This is my last post on this blogsite. My work here is done.
IT DON’T MEAN A THING
This concludes my autobiography, a collection of vignettes pasted together forming an album of verbal snapshots I took while traveling through my life thus far. My yarns describe the life of a lucky Hoboken Irishman who remained tied to his hometown and family by emotional and nostalgic strings.
Readers who shared my life may notice some inaccuracies. Others may fell slighted because I did not give them much ink. Some may wish I said less about them.To one and all, I ask their indulgence.
I dedicate this autobiography to my wife, Angie. I love her.
The original version of this essay appeared in a Florida senior's newspaper some years ago. It marked the first time some organization paid for my prose. This edited version, half the original's length, was printed in our local paper in 2010. It sums up my views about retirement life activities.
AN OLD BEGINNING . . . A NEW ENDING
I retired in 1989 at age 62. Yes, I was retired, but how would I pass my remaining days?It was not an idle question. I had no plans of any specific nature. Happily, I found much to do. Here is a recap of my journey, to date.
I began to write stories of my childhood while conducting a class called, 'Reminiscence Writing.'This led me to pursue genealogy. My family tree now contains over 750 entries. My ‘living’ autobiography now contains hundreds of vignettes and has grown to 80,000 words. I keep adding to it.
My wife and I took our maiden trip to Europe in 1989. Much to my surprise and delight, I mastered the use of a camcorder. I became proficient enough to tape weddings and various social events. A regular Hitchcock, I became!
I joined a chorus and took two years of class piano lessons to help me read music. Later, I joined a larger and more prestigious choral group in order to tour Australia with them. Who knew that I had a bass voice deep enough to go all the way ‘down under?’Currently, I perform with two different choruses that entertain residents at local assisted living facilities.
I also joined a "Readers Theater" group which led to my authoring a number of skits performed by "Seniors on Stage," and to help conduct a class called, “Act Your Age.”
I volunteer for Recording for the Blind & Dyslexic. Almost every Friday morning, I read and digitally record portions of upper-level school textbooks for print disabled students. I have witnessed first hand how these audio versions of textbooks have changed the lives of such students, allowing them to reach their scholastic goals.
I welcome today’s technology. I consider my cell phone a close friend. My PC is replete with the latest versions of finance and genealogy programs, and communication devices including Skype and Webcam. I listen on my MP-3 to a wide array of downloaded audible books, as well as music I transferred from cassettes. I converted all my video tapes and home movies to CD digital format and enjoy watching them utilizing a DVD. I have scanned and posted numerous old photographs on our family website. I use a digital camera to take movies and pictures, especially of my three great grandchildren.
I welcome change and enjoy the challenge of trying to keep pace. I am dead certain that my fingers will never text message, but I will stay in touch with my family by other means. I send them e-mail messages almost daily.
Okay, I am bragging, but you get the idea. Life is full of surprises, just waiting to be savored. Staying abreast of change is both exhilarating and uplifting. While I am deeply nostalgic, and have done all I could to record my past, I still live in the present and look forward to the future.
Do you like to gamble at casinos? Not me. Here's an essay I wrote some years ago after visiting Laughlin's casinos with a number of senior citizens.
CASINO GAMBLING
In 1995, my wife and I spent a few days in Laughlin, Nevada. The civic fathers of this gambling Mecca promoted an event that attracted thousands of senior citizens. The festivities included parades, dances, exhibitions, and numerous seminars on a variety of subjects. The planners offered side trips to Oatman and LakeHavasu, ever-popular tourist destinations. I enjoyed these side trips, not the casinos.
Angie warily eyes one of Oatman's wild donkeys.
Gambling holds no charm for me. I am not thrilled or dazzled by their glitzy neon décor. I hate listening to the din that emanates from slot machines. It amazes me that so many others (like my wife) enjoy themselves at these venues, happily betting their money, knowing that the odds favor the house. The players, taken collectively, always lose. Individuals may have a run of luck that allows them to win, but rarely do they take their profits and head for the exit.
Why do so many seniors play slot machines or make Keno bets rather than trying their luck on Blackjack or Craps? It’s because they didn’t know how to play these fast paced games and tend to become confused by the action.
I sympathize. The game of Craps requires a good bit of mental effort and stamina to play since you cannot sit down while gambling. There are so many betting opportunities that a novice can easily lose track of what is happening to his money. Each roll of the dice offers a new chance to place a bet. When a game attracts a number of players, they sprinkle their chips around the table like raindrops. It’s confusing.
On the bus coming home from this particular jaunt, I tried my best to explain Craps to a few others. It made their eyes roll. Here’s what I said:
“There are 36 possible outcomes when you roll the dice, and this determines the odds. As an example, if you make a bet to win, and roll a 2, 3, or 12, you lose but retain the right to roll the dice again. If a 7 or 11 should appear on your first roll, you win. Now, there are four ways to roll a 2, 3, or 12, compared to eight ways to roll a 7 or 11. Thus, on your first roll, you have twice as good a chance to win as to lose.”
Unfortunately, the game is not that simple. I continued:
“Should you roll a 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, or 10 on your initial toss, the bet is not settled. Now you are required to roll the dice, hoping that one of those six numbers (known as your ‘point’) appears before rolling a 7. If it does, you win your bet. If you toss a 7 first, you have ‘crapped out,’ losing your bet and the right to continue rolling the dice.
I went on:
“Since there are six ways to roll a 7, in contrast to five ways to roll a 6 or 8, four ways to roll a 5 or 9, or three ways to roll a 4 or 10, the house has you at its probability mercy while you strive to make your point. If you are lucky enough to win the bet, the house only pays you even money, not the amount dictated by true odds. As an example, if you won by making the point, 4, you should have been paid twice as much as you bet since you beat the odds (three ways to make a 4, six ways to make a 7). You won, but the house keeps the difference between what you should have received (true odds) and even money. You won, but the casino pockets some of your winnings for itself.
The lecture continued:
“To make it more fair, most casinos allow you to ‘back up’ your original bet once you have rolled a 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10. This means you can place a second bet, equal to the amount of your initial one. In this example, should you bet $10 and have 4 as your point, you can place a second bet of $10 ‘backing up’ your first bet before continuing to roll the dice. If you should roll a 4 before the dreaded 7, the casino pays even money on your first bet ($10), but $20 for the second bet, at the true odds of 2 to 1.”
I emphasized:
“Knowing the odds does not increase the chances of winning. It may help you lose your gambling money more slowly. However, if you play long enough, you will lose it all to the inexorable grind of the odds, which in the case of Craps favors the house by about 1.6%. This percentage advantage is small, but it adds up. Lucky Luciano, one of the more notorious racketeers who controlled Las Vegas gambling operations early on once said, ‘Why should we bother to steal when Nevada offers us an opportunity to take people's money legally, and we get paid before we do anything.’”
Rome was not built in a day, but if the Tribunes had used casino savvy, they could have built it more quickly and lavishly. Throwing Christians to the Lions would have been just another diversion at the Forum. The real action would have taken place under the grandstands at the Craps table.
Cleopatra might have said, "Veni, Vidi, Visa. I came, I saw, I shopped. Now I am gambling. C'mon VII. C'mon XI. Baby needs a new barge."
After reading a columnist who used some really big words in his essay, I wrote this "Letter to the Editor" in which I used his vocabulary. It drew a lot of favorable comments. 1/1/2017
DEAR PRESIDENT CLINTON
I regret that I must spurn your offer to
assist your speech writing team for the upcoming presidential campaign. The
C.I.A. has employed me to decipher William J. Buckley’s most recent essay whose
meaning is at present unfathomable. This assignment will occupy all my time and
energy for the foreseeable future. I commend you for thinking of me. With insouciance do I join the chorus of
other encomiasts who admire your preciosity. I found you not the least
bit disingenuous when you said you
lacked an omniscient knowledge of
simple English words. You must not be disheartened by this manqué; nor should you be naif
enough to think your language skills will ever rise to the level exhibited
daily by Mr. Buckley, whose vertiginous prose
will forever keep us in a whirl. Your spinning may be a gene thing. Have them
check for a lacuna the next time you
get a CAT scan.
However, there I go again, in my fissiparous way, splitting participles,
infinitives and hairs. As Judge Ito remarked, obiter dicta, he is worried that American lawyers changed the
meaning of the word, guilty, into innocent.
Strangely, cis-Atlantic, I worry about the King's English, whereas in Britain, they worry about the King's Irish. Despite
the panegyrics that Prime Minister
Major hears in Parliament regarding his government's policy toward Northern Ireland, irredentism
is still close to the heart of every Dubliner. It is a bit of a ‘bete curiens.’
So is trying to understand lovable Bill.
Sincerely,
Joe Finnerty
P.S. Here is a Top Secret translation of my message:
Insouciance: lighthearted unconcern; nonchalance.
Encomiasts: those who praise; to eulogize, give high or
glowing praise (an encomium).
Preciosity: fastidious refinement.
Disingenuous: lacking in candor; giving a false impression
of simple frankness.
Omniscient: having infinite awareness, understanding and
insight.
Manqué: short of or frustrated in the fulfillment of ones aspirations
or talents.
Our local paper published a version of this "Letter to the Editor" some years ago, my reaction to the bombing of Hiroshima that effectively ended WW II. 1/1/2017
WHO'S
SORRY NOW?
On August 6, 1945
President Harry Truman sent me a letter that read, more or less,
"Greetings: The war against Japan is
still raging. I invite you to become a part of the military effort required to
destroy our enemy. If it is not too inconvenient, please report for active duty
one month hence."
Later
that day he arranged to have Hiroshima atomic
bombed, effectively ending the war as far as I could ascertain.
These
were mixed signals. Did Harry really need me now? I did not think so.
The Japanese
were slow learners. Not until we dropped a second atomic bomb, this time on Nagasaki, did
they finally surrender. Americans went wild with happiness on VJ-day. The fact
that I would soon be wearing khaki tempered my elation just a tad.
I
celebrate the day with three pals by getting drunk after guzzling whiskey from
a loving cup I discovered atop a mantel in my fraternity house. I became
wretched, and then I retched. It may have been the other way round. Talk about
fallout poisoning. It marked both the high and low points of my drinking
career.
The army
inducted me a month later, along with thousands of other young men, even though
the shooting had ended. I served twenty stress free months in the Army Air
Force, in stark contrast to what might have been my lot had Harry not
authorized the use of atomic weapons to end the war at once.
The
50th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima
brought an avalanche of criticism from hand-wringing apologists that angered
me. From my selfish perspective, the bombing changed the conditions under which
I served in the military. I firmly believe it helped spare my life. I believe I
would have been a ripe candidate to participate in the planned invasion of Japan facing
a military force that seemed prepared to fight to the bitter end, using suicide
tactics.
In
retrospect, I wish our veterans had used the anniversary to decry Japan's war
record, from its heinous crimes against China and Korea, to
its insidious actions against us, beginning with Pearl
Harbor. I seethed, watching Japan stage
ceremonies designed to evoke sympathy from the world, when its leaders have
never apologized to this country for its underhanded beginning of the Pacific
war.
I am
glad Harry made the decision to drop the bomb. I am glad he gave 'em Hell. On
the other hand, he should never have invited me to the party after the guest of
dishonor left.
My brother died on August 23, 2003. At his gravesite, I gave the following eulogy:
“I loved my brother dearly. It is an honor to have this opportunity to share with you some of my fond recollections of him. He was the cornerstone upon which my life was built.
During his lifetime, he played many roles. He was a loving son of James and Bridget Finnerty, a brother to Helen and Joe, husband of Virginia Mooney, father of Sharon and James, and grandfather of Patricia, John and Stacie Wynne, James (JB) and Connor Finnerty, uncle, nephew, cousin, godfather, and friend to many.
Born in New York City on January 18, 1914, he grew up in Hoboken. He began his married life in Hackensack before settling down for good in Danbury. I was his best man when he married, and he was mine when I wed.
Jim was a student at Our Lady of Grace grade school and St. Peter’s Preparatory School. His academic training culminated when he graduated from St. Peter’s College in 1936.
He served in the U.S. Army from 1942 until 1946, attaining the rank of Staff Sergeant at the time of his honorable discharge.
After the war, he tried his hand at many jobs and occupations, but was most successful as a salesman. His smile and warm personality suited him for this endeavor.
Jim played the piano, sang in a tenor voice, and danced like Fred Astaire. He could dance on ice skates perhaps better than Fred could.
He was an avid reader and always had his nose in a book. He was philosophical by nature, questioning everything.
Jim was 13-1/2 years my senior. He decided early in life to take on the role of being my mentor, teacher and best friend. He taught me how to swim and dive, how to ride a bike, and how to box. He took me to all the major attractions in New York City, including the aquarium, the planetarium, many museums, and to see the Ringling Circus, a Wild West Rodeo, and the grand opening of Snow White at the RCA Music Hall.
He quizzed my knowledge of catechism, and persuaded my parents to send me to public high school in hopes that I might win a scholarship to attend Stevens Institute of Technology. Due to his personal effort, Stevens awarded me a partial one. He paid the difference between it and the total tuition.
We did not see each other often after I moved west in 1954, first to California, later to Arizona. Jim visited me in Scottsdale once. My visits east were rare. This never diminished my love and affection for him. He wrote many letters to me, which I treasure. I phoned him almost every week for the last ten years of his life, and relished our conversations.
I could never thank him enough for being such a wonderful person to me. Yes, he was a curmudgeon and yes, he had frailties and many human faults that angered and frustrated me, but I always returned him to his accustomed spot in my heart. There he will remain a holy, innocent, naïve, endearing and precious man.
He played the cards of his life as best he could. He died peacefully but not without putting up a superhuman fight. God kept calling him, but Jim was negotiating for a better deal. My guess is that is at right hand of the Father, no more than two seats away, enjoying the view and relishing the words:
“Come in dear son, a life well done. Arise, dear James, my precious one.”
My father was not a savvy businessman, evidently. He had no training to be one. He spent sixteen years living in rural England, where he worked for a farmer delivering eggs and milk to the county-folk before he immigrated to America in 1910. Here, he found employment in New York City as a Borden’s milk deliveryman. This career ended when his horse ran wild after being spooked, crashing into an elevated subway column, killing itself and injuring him.
He worked at the nearby Hoboken shipyards during WW I. When Prohibition became the law, my mother and he began to make home brew. From bathtub gin and a small clientele, he wound up as the proprietor of a small hole-in-the-wall saloon located in Hoboken near the terminus of the ferry and rail commuter service to New York. The bar thrived, thanks to the thirst of his customers, primarily rail workers. The person who actually owned the property provided him with all the ingredients needed to make beer on the premises.
I never saw this place, but assume it had the status of a “speakeasy.”
With the end of prohibition, my father decided to open his own tavern, called the Liberty Bar. My mother cooked free lunch foods for the customers. She brought me there a few times. On one occasion, at age six, my head got stuck in the open framework of a wicker chair. I howled, thinking it would be my fate to live forever with this piece of furniture around my neck.
My father leased the space for this tavern from an unscrupulous building owner who, cunningly, arranged to have the liquor license made out in his name. My father spent a considerable amount of money to refurbish the bar. A year or so later, the owner refused to renew the lease, forcing my father out of business.
At the same time, my father invested most of his savings in a local business, the National Casket Company. Its owner, Tobey Monger, used the money to pay off some debts, and then declared bankruptcy. My father lost every cent he had.
In 1934 he then went to work for the Works Progress Association (W.P.A.), one of the agencies created by newly elected President F. D. Roosevelt to stimulate the economy. A few years later, he went back to work on the docks, shaping up daily as a stevedore as depicted in the movie, On the Waterfront. Since my mother was at work in Manhattan, and as my grade school had no luncheon facilities, my father came home at to make our lunch. We had the same meal virtually every day: bacon, eggs, and home-fries. On Friday’s, we had Manhattan clam chowder, purchased from the deli across the street from our apartment.
In 1940, he broke his left leg when a pallet of beans fell on him while unloading cargo for the Maxwell House coffee plant. It didn’t heal properly. Unable to work as a dockhand, he became a bartender, an occupation he continued working at until he was 83. All during those years, he worked six days a week, ten hours a day.
Those noontime lunches we shared kept him strong. It didn’t make my body grow much, but it worked wonders for my mind. After all these years, the memory of those meals and the time we spent together remains vivid. My dad was indeed a very big man whose demeanor masked the pain of those tough economic times.
We never did bond, however. His long hours of work left him with little opportunity to spend time with me. I was studious and athletic. He was neither. My brother acted more like a father to me. He heard my lessons, took me with him to sporting events, museums, college glee club productions, and explained the birds and bees to me one day, Jesuit style, beautifully incomprehensible.
For a few years in the mid '30's, after he lost his savings, my father drank excessively. It was a difficult period of life for my family and especially burdensome for my mother. Their arguments were monumental, and frightened me on some occasions.
Despite living with my parents until 1954, I did not interact much with my father. When I left home in 1954 to move to California, we had not spoken about anything of consequence in years. He was proud of me, I could tell. I had graduated from college, was gainfully employed by a large company, and appeared to be a clean-cut regular guy. He knew I would not have to work at hard menial jobs, as had been his lot in life.
My father was my mother's special target. She never seemed to be able to forgive him for his behavior after he went broke. She found fault with him all the time, and constantly nagged him. He became stoic, and accepted her condemnation. She would not allow him to stop working. She reasoned it was better for him to be standing behind the bar rather than loafing in front of it. It made sense. He loved the pub atmosphere of any of Hoboken's two hundred fifty saloons
My father never counseled me, nor advised me on any matter, until the day before I got married. Then, he asked me to take a walk with him, a very unusual request. During our stroll, he asked, "Do you love Angie?"
"Yes."
"Then take care of her," was his only comment, ending our discussion.
My father was very cognizant of his appearance. He always wore white shirts that my mother starched and ironed to perfection. He had a heavy beard, which he shaved below the skin line. On his day off, he would put on his one and only suit, and then stroll down Washington St. with stops at the bank and a number of his favorite bars. He always wore a felt fedora hat. He smoked White Owl cigars, chewing them mostly. He had large hands, which made cigarette smoking seem out of place for him.
As he aged, he drank less and less, settling for an occasional beer. In his prime, he drank rye whiskey, never any form of mixed drinks or cocktails. In Hoboken's grimy bars, there was little call for anything other than the stevedore's boilermaker or depth bombs. One is a beer with a shot of whiskey chaser; the other made by dropping the shot glass of whiskey into the glass of beer, consuming both liquids with one swig. I was never man enough to belly up to a bar to order either.
My most pleasant memory of my father is that of the four days I spent with him after my mother died in 1961. He told me he once had an English girlfriend named Ann. Mostly, he talked about how much he loved my mother. I got to hear him tell about his love of dancing, and heard him reflect about life. I grew to love and respect him so much because of this visit.
He lived the last five years of his life with my sister, in White Plains. To the very end, he loved to take a taxi to the nearest saloon, just to hobnob with the clientele. He would have hated to visit me in California, living as I did in the wilds of suburbia, not one bar in sight.
For all his drinking, he was not a carouser or a family disgrace. He just loved the camaraderie of men and liquor. He was never profane, crude or indecent in any way. He rarely went to church, due to working every Sunday morning. Yet when my sister was pregnant with her first child, he visited church every afternoon to pray for a healthy grandchild.
He left me with many memories, few possessions. I have his straight edged razor and his pearl tiepin, only a few pictures. My most prized objects are the dozen or so letters he wrote after my mother died. When I showed them to my sister one day, she was smitten. She had never received a letter from either of our parents, and had no idea they were such wonderful correspondents.
I think of my father as a man's man, an unassuming man, a gentle man, a decent person, who held no one in disrespect. He even liked the English, unheard of among his Irish peers. He had spent the prime of his life in England, and saw things differently as a result.
While in college, from time to time, I would spot my father walking home from work across the college campus. It was one way he could share my experience without imposing himself.
I pray there is saloon up in heaven. I hope my father is there, waiting to buy the next round. If not, he may be sewing some holy garments for the Angels. He learned to be a tailor at some point in his life. According to my brother, he bought a Singer sewing machine for my mother. A salesman delivered it, and started teaching her how to operate it when my father came home. He tossed the man out the door, and then sat down and taught my mother. She was shocked, unaware of his tailoring background.
Is this a true story? Would my big brother lie? I know my father would not. He was a humble and honest person who made me proud to be his son.
My mother died December 3, 1961 in St.MaryHospital, Hoboken, New Jersey, while I was living in San Mateo, California. Her death filled me with great remorse and sadness. After moving west in 1954 and getting married in 1955, I saw her only a few times afterwards.
Angie and I went to New York in the summer of 1957 six months after our first child, Jamie, was born. Holding our new infant delighted my mother beyond description. Angie, on the other hand, was petrified when my mother placed Jamie on the fire-escape landing to allow her to enjoy a breath of good old Hoboken air. It saddened me to return to California, wondering when we would meet again.
The next time was in 1961, six months before she died. Angie and I brought our four children, then ages 1, 2, 3, and 5 for a short visit. At the time, she marveled at Angie's motherhood skills. The memory of that delightful time gave me some solace.
When news reached me of her death, memories flooded my mind. The earliest one brought me back to early childhood. My mother read nursery rhymes to me virtually every night with a beautiful, lilting Irish brogue. By the time I entered first grade at age 5, she had taught me to read. It was her greatest gift to me.
She spoiled me in many ways. As an example, she catered to my very picky appetite, cutting away every bit of fat from my meat. In season, she squeezed fresh orange juice for me daily. Loose coins jingled in my pockets all the time. I never lacked for her love and affection
She rarely asked me to help around the house beyond cleaning the windows or polishing the dining room furniture a time or two. She saved all the money I had sent home from my days in the service, and would not accept any money for living expenses during all the years I had lived under my parent’s roof.
During the depression years, my family encountered financial problems. My father lost his savings, forcing my mother to find work as a lunch-time waitress at the exclusive Whitehall Club, near Battery Park, whose members were associated with the maritime industry. To reach the dining area, waitresses had to carry trays of food down a flight of stairs. It was a difficult job, but she performed it for years without complaint. Out of necessity, my mother gave me a great deal of freedom while growing up, a latchkey kid, but I never got into any trouble and never gave her any heartache. She trusted me implicitly, another great gift.
She took great pride in my school grades, always commenting favorably while signing my report cards. It did not seem to matter to her that I attended public high school instead of a Catholic parochial institution as had my siblings. Although she attended Mass every Sunday, she was not what I would call a very pious Catholic. Our home did not contain religious pictures or objects to indicate our faith.
Since she didn’t start work until mid-morning, she had time to prepare breakfast for me every work day. She arrived home around four, in time to make dinner, usually delicious but simple meals: broiled meats, boiled potatoes, string beans, carrots, peas or corn. Invariably, she would bring home a roll or two from the Whitehall Club.
We did not share too many experiences away from home. We sometimes went to The Bronx by subway to visit her sisters, Margaret Magner and Helen Heneghan. A subway could take us to one or the other relatives, but not both. As a youngster, the walk from one to see the other seemed interminable. Once, I boarded a subway train and she failed to get on. I got off at the next station and took a train back. She had the good sense to remain at the station, thinking I would do this. It made me so angry at the time. I was about twelve.
She loved to use Pond’s Lotion to soothe her hands. I can see her still, seated in front of the TV, watching all the great shows that aired in the early ‘50’s.
Her primary social life centered on playing bridge with a few friends at the church hall. At other times, she played bridge with my sister Helen, her husband, Joe Schmitz, and me. She had minimal skill, but loved the time we spent together.
Her real passion was gambling on the ponies. For years, she placed small bets with a bookie near Wall Street. She and her friends would pool their pennies to make up a two-dollar minimum wager. If the nag won, she had to do all the bookkeeping to split the pot.
Regrettably, she never told me anything about herself. She never talked to me about her Irish upbringing or her early life. What’s worse, I never asked. It took years before others shed some light on this subject for me.
Mother wrote me many letters while I was in California. After she died, I shared copies of them with my sister, Helen, who had no idea she could write so prolifically and beautifully. I treasure them while mourning her.
This friend holds a special place in my memory and a song in my heart. 1/12017
PAUL CORNELL
It is a wonderful thing to make a friend at
any age. Paul and I became good and close friends late in our lives. We met in
1993 when Paul attended my “Reminiscence Writing” class. He died in an assisted
living home in Scottsdale on February 15, 2007 from complications arising from a heart
attack, a stroke, and a fall that broke a bone in his leg. I attended his
burial service conducted at the PhoenixNationalVeteransCemetery.
Paul’s life had more twists and turns
than do most. He grew up on a farm in RockvilleCenter, some twenty five miles from Manhattan. Despite this proximity to New York, his residence had no indoor toilet.
Only sixteen when WW II began, Paul hoped
it would last long enough for him to enlist in the service. He joined the navy
when he turned seventeen, and served in the South Pacific.
After the war ended, he obtained his high
school diploma, and then attended WagnerCollege. While an undergraduate, he earned money
by boxing. He entered and won a Golden Gloves competition. He went on to obtain
a law degree from BrooklynLawSchool, although he never passed the Bar.
Soon after graduation, he entered a
two-year sales training program with the American Can Company. At its completion,
he married a New
York City
lady, fathered two girls, and moved to Chicago. His unfaithful wife divorced him, got
custody of their children, married his co-worker, and moved back to NYC. He did
not see his children again until they were adults.
After his divorce, Paul decided to move
to California. He proposed marriage to Donna, a woman
he met at a square dance. She said, “No,” but changed her mind at the last
minute. In San
Francisco,
and in desperate need of a car and a job, he left Donna at the motel, took a
cab to a used car lot to buy a vehicle. In a remarkable turn of events, the
owner gave him one to drive back to the motel and hired him to start work the
next day as a salesman. This is how things happened in Paul’s amazing life.
Over the years, Paul had thirty different
occupations. He earned virtually nothing working as a Long Island farm boy, six-figures as a mutual fund
sales manager. At the end of his working days, he had dropped back to the low
end of the pay spectrum.
While working in the seed industry in Los Angeles, he founded the Preservation of Big Band Music Society. His collection of vinyl
records numbered in the thousands. He became a disc jockey for a local Phoenix radio station for a few years,
pretending to be broadcasting from the Starlight
Room. He fooled many listeners into thinking his fictional dance emporium
existed.
After completing my Reminiscence Writing class, he advertised himself as a Personal
Historian, offering to help other people write and publish their memoirs. He
completed one beautiful tribute project for the daughter of a quadriplegic
mother who defied the odds by living an exceptionally long and fruitful life.
He lived near Scottsdale’s ChaparralPark and spent many hours there. He decided
to turn this interest into something useful and tangible. Over a period of months,
he stopped and talked to individuals who strolled by, asking their permission
to photograph and interview them to determine what they liked about the park. He published a book containing these pictures and vignettes and donated it to the City. Officials of
the Parks and Recreation Department formally accepted it at a press conference,
and awarded him a certificate of appreciation. Taking this sort of initiative typified
Paul’s entrepreneurial approach to life.
Paul and Donna had three children, two
boys and a girl. His oldest son left home as a young man and did not surface for over ten
years. Paul had no explanation for this, except to say his son did not like
moving from one place to another while growing up. His daughter married a local
newspaper executive. His other son lives and works in Sacramento.
Paul and I often lunched together,
sometimes in the company of Al, Angie’s brother whom Paul always addressed by
his naval rank, “Chief.” They loved to swap war stories. Paul told us of the
time his ship stopped at a tiny island where the inhabitants thanked his captain
for helping rid them or their enemy, presenting him with a bag filled with the skulls
of Japanese soldiers they had killed.
He told me the greatest war story I ever
heard. In August 1945, a typhoon struck Okinawa, threatening to sink his ship, a destroyer
escort, at its dock. The captain managed to put out to sea, after taking three
hundred soldiers aboard. The storm lasted for days, making everyone sick,
including the captain. Only a handful of seamen were able-bodied enough to keep
the vessel afloat. The ship rolled from side to side to such a degree that the
radar dome, acting as a scoop, filling it with water. Paul said that two of the
bravest individuals he ever saw managed to climb the mast holding the dome and using
acetylene torches, burned it off. When the storm ended, the ship had lost all
power and radio contact. It drifted helplessly.
This is where the yarn gets good. They
continued to bob around the ocean for days. He said they heard a noise and in
disbelief saw a Japanese submarine rise from the depths ready to send his
disabled craft to the bottom of the ocean. Then, the Japanese sub hoisted a
white flag of surrender! Paul had no idea we had bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and that the war had ended. Incredibly,
the Japanese sub towed his ship back to Okinawa.
Paul converted many of his albums to
audio cassettes for me. While recovering from hip surgery, he gave me two sets,
one called, Joe’s Girlfriends. Beginning
with the tune, Angelina, every song
is titled with a girl’s name. The other set contains music whose titles include
the names of all fifty states, from Maine to Hawaii.
Listening to the music on these cassettes
will remind me of Paul, a dear friend whose memory I will always
treasure, especially when I go dancing at his Starlight Room.
I wrote this story about my boyhood chum, hoping to pay some small homage to his memory. 12/30/2016
DONNIE
FLECHTNER
My friend Donnie died in 1974 at age forty-six.
I read his very brief obituary in my Stevens alumni magazine six months
afterwards. It provided few details. The news stunned me. He had been one of my
best teen-age pals.
We
started high school together in 1940. He had the honor of being the youngest
member of the class, only twelve years old, and sported a baby face to prove
it. We shared the same homeroom, took the identical curriculum, and sat next to
each other in virtually every class. We were members of the Junior Varsity high
school basketball team and spent many hours playing sandlot baseball. We were
members of many of the same high school clubs and both appeared in the senior
play.
Donnie’s Jewish parents raised their
only son to value education. His mother taught fifth grade public school and
his father worked as either an engineer or a technician. Donnie made the Honor Roll
every semester. It came as no surprise to me when Donnie finished second in the
Stevens competitive examination and won a full four-year scholarship.
We began our college days together on
July 1, 1944. He had broken his ankle a month earlier, sliding into
second base. He started school using crutches. I carried all his books and his engineering
tools, from slide rule to T-square, to every class. We sat next to each other
in each one. He settled into the college routine immediately and began
demonstrating his superior intellect and engineering acumen. I floundered badly.
The school had adopted a tri-semester
program in order to graduate students more quickly. Four months later, we
entered the second semester of our first year. Four months later, we began our
sophomore year. At its conclusion, I dropped out of school to await military
induction. Donnie's age allowed him to avoid the draft. He continued college at
the same pace. He earned a degree as a Mechanical Engineer in 1947 at age 18. That
same year I reentered school as a sophomore.
We had joined different fraternities
whose houses were directly across the street from each other. As a result, we
would often see each other at Saturday night parties. On one occasion, his date
left him to join me at my fraternity house party. This made me feel very
awkward.
He continued with his education and
obtained a Master’s degree in 1949. Only 20 years of age, he found it difficult
to obtain a suitable job. He worked at a lab performing routine mundane tasks.
In 1950, he joined the Air Force as a
commissioned officer at the onset of the Korean “Police Action,” stationed at Wright Field, Ohio. I never saw him again afterwards.
Recently, I re-read his obituary. It
indicated that at the time of his death he resided in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. On a whim, I called information and
obtained a phone listing under his name. I dialed it, not knowing what to
expect. The woman who answered turned out to be Donnie’s widow. The alumni obituary
failed to make note that he had married.
After introducing myself, she talked with
me for an hour, describing her life with Donnie. After he returned from
military duty, RCA hired him to work at their Trenton, NJ facility. He rose to a top
management position that imposed tremendous stress on him. Their first son, born
mentally retarded, never matured beyond age two, and currently lived in a
nearby institution. In contrast, their other son attended Stevens as an
undergraduate, and later on served there as a professor. Talk about extremes in
the fortunes of life.
She told me that Donnie's mother had
lived with her until just last year, when she succumbed at age 94, in full
possession of her faculties.
Then she knocked me for a loop. Donnie's
employer, RCA, decided to scale back its workforce, and eliminated his position.
He stayed on with the firm in a much lower engineering position. The stress
became too much for him to bear. He committed suicide.
Donnie’s life had ended tragically. I
cried after I hung up.
In this story, I describe what happened to an old friend, a man born in Hoboken who graduated from college with me. 12/31/2016
BILL LIEVE
Death
takes the fun out of life, no kidding. A few days ago, while glancing over the
obituary column in my college alumni magazine, I saw the name, Bill Lieve. He
had died six months earlier. I could not have been more shocked.
Bill and
I were both born in a special birthing facility operated by two physicians,
Drs. Spahr and Fath, he a few years before me. He attended St. Peter’s Prep in Jersey
City where he excelled in both athletics and
academics. Standing six feet tall, he made an imposing figure, having curly
hair, a great smile, and a captivating personality.
In
college, he personified the Big Man on Campus All-American stereotype, a B+
student who seemed to get high grades without effort, a member of all the
important clubs and organizations, a fraternity party animal, and an
outstanding ball player. He lettered in soccer, basketball and lacrosse whose
teammates named him captain of all three teams in his senior year.
He left
college in spectacular style. First, he married a gorgeous looking girl from my
high school, the Senior Beauty Queen. Then, General Electric hired him to
undertake a two year training program at a salary far above the norm.
After
graduation, our paths did not cross for thirty years. During this time, he rose
to become one of GE’s six regional Sales Managers, well known and respected
throughout the utility industry. We met a conference when I visited GE’s hospitality
suite he hosted. His wife and I had a grand reunion, although some of his
coworkers thought she was dallying with me. One thing struck me about my
friends: I found it impossible to match their ability to consume scotch.
We
continued meeting at this annual convention for the next several years. He and
his wife entertained all the big utility executives in his sales territory.
They had the world by the tail.
A few years later, in the late ‘80s, many large firms
began to scale back their workforces. GE summarily severed my friend, shocking
and embittering him. With the passage of time, he adjusted. He and his wife
wintered in Florida,
spending the other six months in a southern New
Jersey beachside community. They took
many trips to Ireland with
their four children and other relatives. He had both knees replaced that
allowed him to continue playing golf at their country clubs.
After
getting over the shock or reading his obituary, I phoned his widow to express
my regret and to find out what happened to him. She said, “We had been out
shopping and he walked up to me, cigar in mouth, and asked ‘Where do you want
to go eat?’ and he fell over dead, victim of a massive heart attack.”
His death saddened me, made me cry. To think I
had envied him at one time. He seemed to have all the cards . . . intelligence,
appearance, personality, success by every measure.
I
enjoyed being in his company all through college. We often sang I Was Born in Hoboken when we met up at
fraternity parties. How could such a vibrant man have died at such a young age?
I must
have had the better doctor when we were born.
This story commemorates a treasured college pal. 1/1/2017
REN CROUCH
I am writing this
story with a heavy heart. I feel blue. While visiting Angie’s relatives in Florida this past January, I had an emotional reunion with an old
college chum who lives in Largo, just north of Tampa.
My friend, Rene
DeGourcey Goodman Crouch, is as unique as his name that derived from an English
father and French mother. They sent their teen age son to Baltimore to live with relatives when Germany began bombing London. After graduating from high school, the Royal Navy called
him into their service. He spent his military years pleasantly sailing all around
the Indian Ocean. He returned to the United States and enrolled at Stevens Institute of Technology in 1947. I
met him when he joined my fraternity,
He stood out from the
crowd. At age twenty-two, women ignored his bald pate, adoring his cosmopolitan
charm. What woman could resist a man with that name of his? He could speak some
French, mumble words in ersatz German, sing an endless repertoire of lewd songs
and out drink everyone in my crowd. Ren became the editor of his class
yearbook, a member of all the important academic societies, easily wearing the
unassuming mantle of the proverbial Big Man on Campus. When I think of him now,
the words urbane, witty and charming come to mind.
A few years after
graduating I attended Ren’s marriage to a very lovely girl from Annapolis. They produced three daughters. His and his family lived in
Largo, Florida, where he could satisfy his lifetime love of sailing. We
did not meet up again until 1979 when his employer sent him to Phoenix in the capacity of Project Manager overseeing the addition
to Sky Harbor Airport Terminal 3. The demands of that job limited our time to
socialize. His family hated Arizona, so he arranged to transfer back to Largo less than a year later.
I drove a rental car from Ft.Lauderdale to Largo to see Ren. I found him beset by misfortune. His wife had died
of cancer a few years earlier, and his middle daughter committed suicide
shortly afterwards. His oldest daughter had married a Mormon physician, moved
to Idaho and never keeps in touch with him. At the time of my visit,
his youngest unmarried daughter had moved in to live with him while her broken
leg healed.
That evening, I found Ren to be as affable, funny and
entertaining as ever, but his body trembled as he suffers from a rare nerve
disorder. It left him with a loss of muscle control of one side of his face,
affecting his speech. He could hardly put pen to paper, or drink from a glass
or cup without spilling.
His home looked out upon the Gulf. “What a fantastic view
this room provides.”
“Do you like it? I designed it myself to replace the one a
tornado destroyed in 1991.”
Aside from these minor mishaps, things were going well for
my old friend.
We sat up all night
regaling each other with memories of our happy college days. His daughter sat
up with us.
“Ren, she reminds me of my daughter, Ellen.” A few drinks
later, I phoned Ellen in San
Jose to tell her this news. Ren
got a big kick of the fact that I could relate to his daughter. We all had a
wonderful evening. I found it difficult to bid him farewell the next day,
realizing we would not meet again.
My alumni magazine reported Ren’s
death a few years later. The obituary contained few details. I tried to contact
the daughter I had met on my visit to learn more about the circumstances, but
she had moved and left no forwarding address. Ren passed out of my life without
fanfare, but left a huge pain in my heart.
I am both sad and astonished that my life has been spared
the misfortunes that seem to beset many others. Somebody up there loves me. .
