Attention Rail Buffs!

My Uncle Bobby(my mother's brother) spent his high school vacations working alongside his father in the New Haven Railroad yards. He spent most of this time hauling giant blocks of ice and hay for the railroad car air conditioning system. He eventually graduated to the craft of car electrician.

My uncle said that the railroad had a certain "romance" back then, but the hours were long and the pay wasn't great. Unlike his brother, father and grandfather, he decided that the railroad life wasn't for him. He became an Air Force Pilot in WWII, then a licensed electrician, artist and finally a Safety Supervisor for the Connecticut Department of Transportation. He did all this while he and his wife Barbara raised 10 children.

Whenever my brother Brian and I get together with my uncle, the subject of the railroad invariably comes up. He recently told me that he had drawn up plans on how the air conditioning/heating system used to work on the old railroad coaches. He also diagrammed the electric coaches' generator system and how they used to "hump cars" at Cedar Hill.

He asked if I knew anybody who might be interested in this information. He's concerned that if this knowledge isn't recorded somewhere, it will be lost on future generations. I asked around the railroad, but nobody seemed to know what to do with it. I know that there's a huge rail fan base out there, so I decided to take my uncle's drawings and develop a blog around it. I titled it "How things worked on the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad. Here's the link:

http://nynhhrr.blogspot.com/

Reflections at 45

Breakdown
by Jack Johnson

I hope this old train breaks down
Then I could take a walk around
See what there is to see
Time is just a melody

I turned 45 today.
I guess I'm now officially middle aged...
that's if I live to 90.

I need this here
old train to breakdown
Oh please just
let me please breakdown

Some observations:
Martin Luther King Jr. made his "I have a dream" speech at 34.
Teddy Roosevelt assumed the Presidency at 42.
JFK was elected President at 43.

I'm a railroad conductor at 45.

And all the people in the streets
That I'll never get to meet
If these tracks don't bend somehow
And I got no time that i got to get
To where I don't need to be

My father died at 49.
Only four years older than I am now.

You can't stop wishing if you don't let go
Of the things that you find and you lose and you know
You keep on rolling, put the moment on hold

Maybe it's time to stop and smell the roses.

The wisdom's in the trees not the glass windows

I got to break on down
But I can't stop now

"Obedience" Revisited

For a guy who has been dead for 42 years, my father has sure been making the rounds lately. Here he is "getting shocked" on the the cover of the current issue (Jan/Feb) of "Yale Alumni" magazine. Inside is an extremely interesting article about the "Obedience experiment." I encourage you to click on the link and read the story. It's fairly short and not too technical.

He also appeared on "ABC's Primetime Live," last Thursday. I actually missed the broadcast (you can view most of it here.) They replicated the experiment, and found that the results weren't much different than they were when he acted as the Learner/Victim back in 1962.

For those of you new to this blog, you can read the post I wrote back in March. It's titled "Shocking." This essay tells the "Milgram Experiment" story, through the eyes of my family. It was one of my better received posts and I'm pretty proud of it.

Oops! I did it again

Ring! Ring!

Grand Ahbeets (pizza, for those of you in Utah). May I help you?

Me: Yes, I'd like to order a large pie with moots (mozzarella for all of you outside the New Haven area.)

Grand Apizza: Okay...Anything else?

Me: (Calling into the family room) Do you guys want a salad?

Wife: Yes!

Me: Yes, I'd like a large salad...no onions.

Grand Apizza: What kind of salad dressing?

Me: Poppycorn dressing.

Wife: What did you say?

Me: Poppycorn dressing.

Wife: It's peppercorn. Not poppycorn.

Grand Apizza: Sir?

Me: Sorry, make that peppercorn dressing.

Grand Apizza: Okay. Give us 30 minutes.

Me: Thanks!

Click!

Wife: Where did you get poppycorn from?

Me: Well...it has those little poppy seeds in it.

Wife: (laughing hysterically)Those aren't poppyseeds. Those are peppercorns...hence the name peppercorn dressing.

Me: Oops! I did it again.

Wife: Maybe you can put some aspirin and creme rinse on that salad.

Me: Ha! Ha! Ha! Very funny. Very funny.

Wife: Well, at least you have more material for your blog.

Bend it like Bobby

It’s all over the media this morning. David Beckham, the English soccer star, has signed a five year-$250 million dollar deal, to play Major League Soccer with the Los Angeles Galaxy soccer team. This means that he’ll roughly make one million dollars a week.

This made me wonder…Do you suppose he complains (like I do) about how much money they take out of his check? I can hear it now:

“Blimey! I made $1,000,000 last week, and I only brought home $650,000! Bloody taxman!”

This mornings reports reminded me of the time (in 1976), when I was drafted by The New York Cosmos, (okay, maybe drafted isn’t the right word.) I was 14-years-old, and playing soccer for my middle school’s team. I had gone to the local Morsan’s Sporting Goods store to buy a new pair of cleats, and while there, I filled out an entry form for a contest to become a New York Cosmos’ Ball Boy. I had never won anything before in my life, and I was shocked when I got a call from the store the following week. The woman on the phone told me that I had won the contest and I should be receiving a letter from the Cosmos.

A few days later, an official letter with a Cosmos letter head arrived. In it, the Cosmos congratulated me on winning the contest and said that I should bring a parent or guardian with me to Yankee Stadium (This was their temporary field, while Giant's Stadium was being built in New Jersey). The letter continued, saying that a Mr. Rooney, a Cosmos representative, would meet me at the press window. He would provide me with an official New York Cosmos’ ball boy uniform, and then give me further instructions.

I was beside myself.

Being a fatherless waif, I enlisted my older brothers: Jimmy, Johnny and Brian to take me to the Bronx. Brian’s friend John Murphy also came along for the ride, (side note: this is the same John Murphy who some 25 years later would challenge me for my “Conductor to the Stars” title.)

I remember being a nervous wreck on our drive down to the city. I had never been to New York City before; in fact I had hardly left West Haven. The antennae on my mother’s roof was able to pick up three New York TV channels, WCBS Channel 2, WNEW Channel 5, and WPIX channel 11. Their 10PM newscast left me with one impression …New York = Crime. I thought for sure that I would be mugged the minute I stepped foot in the Bronx. I expressed my concerns to my brothers, but being brothers, they were less than sympathetic. “Don’t be a baby,” they said, “This is a chance of a lifetime. Maybe, you’ll even get a chance to meet Pele.”

At this point in my life, Pele (probably the most popular sports figure of all time) was one of my heroes. I finally decided that meeting him might be worth getting mugged.

I wasn’t mugged when we reached Yankee Stadium, but I was accosted. The perpetrator was Mr. Rooney, the Cosmo Representative. He was a tall, middle aged, balding, white haired, Irishman, who looked exactly like James J. Kilpatrick, the nasty “point, counterpoint” guy on “60 Minutes.”

Before buying tickets at the ticket window, my brothers dropped me off at the “Press” window. I met Mr. Rooney and told him that I was the Morsans’ contest winner. He wasn't impressed. He threw a cheap green rugby shirt and a pair of white nylon shorts at me. Both were two sizes too big. “Okay,” he said in a thick Irish brogue, follow me.”

I followed Mr. Rooney through a labyrinth of tunnels in the newly renovated Yankee Stadium. I wasn’t much of a Yankee fan back then, so the mystique of the place was lost on me. We finally reached a dressing room where I met three other ball boys. After getting dressed, Mr. Rooney spoke with all of us. His face turned red, when he shouted out orders like a drill sergeant. He told us that we were there to do a job, not to play around. He expected us to be on our toes at all times, and that we’d better not interfere, or in anyway delay the game. We were not to approach the players for autographs or bother them.

I wanted to raise my hand and say that I must be in the wrong place. “I’m a contest winner,” I wanted to say. But I didn’t dare. Rooney’s big Irish face was now bright red, and he was beginning to froth at the mouth. “Okay,” he finally said, “let’s get to work.” We followed Rooney out through another labyrinth of tunnels until we reached the Yankee dugout. I was seated next to three identically clad ball boys, who I believe were getting paid to be there. Each of them had thick New York accents and they laced together a string of profanity like I had never heard before. They had the kind accents the kids did on “Wonderama.”

“Unique New Yawk! Unique New Yawk!"

Bob McAllister, the host, ran a contest in which New York kids repeated this phrase ten times fast:

“Unique New Yawk… Unique New Yawk…”


It wasn't like they meant to say New Yawk. It's just that their New York accents prevented them from saying the "R." I used to wonder if McAllister had them repeat this phrase just for laughs.

After we stood for The National Anthem, Mr. Rooney told me to stand on the sidelines, near the 417 marker in center field. This was my turf and I better guard it with my life. While running across the field I heard my brothers screaming my name. They were seated at field level. They were surrounded by a bunch of Mexicans who didn’t know a lick of English. By this time, the whole lot of them had mucho cervezas, and they were shouting to me in unison.

“Hola! Bobby, Hola!!!”

In the first half of the game, I let a ball get by me, and the game was delayed for about two seconds. When I went back to the Yankee dugout at half-time, Mr. Rooney told me that I better pay closer attention to the game. I wanted to shout,…“But I’m a contest winner!,” I felt the words rising in my throat…but I didn’t dare.

In the second half of the game I caught a ball in mid-air and swiftly handed it over to the player on the opposing team. I could hear my brothers and the Mexicans cheering for me from across the field. At the end of the game I returned to the dug out, where Mr. Rooney led us back to the locker room to change our clothes. No paycheck, no “nice job," no "thank you.” No one offered to give me an autograph.

I felt so used.

After I got changed, I was led back to the Press window, where I was reunited with my brothers. I was surprised to find them standing there with two beautiful women. Both of these women were dressed in white jump suits, with big floppy picture hats. They looked like they were dressed for a day at the races in Saratoga, not Yankee Stadium. Apparently my brother John had spotted them sitting a few rows ahead of them. Each of my brothers took turns imagining who they might be. Perhaps they were a player’s wives. Maybe they were a coach’s or an owner’s wife. Finally, John went up to them and basically asked:

“You look rich and famous…who are you?

It turns out that the older of the two women, was the French girlfriend of the artist Leroy Neiman. Neiman was there painting Pele’s portrait. The younger woman, (who was one of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen) was her daughter. The older woman told us to stick around, maybe Leroy could introduce me to Pele, or at least get me his autograph.

With the exception of my brother Jimmy, none of us had ever heard of Leroy Neiman (he is now practically a household name), but by this time, I was tired and disappointed with the whole ball boy experience. I just wanted to go home.

“Suit yourself,” my brothers said. We got in the car and went home.

I wonder… How much a Pele autograph would fetch on Ebay?

Sarah Smiles

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

What's blue, white and read all over?

http://www.nhregister.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=17641297&BRD=1281&PAG=461&dept_id=566835&rfi=6

Merry Christmas!

For want of a nail

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost.
For want of a horse, the rider was lost.
For want of a rider, the battle was lost.
For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

The above poem is an old English nursery rhyme that warned children of the consequences of one thoughtless act. In this poem, a blacksmith doesn’t make enough horseshoe nails, which in turn results in a domino effect of unfortunate events, until finally the kingdom is lost. Todd Rundgren wrote a great song around this poem, in which the chorus concludes... “The Devil’s in the details.”

Last Wednesday, I had one of those “Devil’s in the details” kind of days. I woke up bright and early (around 5 am) and hopped into the shower. While showering I recalled how the fan on my car’s heater stopped working the night before. I knew that this could spell trouble, especially since it was the coldest morning we've had this season. After showering I ran downstairs and looked out the window. It seemed that Old Jack Frost had paid my car a visit overnight. My Acura looked sugar coated, and it glimmered with the reflection of the Christmas lights that hung from the gutters above it.

I threw my coat on and ran outside, hoping to find the ice scraper that I always keep in the trunk of my car. It was about 20 degrees out that morning, and in an attempt to stay warm, I danced around and fumbled through the piles of junk in my trunk (yeah, yeah...I got junk in my trunk.) I couldn’t find the scraper anywhere. Next, I searched the garage, but still …no luck. I ran into the house and asked my wife (the finder of all things) if she knew where I might find an ice scraper.

“You know,” she said, “It’s not going to jump out and grab you. You really have to take your time and look carefully.”

I told her that I didn’t have the time to look carefully, and that I was running very late. She then suggested that I use a blow dryer and melt the ice off the windshield. This sounded like a great idea.

I ran into the bathroom and grabbed a blow dryer and ran outside again. I unplugged the Christmas lights from the extension cord and plugged in the blow dryer. I then spent the next several minutes melting the beautiful geometric ice patterns that had formed on my windshield. I began to worry about how my actions might look to the neighbors. Here I was, standing in my driveway in the predawn hours, dancing around in a conductor's uniform, plugging and unplugging Christmas lights, while blow drying my car.

“What’s that noise?” A neighbor might ask.

(Now looking out the window)

“Oh, it’s just Bobby blow drying his car.”

“Who knew he owned a blowdryer?”

Once the car was defrosted, I jumped in and drove down my winding country road, and the ice crystals began to form again. Somehow I found the highway, and sped down I-95 for the 20-mile ride to New Haven. When I arrived at the train yard, I was about 10 minutes late. As luck would have it, the first person I ran into was the trainmaster (supervisor).

“Running late?” He asked.

“A little,” I said.

I walked out to the train yard and climbed up the ladder into a Genesis Engine and gave my engineer a brake test. I then threw a two track switches and lined our train out of the yard. Once in the station, I boarded the passengers, closed the doors and gave the engineer the signal to proceed. I looked down at my watch…we were two minutes late.

I began collecting tickets, feeling a little exasperated by that mornings events, when a old Jamaican woman stopped me.

"Conductor!" She said, "I have to tell you something."

I figured she was going to chew me out for the train leaving late.

"Come closer," she said.

I bent down so she could whisper in my ear.

"Your fly is down" she whispered.

I looked down and turned bright red. In all my haste that morning, I forgot to zipper the fly on my pants. Fortunately, unlike some pop stars, I was wearing underwear.

We experienced further delays on our run into the city that day. There were overhead wire problems, a disabled train in front of us, and slippery rail conditions due to the frost. When we finally arrived in Grand Central, we were six minutes late. Although the train was only a few minutes late, I wondered how the commuter’s lives might be affected by my want of an ice scraper. I let my imagination run wild and came up with a nursery rhyme of my own:

For want of an ice scraper, the train conductor was lost.
For want of a train conductor, a timely train was lost.
For want of a timely train, the CEO was lost.
For want of a CEO, a business deal was lost.
For want of a business deal, the merger was lost.
For want of a merger, a company was lost.
For want of a company, the stock market was lost
And all for want of an ice scraper.

The devils in the details.

Bobby and The Paper Lion

"Some men see things as they are and say Why? I dream of things that never were and say "Why not?"

Robert Francis Kennedy

There is a renewed interest in the assassination of U.S. Senator Robert F. Kennedy since the movie “Bobby” came out. This movie is a semi-fictional account of the events surrounding the murder of RFK at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles on June 6th, 1968. I say this movie is semi-fictional because it centers on the lives of 22 people who were supposedly at The Ambassador Hotel that night, but in reality these people never existed. It’s all Hollywood.

About five years ago, I had the author/journalist George Plimpton on my train. I recognized him from his frequent guest appearances on the afternoon talk show circuit in the 70’s and early 80’s. He was what they now call a “participatory journalist” and he always seemed to be pushing a book about his latest exploits on Merv Griffin or Mike Douglas. By the time I met him, he had been out of the public eye for several years, and I was a little surprised by how elderly and frail he looked.

Because I’m somewhat of a Kennedyphile, I remembered that Plimpton was a close friend of RFK, and that he was with him on the night he was assassinated. I was dying to ask him about that evening, but I was a bit intimidated by him. When he appeared with Merv, Mike or Johnny, he always seemed a bit regal. He spoke in the aristocratic accent of a Harvard or Cambridge man (which he was), and I didn’t want to be an insensitive boor and start yapping about his best friends murder. Maybe, I thought, I’d first engage him in small talk and then I’d work my way up to the RFK questions.

“Are you related to Martha Plimpton?” I asked.

“Eh?” He answered, now cupping his hand to his ear.

“The actress? MARTHA PLIMPTON?"

“Yes?”

“ARE YOU RELATED TO THE ACTRESS MARTHA PLIMPTON?"

“Oh, yes, yes. Sorry, I’m a bit hard of hearing. Yes, she’s a distant cousin. I’ve never met her, but I did meet her mother once.”

I now realized that Plimpton was stone deaf, and a long conversation with him would be exhausting for both of us... so I went straight for the kill.

“I’ve read that you were present when Robert Kennedy was assassinated?”

“Eh?”

“ROBERT KENNEDY?”

“Yes?”

“YOU WERE WITH SENATOR KENNEDY ON THE NIGHT HE WAS ASSASSINATED?”

“Oh, Oh, yes, yes. In fact that Sirhan fellow pushed right past me to get to Bobby.”

“WOW!!!”

“It was dreadful…simply dreadful.”

I didn’t know what to say next. There was a bit of awkward silence between us, and I finally
decided to move on to the next passenger.

Plimpton died a year or two after our brief conversation, and I’m glad I got the chance to talk to him. It was kind of like being only two degrees of separation away from one of the biggest events of the 20th century.

Sometimes I have a neat job.

Life on the train

A friend sent me this inspirational email today. It's a little slow and maybe a little too deep, but I thought it belonged on a blog called "Derailed."

http://www.inspiringthots.net/movie/life-on-train.php

Have a Happy Thanksgiving!

Timothy Turkey

Yesterday, I saw my first bald eagle. It was roosting in a tree that stands behind the church parsonage, which in turn stands next to the church where we were attending service. The reverend told the Sunday school kids that he discovered the eagle while raking leaves on Saturday. He then suggested that after service, everybody go next door and investigate the bird which was still sitting sentinel on a tree limb. Being a big kid myself, I was one of the first out the door. I was a little disappointed that the eagle didn’t have a white head and I speculated that it was wearing a toupee, or maybe it was using "Grecian formula" or "Just for Eagles". One of the sixth grade boys seemed disgusted by these comments. “It’s only two years old,” he explained, “its head hasn’t turned white yet.”

When we walked closer to the tree, we noticed that the eagle had a squirrel trapped in its talons. The squirrel’s fuzzy tail swayed in the breeze as the eagle eagerly ripped it to shreds with its enormous beak. The boys watched in amazement as the bird disemboweled its prey. The girls, on the other hand, thought it disgusting. I was with the girls on this one.

Watching this majestic eagle, made me think of how wrong Benjamin Franklin was when he petitioned to have the turkey, not the eagle, be our national symbol. Thoughts of turkey then turned to memories of kindergarten and my beautiful young teacher, Miss Flanagan. This was the song she taught us at Union School, November 1967:

Timothy Turkey
Why do you cry?
Boo Hoo Hoo
Timothy Turkey
I’ll tell you why
Boo Hoo Hoo

Thanksgiving is coming
They’ll Chop off your head(We emphasized this last line by making a slashing hand movement across our throats)
And if you don’t hide
Then soon you'll be dead

Boo Hoo Hoo
I don’t think I ate much turkey that year.

Scenes from a Marriage

Act I
Scene I

As the curtain rises, we find a bald man in his mid 40's, dressed casually in a sweat shirt and blue jeans. He is seated in the family room in front of his computer. Stage left, his attractive wife enters the room.

Wife: When you're out running errands today, could you stop at CVS and pick up Ibuprofen, and hair conditioner.

Husband: (typing) Um...Yeah.

Wife: Can you please stop typing and pay attention for a second.

Husband: (still typing) Yeah, yeah, I got it...you want me to pick up aspirin and...

Wife: Aspirin? I said ibupofen.

Husband: (stops typing) That's what I meant. I was just using the generic word for a pain reliever.

Wife: But aspirin isn't ibuprofen. Advil and Motrin are ibuprofen. Tylenol is acetaminophen. Bayer is aspirin.

Husband: What are you a pharmacist?

Wife: No. But if you get rushed to the hospital and tell the doctor that you took aspirin when you really took ibuprofen, there could be consequences.

Husband: Fine!... I'll buy ibuprofen.

Wife: And...what else?

Husband: Umm...oh...um...creme rinse?

Wife: Creme rinse? You mean hair conditioner. They don't call it creme rinse anymore.

Husband: Really?...Since when?

Wife: Since you lost your hair.

Act I
Scene II

Later that day.

Wife: Did you go to CVS?

Husband: Ohhhhh!...I forgot.

Wife: UGH!!!


finis

Post Script: Wife told daughters about above conversation. Now daughters take great delight in asking dad to, "please go to the store and buy creme rinse." They usually then convulse with laughter and fall on the floor.

A Soldier's Story

In honor of the men of A co, 2nd of the 3rd inf. 199th light inf bd. "Is this you?" I asked. 

"Yeah, that's me, second from the left...the handsome guy holding the machine gun."

 My Engineer, Bobby Tracy, showed me this picture last week. It was taken by a soldier that had a small Instamatic camera tucked up in the band of his helmet. The helmet band was usually used to store cigarettes or a flask of whiskey, so Bobby found it memorable that this photographer had tucked his camera there. The photo shows Bobby and four of his comrades, trudging through a swamp, somewhere in the jungles north of Saigon, not far from the Cambodian border.

 I was somewhat surprised that Bobby showed me this picture. Like most veterans, he doesn't like to talk about his military service, and in the past I could never get him to tell me much about his experiences in Vietnam.

 Since he was being so verbose this day, I decided to press my luck, and ask him some questions.

"What became of these guys?" I asked. 

"Well, as they say... a picture's worth a thousand words," Bobby said. 

 He then looked down at the photo and pointed to the guy bending down in the far left hand side of the photo

"This guy here...the one filling his canteen, that's Jasper McGruder from Elmira, New York. Jasper and I were great friends. We went through basic training together in Fort Dix. From there we went to Fort Benning, Georgia for helicopter and counter insurgency training, then to Camp Shelby in Mississippi for jungle training and finally to Oakland California where we got on a troop ship to Vietnam. That was December, 1966. "

 Bobby's face now brightened, "Did I ever tell you about the time when I met up with Jasper in New Haven?"

"No," I said. "I don't think you have." 

"It was five, maybe six years ago. I was thumbing through The New Haven Advocate and I came across an ad for a play by Moliere, called School for Wives. Anyway, I'm looking at the ad and it says that it stars a guy named Jasper McGruder. I thought to myself...How many Jasper McGruders could there be? I drove down to The Yale Rep Theatre and picked up a play bill, and there on the second page, was a picture of my old buddy Jasper. He had lost some hair since I had seen him last, but it was definitely Jasper. I asked around and found out which hotel he was staying in and I paid him a surprise visit. Later that week, my wife and I had him over for dinner at the house, and he got to meet the family. It was really great to see him again." 

Bobby's face was beaming now. It was as though he'd been reunited with a long lost brother.

 He pointed again to the photo, picking out the soldier immediately to his right. 

"This guy here, that's Otto Guhl from Stamford, CT. He was injured in two different fire fights, and earned two separate Purple Hearts. He still lives in Connecticut and we call each other from time to time and get together." 

Bobby now moved his finger along the photo to a soldier standing in the background. "That's Elmo Reilly. I'm not sure what happened to him, but someone told me that he stayed in the military and made a career out of it."

"And who's this guy in the foreground?" I asked. 

"Here lies the signigficance of this picture," he said. "That's the late Sam Arrington. I believe he was from Florida. About a week after this picture was taken, February 5th, 1967, to be exact. Our platoon was ambushed while we were walking through a rice paddy. Sam poked his head up from behind a dike to check the enemy's position, and..." 

 Bobby's mood now turned sullen,

 "Well, let's just say that Sam made the ultimate sacrifice for his country." 

 Bobby nervously rubbed his chin and placed the photo back in it's envelope. I wondered if he felt he'd said too much...but he continued: 

"Our platoon leader, 2nd Lieutenant Richard Coachys (not pictured) was standing near me at the time of the ambush. Coachys had been shot twice in the upper thigh and had a piece of his rifle embedded in his stomach. He was bleeding badly, but he still found the strength to get on the radio and call for air support. A few minutes later, we had planes dropping artillery all around us. By the end of the day we had lost two members of our platoon and had about five guys wounded.

“ What ever happened to Coachys? I asked. 

Bobby said that the last time he had seen his Lieutenant, he was recovering from his injuries in a field hospital in Saigon. He went onto say, that a couple of years ago, he was reading a VFW magazine and saw that The 199th was having a reunion in Virginia. One of the people mentioned in the article was Richard Coachys. Unfortunately, the reunion was the same week as Bobby's daughter's wedding, and he was unable to attend. He did, however, track down Coachys' phone number and gave him a call. It turns out that the lieutenant stayed in the military and eventually made it to the rank of Colonel. He retired a few years ago and he now lives in Georgia. He has three sons, all who serve or have served in the army. One of his sons is a West Point grad, and another is now serving in Iraq." 

We were pulling into Grand Central, so I thanked Bobby for showing me his picture and telling me his story. I then asked him for his permission to mention his experiences in a Veteran's Day blog. He said that I could use his story, but he didn't want me to make it too "dramatic" or "sappy." I told him that it would be hard to not make the story "dramatic" but I'd try to keep the sappiness at a minimum. I think he was worried that I'd make the story all "Stars and Stripes" and try to paint he and the members of his platoon as a American heroes. 

 But aren't they? 

 This Veteran's Day, take the time to say a prayer for our troops and our veterans. Please thank a veteran for their service and remember to say an extra prayer for Pvt. Sam Arrington, and all the other members of the military who have made the ultimate sacrifice in service to their country.

I rake, Iraq

After careful consideration, I have determined that the trees in my yard are evil-doers. Every year at this time, they dump layer upon layer of leaves in my yard, causing mass destruction to my lawn. I tried to form a coalition of friends to help me route these leaves out, but some of them told me I was rushing in and raking too soon. Other friends told me to, "let the leaves fall where they may." I was especially hurt by the lack of support shown by my friend Pierre. I’m forever helping him out at his house, and you would think that he would return the favor every once in a while. “ Listen Pierre" I said, "You’re either with me or you’re against me.”

This year I decided to use a scorched-yard policy. In addition to my rake, I’m using a leaf blower with a Cheney motor. This baby provides 2000 cfm with 200 mph winds and it really shocks and awes those leaves into submission. The only trouble is, when I get one section of the lawn cleared, insurgent leaves blow in from neighboring yards to take their place. When I clear those leaves, suicidal foliage falls from the branches overhead. It’s a vicious cycle, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have my yard cleared. There’s also a Bush in my yard that’s detaining some leaves in it’s lower branches, and no matter how hard I try to release them, it just won’t let them go. It's very frustrating. I thought my lawn would see me as a liberator, not an occupier... I guess I was wrong. It seems the harder I rake, the tighter the grass hangs onto the leaves. This has resulted in me breaking several rakes and truthfully, the price of this venture is becoming too costly.

I think I need an exit strategy.

"Life" in the fast lane

Do you think you have what it takes to be the "YOUR OCCUPATION HERE to the Stars?"

As has been well documented in the pages of this blog, I have a gift for spotting celebrities on my trains. In fact, as many of you know, I am the self-proclaimed "Conductor to the Stars."
Tonight, I must admit, I even surprised myself. Meet John Gilchrist (photo below.) John is an Advertising Executive with the ESPN Network in Manhattan, and he was a passenger on my 6:07 train home tonight. Because I am gifted in the art of star spotting, I immediately recognized John as his alter-ego.

Can you?

If you can guess where you've seen John before, you just might have what it takes to be the next "________to the Stars!"


Need a hint?

John was a child actor.

Got it now?

Here are a few more hints:

1. Urban legend claims that John died from mixing Pop Rocks and Coca Cola. (Rumors of his demise were greatly exaggerated.)


2. He starred in a TV commercial (with his brothers) in which he didn't even have a speaking part.


3. He likes "life."

Sorry, but if you don't have the answer by now, you're just not worthy of the "To the stars" title.

Answer:

"He likes it!...Hey Mikey!"

Thanks to John Gilchrist for giving me permission to use his name and likeness in this post.

Masquerade

This picture came from a Halloween party my wife (then girlfriend) and I attended at a friend's house way back in 1983. What made this evening so memorable, was that we kept our identities hidden from our friends for the better part of the evening. We still socialized with other guest, but we talked in coarse, old people voices. We were really surprised when others couldn't figure out who we were. We finally had to give ourselves up when friends started to become alarmed at our absence from the party:

"Where are they?" Asked Frankenstein.

"They definitely said they were coming," said Frankenstein's bride.

"Too bad, I wanted to suck their blood," said Dracula.

It was kind of fun being virtually invisible for a while. We got a rare opportunity to see how our friends acted when they didn't think we were around. Of course this was a dangerous game we were playing, and it could have backfired on us. Our friends might have said:

"Who cares where they are?"

"I never liked them anyway."

"No big loss...they aren't my blood type."

As it turned out, we weren't the only ones playing this game that night. Alone, in the corner stood a red devil pounding down drink after drink. It was assumed that like us, he too would eventually divulge his true identity...but he didn't. At the end of the evening, the party hostess finally asked him who he was.

"Oh, you don't know me," he said. "I was coming from a boring party down the road and saw your lights on. It looked like you guys were having a lot of fun, so I thought I'd drop in. Thanks for a great party."

He then dissappeared as mysteriously as he appeared.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Starburst

My wife and I hadn’t been on a date since the Clinton administration, so she was a little surprised when I called her from work on Saturday afternoon and asked if she wanted to go out to a movie. She is usually only interested in watching romantic comedies of the Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks genre, so when I read off a list of latest offerings, she was less than impressed. She deemed the current crop of comedies as too stupid, and the latest war/mobster movies as way too intense. “I go to the movies to relax and be entertained,” she said, “I don’t want to walk out of the theatre with a stress headache.” We finally decided to scrap the movie idea, and it was planned that I would pick up a pizza on my way home from work.

When I got home I discovered that my wife had put a roaring fire in the fireplace and my daughters had set paper plates out on a bedspread that lay before the fire. The TV and computer were turned off and we had a cozy family night, while eating our pizza by firelight.
Our lives have been very busy lately, so we welcomed the chance to reconnect with one another on this chilly October evening. Soon the topic of conversation turned to Halloween, and my wife and I regaled our daughters with stories of Halloweens past. We told them about the costumes we wore when we were little, and we bragged about how far we trekked while trick and treating. I told them that I used to use a pillowcase as I went from door to door, and that I wouldn’t stop till my bag was at least a ¼ of the way full. My daughters faces turned envious when my wife told them how her next-door neighbor always gave out industrial sized Hershey bars. “These were pre-fun sized candy days,” we told them, “a real dentist’s nightmare.” The subject then veered from Halloween to candy in general and my wife told us that her mother always kept pieces of Starburst candy in a milk glass jar that stood on parent's fireplace mantle.

“Stop right there,” I said.

“What?” She said.

“Did you say that your mother had Starburst candy?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re telling me, that in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, your mother had Starburst candy?"

“Yes.”

As far as I'm concerned the story was an anachronism, and I just couldn’t let it pass. It was like the famous scene in Shakespeare’s ''Julius Caesar" when the clock strikes twelve. I told my wife that I didn't remember seeing Starburst around till at least the late 70's and my wife’s mother died in 1977. It couldn't have been possible that she could have had Starburst fruit chews in her house in the late 60's/early 70's.

“I' m positive that we had Starburst, because my sister Hope (3 years younger) couldn't say Starburst, so she called them 'gooeys.' In fact, my brother and I were always getting in trouble for climbing up on the mantle and trying to reach for the milk glass to get Hope some "gooeys". One time, the milk glass jar tumbled to the ground and smashed into a million pieces. We got in big trouble for that one.”

“That’s a lovely story,” I said, “but your sister’s 'gooeys' were probably 'Now and Laters' or 'Mike and Ikes.”

“No, they were Starburst. You know…just because you didn’t have Starburst around your house when you were a kid, doesn’t mean that they didn’t exist.”

“Listen,” I said. “I have always been a candy connoisseur. I know my candy. Look! (I opened my mouth wide.) I have the fillings to prove it.”

My wife was incensed because she thought I was calling her a liar. She raced to the family room and turned the computer on, (so much for the quality family time.) She quickly typed the word “Starburst” into the search engine address bar. When the official “Starburst” website popped up, she clicked onto the “Behind the burst” page. Here they have listed all sorts of Starburst trivia, the most important of which is as follows:

Fact: Starburst first came to the United States in 1976 in the original blend of orange, lemon, lime and strawberry flavors.

I was standing over my wife’s shoulder when she read this, and being the mature adult that I am, I proceeded to do an imitation of an NFL end zone victory dance. I then wet my index finger, and touched her cheek while making a sizzling sound.

“Don’t you feel burnt?” I asked.

My wife did feel burnt… burnt with anger. She was bound and determined to prove me wrong, so she Googled other Starburst sites until she found one in which the author waxed nostalgic about his days growing up in California during the 1960’s. On this site the man went on and on, fondly remembering eating Starburst candy in his school cafeteria.”

“Obviously he’s mistaken,” I said. “They were probably ‘Necco Wafers’ or ‘Good and Plenty,’ but they couldn’t have been Starburst.”

“Ugh!”

"Okay, I think I’ll go to bed now.”

Yesterday, while making sandwiches, I told my wife that I planned on writing a story about the "Starburst incident."

“You just can’t admit you were wrong…can you?” She asked.

We continued our conversation while we piled liverwurst and cheese on two slices of Weight Watchers bread. I prefer to eat my liverwurst by the slice, and up until yesterday had never had a liverwurst sandwich. I asked my wife what kind of condiment one puts on a liverwurst sandwich. She told me that while growing up, she always put Guldens' Spicy Brown mustard on her liverwurst. “In fact” she said, “I never liked French’s yellow mustard.”

“Guldens'?” I said. “I didn’t know that Guldens' was around when we were kids.”

It was then that I got the look.

Uh oh! I thought. Here we go again!

You are a Conductor

This video does a pretty good job of portraying what life on the spare board (on call) is like, and it reminds me of why I usually work nights.

All coductors have spent at least some time on the spare board, and we all remember getting the dreaded middle of the night phone call from the crew dispatcher. I'm usually half comatose when they call me, and I have to fumble around to find a pen and piece a paper to write down the run number. Sometimes I set the alarm clock and try to sneak in an extra hour sleep before getting out of bed and taking a shower. I then drive to work at some ungodly hour in the pitch dark while the rest of the world is fast asleep.

The conductor in this video works for a freight railroad somewhere in the midwest, but the scenery they show is pretty similar to what we see on Metro North. Thanks to conductor Rich Simon and Tom Finn for bringing this video to my attention.

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Smoke in the Wood Pile

I recently read a David Sedaris story, about how his mother revived a puppy that was born the runt of the litter by placing it in a casserole dish and putting it in a warm oven. The oven acted as a makeshift incubator, and the heat revived the pup. This story reminded me of a tale my mother once told me.

When I started tracing my family tree some 15 years ago, people advised me to be careful. “Some stones are better left unturned,” they said. Others warned that I might find “horse thieves” while still others cautioned that I might discover “smoke in the wood pile.” I had no idea what this meant, so I started asking around. I found out that “smoke in the wood pile,” is a crude phrase, meaning that a researcher has discovered African ancestors in their family tree.

I never did find African ancestors in my tree, (as anyone who has seen me dance might have guessed), but I delighted in the idea that I might:

In my mind, I envision a St. Patrick’s Day gathering at the local K of C hall, and all of my white-haired, red-faced relatives are there. Everyone is full of drink and dressed in kilts and cable knit sweaters. I interrupt a Riverdance jig with news of my latest genealogical discovery. I pull out an old, yellowed photo of our sharecropper great-grandparents standing wide-eyed in a Mississippi cotton field. I’d point and say: “Here, on the left, is Grandpa Porgy, and, in the kerchief next to him, that’s Grandma Bess.” The party would abruptly end as the EMS workers arrive to administer the oxygen.

Although I never found “smoke" in my genealogical wood pile, it doesn’t mean that my search was free of scandal. After looking up vital records, I discovered that my father was born (February 1915), just two months after his parent’s wedding day, (December of 1914.) My father and paternal grandparents were long dead by this time, leaving my mother to defend her in-laws honor. When I told her about my findings, she was incredulous. “Oh that can’t be!” she said. When I produced birth and marriage certificates to back up my accusations, she said, “Oh, there must have been a clerical error at the town clerk’s office.” When I told her that I had already double-checked the dates with the church my grandparents were married in, she said, “Well, your father was born premature.”

“SEVEN MONTHS premature?” I asked.

“All I know,” she said, “is that when your father was born, he was so tiny that the midwife placed him in a cigar box and then placed it next to the pot belly stove in the kitchen.”

“WHAT?!” I said.

My mother explained that back in the day, everyone was born at home. If a baby was born too small or premature, the doctor or midwife would place it in a cigar box, carry it to the kitchen and place it near the stove. This worked like an incubator, and it saved the life of many a newborn child.

My mother’s story sounded a like something out of a fable written by the Brothers Grimm, and I couldn’t help but picture a haggard looking midwife calling out for boiled water, clean sheets and a box of Dutch Masters. Perhaps, I thought, this is where the tradition of fathers passing out cigars began. Maybe they just wanted an empty box.

“You probably didn’t know this,” my mother said, “but my brother Billy was born a twin. He was much smaller than his brother, and my grandmother, thinking he was a lost cause, put him in a cigar box and slid it under the pot-bellied stove. This way she could turn her attention to the bigger, healthier twin. Unfortunately, the bigger twin didn’t make it, but when they opened the cigar box, Uncle Billy had rallied and was doing just fine.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll buy the Uncle Billy story, but even if daddy was conceived on his parent's wedding night, he would have been like . . . seven months premature when he was born! What did they do, slide his cigar box in . . . a microwave!”

This would give a whole new meaning to “smoke in the woodpile.”