The Valley Viewpoint

Hemingway didn’t know he was Ernest Hemingway when he was a young man. Faulkner didn’t know he was William Faulkner. But they had to take the first step. They had to call themselves writers. That is the first revolutionary act a writer has to make. It takes courage. But it’s necessary.”
— Pat Conroy, My Losing Season

I just love this quote from Pat Conroy, my favorite author. It makes me think about all the young people that I have met. Young people who, upon being asked what they would like to do with their lives, have told me all sorts of things. Doctor, lawyer, teacher, astronaut and my personal favorite from a young 5 year old neighbor, a ‘mommy’. A good friend of mine takes great pride in telling me about his 5 year old grandson who wants to be an astronomer. My friend is astounded as to where this is coming from but he’s enjoying encouraging him.

The secret message communicated to most young people today by the society around them is that they are not needed, that the society will run itself quite nicely until they – at some distant point in the future – will take over the reigns. Yet the fact is that the society is not running itself nicely… because the rest of us need all the energy, brains, imagination and talent that young people can bring to bear down on our difficulties.

The most significant visions are not cast by great orators from a stage, TV or movie screen. They are cast at the bedsides of our children. The greatest vision opportunities happen between the hours of 7:30 and 9:30 PM Monday through Sunday. In these closing hours of the day we have a unique opportunity to plant the seeds of what could be and what should be. Take every opportunity you get.

I’m an old father now. I own lots of memories. I polish the sweet ones and never dust the ones that hurt. I mind time now. I didn’t used to. In fact, like lots of you, I was reckless with time. Not any longer.

When I was a boy of about 9 or so, I remember having a conversation with my grandfather.

“So, Eddie Boy” said my grandfather, “ how long would you like to live? What is a good, long life?”

Right off the bat I’m thinking this is a trick question. And I don’t have much in the way of trick answers … because … I’m nine. Gimme a break.

After several long minutes he leaned over and asked, “And?”

“Seventy. Seventy years old is a good, long life.”

After a few long minutes, he clasped his hands and leaned over toward me. And then the verdict.

“You’re a silly boy.”

Mind you … he said it softly. No mocking at all. Just a soft, blunt statement … designed to make me think all over again. To spin my brain-gears a bit more.

Then he leaned over once again … and in a loud whisper … so all could hear … he said …“If you live to be seventy … you will have lived just 840 months. Does that seem long enough for you?”

And, of course, it didn’t then … and it doesn’t now. And I learned the lesson he intended me to learn … to be careful with numbers and to respect time. And to not waste time … or let others waste my time.

So, from this old father … to you young fathers and young mothers … mind the time.

Mind those sweet moments with your children and seldom say “Hurry up!”. Don’t wish for anything except this moment. Leave tomorrow alone. Tend to today.

Don’t let anyone hurry your child.

Don’t let anyone sandpaper their softest years with grit or rigor … because there’s plenty of that stuff in the eight hundred months ahead.

Don’t let anyone run innocence out of your child’s life. It has its own cadence and rhythm … and it’s plenty fast enough.

Don’t let others spin those clock hands faster than they already spin.

Mind the numbers in your life as never before. Pay as much attention to the little moments as you do the big moments.

Remind yourself that a five year old is sixty months on this planet. Less than 2,000 days old. They’re still brand new people! No one has the right to whisper anything about college or careers to a child determined to conquer the monkey bars. All adults should respect the Law of the Chair … if a child’s legs do not reach the floor … well … they are reality-exempt.

That eight year old … the one who sleeps in his Little League uniform? He’s a third grader. Not yet 100 months old. Let that sink in. Why is he rip-roaring mad at himself over some junk-test? That’s not the worry of an 8 year old. He should be anxious about base hits … not base line scores. His only career thought is what professional team to sign with … and that’s heavy enough.

That music-blasting “tween” is maybe 150 months old. At that age their job is to not walk into door jambs … and to try to put a lid on some hormone havoc. They’re still closer to babyhood than adulthood. Why do we let schools bum-rush them into anxiety-hell over tests? Mother Nature has already over-supplied them with all the anxiety they can barely handle. Why don’t we just lay off ‘em … and let ‘em outgrow this messy moment? It’s bad enough as it is … leave it be.

I’m glad my grandfather cured me from becoming number-numb. My hot-seat moment has served me well for … for lots of months. Maybe this will shake up your consciousness … and slow you down some. And maybe … maybe you won’t say “Hurry up!” quite so often. And perhaps you’ll remind that school to slow down … that there are children on board … and they are entitled to every last drop of innocence.

Don’t let them tug your child into their warped world. If they think education is all about numbers, well, they’ve already forfeited their privilege to enjoy your child. They’re just as silly as I was … but I was only about a hundred months old. What’s their excuse?”

January 6th marks the 100th birthday of my uncle John. 100! He went to Heaven in 1976 when he was just 55. I’ve blogged a lot about John. A fellow Son of Xavier, an uncle to my 17 cousins, a presence that held our family together.
As those of you who read my blogs know, I have a thing for Superman. Superman is and has always been America’s hero. John was a weight lifter. When I was 5 or so, I remember asking my mother if my uncle was Superman. She looked at me and very seriously told me that she couldn’t tell me because ‘no one was supposed to know’. That sealed it for me. From that day on, my uncle was Superman and I was now entrusted with this knowledge. I mean, after all, he carried my sister and I up three flights of stairs using nothing but the palms of his hands. Who, but Superman, could do that? Who, but Superman, could dead lift 511 pounds using just two fingers? A world record still standing.
But the real reason he was Superman was that he stood for what we believe is the best within us: limitless strength tempered by compassion, that could bear adversity and emerge stronger on the other side. He stood for what we all feel we would like to be able to stand for, when standing is sometimes the hardest.
He loved his family. I was just 17 when he died and, truthfully, my loss of him deeply affected me.
It’s only when you grow up, and step back from him, or see how much life has changed since he left that you can measure his greatness and fully appreciate it. Pride reinforces love.
My uncle taught me that you can you read a hundred books on wisdom and write a hundred books on wisdom, but unless you apply what you learned then its only words on a page. Life is not lived with intentions, but action. So, I wish John were still here on his 100th birthday. I’d have a lot to talk over with him. Happy Birthday, John.

“Goodbye, Santa……goodbye…..thank you for coming….have a safe trip back to the North Pole”…..the Irishman bellowed in the vestibule of 210 East 83rd Street. That man was my grandfather and the vestibule he was in was the apartment building that I grew up in along with my aunt, cousins, my Uncle John and my parents and sister. Now this Christmas day ritual went on for years. My Mom would tell me that if we hurried down the four flights of stairs, we could actually meet Santa. We never made it in time….but it was ok….my grandfather actually knew Santa! The one time I asked my mother how did Nagh know Santa, she told me that they “grew up” together in Ireland. What a lucky kid I was…..I had a grandfather who knew Santa AND Santa was Irish! Wow, I couldn’t have been more proud. Eventually, there did come a Christmas where I became more concerned about our neighbors thinking that Mr. McLoughlin must be crazy….but, today, this Christmas morning, what I wouldn’t give to hear a booming Irish voice shouting”Goodbye, Santa….thanks for bringing my family presents…see you next year!”

Today I was in a shoe store that sells only shoes, nothing else. A young girl with green hair walked over to me and asked, “What brings you in today? I looked at her and said, “I’m interested in buying a refrigerator.” She didn’t quite know how to respond, had that deer in the headlights look.
I was thinking about old age and decided that old age is when you still have something on the ball, but you are just too tired to bounce it.
When people see a cat’s litter box they always say, “Oh, have you got a cat?” I just say, “No, it’s for company!”
Employment application blanks always ask who is to be called in case of an emergency. I think you should write, “An ambulance.”
The older you get the tougher it is to lose weight because by then your body and your fat have gotten to be really good friends.
The easiest way to find something lost around the house is to buy a replacement.
Have you ever noticed: The Roman Numerals for forty (40) are XL.
The sole purpose of a child’s middle name is so he knows when he’s really in trouble.
Did you ever notice that when you put the 2 words “The” and “IRS” together it spells “Theirs?”
Aging: Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it.
Some people try to turn back their “odometers.” Not me. I want people to know why I look this way. I’ve traveled a long way and a lot of the roads were not paved.
Ah! Being young is exciting but being old is comfortable.
Lord, keep your arm around my shoulder and your hand over my mouth.
May you always have:
Love to share,
Cash to spare,
Tires with air,
And friends who care…..

President John F. Kennedy was killed 57 years ago today. 57 years ago. For many people my age, JFK’s assassination and funeral was the first national news story of our lives. I was 5 and just started school. My family, that week was focused on Thanksgiving as well as my sister’s upcoming birthday and then the news of JFK’s death stunned the nation. People, that day, were scrambling to get news. There was no 24 hour streaming news media back then. We huddled around our black and white TV for information. My most vivid memory of watching, on TV, the state funeral was when my Dad pointed to the TV and said “See that horse, Eddie”? “That horse is a son of a bitch”, which brought my mother into the room for an admonishment. Turns out my father had his own experiences with Blackjack when he was stationed with the Old Guard at Fort Myer. The soldier handling Blackjack that day was having a tough time handling the skittish animal and, it was later reported, that the horse actually stepped on the soldiers foot making it very difficult for him to control the animal.
I can remember returning to school after this long week was over and telling Sister Grace Francis, my teacher, that my Dad knew Blackjack and he is a ‘sonofabitch’….

So, pray for the soul of JFK today. Remember a simpler time, when the nation was united in our shared grieve, when we didn’t witness the kind of violence that so many young kids, today, are witness to.
It takes time to bury painful living memories, but it must be done so memory can stand without sorrow. The Kennedy family has learned through many tragic experiences, that once you acknowledge the death, you must let it go and honor the life, for only the body dies. And remember that Blackjack was a “son of a bitch”….

Sad news today. Two-time Pulitzer Prize-winner Jim Dwyer, a columnist for three New York City newspapers across a long and acclaimed career, died Thursday. He was 63.
Jim and I went to grammar school together. Our paths also crossed at Fordham. Jim and I, over the past several years, were Facebook friends. Jim’s writing was crisp, clear and always ‘New York’. Over the years, as I blogged and posted on my own page, my day was always made better when Jim ‘liked’ something that I wrote.
Jim also wrote or co-authored 7 books. One of these, “102 Minutes: The Untold Story of the Fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers,” was an account of the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center from the perspective of the survivors. Jim, graciously agreed to call in to WKIP’s Hudson Valley Live Show when I was filling in for Tom Sipos to discuss this book on the 16th anniversary of the attacks. My interview with Jim is attached.
Jim, thank you for following your heart. Thank you for your insight, humor and for never forgetting that you were a kid from Yorkville.
God speed, Jim

As the new US Supreme Court term begins, I ran across this quote and I thought it worth sharing:‘The first lesson, simple as it is, is that whatever court we are in, whatever we are doing, whether we are in a trial court or an appellate court, at the end of our task some human being is going to be affected. Some human life is going to be changed in some way by what we do, whether we do it as trial judges or whether we do it as appellate judges, as far removed from the trial arena as it is possible to be. And so we had better use every power of our minds and our hearts and our beings to get those rulings right’. (Justice David Souter).

So, a while back my daughter and I got our genetic testing results back. Yes, we bought into the pitch that 23 and Me is all about real science, real data and genetic insights. Besides confirming that Jen is ACTUALLY my daughter, I was surprised that my genetic make up puts me squarely in the Irish, English, Scottish and Eastern European arenas. The real surprise came when I received an email from my daughter who was reviewing my results and she, gleefully, wrote, ‘Dad, you have 42% of Neanderthal DNA’……She was quick to point out that her Neanderthal DNA was only 9%. She attributed this to her being further down the evolutionary chain than I am.(Jen did have better SAT scores than me).

So, my friends, think twice about doing this. You may just be surprised at what you’ll find out…

They are tearing down dozens of statues and facing no consequences whatsoever for vandalizing our public spaces — including memorials to our nation’s greatest heroes. When private citizens try to do the job the government won’t and protect our culture, our history, and our public property from destruction, local officials step in and remove the statues on behalf of the vandals, lest they injure themselves while imitating Iraqis celebrating the fall of Saddam Hussein.These people are not seeking change at the margins. They are demanding a total cultural revolution, and cowardly public officials are giving it to them.The only thing that could make the situation worse at this moment would be handing the White House to a doddering and unprincipled establishment politician beholden to the “cancel culture” mob. Presumptive Democratic nominee Joe Biden would immediately delegate de facto control over the vast justice, civil rights, and regulatory apparatus of the federal government to the loudest voices in his coalition: the woke activist class.At this moment, there is a veritable army of lawyers and bureaucrats who have spent the last three and a half years subsisting on resentment and salivating at the prospect of regaining power. Things are bad enough now, but conditions will become much worse if the “cancel culture” born on social media is augmented with the force of law and given the full attention of Biden appointees imbued with the sweeping powers of the federal bureaucracy.

Now that we’ve had a few months to mourn the loss of our basic liberties, even if our overlords make a symbolic head-fake toward giving them back, one must realize the ramifications of what has happened and what it means going forward.

The key point to understand is that the precedent has been set.

If the state can take away your freedom to assemble or otherwise control your movements or operate your business now, because of coronavirus, then they can do again in the future for something else. For anything else. From here on in, every time the powers that be are spooked by what they see coming at them, like a sudden, catastrophic loss of credibility and relevancy, they know they can just wrap up an emergency in hysteria and shut the world down again, and again, and again.

In the eyes of Big Government progressives and socialists, what has happened over the past few months isn’t an unmitigated disaster with no historical parallel, it’s an opportunity. It’s a chance to condition the populace to accept the tenets of central government control and the equitable reordering of other people’s lives:

Coronavirus today, Global Warming tomorrow. Then Climate Emergency after that. Every crisis will be presented as dwarfing the last one and anybody who disagrees or presents refuting data will be deplatformed as misinformation and dismissed as conspiracy nuts. But each one will move us toward the Holy Grail of progressivism, a government-knows-best technocracy that forces equality on everyone (else).

The New Normal is here to stay

For starters, it means we now live in a centrally planned economy, for reals. Over these last few years, with the unprecedented level of intervention in markets and interest rates, numerous prognosticators have warned that market signalling has been destroyed and we were headed for central planning. This would be a bad thing because every centrally planned economy throughout history has ended in ignominy and failure.

Well, make no mistake. We’re in one now. If the stock market goes down, central banks make them go back up via interest rate cuts and QE. If the bond market wobbles, the Fed starts buying bonds, even junk. Most of all, governments worldwide shut down the entire economy by decree, and only allowed businesses deemed to be “essential” to remain open and operate.

In order for a centrally planned economy to work, though, you need total control over the population and the ability to monitor every aspect of it. So we’ll see the war on cash intensify under the pretence that physical notes spread infections.

We’ll see China-style social credit systems under the guise of immunity passports and contact tracking which are already being discussed in past-tense as fait accompli.

At some point over a few short months the nation state and WHO response to a comparatively lightweight pandemic (in terms of case fatalities without underlying co-morbidity factors) has transitioned from being typically ham fisted and inept into operant conditioning of the masses in order to inculcate them into a state of learned helplessness.

Take everything you thought you believed about self-reliance, industriousness, thrift, personal responsibility, entrepreneurship or pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and flush it down the toilet. It’s all meaningless because now, the only thing that matters is what the government thinks about your business. Should it be permitted to operate? Do you have the green light to collect rent from your tenants on property you own? Or will you have to first comply with some social justice rental quotas, give your tenants an equity stakes in your properties first? That proposal has already been floated for landlords seeking emergency relief. It portends the type of egalitarian initiatives we’ll be inundated with under Democratic Socialism.

This is central planning.

This is flatten the curve.

This is a five year plan, The Great Leap Forward and the New Green Deal.

When the Memorial Day weekend kicks off the ‘official’ start of summer, we all have a wide array of memories that flood through our minds… Some happy, others sad, many funny, a few, memorable and special.I spent my summers on Rockaway Beach, New York. My Aunt Sissy, Aunt Mary and Uncle Jack had bungalows there. Rockaway was the working man’s Riviera. The longest stretch of urban beach in the United States on a peninsula stretching out into the Atlantic.My first time seeing the ocean was from this stretch of sand. My first sense memories of sand between your toes and then in your shoes comes from Rockaway. The smells were wonderful: the salt air, the wooden boardwalk had a certain indefinable smell; the sun tan lotion (usually Coppertone) wafting through the air and the hot dogs grilling at the beach stand; the smell of the bars on a Sunday morning as we walked past them on our way to Mass are burned in my memory.My aunt’s bungalows were always open to anybody. Now, that might mean that you had to sleep on the porch listening to the overhead subway that rattled by, but to me, it was like staying at a resort. My Aunt Mary’s bungelow had an upstairs and a kitchen that was spotless. In all the years that I went there, I can’t recall seeing her at the beach, I just remember her in the kitchen wearing an apron. When my aunt Sissy felt that we were old enough, she’d rustle us out of bed at 7 or so, telling us to go to the beach and she would bring lunch around noon. I remember sitting on the beach at 7AM on many mornings feeling like Robinson Crusoe because there was not another soul in sight! On the beach, old biplanes would fly over head heralding the latest soft drink, radio station or local stores. Then there was the ice cream man. No – not in a truck, but a boy who carried a metal box with dry ice laden with Good Humor bars and orange drinks. “Ice cream and orange drinks heah!” We were in heaven. There was a neighborhood dog named “Pete” who spent his summers being fed by everyone on the beach. When the cops would try to get him, every kid on the beach claimed ownership and begged the police officers not to take ‘their’ dog. The cops never took Pete. After a day on the beach, it was back to either Sissy or Mary’s for dinner. Picture 20 or so people sitting around a table where endless amounts of food were served along with seeing the occasional cousin running into the outdoor shower. Jack’s clam chowder was the best and he always had about 50 gallons of it ready. The more pepper the better! After dinner, we’d usually take a trip to Playland, an old wooden amusement park that you would see in the old time black and white movies today. A rickety wooden rollercoaster called ‘The Atom Smasher‘, tunnel of love, games of chance, the smell of cotton candy was heady and the Nathan’s hot dogs were the best! It was my cousin Jimmy who took me on my first roller coaster ride and then my first ferris wheel ride. When he got to the top of the ferris wheel, he took one of his moccasins off and threw it to the crowd below. He was ‘admonished’ by the ride’s operator! I had my first slice of Sicilian pizza with my cousin Geraldine in Rockaway and I still remember my cousin Donna always taking me into the ocean far so I could tell everybody that I was ‘out past the jetties’. As we all grew up, we traveled to other places for our vacations and the Rockaways became a thing of the past. You never realize how much you miss something until it is gone. What I wouldn’t give to have that one last hot dog or orangeade on the boardwalk or squeeze around Mary or Sissy’s table for some of Jack’s clam chowder.Rockaway Beach is a part of me, it always will be.I hope that this summer brings back memories for you too. Thanks, Sissy, Aunt Mary and Uncle Jack.