The Original Little Nemo

Little Nemo was a fictional character in a weekly comic strip by [Zenas] Winsor McCay---ex sign painter, vaudevillian and freelance cartoonist in Cincinnati, Ohio . It appeared in the New York Herald and the New York American newspapers from 1905-1913. It was first called 'Little Nemo in Slumberland' and then 'In the Land of Wonderful Dreams' when McCay changed newspapers.

McCay also penned another comic strip in 1905 [thru 1911]: 'Dreams of the Rarebit Fiend'---under the name of 'Silas.' Both strips featured bizarre, fantastic dreams, always ending with the dreamer suddenly sitting up in bed. But the Dreams strip was aimed at adults with a different adult hero-ing each strip---the dreams resulting from indigestion [usually from Welsh Rarebit], and some say that Nemo was just a children's version of Dreams. The latter included horror and great violence, transformations, embarrassment and other nightmare situations we all can imagine. It was also said to be quite funny.

McCay is also responsible for the perhaps the first three animated subjects, the first one forgettable but based on Nemo, the second called 'How a Mosquito Operates', and the third 'Gertie the Dinosaur'---all painstakingly drawn by hand. The latter, in 1914, was often called the first successful animation, and it led to the cartoon World we see through today. The first and second were used by McCay in his vaudeville act.

Nemo, the comic strip, was often dark and surreal---and some say threatening and violent. The strip covered the dreams of a little Nemo ('nobody"'in Latin), the boy-hero. Nemo 'woke-up' in the last panel of each strip---usually due to a 'dream event' or pending mishap: giant mushrooms, falling from a bridge, or bed with giant legs. In every dream, Nemo was trying to get to Slumberland to play with the Princess, King Morpheus' daughter.

As might be expected, Nemo received a heavy name-tied-merchandising in 1906: postcards, books, games, and children's clothing. He even won a U S Postage Stamp in 1989 and 1993.

Early during its second year, Nemo reached Slumberland, but had to go through months of troubles to reach the Princess. During his efforts, he was constantly awakened by Flip, a 'gentleman' wearing a hat with "Wake Up" on it in big letters. At the sight of Flip's hat, Nemo usually woke up. At first an adversary, Flip later became one of the strip's heroes, along with Dr. Pill, the Imp, the Candy Kid, Santa Claus, the Princess and King Morpheus.

The "Slumberland" of the title had a double meaning: King Morpheus's fairy kingdom and the reality of sleep itself. Nemo's dream-adventures included time in other imaginary lands [as well as Slumberland], the Moon and Mars, and in our own "real" world, made fantastic by his 'slumber-dream-state.'

An operetta based on the strip, was composed by Victor Herbert [of Babes in Toyland fame] with lyrics by Harry B. Smith. A lavish production, the operetta opened in 1908 and ran for 111 performances, closing in 1909. The show introduced a new character to the tale called 'the dancing missionary', who later appeared in several episodes of the comic strip during 1909. It also introduced the word whiffenpoof.

Among the popular songs in the production were: If I Could Teach My Teddy Bear to Dance [Nemo]; Happy Land of Once-Upon-a-Time [Candy Kid]; Is My Face on Straight? [Dr Pill, Flip and the Dancing Missionary]; and Happy Slumberland [Nemo, Candy Kid, Princess, Weather Vane and Betty.]

In the operetta, Little Nemo goes to Slumberland to find the elixir of youth, stolen by Dr. Pill's missionary [from where isn't really known.] Returning home, he goes on several adventures with King Morpheus.

In one scene, three hunters try to out-lie each other with their tall tales about animals [no one ever heard of] they've caught, including: a 'Peninsula' bird that lays square eggs, a creature who lives on canned meat---thus having Armour and is so Swift, it can only be killed by laughing it to death [ala Who Framed Roger Rabbit.]

According to Gerald Bordman [American Musical Theatre: A Chronicle], a backstage problem forced Joseph Cawthorn to adlib on stage, and he made up the story of an animal that lived in water and gobbled its food. And so we met the Whiffenpoof.

In 1909, an a-cappella singing society was formed at Yale, and the in-the-Broadway-know members called the group the 'Whiffenpoof Society.' Not long after, Meade Minnigerod, George Pomeroy, and Todd Galloway wrote the 'Whiffenpoof Song'---[We're Poor Little Lambs...]

This song became famous: as a hit for Rudy Vallee in 1936, and a hit for Bing Crosby with the Fred Waring Glee Club in 1947. Bob Hope and 'der Bingle' also sang the song with a flock of sheep in the movie, 'Road to Bali', in 1953.

Now that I've done the research, I fully expect to meet some of these characters when I fall asleep tonight.

It's Shocking! Just Shocking!

Researches from Europe revealed recently that carnivorous sponges have been found in the deep, dark seas near Antarctica, and now there is talk about turning them into a profitable resource. Big surprise there.

Called 'Carnisponges', their use in the modern kitchen will be highly advantageous to the 'homemaker', retailer, and manufacturer. They actually eat dirt, thus cleaning hands and dishes in one fell swoop. We've been telling people to eat dirt---among other things---for years, but this is the first time it will be said in the market place. No retail price or further information is available for these new sponges. The concept is still quite new, and the accountants are still busy pencil pushing because these sponges can only be harvested by the nearby Emperor Penguins, and these critters aren't too anxious to have their snouts or fins finished off by a hungry sponge during a hunt.

And...

The Sydney Morning Herald reports: "HUMANS are just one of the millions of species on Earth, but we use up almost a quarter of the sun's energy captured by plants - the most of any species...An agriculture professor at the University of Melbourne, Snow Barlow, said the paper showed humans were taking up too much of an important natural resource [the Sun.] 'Here we are, just one species on the earth, and we're grabbing a quarter of the renewable resources … we're probably being a bit greedy.' [Should more sun be scheduled for the worms and moles?]

San Franciscans were astounded by these facts, and they have taken it upon themselves to try to alter this disgusting exhibition of human cupidity. They do this knowing that all fads and trends begin in California. And, since there are approximately 15,745,329.2 million species estimated to be on the Earth---80 percent or so unknown [does that include bacteria?]---San Franciscans believe we humans should be stepping aside so these other species can enjoy more sun and less grief.

Accordingly, several ordinances have been passed by the City government: all residents and visitors must remain in the shade at least two-thirds of each day; sunbathing is restricted to one hour per day; people with a sunburn are subject to arrest, large fines and confinement; the words sun, sunny, sunshine, bosun, sunburn, sunbitch, sunbelt, sundry, sungod or -goddess, and the like are considered epithets in San Francisco, and persons heard using them are subject to arrest, large fines and confinement. At the local watering holes, the 'Tequila Sunrise' has been renamed 'Juiced Juice.'

Children of the Black Dirt

Excerpt from Life in the John:

...Orange County is well known for the black dirt---which actually is black---farming region centered in Pine Island. The black dirt comes from the glacier retreat of 12,000 years ago, which left a lake. It slowly dried up and accumulated a great deal of organic life. The area was drained about 100 years ago. At a maximum depth of about 12 feet, I guess you could say it's reminiscent of loose peat bogs. The black dirt is a phenomenal growing medium. And with the glacial lake origin, it's easy to understand why the region was also known as the “Drowned Lands.”

With all that black dirt, Orange County became and was called the “Onion Capital of the World” for it's huge acreage of yellow, globe onions. With warm weather farmers picking up the pace in California and other environs now, the Pine Island area isn't as important as it once was. But, it's still one of North America's larger onion growing areas. I had always wondered why Orange County onions were so hard to come by until I learned that they were grown in Orange County, shipped to New York City and shipped back to Orange County for retail sale. Rather silly from my point of view, although I can now understand the commercial reasons.

When we were going to school, a number of students were involved with that onion farming around Pine Island, and we became familiar with the area, the successes, and the problems. Since black dirt burns well, the farmers were particularly sensitive about fire. I remember one burning for several weeks. Others have lasted for months. It's rather difficult to quench a fire burning six feet under the surface. [It's also rather difficult to determine how one sets a fire in dirt, six feet down.] And, of course, the weather was a big reason for plentiful or only mediocre results during a growing season.

My friends Richie and Danny and their compatriots exemplified the energetic children of the black dirt. They were always on the go and ready to work or party. And with them and others, we would occasionally go to the annual Onion Harvest Festival, especially to eat the great Polish food. There was a Miss Pine Island or Miss Onion Harvest or something like that, and live music of the polka variety. The festival was always alive. Our area is now home to Jimmy Sturr, the Polka King and many other bands, large and small. Jimmy draws great musicians like honey draws flies, and his wasn't the only big name in the area, though most of the others were local celebrities. Polka and fifties rock and roll! Life was wonderfully varied, that's for sure.

We danced a million polkas in our auditorium/dance hall, but never a tarantelle, despite the number of Italians in our school. I don't remember anybody doing an Irish Jig either. The polka was popular, and we always did several at our dances. Nobody knew how to do the tarantelle, so I guess that may have had something to do about it. [Perhaps those of the Polish persuasion just got to the juke box first.] The Irish jig is more of a show dance, and I had had plenty of it in grammar school---in an Italian parish. There was a dance of sorts done by Paul and Charlie, a pair of daring and energetic upperclassman. The dance had no name, but it consisted mainly of Russian-type dancing and throwing each other around the dance floor. It was clowning around to music. A hilarious break from the normal dance moves, but nothing to write home about...

And Shmoo to You Too

Pacifism as usually practiced today in the Liberal/Democrat philosophy reminds me greatly of Al Capp's Shmoos.

Born August 31, 1948, the Shmoo was almost exterminated because it refused to fight back against any danger whatsoever. And, wow, was it ever friendly! If you looked hungry, it would jump into a frying pan for you---after which it would taste like chicken; baked it would taste like roast beef; raw like oysters. It was no physical threat to anyone, reproducing asexually [the feminists would like that], and only using air for sustenance.

Sound familiar? It should. The Democrat/Liberal version of pacifism is leading us right down the road to the historic Valley of the Shmoon. Cute maybe, responsible no.

We have the freedoms endowed to us by our Creator and guaranteed by our Government as set out in the US Constitution. Our lives are detailed from day to day in accordance with the laws enacted through the judicious use of that Constitution: our guaranteed freedoms include free speech; right to bear arms; freedom against incriminating ourselves; freedom from slavery; right to a speedy trial; trial by jury; etc. And we had to fight hard to be able to guarantee these freedoms with reasonable surety, and we sure as h*e*l*l are going to fight to retain them. While admirable in itself, Pacifism generally leads to defeatism and cultural destruction on a National level. That's an historically proven conclusion.

The "rights" to privacy and abortion [murder] are not enumerated in the Constitution, despite what so many shmoos want us to believe, and we're going to continue to point that out. Privacy is handled nicely through the Bill of Rights, and abortion---being murder---has no business being in the Constitution, Bill of Rights, or actuality of our daily lives.

We must have responsibility and the will to defend our liberties. Pacifism doesn't allow for this, and a pacifist nation will only go under the thumb of whatever aggressor gets the best idea first. Sometimes war is required to preserve our rights and lives, for after all everyone is human and subject to the human frailties of greed, power-lust, evil purpose, and extermination. We must defend ourselves against such peoples. And if a war is not legally in progress, we must be aware of potential dangers from foreign and domestic sources, and nip them in the bud before they endanger our lives.

Reasonable people can disagree about the 'how' part of carrying out our responsibilities, but they should not be fighting against them in principle. The latter is what the 'peace-loving' Liberals/Democrats are doing, and they should be thoroughly drummed out of all political power which would enable them to pursue their paths to the Valley of the Shmoon and oblivion.

I don't usually post political essays to this blog, and I promise not to do it too often. But, I particularly liked Al Capp and the Shmoos, so I felt like posting this here as well as my Townhall political blog would be satisfying to me, and maybe to you.

Televisionaries

I was there at the beginning of TV as we know it. It was immature, loud, filled with mistakes, annoying, usually funny, and more respectful to people than not. It included quiz show scandals, the early life of rock and roll, the original Disneyland, the birth of Bob Barker, and truly family oriented shows, such as Lucy, Donna Reed, Beaver, Ozzie and Harriet, Lassie, Rin-Tin-Tin, the Lone Ranger, You Are There, Zoo Parade, Kate Smith, Ed Sullivan, Liberace, Nat King Cole, and others. News shows were ten or fifteen minutes long. No weather channel was evident. We [I] had Tex Antoine and Unc Wethbee. And the weather forecasts were just as inaccurate as they are today. And there was nary a curse word among them---we had no cable. H*e*!*!, we could hardly see what was broadcast, let alone make a lot of choices.

And yet we criticized. The Great Wasteland. Inane scripts. Too much on the laugh track. Live is no good. I Dream of Jeannie is too racy. Bewitched is against religion. Green Acres was too stupid. Bishop Sheen was actually on commercial television! Horrors! He treated an angel as an angel and not as an a-religious movie/tv plot device.

Complain as they might, the critics couldn't say TV was really in the toilet. Now they do, and they have valid complaints. For the language and content of much on TV is far lower in general quality than that great Wasteland of yore.

Free speech as guaranteed to us is political speech. A free society needs that. But it doesn't mean that everything we say is or should be protected. You know, the old 'fire' in the theater routine. Now we have the wedding ring in the toilet and other bathroom jokes, fatherless homes, gay plots, and political biased sitcoms and talk shows passing for prime time or later, 21st century, quality humor---for which the actors are paid millions. We also have Rosie---sheesh! That thought by itself is so depressing.

What television needs is to have its face washed in the snow, old fashioned style. It needs to be reminded strongly that the people of the United States don't need the sexual, toilet, and asinine content of most broadcasts. That's not being wimpy. Isn't it reasonable to expect a considerate, or at least responsible television and movie industry?

Maybe I'll just have to dream some more.

Spencer

It was just a few months ago that I decided to check my hometown newspaper online to see what was happening. Much to my chagrin I saw a headline “Remembering Spencer McLaughlin.” I’ve known Spencer since high school, and I knew he was a respected politician in my home county in New York.

I didn’t like the import of that listed entry. Upon further checking, I found his obituary and other articles praising and remembering him. I was shocked and saddened. My old friend was gone, and I didn’t get to say goodbye. His bout with pancreatic cancer was surprising, as I hadn't known he was so ill.

We all knew Spencer [or Mike as we knew him then] had great personal and leadership qualities since we first met him in 1959. He was a person who drew admiration from everyone, and I was proud to be among his closer friends for the four years of high school and beyond. It isn’t often that one get’s the opportunity to meet and cherish a good friend, especially one with such natural intelligence and humor. He was among the top few in our class academically every reporting period. Spencer was always there with a kind word, a needed correction, or a great idea for a practical joke.

Indeed, most of our high school antics were done with the cooperation and approval of Spencer---if not at his instigation. He and Dick seemed to be the origin of most of our fun activities. But if Spencer said no, then we didn’t do it, no matter who had the idea. And yes, a few of his ideas were vetoed---but not often. No one else had such quiet and effective power among us, even before his year as school president.

In senior year, he and Carol won handily over Paul and Evelyn to serve as President and Vice President of the Student Council. He spoke and led his school mates extremely well [at least as much as he could in a Catholic school], and I can’t imagine anyone else being in his position. He was Spencer, he was our leader, and he was the school President. It was all very natural.

Even after high school, most of us looked to him for leadership and approval.

During our college years, we often met on a Saturday night at a Middletown pool hall, Vince Dino’s bar, or a Warwick watering hole [the Landmark Inn] to have a few beers, reminisce and play buzz. He made sure that none of us drank to excess, and with his assistance we usually had a great time.

We had one New Year’s Eve party at the Inn one year, in the banquet room with all the doors on the ceiling. It was a rare day of celebration together for all of us after high school. It was my last date with one of my favorite high school loves.

During high school, Spencer had a complexion problem, but neither he nor anyone else ever made anything of it. For the most part, we all ignored it. It was a very minor defect that we didn’t care about. But he had a sense of humor about the reality. One time when we were discussing a costume party, he laughingly thought he might pour a jar of mayonnaise over his head and go as a busted pimple. Rather gross to be sure, but only he could have put over such an absurd suggestion.

His participation in the [pre PC era] senior year slave auction was done with good humor and sincerity. He really was going to go through with it to the end and serve the buyer as well as he could. Without him sharing the auction block with our fellow Science-Fiction aficionado, Rich, I doubt if the latter would have participated with such enthusiasm. And his purchase by the Junior boys was a difficult result to follow through on. They were well-known as being anti-Spencer to the core. For some unknown reason, they used him sparingly and with a grudging respect. So he and Rich served their time rather easily.

I can still picture Spencer looking scholarly during our pipe smoking fad in Senior year; his instigation---during the Senior will reading---to have me carried across the gym to a freshman girl I had been sweet on; his active participation and co-editing of our school newspaper, including our major all-humor effort; his surreptitious tidbit in one issue about my newest girl friend; our scaling the “super tough”, hundred foot high Sugar Loaf Mountain; our forest walks---especially one where I met a young girl in the woods and was too occupied to remember our rendezvous at the car - Spencer’s voice carried well in the deep woods; his effective acting abilities and behind the scenes clowning during our marvelous and inspirational senior-class play, Charley’s Aunt, where Spencer and me and Dick played the leading male parts---and even sang "Once In Love With Amy" together with comic effectiveness. [Notice how he always seemed around when I was courting someone?]

Dick and I cut a penny in half with a hacksaw so that I could hand it to Spencer on stage when he asked my character for a ha’penny. He thought it hilarious and with some difficulty he managed to get through his lines. It served him right. He had whispered a joke in my ear the night before trying to break me up during an onstage conversation.

After the play and our all-night stag celebration party, I believe it was his idea for the group of us to go to a classmate's home and join the family [obviously uninvited] for breakfast. As Spencer wrote later, our trip was more attuned to seeing the vision of the two young sisters coming down to breakfast in nightgowns and robes than it was for the surprise effect on the family or our desire for a big breakfast. We were always amazed that the farmer/father, Jacob, didn’t take a shotgun to us when he came out the front door at 5 am and saw a car full of us “hoodlums” sitting in his driveway---or even after we ate in the kitchen and surreptitiously ogled Joanne and Marie for that matter.

Spencer was always looking out for my love-life with either active help or helpful wisecracks. I spent a lot of time at Round Lake with him during high school, and I remember especially one Summer day at the lake with him, his sister Daphne, and our friend Evelyn. As I remember, I was sweet on Evelyn at the time---the same as our close friend, Rich---and the four of us spent a pleasant day of doing virtually nothing but swimming and sunburning. I remember climbing a nearby tree to take a picture of our group, making sure Evelyn was in center focus.

And after high school when I was perhaps pressing Evelyn a bit more than I should have, it was to Spencer she went with a plea to act as intermediary to get me to back off. He didn’t bandy words, although he was quiet, friendly and nonchalant. A few comments from him were all that was needed to wake me up.

Spencer’s occasional reminder of my English prize in school as being the only senior year award he didn’t win was always a pleasurable experience. Few of us ever topped him in anything. In fact, our group dinner in Chester while planning our 25th year class reunion, was one of the rare times I could make a funny put-down remark about Spencer that he couldn’t answer. That was the one and only time before or after high school that I rendered him speechless.

I can't comment on his lengthy professional life because I lived too far away to keep tabs on it. [He went back to school and became a lawyer without my knowledge or permission.] But if his high school intelligence and demeanor mean anything, he did a fine job. And that's been confirmed by the kudos in the newspapers. [And it seems, his widow Vickie has now become the front-runner in competing for Spencer's spot in the County legislature.]

In my life there never was and never will be another person as prominent in my esteem, friendship and memories of the past. He was...just…well, Spencer, our class President, and a close and valuable friend. May he rest in peace and relish his reward.

Two Poems

Two separate poems among a cast of thousands. Does Erato cheer? You bet she does. She'll cheer about anything in life resembling a poet's opus.

********

SECRET OF LIFE

Secret
Of life is what?
If we had the knowledge,
What would we do with it: good or
Evil?

Unknown
Details keep us
Interested in all
Life presents: a magic menu
Each day.

Success
In life demands
Full concentration, strong
Will, intelligence, risk taking---
And luck!

Happy
Marriage and love
Life require focus, wit,
Continued intimacy, and
Desire.

Death: a
Loss of being
Inevitable;
Often welcome---or fought. Always
Final.

*********

MR KNIGHT

How bright is Mr. Knight
When standing hat in hand;
His kite might take up flight
With an overfilling band.

Sir Knight would often fight
In modern la la land;
His plight was simply quite:
"You have to understand!"

A jeer with every beer
Whilst roasting sugar flan;
His peer would often sneer
And label man and clan:

"Tis well for one to dwell
On one's hot wheated berry;
When your sweet Aunt Isabel
Is really Uncle Harry."

Balmy Days

Misty rain, cool downpours, fresh, warm sunlight, gentle spring breezes---such afternoons are always balmy times. Spring is welcome after a hard winter with the showers of April, the warming of May. June has arrived, and I can see prominent proof of the new growth of spring. Soft, green buds on the myriad trees and bushes tell a story, a story of new birth and regeneration for the year. I like to think that my mind is ready for this procession.
Across from my window are the dogwoods---between me and the busy road. For a short time, they provide a fragrant beauty that brightens any day. They blossom with white, dark and light pink petals for only a few weeks---it's their nature; then the colors fade to the pale buds and finally the summer green leaves. From now until the end of summer, I'll have this greenery for my view.
And a little farther, across the street, are the red maples making a colorful backdrop through the dogwoods. But, they're not alone. A few regular maples keep the green in mind.
My childhood home sported a backyard red maple, a Japanese entry which brightened a yard dominated by the falling red berries of the nearby mountain ash. The yard was no great beauty, but the red of the maple softened the hot summer view of the worn patches of grass and struggling flowers and bushes. The mountain ash berries just became squashed on the walk and had a questionable odor. A few anty peonies (ours always seemed to be covered with ants) framed the old, angled basement entry. As kids, we certainly spent enough time sitting atop the door and sliding down. We continued to do it even knowing a splinter was a possibility. Our version of great danger, I think. And I remember practicing with my “green” thumb on all parts of the yard. But, alas, my efforts were only temporary as my boyish thoughts inevitably turned to non-garden areas.
A balmy day also reminds me of the nomadic existence I had as a boy, walking or bicycling around our town with nothing special in mind. It was certainly safe enough in those days. I feared no area, and I went just about anywhere my young legs could walk or pedal.
Nearing the center of town, a perfumed aroma would assail my nostrils. This came from Pollack's Fruital Works (essences for perfumes.) The closer you got to it, the stronger the aroma, and then it lost its attractiveness. Overwhelming is the word. Of course, not too far from there was the Spalding bakery, and the pleasing aroma of fresh doughnuts fought the perfume and was a rather mixed scent---sort of like a jelly donut.
I like walking. It's therapeutic for whatever ails you---physical or mental, good exercise, and a chance to meet people. My Mother always shooed us outside to walk or play with a: “…go on. It'll blow the stink off you…” We didn't take it personally.
Walking around is a regular opportunity to meet strangers and view property and buildings close up. It's a quite different view from when you're driving past at thirty miles an hour in a car.
On the sidewalk, a passing stranger will nod or speak in answer to your hello. People might ask directions. While you can respond from a car, it isn't always easy. For that, you'll probably be stopped for traffic. Even then, you'll hear the impatient horns urging you to move along.
Few of us need to walk to get somewhere anymore. The average family has two or three cars and maybe a motorbike to make the trips to available malls, doctors, health clubs, gyms, Jennie Craig, etc.
Home gyms or basketball hoops in the driveway keep us close to home. Or we have an office running track to use---sometimes like the rooftop track used in “The Secret of My Success” These activities are good exercise (although in the movie I kept expecting someone to run off the edge of the roof,) but they don't permit meeting with many friends or neighbors.
Kids once rode bikes and walked everywhere. Now they have Moms to drive them to the mall. Bicycles are in the minority these days, so kids use skateboards or inline skates or motorcycles or ATVs. The malls are the main reason for the demise of most downtowns and the Mom and Pop stores around the small cities. Yes, kids should shy away from strangers and bums. That's an unfortunate fact of life, and it can't be helped in a changing society and economy. So, maybe it's not always the kids' faults. They still do the best they can with what they have. It's a sad reality that progress and the march of time have resulted in less street safety. I was a kid given lots of freedom. What I did and where I went as a kid could not be done these days---although serious problems are as easy to walk into as ever.
A balmy day was also an opportunity to sit my Dad's homemade Adirondack chair on the front porch to read. I remember sitting there reading science-fiction, my new literary experience, sucking on horehound drops, and watching the World go by. But, really, there wasn't a lot of traffic on our street, so the World was rather quiet in my area---at least until another kid came by and we went off exploring or playing baseball.
Such warm, lingering days are long-gone now. My asphalt and cement life reflects only blasting waves on hot, sunny days. The cookie-cutter cars passing my window can't be identified as readily as they were in my childhood, and the twittering of birds and rustles of small animals are drowned out by the sounds of commerce. I spend more time at my computer than I ever did reading science-fiction.
Progress and change are relentless, but our pleasant memories are always there to serve us.

from Sledding Past the Lawyer

...In the winter, we had the big, downhill playground/parking lot for sledding. Sledding was exciting when the yard was first plowed, especially if the snow had been deep enough to force the plows into leaving a nicely packed base. Snow plows of the era weren't as thorough as they are now.

...We played on mounds of snow, but we never built forts. The School yard was too public a place to expect privacy or security for our constructions. We didn't bother with building anything at home, either. It was too much like work there. The best places to start snow forts were the mounds created by snowplows or heavy drifts. And we didn't have any at home. The mounds appeared across the street when the playground was plowed for parking. While we didn't build forts, per se, we did create safety mounds for snowball fights or the inevitable king-of- the-mountain---leading to snow all over ourselves, hilarious laughing, and exhaustion.

...We had some good Saturday snow battles because the area had hedges to complement the mounds. They were good for running battles, although we had to insure that the spot we ran to had snowball snow. You can't carry much ammunition with you for a running snowball fight. The School, its corners, and its fire escape bases lent themselves to great fight sites. If it was still snowing, the fun was doubled. Visibility was worse and sneaking up on your opponent was easier.

...Snow comes in many varieties under many names, especially in the far north, where the Eskimos have more names and nuances than Carter had liver pills. Yupik Eskimo has such offerings as: “qanir” (to snow); “qanuk” (snowflake); “nutaryuk” (fresh snow); “aniv” (snow on the ground); “qengaruk” (snowbank); and “pirta” (blizzard.)

The best type of snow for making snowballs is powder snow with light moisture content. Grab a handful and pat and round one out in your hands, rather like making a meatball. The harder you squeeze, the more formidable the ball is for throwing. Most of the time, we didn't have enough time between peltings to make dense---or even round---snowballs. We made our ammunition quick and easy. Besides, we weren't out to hurt each other.

That same slightly moist snow makes fine snowmen, though it's heavy for shoveling. Start with a snowball, roll it around the yard for a bit, and voila! One third of a snowman! Do it three times in varying sizes and you have a snowman's body. That's when the variations usually occur.

The only snowmen I was involved with were in our back yard. I usually made one with Mary Anne, often while it was still snowing. We had plenty of room to roll the balls around and build them up, but we sometimes made them too big and had a devil of a time moving them to where we wanted to build the snowman. The size of a snowman is pretty much limited to the strength of the builders in rolling the snow. On occasion, some kids built one on the School's grassy front space. But it was a lost cause. As soon as School reconvened, the snowman became a target for morning snowballs and didn't last long.

Granular snow was useless from our point of view. It was normally found in week-old snow and is a manifestation of frozen-melted snow becoming ice. Icy snow, on the other hand, breaks off the pack in chunks and is impossible to form into a snowball----and throwing ice chunks was unappreciated. The dry, powdery kind (kanevvluk) usually arrives as a medium fall and is impossible to use in the making of snowballs---but it was fine for knocking a kid down in it and washing his face. Of course, I never did that. I remembered how many times my brothers had done it to me. “Gotcha!” “Hey, knock it off!” “Cut it out” “I'll get you for this!” Of course, it goes without saying that warming weather “slush” is worthless.

That dry, powdery snow, when fallen in the mountains, was excellent for the ski slopes. Skiers love it, especially when it's fresh and virgin. I tried to go skiing once---in High School. One snowy Saturday during high school, a bunch of us drove up to Mt. Cathalia in New York. None of us had skis. We assumed we could rent them. The ride was a snowy one, but we didn't encounter any traffic accidents or tie-ups on the trip---either direction. But, high school gents of the period didn't normally run around with a lot of money in their pockets. This was the early sixties and the Mt. Cathalia Ski Center demanded a $50 deposit for each pair of rented skis. The ski slopes were inviting, as were the prospects of snow bunnies, but we didn't have the necessary money. Our dispirited ski team then adjourned to the lodge, found the fireplace, ordered a few beers, listened to “bossa nova,” and spent the afternoon relaxing amongst ourselves and with whomever entered the area---and we didn't have a broken leg among us. [Drinking age in New York at the time was 18.]

The next year, the Mr. Cathalia Ski Center burned to the ground---and it never reopened. Go figure.

We had numerous running fights in the cemetery where the trees and the stones acted as temporary cover while we ran around pelting each other. We just had to be sure to stay away from any burials. A snowball fight really has no winner or loser unless the poorer fighter gives up and runs home crying. The thrill is in the fight. The agony is in de feet. Getting hit by snowballs was no big thing. We just didn't like a cold snowball in the face, especially if the snow was on the grainy-icy side. It was disorienting for enough time to maybe get hit again and again. In my case, summer experience with baseball helped a lot with my snowball accuracy. I especially liked my curves hitting the opponent on his noggin. Of course, on occasion the same thing happened to me.

...But we were kids, and we didn't really know that proper respect for the dead included giving up our cemetery snowball fights. We were on more dangerous ground when we threw our bodies and sleds down one of the cemetery roads behind the church. The road on the left edge of the cemetery proper was a steep downhill path with a sharp right turn. If you didn't turn properly, chances were you'd be in the cyclone fence at best, the filthy brook at worst. As noted above, that portion of the road, though plowed, was never used by funeral processions in the winter because of its inherent danger.

We had a little natural banking which helped you turn correctly, but it wasn't an engineered bank, only one deposited by the cemetery snowplow. You couldn't make an early right turn because those annoying gravestones were in the way. And you couldn't very well turn left unless you wanted to hit one of the pine trees bordering the hill. They certainly wouldn't provide a soft stop since their bases were trimmed up to about two feet leaving the unforgiving trunks. I suppose you could have turned left between the tree trunks, but that took skill and quick thinking. We were only kids.

I'd stand at the top of the hill. I'd take aim at the snowy course with pressed lips and childhood determination, take a deep breath, and start the run. At a desired speed and at the very top of the hill before the incline, I'd throw the sled down and throw myself aboard. The quality of my ride depended on my accuracy at hitting the sled. It was no fun to be half off the thing and fighting to hang on. That was a sure recipe for a snow-covered, banked, and botched ride. If I landed properly and the sled was centered on the hill, I had a chance to experience a thrill. The ride was speedy, and I had to be sure to turn properly near the bottom. That done, my sled would slow down on the runoff portion of the road---the right ell. I'd have been successful and very pleased. I was one of the elite who made a perfect ride.

Kids have always been kids. Science tells us that, with the proper algae, we could have red, blue, salmon, or yellow snow. The algae create beautiful scenes, mostly in the mountains where people don't ski or usually tread. The snow doesn't fall in colors, but once on the ground with the right circumstances and algae, the colors appeared. But, we weren't in the mountains, and our yellow snow patches were definitely not due to algae.

The real tiring part of sledding was the constant walking or running back up the hill for another go. We needed a ski lift for sleds. If we were at the hill without a sled, we borrowed from each other or would go down the hill two to a sled, one person lying on top of the other, or one person sitting behind the other---but sitting on a sled was considered wimpy. That sitting system was often used for the younger or heavier kids---you'd agree to that with a heavyweight passenger or a scared, but eager, little kid.

There were rats around the brook, but we never saw them in the winter. During the summer, some of the older kids went to the brook to shoot rats with their BB guns. Okay Ralphie, I never had a BB gun, Red Ryder or any other brand, and I never saw any rats anywhere around the water. Maybe those older kids were more accurate than we thought.

My sled did well on the hill because I could steer it. Some new sleds were still too tight to turn well. Even so, there were kids who panicked and didn't try to turn, thus plowing into the snow and fence. Or they didn't place themselves properly when throwing the sleds down and fell off. Or they simply fell on the runway and let their sleds go. When that happened, we had to dodge the errant sleds. Still, I don't remember any serious accidents---just some bruises and scrapes. Hurt kids just sulked home to their Moms for fix-ups. In the fifties of our youth, there were rarely detours through an attorney's office. Times have changed.

Those days I'd wander home happy, tired, and covered with snow. I'd have wet mittens or gloves (to throw on the heating outlet,) soaked socks, and a rosy glow on my cheeks. I was a bit of a mess, but after the undressing rituals, I rested warmly in front of the TV or sat in a wing chair reading. I relished the hot chocolate or tomato soup Mom kindly made for me. I was too young for a warmed snifter of brandy.

...instant cocoa didn't exist. Mom would heat milk in a small pot, take a little out to mix with the measured amount of cocoa powder and sugar---maybe a touch of vanilla---and then pour the resulting dark chocolate mixture into the pot of milk. Voila! A little more heating and you had hot, drinkable cocoa. We normally had the dark can of Hershey's cocoa for these occasions. NesQuick was available, but we didn't use it. For cold milk drinks, we used Bosco or Brer' Rabbit molasses. Molasses and milk is an intriguing taste experience.

In the cold, snowy winter, the Davidge Park Pond (Davidge Park is officially Fancher-Davidge Park) froze over and was used for ice-skating. There was a little warming shack, a barrel of fire, and an attendant or two. A sign would tell us how thick the ice was, sort of a Nileometer for Middletown. If the ice was too thin, no one was allowed to skate. Too thick an ice cover was never a problem. That would have meant a serious cold snap and the pond would have a substantial ice cover. Besides, is there a thickness too thick for skating? I doubt it, though skating on a very thick surface might be like skating on a glacier.

The City cleaned the snow off the frozen pond with a small tractor. From my point of view, if the ice held up for the tractor, it could probably hold up for me. Because of the distance from home to the pond and the cold weather in Middletown, we didn't ride bikes to the pond. Dad drove us, so we only went at night.

The only ice skates I had access to were ill-fitting, thirty-year old figure skates. I couldn't balance on them very well. Actually, I could barely stand up, and it didn't make a difference how many socks I wore. So I didn't do much ice-skating. I got tired after a while of my ankles folding and hurting like hell. I just wasn't getting any respect or support. It was fun, though, standing around and talking at the fire-in-a-barrel or the little hut with the gas heater, or throwing snowballs with the other non-skaters. But it wasn't fun to have sore, wet ankles and wait for two hours until Dad picked us up.

I never observed anyone disappear under broken ice. The thickness meter out front warned us away if it was dangerous. And since the snow wouldn't have been cleaned off when the ice was too thin, there wouldn't have been much sense in trying to skate. Spring thaw was another thing, however. We knew the ice would shrink as the weather warmed, so we kept an eye on our “Nileometer.”

Watching a heavy snow storm from inside, especially if it was at night, was a pleasure. Everyone would be home, school would probably be called off the next day, and I could earn some extra money shoveling. After that I could go sledding or snowball fighting. Sometimes the latter took place while I was roaming around looking for work. I love the winter.

I would be happy for that substantial snowfall. I took my shovel and roamed the neighborhood getting snow shoveling jobs for extra money. Yes, substantial snow. Only I didn't want moist, heavy snow more than a couple of inches. It weighed too much, slowed my progress, exhausted me, and cut into my profits. I remember waist-high snow falls. But looking back, I wasn't all that tall. So the “huge” snowfalls were probably no more than 20 inches---still substantial, but not that much in comparison to my height today.

I had some non-classmate acquaintances from other schools. I saw them on occasion, mostly in the early evenings or an odd Saturday. Nicky W was one who played baseball with us. It was one of these fellows I met up with one snowy Saturday. I was shoveling walks and he found me. He wanted us to work as a team so we could earn more money. I agreed, even though I couldn't remember his name. I still can't. He had wrapped his head with a loose bandage and added some red ink. He thought the “bloody” bandage would create sympathy and earn us more money for shoveling. I didn't object, but I didn't let him actively use it to con people. He said nothing about the bandage, and when asked he just shrugged it off.

Although we did mainly homes, we did get the job for an apartment house. Not a fancy one---which would have had its own shoveler---but a mediocre looking one. We went to the super who was going to do it himself. He was glad to pay us for the work. For the whole afternoon throughout the local area, we worked hard, made good money, and I don't think I ever saw my partner again.

These days, finding work to earn money in shoveling snow after a snowstorm is nearly impossible. Most people have snow blowers or children to do the dirty work. Driveways are ploughed by trucks or jeeps with plow attachments. There isn't much left for the nomadic kid snow shoveler...

The Bulldog a story ten years in the making

“I love you fellow. You warm me when I’m cold. You cheer me when I’m sad.”

The panting bulldog slowly inched his way over the bed closer to the reclining boy. His tail wagged exuberantly as the frail hand reached out and softly stroked the smooth brown coat.

“You’re a good dog, fellow. Someday, we’ll roam the park together and play the games we’ve only been able to talk about. I know we will. I know we will.”

A murmur of agreement reached him as his hand slowed its movement on the journey to sleep.

The bulldog nudged its head under the boy’s hand to urge a continuation of the soothing contact. The boy smiled and gently stroked him again. He saw only warmth and affection in the glistening black eyes peering at him through the ever deepening twilight and shadows. The grotesque limbs of an ancient oak futilely guarded the window from the approaching darkness---but disappeared in it as they were overwhelmed.

The boy slept, his hand wrapped gently around the warm, comforting presence of the bulldog. The ticking of the ship’s clock on the wall measured the silence with a rhythmic beat. The growing shadow of the dark hid the souvenirs and knickknacks of his young life: Dodgers’ pennant; signed baseball; cap and mitt; Cub Scout derby racecar; merit badge sash. They all seemed so distant now. A gyroscope.

A quickly increasing light suddenly broke the darkness as the bedroom door opened. A mother’s soft voice spoke to her husband in the hushed whisper of a sick room visitor.

“He’s asleep again. George, he’s been sick so long and sometimes I’m so afraid I won’t be with him when the time comes. Soon, he’ll sleep forever, and we might miss him those last few moments.”

With tears moistening her cheeks, she turned to bury her face at her husband’s chest. George comforted her as best he could and gazed past her to the boy on the bed.

“He’s happy; it shows. Ever since he was visited by that magician friend of yours from Connorsville, he’s been happy. He knows he won’t be with us much longer, but he’s happy.”

Tears filled his eyes, too, as he tightly embraced his wife in mutual sadness.

“There was magic in that man; Billy’s been so peaceful these past few weeks…”

He stopped and stared at the bed.

“There it is again.”

“There is what again, George?”

Mary straightened with apprehension and dabbed her reddened eyes with a tissue. She watched her husband quietly approach the bed, bend over, and remove something to the floor near the corner. He returned to the doorway, closed the door, and, together, they slowly made their way to the front room.

“It’s that ceramic bulldog,” he said as he drew his wife closer. “I simply don’t understand how he gets that heavy thing up on the bed with him.”

© 2005

Change is Good

This is a new template for my blog. It's called Son of Moto. I hope royalties were paid to Peter Lorre.

The green color was picked to represent my Irish and Italian heritage. I remember both very well, and if any relatives ever see this, I hope they appreciate my choice.

I even posted my picture, though it's a few years old. Hmmm! Yes. Well back then I attended a college run by the Irish Christian Brothers. It was my second favorite four years in education, high school being the first. And those eight years provided a feast of stories and experiences that I may touch on someday.

As a matter of fact, one of them is below. About a green dinosaur. Well, it was hilarious at the time.

More later.

Blog Away

I have to start working on what I want to write in this blog. I think I'll keep it personal.

My political views, however, are in a new blog over at Townhall:

http://inopinoveritas.townhall.com/

Yes, that's In Opino Veritas. It's in Latin and roughly translates as There is Truth in Opinion. I hope you find worth in the blog.

As for here, I do have many people and things to write about. I wish more of you could have met some of the people in my life. You'd might have had an interesting and informative time with them.

That's all for the moment.

Back to the Present

Well I'm back after a long absence from the internet and I expect to update this newly renovated blog more often than before. I just hope I get some readers other than the spam commentators I got before. Well here goes.

Excerpt from "John Joseph and St. Joseph"

…Dad was a man to emulate. He wasn’t tall, powerful, or of genius grade---but he was quite intelligent. He didn’t have a lot of education. He wasn’t a drunk, a drug user, or an abuser. He had love, loyalty, responsibility, values, and strong religious beliefs. He was a carpenter, and we didn’t live the high life, but I always felt secure and wanted as a child. I never felt a particular financial want. Obviously, we couldn’t expect expensive items in our lives, but we had what we really needed: the basics and love. He was a good man by any measure.

…Dad’s spankings---taboo in the politically correct current belief---were probably deserved, better by his hand than by a switch (which he never used,) and usually short in duration. I imagine the spanking was even tough on his work-hardened hands, but they weren’t especially hard on us. After all, we usually had clothing to stay between his hand and us. And if we expected the spanking (which was usual, since Mom only threatened us,) there was usually an additional layer or two. Yes, the spankings hurt---but not that much---and after a few minutes, there was little to cry about. Besides, once the spanking ended, we got sympathy. And Dad never bore a grudge. He was immediately mild mannered Dad again.

The major thing Dad was obstinate about was Yankee ball games. He followed them whenever he could. Our family listened to them on the car radio when we took our Sunday rides. It was expected. I remember many of those rides, never knowing where we were going. And the roads we went on were old and hilly. Up and down, up and down. Some hills were like a roller coaster and they would give you that same feeling as Dad motored up and down at normal speed. Those areas of the road were called “Mary Annes” because my little sister liked them so much. Our trips would often end at an apple orchard where we could go into the cool barn and pick out a basket of apples and some cider. What an aroma! One of the great memory smells of autumn. Or we’d end up in New Jersey, perhaps Hamburg (we loved the name) or just through the back roads and stop at an A & W Root Beer stand for floats. Those were days to re-enjoy with memory. Fuel wasn’t a problem. Gas sold for about 20 cents a gallon, except at some corners where there were three or four stations. They’d often have gas wars, and I remember the prices once going down to 13 cents a gallon. Our only deterrent during that period was a rainy day. And, of course, we didn’t make trips in the winter.

I didn’t particularly care to hear the Yankee games all the time, but baseball was a connection between Dad and me, even though I was a Dodger fan. He assumed his team was best, but never belittled my fandom. After all, I knew the Dodgers were the best team around. The only conflict we really had was when the Dodgers and Yankees both had games on the TV at the same time. Dad usually won. After all, he worked hard all day. He paid the bills. He bought the TV. And he had a louder voice, and an ally with Mom, who didn’t care about the games, but agreed that Dad had precedence.

Dad and the Parish men sometimes took us to New York for a baseball game, and it was always to Yankee Stadium. They were all Yankee fans, and despite my pleas, I never got the group to Ebbets Field, where real baseball was played.

My first visit to Yankee Stadium was my first visit to any major league baseball park. Waiting outside on line was no big thing. I had certainly done that before. Whitey Ford being escorted parallel to us on the other side of a cyclone fence was a unique experience, even though he wasn’t a Dodger. But when we entered the cavernous stadium, I saw the field. Viewing the bright, fresh green at the end of a huge ramp and then as we entered the seating level---it was awe-inspiring for a little kid. No lawn I had ever seen could compare with it. I actually felt honored to be there. This was it. This was the field of battle for my knights in ballpark armor. This was where almost-real baseball was played. (Remember, I was a Dodger fan, and the only place for real baseball was Ebbets Field.) I can only imagine what I’d have felt if I was entering Ebbets Field. I might have had a kid swoon. The ballpark field was impressive, but being ensconced in the nosebleed seats and having to watch the Yankees play took some of the awe out of my experiences.

Dad had a strong religious sense, and he and Mom tried to teach us right from wrong and the proper way to be family and pay attention to each other and the Catholic religion. They sacrificed to send us to Catholic school, and made us stay there and participate in all the activities, especially the religious---although in my case, that wasn’t a problem. I was perfectly happy to be where I was and learn what was necessary and desirable. It was all very natural. Living across the street, and Dad being so involved in volunteering, our family was well known to the Priests and nuns. We were often called upon for various services, especially during the summer when we were the only kids around. I was asked to help at school unpacking and distributing supplies or packaging textbooks, or anything the nuns needed. And at Church at all seasons, I served time at Monday night devotions, even when I didn’t want to.

I learned and understood enough about the Catholic Church in those years up through College to stand me in good stead throughout my life. This knowledge included the horrors and mistakes of the middle ages, and I wasn’t unaware of reality. Many non-Catholics who criticize the Church really don’t understand it. The misinformation around lends itself to the drift from non-Catholics and Catholics alike. Case in point is the continual criticism of the Church about the Pope being infallible. He is, but only in matters of faith and morals, and only with the agreement of a special council of bishops. Hence, infallibility as a truth is only proclaimed in rare instances. Too often, people have the wrong “knowledge” that the Pope claims to be infallible with every word he utters. The critics, then, spout opinions having no understanding of what infallibility entails. So what else is new?

None of us, especially Dad, could say no to any requests, although if I was called at the last minute for evening devotions and the Dodger game was on, I was a bit peeved. And I’m sure that wasn’t the proper attitude for a religious service. The priests noticed my annoyance and kept the fact filed away. I know it came back to haunt me one winter when the priests were taking some altar boys to St. Joseph’s lake for ice skating and winter activity. I was only “tentatively” on the list to go---my first experience with the word. I did go, but I’m sure Dad’s influence was the reason.

Dad never missed Mass, prayed when time permitted, visited the Church for confession regularly, and was always ready to receive communion. I was able to observe him at times, and he was truly involved with what he was doing. He probably prayed in private, but I could never tell for sure. He wasn’t one to talk about his faith.

During the fifties, we usually prayed the rosary together, notably during the Marion Year of 1954. I remember well, because we knelt around Mom and Dad’s bed while we prayed. We passed the rosary around to whoever was saying the decade or mystery. Every night after dinner. As a young kid, I let my attention wander at times, and I used my parents’ bedspread as a canvas for my imaginary travels.

The design was a combination of parallel lines, gently curving like roads---all in pink and purple. We had a large brown family rosary, but I don’t remember now what happened to it. Mary Anne probably has it.

The adage at the time was that the “family that prays together, stays together.” That was fine until Ed went into the Air Force in 1957. We still prayed, but we weren’t really together anymore. As we got older, the family’s praying together let off. It was just too difficult to get us all in one room at the same time. Jack was off somewhere right after supper, and I might have been off to the schoolyard to play Wiffle Ball with Feeney. Dad had started volunteering at the Church, and his carpentry skills were being utilized to benefit the Church.

We always said grace before our dinner, no matter whom was with us or how many of us were present or where we were---except maybe at a big picnic or dinner. But, I still noticed Dad was as religious as before. His Church habits remained steadfast all his life. I still have the rosary beads he used: silver ones with intricate designs. Since he had the rosary, I have to assume he used it…

End of excerpt about my Dad. RIP

Keeping Up With the Joneses

Why must we always “keep up with the Joneses?” Well, why not? They're all around us. Mr. & Mrs. Jones are really Mr. & Mrs. Average, everybody’s neighbors. Jones is the fourth most prevalent name in the U.S. In France, it would be the Dubois family; in Germany, the Meiers or the Müllers.

As with so many semi-forgotten names in the annals of literature and society, “Jones” represents many individuals who have contributed much to our society. And we should appreciate what they have accomplished---even if only 1% of us read some of their works or research their efforts.

I confess I first considered looking into the Smith Family, but decided that it was entirely too large a universe to draw from. But, how many writers and doers could have the name Jones anyway? Quite a lot as it turns out. This list is not all inclusive either with the Jones writers or their works. Even if we had the space for everything, only readers of the Jones persuasion would finish the article. And for some of the family, I could not find accurate dates of death---or even confirm whether or not they’re still alive. With so many to choose from, only the really outstanding Jones members are covered by historical or literary records.

Adam Leroy Jones (1873-1934,) taught Philosophy at Columbia University and wrote Early American Philosophers (1898) and Logic (1909.)

Alfred Jones (1819-1900,) was an engraver for “Godey’s Lady’s Book” and “Graham’s Magazine,” and he invented the process for photo-reproduction directly on a plate which could be printed with type (the “half-tone” process.)

Amanda Theodosia Jones (1835-1914,) was an inventor, poet, and songwriter. She wrote for “The Methodist Ladies’ Repository,” “Frank Leslie’s Illustrated,” and was literary editor of “The Western Rural” and “Bright Side.” Her works include: Ulah and Other Poems (1861,) her first book; Atlantis and Other Poems (1866); A Prairie Idyll (1862); Rubaiyat of Solomon and Other Poems (1905); A Mother of Pioneers (1908); and A Psychic Autobiography (1910.) Amanda also found time to invent a vacuum-preserving process for canning without cooking or without using preservatives: the Jones Direct Feed Safety Oil-Burning System; and the Jones Protection Valve. She doesn’t sound so average to me.

Charles Henry Jones (born 1848, probably dead by now,) was a journalist and a confederate veteran who had served under General Joseph Johnston. He edited several magazines and newspapers: “Eclectic Magazine”; “Appleton’s Journal”; “The Florida Daily Times” (he helped establish it in 1881); the “St. Louis Missouri-Republican”; “The New York World”; and “The St. Louis Post-Dispatch.”

Charles J. “Buffalo” Jones (1844-1918,) was a buffalo hunter through 1872. In 1886, he began breeding experiments and ultimately crossed buffalo with cows---which he called “Cattalo.” [??? Sounds more like he crossed them with cats.] He was also the first game warden for Yellowstone National Park (1901.) One biography, edited by Henry Inman, was published in 1899: BUFFALO JONES’ FORTY YEARS OF ADVENTURE ON THE PLAINS. Another, BUFFALO JONES was written by Ralph Kersey. Buffalo was mentioned in Zane Gray’s ROPING LIONS IN THE GRAND CANYON, and LORD OF THE BEASTS by Easton and Brown. He was awarded a medal by Edward VII for his work with animals, and he entered the Cowboy Hall of Fame in 1959.

Ebenezer Jones (1820-1860,) was an English poet with strict, Calvinist views. He wrote Studies of Sensation and Event (1843) and Land Monopoly (1849,) which anticipated Henry George’s economic theories by some thirty years. Ebenezer is best known for three poems: “Winter Hymn To The Snow”; “When the World Is Burning”; and “To Death.”

Edith Newbolt Jones was the birth name of Edith Wharton (1862-1937,) and she used it for her first book, Verses (1878,) which was published in Newport, RI. Her other works include: The Valley of Decision (1902); The House of Mirth 1905); A Motor Flight Through France (1908); Ethan Frome (1911); The Age of Innocence (1920 and a Pulitzer Prize); Twilight Sleep (1927); Certain People (1930); and an autobiography, A Backward Glance (1934.)

Ernest Jones (1819-1869,) a poet, was born in Berlin and moved to England in 1838. His first book appears to have been: The Wood Spirit (1841,) a romance. In 1844, Ernest was “called” to the bar and became a radical leader in the Chartist Movement, issuing “The Labourer, Notes of the People” and “The People’s Paper.” He rejected an annual income of 2,000 pounds---payable only if he gave up his Chartist activities (the latter which led him to an 1848-1850 term in solitary confinement.) Ernest’s other works include: The Battleday and Other Poems (1855); THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE (1856); BELDAGON CHURCH (1860); and CORAYDA.

Harold Spencer Jones (1890-1960,) was an English astronomer at the Cape of Good Hope (1923-1933) and England’s Astronomer Royal from 1933-1955. His works include: WORLDS WITHOUT END (1935); LIFE ON OTHER WORLDS (1940); and PICTURE OF THE UNIVERSE (1947.)

Henry Arthur Jones (1851-1929,) a Welsh dramatist who wrote his first play at 16, worked in the business community until 1878. Then, with Sir Arthur Wing Pinero, he found “realist problem drama” in England. His first play was ONLY ROUND THE CORNER, produced in Exeter in 1878. Other works include: A Clerical Error (1879,) in which he acted; The Silver King (1882,) his first big hit; Saints and Sinners (1884); The Dancing Girl (1891); Rebellious Susan (1894); Michael and His Lost Angel (1896,) a failure on stage but Henry considered it his best play; and The Liars (1897,) considered by many to be his masterpiece. The Life and Letters of Henry Arthur Jones was published by his daughter in 1930.

Henry Macnaughton Jones (1848-1918,) a surgeon and professor of mid-wifery, was educated at Queen’s College, Cork, Ireland. In 1868 Henry Macnaughton founded Cork Ophthalmic Hospital (and was its first doctor); with Dr. Cummins, he founded Cork Maternity Hospital (1872); and he helped found County and City of Cork Hospital (now Victoria Hospital) in 1874. He published several volumes of verse privately and MANUAL OF DISEASES OF WOMEN (1884,) which lasted through nine editions.

Howard Mumford Jones (1892-1980,) taught comparative literature at the University of Texas, University of North Carolina, University of Michigan, and Harvard University. He was literary editor of “The Boston Evening Transcript” (1938-1941.) Howard Mumford’s first book was A LITTLE BOOK OF LOCAL VERSE (1915.) He won the Pulitzer Prize (non-fiction) in 1965 for O STRANGE NEW WORLD (1964.) His other works include: AMERICA AND FRENCH CULTURE 1750-1848 (1927); THE LIFE OF MOSES COIT TYLER (1933); THE HARP THAT ONCE (1937,) a biography of Irish poet, Thomas Moore; and REVOLUTION AND ROMANTICISM (1974.)

Hugh Jones (1669-1760,) born in England, was an Anglican minister, mathematician, historian, and professor of mathematics at the College of William & Mary, and his works include: AN ACCIDENCE TO THE ENGLISH TONGUE (1724,) the first English grammar written in America; and THE PRESENT STATE OF VIRGINIA (1724,) a contemporary view of social, economic, and religious life in the colony.

James Jones (1921-1977,) was born in Illinois and served in the U.S. Army 1939-1944. He is best known for FROM HERE TO ETERNITY (1951,) a novel of Army life in Hawaii before the Pearl Harbor attack. It was made into a 1953 movie with Burt Lancaster, Deborah Kerr, and Frank Sinatra (remade in 1979.) James’ other works include: SOME CAME RUNNING (1957,) set in the mid-west between WWII and the Korean War (a 1958 Frank Sinatra movie); THE PISTOL (1959); THE THIN RED LINE 1962,) set in Guadalcanal 1942-43 (a 1998 Sean Penn and Nick Nolte movie,) was a sequel to FROM HERE TO ETERNITY above; and WHISTLE (1978,) another sequel to make a trilogy. He also wrote THE ICE CREAM HEADACHE (1968,) a collection of short stories, and VIET JOURNAL (1974,) about his 1973 trip to Vietnam.

James Athearn Jones (1790-1853) wrote as Captain Matthew Murgatroyd: THE REFUGEE (1823,) a two volume romance of the Revolutionary War; TALES OF AN INDIAN CAMP (1829,) three volumes of legends of the Eastern and Plains Indians; and HAVERHILL; OR, MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICER IN THE ARMY OF WOLFE (1831,) about General Wolfe’s army.

John Beauchamp Jones (1810-1866,) a frontier novelist born in Baltimore, MD, founded “The Southern Monitor” in Philadelphia in the mid 1850s. His works include WILD WESTERN SCENES (1841,) describing Daniel Boone; THE WESTERN MERCHANT (1849); FREAKS OF FORTUNE; OR THE HISTORY OF NED LORN (1854); and THE WARPATH (1858.) He also wrote: A REBEL WAR CLERK’S DIARY AT THE CONFEDERATE CAPITAL (1866,) a good description of contemporary conditions; and BOOKS OF VISION (1847.)

John Luther “Casey Jones” (1863-1900,) at 17 was a telegrapher in Cayce (pronounced cay-see) KY---hence his nickname. In 1888, he was a locomotive fireman for the Illinois Central Railroad, rising to engineer in 1890. He didn’t write anything, but people have been writing about him for over 100 years. Casey bragged that he always brought the trains in on schedule, a trait which led to his demise when he was engineer on the “Cannonball Express,” a dangerous run from Memphis, TN to Canton, MS.

Trying to make up lost time on the night of April 30, 1900, Casey was speeding along with his well-know series of whistles. But, there was another train in front of him (the tail end of a freight sticking out onto the main track from a siding) near Vaughn MS, and when he saw it, he knew he was going to collide. He ordered the fireman to jump, slammed on the brakes, stayed with the train, and was killed in the crash. All the passengers were unharmed. According to the official railroad investigation, Casey was at fault---mostly because of his excess speed. He died with one hand on the whistle and one hand on the power lever. A fellow railroad worker, Wallace Saunders, wrote the original ballad of “Casey Jones,” found in AMERICAN BALLADS AND SONGS (1922, by Louisa Pound.) A biography by Fred J. Lee, CASEY JONES: EPIC OF THE AMERICAN RAILROAD was published in 1939.

John Paul Jones (1747-1792,) born John Paul in Scotland, was a naval officer
and author. His two volumes of memoirs were published posthumously in 1930. Biographies of him include: THE LIFE OF JOHN PAUL JONES (1841,) in two volumes by Alexander S. Mackenzie: THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF JOHN PAUL JONES (1913,) in two volumes by Anna F. de Koven; JOHN PAUL JONES (1927,) by Phillips Russell; and KNIGHT OF THE SEAS (1939,) by Valentine Thompson. John Paul, a dashing figure, also appeared in a Philip Frenau poem, James Fenimore Cooper’s THE PILOT (1823); Herman Melville’s ISRAEL POTTER (1855); Sarah Orne Jewett’s only novel, THE TORY LOVER (1901); Winston S. Churchill’s (the American writer and not the English Prime Minister) RICHARD CARVEL (1899); and James Boyd’s DRUMS (1925.)

John Pringle Jones (1812-1874) was the presiding judge of Pennsylvania’s 3rd District in 1874. He went on to become the president of the Berks County Courts from 1851 to 1861. He wrote EULOGY ON A. LAUSSAT IN 1834.

John Taylor Jones (1802-1851) was a missionary to Southeast Asia, where he learned Taling and Siamese. He wrote BRIEF GRAMMATICAL NOTICES OF THE SIAMESE LANGUAGE in 1842, and he published a Siamese translation of the NEW TESTAMENT in 1843.

Joseph Stevens Jones (1811-1877,) was an actor and an author of 150+ melodramas, farces, and comedies. He was also Boston city physician. His works include: THE LIBERTY TREE (1832); THE PEOPLE’S LAWYER [aka SOLON SHINGLE] (1839,) about a shrewd yankee; MOLL PITCHER (1839); THE CARPENTERS OF ROUEN (1840); and PAUL REVERE AND THE SONS OF LIBERTY (1875.)

Evarett Leroi Jones (born 1934,) is a militant black author and dramatist who changed his name to Immanu Amiri Baraka in 1965. His first books were published in 1961: CUBA LIBRE and PREFACE TO A TWENTY VOLUME SUICIDE NOTE, a book of poetry. Leroi’s dramas include many intensely anti-white plays, such as: DUTCHMAN (1964); THE SLAVE (1964); and THE TOILET (1964.) His novel of frustration and bitterness, THE SYSTEM OF DANTE’S HELL (1965,) equates Newark NJ slums to the Inferno. His poetry and essays include: THE DEAD LECTURER (1964); and IN OUR TERRIBLENESS (1971); HOME (1966); RAISE RACE RAYS RAZE (1971,) in black idiom; SPIRIT REACH (1972); and SELECTED POETRY (1979.) He has written non-fiction as well BLUES PEOPLE (1963,) re jazz as an expression of black people; BLACK MUSIC (1967); BLACK ART (1967); and BLACK MAGIC (1969.)

Leonard Augustus Jones (1832-?) was editor of the “American Law Review” and wrote a treatise on the law of mortgages of real property in 1878.
Mabel Cromise Jones (born 1860, probably dead) was a journalist and author; she also developed an educational system for her daughter, Dorothea, who read newspapers at age 3, attended Dickinson College at 13, and graduated at 17. Mabel’s works include: GETTYSBURG (1902); SIX OF THEM (1902); DOLLY’S COLLEGE EXPERIENCES ( 1909); IN DAYS OF OLD (1912); and ROME’S FOOL (1915.)

Robert Tyre “Bobby” Jones (1902-1971,) was a practicing lawyer, professional golfer, and author, his first book being DOWN THE FAIRWAY (1927) with O. B. Keeler. Bobby won the U.S. Amateur Open: 1924, 1925, 1927, 1928, and 1930; the U.S. Open: 1923; 1926; 1929, and 1930; the British Amateur Open: 1930; and the British Open: 1926; 1927; and 1930. In 1930, he was the first golfer to win the Grand Slam: British and United States’ Amateur Opens and Opens. His other written works include: GOLF IS MY GAME (1960); BOBBY JONES ON GOLF (1966); and BOBBY JONES ON THE BASIC GOLF SWING (1969.) His biography was published as: THE BOBBY JONES STORY (1953,) by O. B. Keeler, a close friend. A 2004 movie, based on his life, “Bobby Jones, Stroke of Genius,” stars Jim Caviezel, Claire Forlani and Malcolm McDowell.

Rufus Matthew Jones (1863-1948,) was an author and educator at Haverford College. His works include: THE LIFE OF ELI AND SIBYL JONES (1899); PRACTICAL CHRISTIANITY (1899); QUAKERISM, A RELIGION OF LIFE (1908); THE STORY OF GEORGE FOX (1919), NEW STUDIES IN MYSTICAL RELIGION (1927); SPIRIT IN MAN (1941); and the autobiographical SMALL-TOWN BOY (1941.)

Thomas Samuel Jones, Jr. (1882-1932,) was a poet and journalist for the “New York Times” and Reuters. His works include: THE PATH OF DREAMS (1905); LEONARDO DA VINCI, AND OTHER SONNETS (1930); and THE UNICORN AND OTHER SONNETS (1931.)

Virginia Smith Jones (1827-1906,) produced one work (only 90 copies printed): ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE NESTS AND EGGS OF BIRDS OF OHIO, (date unknown.) It had 68 hand-colored plates.
William Jones (1871-1909,) a Fox Indian, was an ethnologist and author who worked with the Field Museum in Chicago. His works include: ETHNOGRAPHY OF THE FOX INDIANS (1912,) edited by Margaret W. Fisher. He also wrote many papers on the Fox tribe.

William Jones (1675-1749,) was a Welsh mathematician. He wrote SYNOPSIS PALMARIORUM MATHESIOS in 1706, a book for beginners which included differential calculus; A NEW COMPENDIUM OF THE WHOLE ART OF NAVIGATION (date unsure,) and DISCOURSES OF THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHY OF THE ELEMENTS (1731.)

Sir William Jones (1746-1794,) was an orientalist and jurist: Judge of the High Court at Calcutta (1783-1794.) He was founder and first president of the Asiatic Society of Bengal (1784.) Sir William was best known for his efforts with oriental languages, including Sanskrit. His works include: PERSIAN GRAMMAR (1772); POESOS ASIATICAE COMMENTARIORUM LIBRI SEX [Latin Commentaries on Asiatic Poetry](1774); ESSAY ON BAILMENTS (1781); and MU’ALLAQAT (1783,) his version of the Arabian work. His collected works were edited and published by Lord Teignmouth in 1799.

Other Jones writers include: Anson Jones, MEMORANDA AND OFFICIAL CORRESPONDENCE RELATING TO THE REPUBLIC OF TEXAS (1859); Charles Colecock Jones, a Georgia historian, MONUMENTAL REMAINS OF GEORGIA (1861,) and ANTIQUITIES OF THE SOUTHERN INDIANS (1873); Daniel W. Jones, FORTY YEARS AMONG THE INDIANS (1890); Dennis Jones: COLOSSUS (1966,) and filmed in 1969 with Eric Braeden as “Colossus, the Forbin Project.”

Douglas C. Jones, THE COURTMARTIAL OF GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER (1976); Edward Dewitt Jones, a clergyman, THE INNER CIRCLE (1914,) and WHAT I LEARNED FROM ABRAHAM LINCOLN (1940); Edward Smyth Jones, THE SYLVAN CABIN (1911); or Gayl Jones, CORREGIDORA (1975); George Jones, clergyman and naval chaplain, SKETCHES OF NAVAL LIFE (1829,) in two volumes, and LIFE SCENES FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT (1868); George William Jones, a mathematician, TREATISE ON ALGEBRA (1882,) and SOME PROOFS IN ELEMENTARY GEOMETRY (1904); Grover Jones (1893-1940,) a short-story writer, book collector, and scenarist; he wrote 400+ scenarios for motion picture plays; Herschel Vespasian Jones, newspaper editor and book collector, ADVENTURES IN AMERICAN (1928,) in two volumes.

We also know of: Idwal Jones, VINES IN THE SUN (1949); Joshua Henry Jones, BY SANCTION OF LAW (1924); Jenkin Lloyd Jones (1843-1918,) Unitarian clergyman, editor, and reformer NUGGETS FROM A WELSH MINE (1902,) and AN ARTILLERYMAN’S DIARY (1914); Llewellyn Jones, editor and critic, FIRST IMPRESSIONS: ESSAYS ON POETRY (1925,) HOW TO CRITICIZE BOOKS (1928,) and HOW TO READ BOOKS (1930); Livingston Jones, STUDY OF THLINGETS OF ALASKA (ca 1914); Louise S. Jones, THE HUMAN SIDE OF BOOKPLATES (1952); Nard Jones, OREGON DETOUR (1930,) and SUN TAN (1935); Owen Jones, HANDBOOK TO THE EGYPTIAN COURT (1854); Raymond F. Jones, THIS ISLAND EARTH (1952,) filmed with Jeff Morrow in 1954; John Richter Jones (1803-63,) THE QUAKER SOLDIER (1858,) written anonymously; Justin Jones, aka “Harry Hazel,” THE BELLE OF BOSTON (1844,) RED KING (1850.)

Uh oh! My mind’s racing out of control. Jones to the left of me! Jones to the right of me! Into the valley of Jones rode the six hundred. They were amassed before me. Barnaby Jones the detective; Buck Jones the astronaut; Buck Jones the cowboy; Carolyn Jones the actress; Chuck Jones the renowned cartoon animator; Cleon Jones the outfielder; Davy Jones the Monkee; Davy Jones the pop singer; Davy Jones the locker; Grandpa Jones the Hee Haw!; Henry “Indiana” Jones the archaeologist; Indiana Jones the Jones family dog; Chuck Jones the cartoonist; Jeffrey Jones the actor; Jeffrey Jones the illustrator; Ben “Cooter” Jones the actor turned politician; Catherine Zeta-Jones the---just wow!; Jenny Jones the talker; Tommy Lee Jones the man in black; Osmosis Jones the cartoon; Dow Jones the average; Grace Jones the singer; George Jones the singer; Inigo Jones the architect; Jack Jones the singer; James Earl Jones the voice; Smarty Jones the racer.

Jennifer Jones the actress; John Jonzz the manhunter from Mars; Marcia Jones the cute red-head who sat next to me in third grade; Mother Jones the activist; Quincy Jones the musician; “Sad” Sam Jones the pitcher; Shirley Jones the singer/actress; Tom Jones the singer; Deacon Jones the football player; “Too Tall” Jones---anything he wants to be; and Jones Beach the sandy one.
It was too much! I was overwhelmed with Jones! Spike Jones! Save the bones for Henry Jones! Turkey and Gravy flavored Jones soda! I called my martini supplier for a refill of my prescription: Jones Package Store. I called my doctor for a case of valium---he was out of town and his temporary replacement was Dr. Billy Jones!

In Passing

My cousin and godfather died last October. I just found out about it. He was diagnosed with leukemia and died a short three weeks later---hardly enough time passed to get his affairs in order. It must have been a painful demise for a robust man, and he probably paid for every slight---and there were many---he gave to his family, friends and colleagues.

John was born in 1932, and I can still see his childhood pictures among our family treasures. He was called Brownie for a reason unknown to me. By the 1950s, when I became somewhat cognizant of my surroundings, John had been to Williams College and served a two-year stint in the Army.

I remember when he came back from the service in the mid-fifties. We all lived on Cottage Street in Middletown, NY at the time. Since John had been away to Williams and then the Army, I had hardly known him. I was about eight at the time, and when he planned to go to New Jersey to pick up his trunk, I wanted to go along. My brother, Ed, and John’s brother Bob, went with him as well. They are six years older than me.

The chosen conveyance was the family convertible, and being bigger and not anxious to be cold, the three of them chose to sit in the front seat. I was relegated to the back---which wouldn’t have been so bad except they had the top down. They couldn’t hear my complaints over the sounds of the heater, radio, and their own laughing and talking. I was pretty much the forgotten element of the trip. But, had John hit a bump, I might have gained in prominence by taking flight over the highway and bouncing to a stop. I’m sure they all would have been roaring with laughter while scraping me off the road.

On the way back to Middletown, along Route 17 in New Jersey, we stopped for gas. I asked for and received permission to go to the bathroom. When I returned to the pumps, no one was there! They had driven off without me. This was years before Robert Barone of the TV sitcom complained about a similar event in his TV childhood.

But, thankfully, I didn’t have long to fret. I was still frozen with surprise when I saw the car coming back for me. They had forgotten my existence for a few minutes. I don’t remember who had the presence of mind to question my absence. And for the entire trip back, which became family lore, I heard almost constant laughter at the situation, especially from John, who had a robust, German laugh.

When I was just a toddler, John---as my godfather---had kept an eye on me and taught me to speak well---so well, in fact, that I corrected nearby English misstatements from the crib, especially for the use of the dreaded word, “ain’t.” That was my job. To listen for the dreaded word.

“Johnny don’t want ain’t! Johnny don’t want ain’t!” My ungrammatical calls led to much laughter and maybe fewer “ain’ts” along the way. John was the resident intellectual in our family, and I had taken to emulating him.

After the New Jersey incident, John and his family moved to North Street, about a five minute drive from the old homes. I remember visiting there often. One time Aunt Helen and Uncle John tried to get me to eat ice cream. “I can’t. I gave it up for lent.”

“But, Sundays don’t count,” I was told. So, I enjoyed ice cream with my Aunt and Uncle.

I don’t remember what kind of work John did at the time, but I’d usually visit him in his room when I was there. Sometimes he wasn’t there, but I was allowed in anyway. It was like an inner sanctum, or Sherlock Holmes’ great room. I looked at the fancy books and listened to his classical music, with a bit of Spike Jones and others of his ilk thrown in. “Save the bones for Henry Jones, because Henry don’t eat no meat.”

John had no answer to my question about Spike’s grammar---or rather lack of it. He just laughed and started telling me something deep, I’m sure. It was during this time that my little sister, Mary Anne, visited with me and John in his room. John kept a small bottle of cognac in his desk. He had poured himself a libation, and in true John-fashion, offered Mary Anne a sip. She spit it out and John roared with laughter. His mother and mine didn’t share his jovial sentiments about the situation, but John didn’t care. He enjoyed it.

As a growing boy, I became enamored with tennis, even though I could barely manipulate a racket. One warm summer afternoon, John took me with him to watch him play tennis. I think he was playing with his friend, Fred Schmidt. They chose to battle at a shaded tennis court up near Orange County Community College. I spent the afternoon chasing tennis balls. I didn’t mind too much.

We returned to my frantic mother, who didn’t know where her son was. Apparently, in his usual independent way, John hadn’t bothered to inform my mother of my trip to the tennis court with him. And, of course, telling her didn’t occur to me because I thought John had done it.

Early in his manhood, John strayed from the Catholic Church. I guess the restrictions of faith didn’t fit his independent life style. No one could tell him what to do about anything, especially religion---although he must have acquiesced to greater theologians when he attended Yale Divinity School. He became an Episcopalian Minister, but I’m not aware of any regular parish he ever administered.

During the 1970s, John was Dean of Goddard College, a small liberal arts college in Plainfield, VT. The college had originally been planned using the principles of John Dewey, and during the 1960s and 1970s it was the scene of radical thought and educational experimentation. Plainfield had a population of just over 1,000, but John opted for the big city and lived nearby in Montpelier, Vermont’s capital---population about 8,000. I visited him once in 1979 with my son, Geoffrey, and he said his home was rather historic, which I think was his term for rather run down. It was only a few blocks away from the State House, so we could walk to the sights.

John must have fit in well at Goddard, though his departure in the 1980s seems to have had a cloud over it. His personal demeanor and brain cells flourished with the radical-thinking atmosphere. I can picture his hair flying about as he was engaged in fiery and deep philosophical discussions with the students and staff. He could never have been mistaken for a conservative, that’s for sure. He hated all Republicans and rarely championed a Democrat unless he agreed with him about something, and I doubt he ever got around to voting much in his lifetime. He rarely joined with the majority of a group about anything.

John had the unfortunate habit of insulting his family and friends and then later wondering what all the fuss was about. He had a strong, German voice, which he used a great deal, as he was particularly raw with his immediate family. His difficulties with people led to few family invitations---many of which he’d probably have ignored anyway. But, he always wanted to look good to strangers, even if he rode roughshod over everyone else in sight. John wasn’t loved by his family so much as he was tolerated. That was a sad truth he had to live with.

But we got along okay. He never insulted me. He talked with me almost as an equal, and treated me with as much respect as he ever afforded a stranger (except for those who inadvertently stepped on his toes.) The two of us never argued about things that I remember. We talked and visited numerous times, and he helped finance one of my early computers. I don’t think anyone else ever got so much out of him. I learned a lot from John. My love of writing, reading classic books, listening to fine classical music, and always being aware of a chance at learning something are probably due in no small part to his influence. But, I didn’t grow up with his love of cognac. It gives me a headache.

I visited him once with my wife and children when we were leaving the area to return to Connecticut. It was the holiday season. John served us all a small glass of eggnog. He offered to put a touch of rum in the ones for me and my wife. But, somehow, little Geoffrey got one with rum and claimed that it tasted funny. John said it must have been a mistake and roared with laughter. But, based on previous events, I think he did it on purpose just to see what would happen. Geoffrey didn’t oblige him by spitting it out.

In his later years, John changed the spelling of his surname from Eurich to Eyerich. He told everyone that this better represented the German pronunciation of his name. I don’t know. I don’t speak German, and neither does anyone else in the family. He became a more visible Episcopalian minister and served the inmates at local prisons. Such efforts deserve much praise no matter what the circumstances. In fact, his ministry was the subject of a feature article in a local newspaper, so he must have been doing some major good for the inmates.

To the best of my knowledge, John’s last home was in Montgomery, NY. When I was younger, Montgomery was just a dot on the map, mostly farmland and the little central village commercial district. Now, the population has burgeoned to over 20,000. That surprises me because I thought it was still small. The local builders must be doing great business in the area.

John owned an historic building which he completely renovated to an extent that one would think it had been that way for decades. Wide plank floors, plaster walls, a mishmash of rooms, etc. It had been a blacksmith’s shop in the 19th Century, and John wanted to maintain some historical accuracy about it. He had fixed up the bottom floor as an office which opened up on the street with double doors. It was a nice place.

Despite his many flaws, John had good attributes. He was very intelligent, shared fascinating thoughts with those few people he respected, opened his home to my parents for a few years after they sold theirs, and always remembered me on Christmas and my birthday when I was a kid. Not much perhaps, but then so few understood him it was hard to get on his good side and share his extraordinary learning and experience. He taught himself Latin, Greek, and German before he needed them and read books easily in those languages.

So, John is gone. I’ll miss him. I don’t know nor do I care whether anyone else does or not. He left behind of lot of burned bridges. There was much turmoil and anger in his life, and I’m glad he’s reached a lasting peace---and hopefully, he’s not yelling at St. Peter to “shut the damned gate!”