruno and a city dump. It was a terrible place to play ball, always windy and cold. Once I took my pregnant wife to see a night game there. We arrived in the bottom of the first inning just in time to see McCovey come to bat with two men on base. He hit a pop-up that got lost in the ever-present fog bank. It landed about twenty feet behind second base, where he now stood with a double. The umps called a “fog” delay that lasted for about a half hour, at which time my wife and I departed for home, cold and unhappy. I have no recollection of who won that game.

             I only went to one other game there, but it was a lulu. In the final game of the 1962 World Series the Giants lost 1-0 to the Yankees when second baseman Bobby Richardson caught McCovey’s scalding line drive in the ninth inning for the final out with runners on second and third. Where was the fog that day when we needed it most? That heart-breaking loss left me and some forty thousand fans misty-eyed. Damn Yankees.

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YOU CAN'T ROLLER SKATE WITH A BUFFALO HERD

Roller skating was my passion during my grade school years. In this story, I describe some of my most glorious (and inglorious) skating moments while growing up, and my life-long ambition.

YOU CAN’T ROLLER SKATE IN A BUFFALO HERD

I never competed at the Olympics despite my impressive credentials as a skater. The governing board snubbed my sport, roller-skating on city streets. Instead of having name recognition right up there with the 1994 Winter Ice Skating Olympians, Bonnie Blair and Johann Olav Koss, prejudiced bureaucrats denied my rightful standing in the athletic world. My youthful skating records have faded into obscurity.

My first roller skates were the proverbial "steelies," the kind that had no bearings and whose wheels would not turn even to allow me to chase a Hollywood starlet. They did foster self-confidence. In no time at all, I advanced to the conventional two-piece skates that everyone wore during the ‘30s. The front part had adjustable clamps that gripped the sides of your shoe or sneaker while the rear portion had a curved heel. A leather ankle strap kept your foot in place. A bolt-and-nut assembly clamped the two pieces together. The skate’s length could be adjusted to allow for growth, but my wheels wore out long before my shoe size changed.

The good old U.S.A. helped hone my skating skills. In 1935, the W.P.A. tore up the road bed of the trolley line that ran past my apartment building and paved the street with asphalt. The job lasted all summer. At the end of each day, when the crews had left, kids flocked to the worksite, playing on the construction equipment and skating on the new surface. The complete absence of traffic made this playground completely safe for city kids and more fun than Central Park.

My skating regimen lasted from dawn to dusk. Racing out the door, skates already donned, I would slide down the banister, swish along the hallway, and proceed in like manner until reaching the street level, four floors below. Upon my return, the skates remained on my feet while I climbed the stairs, oblivious to the noise they made. This practice ended when I tripped and tumbled down an entire flight of stairs, spilling a bottle of milk in the process.

Asphalt is ideal for roller-skating. It combines a smooth surface with just the right amount of friction, making it almost impossible to slip, slide or fall down. As a result, my bravado increased proportionately with every passing summer, as new daring and acrobatic stunts became integrated into my repertoire. By the eighth grade, my boyhood chums crowned me the fastest skater they had ever seen, having witnessed me fleeing from a Hoboken cop one day. Had there been such an event, the Olympic record for “Fright” skating would have been mine.

Skating left me with two injuries. The first one came shortly after receiving a new pair of skates on my thirteenth birthday. Over my parents’ objections, nothing could stop me from zooming off to try them out. Within minutes, my new wheels had me heading for the nearby high school just in time to join an ongoing Snap-the-Whip skating game.

A line of some 20 kids, each holding the waist of the person in front, skated in unison toward the corner of the school property. Once there, the leader grabbed hold of a steel fence post and hung on. This allowed everyone else in the chain to whip around the corner at great speed including me, last one on line. I released my hold and zipped down the sidewalk like a particle in an electron accelerator.

Suddenly, danger approached in the form of a boy on a bicycle riding toward me. I zigged. He zigged. I zagged. He zagged. We crashed. The front wheel of his bike intersected my legs. My mouth hit the handlebar, and a piece of my front tooth flew off, exposing a nerve. The pain was excruciating.

A few months later, my former eighth grade nun, Sr. Edwardine, met me and said, “Your front tooth is turning black. Go see a dentist immediately.”

If chipping a tooth can be said to be painful, words cannot describe how it felt to have this dentist repair my tooth. I wince even now, just thinking about that visit. Thank goodness, he saved my tooth.

My other injury was even more painful; it zinged my ego. While attending a roller rink on my fourteenth birthday, wearing the white linen suit jacket I had worn at my sister's wedding, I casually stepped onto the waxed wooden floor, eager to impress the girls with some debonair twirls, but instead, flopped on my duff in a state of shock. This slippery surface tripped me up. Where had my skating skills gone? This was not my venue. Turns out I was a black tar street specialist. Regrettably, time and traffic doomed my days of roller skating in this urban arena.

My dream of winning an Olympic medal still burns within. Having petitioned the Olympics Committee, asking that they add roller-skating to next summer’s competition, and in anticipation of a favorable response, I bought a pair of inline skates and began training. Fright remains my primary incentive. Every evening I head for the city library, taunt the security guard, and then skate like the blazes for home. He hasn’t nabbed me yet.

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JOLTIN' JOE DIMAGGIO

Baseball has given Americans some of its most revered sports figures. Joe D. was one of them. This story comes to me from my sister, who got his autograph after he had retired. There was an error on the play.

JOLTIN’ JOE DIMAGGIO

The news of Joe DiMaggio’s death on March 8, 1999, unleashed a tidal wave of coverage for this iconic ball player. Two months earlier, the media jumped the gun, incorrectly reporting that he had died. This time, they got it right. Joe had made his final out.

Although saddened to learn of his death, it’s true that he was not my favorite when he played for the New York Yankees. They always seemed to play better than my team, the New York Giants. Growing up in the New York area, one had three choices. You could love the Yankees, the Giants, or the Dodgers. My choice from the very beginning was to throw in with the Giants.

   If you loved the Giants, ipso facto, you hated the Dodgers, as they were in the same league and played each other twenty-two times a season, eleven games in each other's parks. In the years 1935 - 1942, the "Bums" had mediocre teams made up of minimally talented players. They lost to the Giants with great regularity.On the other hand, Giants’ fans hated the Yankees because they were won with monotonous regularity. The Giants could never match the Yank's winning record during these years..

My loyalty to the Giants carried over to their International League Triple "A" affiliate, the Jersey City Giants whose arch rival was the fearsome Newark Bears, the Yankees most prized farm team. In 1937, not only did the Bears win the crown; they wrapped it up by July 4, some 25 games ahead of everyone else. That team had players like George McQuinn, Spud Chandler, Charlie (King Kong) Keller, Joe (Flash) Gordon, and numerous other future great major leaguers. The Bears had more talent than any other Major League team that year. Columnists claimed the parent club, the NY Yankees, was the only team in all of baseball better than them.

Joe impressed my brother who one day after WW II saw him hit not one, nor two, but three triples, each one over the centerfielder’s head. Had he played in the Polo Grounds, where it was over 500 feet to dead center, instead of Yankee Stadium, each would have been an inside-the-park home run.

My sister, Helen, never saw a major league game and had no interest in the sport despite the fact that her son Joey rooted for the Yanks, and especially DiMaggio, with great passion. You can imagine her surprise when Joe D, long retired from the game, entered a restaurant where she had gone to have lunch with some of her bridge playing pals.

“Gosh, if my son Joey were here, he’d ask him for his autograph. He loved seeing DiMaggio play.”

Her friend said, “Go ask him.”

“I’m too shy.”

“I’m not. I’ll get it for you.”

This nice lady walked over to his table, politely interrupted him, pointed toward my sister, said something quietly, smiled, and returned carrying a restaurant menu.

On its front he had written, To Matthew, from Joe DiMaggio.

Helen’s well-meaning friend and Joe D. had messed up. Matthew is Helen’s grandson, and he has absolutely no interest in baseball. The autograph meant nothing to him.

The Yankee Clipper had fanned, struck out by a curve of misinformation.

Joe never earned the kind of money players do today, thanks to the union, free agency, and the revenues clubs earn from selling TV ads. A writer asked Joe how much George Steinbrenner, the multi-millionaire Yankee owner would have had to pay for his services if he played in this era. Joe said, “I would say to George, 'Howdy, partner.'" 

He would have been worth every penny.

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RUNNING WILD

I always enjoyed Field and Track games. In this yarn, I relate how my love affair with this sport began.

RUNNING WILD

The 2003 baseball season came to a dramatic finish when the Florida Marlins defeated the New York Yankees to win the World Series trophy. In the process, the team spawned a completely new bevy of sports heroes. In years to come, young kids will try to emulate the way their favorite player pitched or hit, hoping to become a ‘big leaguer.’

Despite Charles Barclay’s assertion, “I am not a role model,” young fans continue to place their athletic idols on pedestals including some whose feet are made of clay.

In my youth, I enshrined a number of sports figures. My baseball favorite was Mel Ott, the New York Giants right fielder, who had a unique batting stance. A left-handed slugger, he would raise his right leg in a singularly unique manner as the pitch sailed in toward him and then stride forward while swinging the bat. Whenever I played baseball, I did my best to imitate his swing, although I batted right handed. The highlight of my sandlot days happened in a game in which I smashed a drive that went for a triple, the only hit our side managed in a shutout loss. I credited Mel.

However, when football season began, my allegiance switched gears. I yearned to play for Notre Dame after watching film of Bill Shakespeare, their 1935 All-American halfback, pass for a touchdown. I spent hours trying to toss a football with his classic spiral motion, and became good enough to lead my ragamuffin team to many a sandlot victory using his technique.

Growing up in Hoboken, it was mandatory that a boy know how to fistfight. Coached by my brother, I adopted Joe Louis’ shuffling footwork style. My brother taught me how to jab, punching straight out rather than swinging with reckless abandon, as most boys my age were prone to do. Although I was a puny runt of a kid, I boxed very well and retired from pugilism at age thirteen after engaging in six fights, including a few with boxing gloves, undefeated. By emulating the Brown Bomber, I became virtually invincible.

However, Glenn Cunningham, the famous track star, topped my ‘wannabe’ list. In 1938, I saw a MovieTone newsreel that showed him winning an indoor mile race at Dartmouth College on a new high-banked track in the memorable time of 4:04.4 minutes.

Glenn overcame great adversity in his life. A Kansas schoolhouse kerosene stove blew up when he was very young, severely burning his legs and killing his brother. He remained bedridden for many weeks and many thought he might never walk again. He discovered that his legs pained him less when he ran than when he walked and this led to his amazing career in Track and Field, including appearances in the 1932 and 1936 Olympic Games. I always admired him and hated Roger Bannister for breaking the four-minute barrier some years later. Now, the mile record is down around the 3:50 mark. Still, Glenn’s four-oh-four-dot-four stays in my heart and mind as being the most magical and memorable race time in history.

I could bat like Mel, pass like Bill, and box like Joe, but I never had the endurance to run a mile like Glenn. Still, when push comes to shove, you would be amazed at how fast I am still able to sprint in order to avoid confrontation with anyone. Did you know my nickname is Flash?

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JUNE IS BUSTIN' OUT ALL OVER

One of the other most important dates in American history is D-Day. Read my story to get the explanation of why it failed to leave the same impression on my memory as did Pearl Harbor day.

JUNE IS BUSTIN’ OUT ALL OVER

Another D-Day has come and gone. This year’s anniversary (2011) received sparse media coverage. It should come as no surprise given the ongoing Afghanistan war and the declining number of WW II aged citizens who represent the core audience.

In 2006, PBS aired a documentary that brought together three veterans of the invasion, an American, a Brit, and a German. These three men shared their respective experiences and made the epic battle that began on June 6, 1944, engrossing and personal. Their reenactment of the day was vivid and compelling. However, it did not match the story a participant in one of my Reminiscence Writing classes told one year. A physician, he described in graphic terms the carnage he had witnessed on Omaha Beach and elsewhere for months thereafter. Until this class, he had never shared his harrowing memory with anyone.

In contrast and inexplicably, I have no vivid recollection of D-Day. The landing of troops on French soil happened without my knowledge, apparently. It took place two days before my seventeenth birthday, a few weeks prior to my high school graduation and matriculating at college. These events in my life overshadowed the greatest invasion in man’s history.

Until the following June when I turned eighteen, I gave little thought to the prospect of my having to fight in the war. Not until the draft board sent me my induction notice did this possibility hit me. As events unfolded, I entered military service just as the war with Japan ended. After being discharged in 1947, I reentered college and graduated in 1950, soon after which I moved to California. Along the way, I lost track of my high school chums.

As you might imagine, I was delighted to receive an invitation to attend my 50^th Anniversary Class Reunion in 1994. The class had graduated sixty boys, sixty girls. During a cocktail hour, I conducted a survey and determined that forty-six of the boys served in the military. The remaining fourteen had been classified 4-F, which struck me an unusually large percentage. None of my classmates had died or suffered wounds in combat.

My class produced two priests, one physician, a chemist and five mechanical engineers. Many attended college under the provisions of the G. I. Bill, including myself.

I learned that the majority of my male classmates still lived in or near Hoboken. Some had spent their entire lives working in nearby factories. A few had died, including the class president and the vice president.

I regret that time did not allow me to conduct a survey of the girls. I doubt any entered the service, but would like to have determined how many earned college degrees.

Plans to have another reunion fizzled out, thwarting me from asking my classmates: Do any of you recall D-Day? I am convinced they would have said yes, leaving me as the only dummy in the class who doesn’t. The explanation is simple. At the time I was in love with what’s her name.

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LET'S REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR

People of my generation will never forget where they were and what they were doing on December 7, 1941.
Here is my recollection of that infamous date in American history.

LET’S REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR

On Sunday, December 7, 1941, I awoke happy and content. Now fourteen and a high school sophomore, I didn’t have a care in the world. I lived with my parents and brother, Jim, in a tenement building in Hoboken, New Jersey.

After returning from Mass that morning, I curled up in a chair and began to skim the Journal American newspaper headlines, most of them related to the European war, now in its third year. Maps showed where the German and Russian armies were gripped in battle. It seemed a million miles away. The war had seemed much closer the previous summer, when Edward R. Morrow’s radio broadcasts from London during two months of air raids gripped my attention. Now, a year and a half later, my primary interest had turned to girls and dancing to the songs of the big bands.

By this time, the army had already called up my brother-in- law, a former R.O.T.C. Syracuse University graduate and an employee of AT&T, to serve in the Signal Corps at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. This site housed the largest military telephone exchange outside of Washington, DC. Despite his low rank, Second Lieutenant, the army relied heavily upon his knowledge and experience to improve and maintain its long distance phone system, his field of expertise.

   On that fateful day, he and my sister, Helen, had come to Hoboken to enjoy my mother's Sunday afternoon dinner. While they ate, I retreated to a bedroom and turned on the radio to hear the broadcast of the professional football game between the New York Giants (my team) and the Brooklyn Dodgers. I was an avid fan of the game and loved to follow the exploits of stars such as Mel Hein, Tuffy Leemans, and Ken Strong.

   About 2 p.m. the announcer interrupted the play-by-play description to say, "The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. All military personnel are to report to their home base immediately." The station continued to interrupt and air this message. I tried to comprehend its meaning and significance, but I could not. I knew it was terrible news. Where is Pearl Harbor, I wondered? I could not place it. Finally, the news report identified it as our naval base in Hawaii.

   What should I tell my family? I ambled down the hall at a slow pace, uncertain what to say. I entered the kitchen where my brother-in-law sat finishing off his meal.

   I looked directly at him and said, "The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. All military personnel must report to their base immediately. That's what the announcer keeps repeating on the radio." He blanched noticeably, reared back from his seat, thunderstruck, dropped his fork and fairly flew out the door, Helen in tow. His reaction left me with the deepest and longest lasting impression I had of the war years that followed.

Although the papers, magazines and newsreels described and showed the ensuing carnage, for the next three years, the war always seemed distant to me. Yes, Hoboken and its piers and shipyards hummed with activity. Strange looking sailors from foreign shores walked the streets. Our military personnel could be seen everywhere. Yet, the war seemed to have no dramatic impact on me. My high school years were fun-filled, a lark. None of my closest friends went into service until quite late in the war and none became a casualty. I have no recollection of food shortages. My crowd ate all the hamburgers, fries, shakes, pizza and soda we desired, and puffed all the cigarettes we wanted. No one in my family owned a car, so gasoline rationing had no effect on our lives. The shortage of silk stockings did not impact my wardrobe requirements.

The country staged air raid rehearsals to make the population aware of the possibility we could be bombed. When sirens sounded, residents turned off their lights and drew blinds across windows. With enough advance warning, these “blackout” nights provided me with an opportunity to attend rampant teen-age parties. No one I knew took these simulated “air raids” seriously.

The war did not deter me from enjoying the movies, dancing, romancing, swimming at the Jersey Shore beaches, playing ball, or just hanging out with my pals. I saw Frank Sinatra perform at the Paramount Theater in 1943 when he first rose to his superstar status. Later, he paid a visit to my high school. He made no mention of the war while teenaged girls swooned at his feet. 

I graduated from high school and turned seventeen in June 1944, shortly after D-Day. I enrolled in college on July 1, managing to complete three semesters by the following June when I turned eighteen. By this time, Germany had been defeated, leaving Japan as the remaining nation still at war with the Allies. Although it stood alone, it remained a formidable foe. The casualties the Japanese inflicted on our ground forces in Okinawa and on our naval forces from kamikaze attacks demonstrated their willingness to die rather than surrender. It appeared we would have to invade Japan to defeat them. The media suggested this would entail horrendous loss of life.

After registering for the draft on my birthday, June 8, the thought crossed my mind that I might actually see combat. This thought was reinforced when I was classified One-A.

My draft notice arrived on August 6, the day we dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. That ended my concern. The army inducted me on September 7, 1945. One week later, the United States declared the war against Japan to be ended, thereby making me an official veteran of WW II, praise the Lord. The Army Air Force discharged me in May 1947 with the rank of Sergeant.

A month later I returned to college. The G. I. Bill covered every penny of my tuition until I graduated three years later. During that time, I also received a monthly living allowance. My parents refused to accept any money from me. When I graduated, I had amassed a nice little nest egg.

My mother shed some tears when I boarded the bus that took me to the induction center in Newark, New Jersey. The Japanese might not kill me, but she feared I would die of starvation, refusing to eat army grub, picky eater that I was in those days. To my great surprise, I ate everything in sight, gained forty pounds and grew about four inches taller before being discharged.      

   I obtained many significant benefits in exchange for my brief stint in the army: A low-interest rate home loan (which I never used), college tuition, and a $10,000 term life insurance policy that continues to return more in dividends than the cost of the premium. My wife and I have been granted the right to be buried in the National Veterans Cemetery in Phoenix.

Nowadays, when I see movies and documentaries about the war, I ask: how did I escape the slaughter? When I attend functions at the Scottsdale American Legion Hall, I feel a sense of embarrassment that I did nothing to earn my status as a veteran of WW II, and wish I had done something worthy of the honor. However, I must admit that I am glad that things worked out for me and my family. After all this time, I still think of the war as surreal.

December 7, 1941 was a bad day in my life. First the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and then my favorite team, the Giants lost a football game, 21-7.  I came to hate the Japanese, almost as much as I detested the Dodgers.

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I COULD WRITE A BOOK

I worked continuously for a period of thirty nine years, from college graduation until retirement. This vignette poses the question: What did it all mean? Read this and see if I found the answer. 2/22/18

I COULD WRITE A BOOK

A recent cartoon showed a father rejecting the idea of taking his daughter to his workplace because he does not want her to discover first hand how insignificant his job is. This matched my own belief. Looking back at my “career,” it seems most of my work consisted of performing numerous piddling activities, which, at the time, my employer thought to be relevant and even important in the great sphere of business activities.

In 1999, ten years after my retirement, SRP invited me to attend a reunion. The event attracted some 600 guests. It crossed my mind to take a poll to find out how many other retirees felt similarly, that we had labored for years at mostly meaningless tasks. The results might be valuable because tonight I will be having dinner with Phyllis, widow of John O’Malley, one of my closest working companions who died six months ago. What had we accomplished while working together?  What has remained of our association that could be of significance to her?  Did my files contain some meaningful memorabilia? Join me in looking through my file drawer.

What can be seen?  One folder holds correspondence related to personnel issues and grievances. Another folder contains photographs of me and other employees. Yet another contains copies of my travel expense reports to exotic places like Boise and El Paso. My collection also includes some payroll records and copies of my letters written in the last nine months of my middle management position.

Why are these records still in my home? I retained them on the premise that one day they might help prompt me to write stories about my years of corporate employment. Over time, the material has become increasingly of less interest to me.  However, on this particular rummaging, some documents captured my attention, stirring up old emotions, including anger. Later, I smile and laugh at the foolishness of it all. “Would-coulda-shoulda” scenarios play out in my recollection. After a few minutes, I dump everything back into the drawer to await some future review for a story inspiration.

It appears I learned my main skill in the business world not at school or on the job, but in the playground.  Few players matched my youthful skill playing the game of Dodge BalL. Being shifty as all get out, other players found it difficult to hit and eliminate me from the game. In the workplace, this is known as exhibiting survivor skills. I dodged my way through 39 years of corporate employment until the ball hit me. It didn’t hurt my feelings when the game ended.

The documents in this drawer are rich fodder for my autobiography. Many of my vignettes are based on my work experiences. The yarns flowed readily because many of my co-workers were unusual people whose antics spiced my recollections of those interesting but not quite fulfilling years.

On this occasion, before returning everything to dead storage, I removed a picture of the widow, her husband and me, taken while we were attending a conference at Del Coronado, enjoying the lavish hospitality of a large corporation. She might appreciate my giving it to her,  

Was this trip a boondoggle, you ask? 

No. This was a reward for my superior and outstanding job performance that year,   

What exactly did I do?

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