Reunion 2017

JUNE 1967

"Mike?....it's me...how'd you make out with it?"
"I got it...I just walked in.....you comin' over?"
"Be right there.....Don't open it until I get there"
"Hurry up.."
I bolted out of the house and started trotting across Hartmann's farm. The farmland separated our two developments by about 200 yards and it was an easy jog along the tractor trails.
Mike was leaning out of his bedroom window on the upper floor.
"Come in the back way", he said
I went through the open garage into his house and met him in his music room. He was holding the record album behind his back and had the familiar smirk on his face.

"Wait until you see the cover" he chuckled.
"I AM waiting"
He brought the record around and held it up for me to see. Neither of us spoke for a minute.
"Who are all these people?" I asked, reaching out for it.
He pulled it back away from me and sat down on the couch, still holding the record album as though it was a precious treasure. Little did we realize it was true.
"There's Bob Dylan....Marlon Brando.." I searched the cover over and over as we called out familiar names.
"W.C. Fields...Marylin Monroe....Edgar Allen Poe...."
A lot of familiar faces...and a few we didn't recognize right away.
Mike stood up and walked across to his record player. He split the cellophane wrap with his thumbnail and flexed the cardboard to grab the record.
"Wait," I said.."let's play it on the Eagle's set upstairs."
The Eagle was the affectionate name the family had for Mike's Dad..and because I was a ubiquitous fixture at their home, I was allowed to refer to him by the nickname.
We hurried upstairs and Mike took the record out of the sleeve, his palms pressing the edges.
He placed it on the spinning turntable and carefully lowered the arm...
A slight hiss...a pop..another hiss and..
"IT WAS TWENTY YEARS AGO TODAY..."

OCTOBER 2017
I pulled into the parking lot of the Plainview HOLIDAY INN, hoping I would find a "good" parking spot for my new truck. A "good" spot was one that was unlikely to subject my truck to door dings or dents, or worse, a stroller scar from a distracted mom.
That's a REAL First-World problem you got there, Old Man. 
I was there for the 50th Reunion of my High School class, and had traveled 800 or so miles from South Carolina to participate. I had kept in touch with several classmates over the years, and even got together with a few in recent years. I was eager to see most of my classmates, many of whom  I knew since Second Grade.

SEPTEMBER 1965
Mr. Joseph Solano was a humorless individual who happened to be my Spanish Teacher. The Language Lab, as it was called, had a desk for each student with Audio and Tape facilities, and more importantly....microphones. I sat there with my headphones on, fighting the weight of my eyelids. I was suddenly shocked to hear the serious monotone of an Air-Traffic Controller:
"YES..KENNEDY TOWER..FLIGHT 831...YOU ARE CLEARED TO LAND...RUNWAY TWO-NINER..."
I glanced around to see if anyone else had heard the same thing, and noticed another student giggling with his deskmate.
The teacher made a show of removing his glasses and walking over to the offender's desk.
"SENOR MASONE...DO YOU THINK THAT AT ANY TIME THIS SEMESTER YOU WILL TAKE THIS CLASS SERIOUSLY?..THE MICROPHONES ARE NOT TO BE USED FOR YOUR PERSONAL ANTICS"..
 With that, he turned on his heel and walked back to his desk, unaware that the student had indicated his displeasure by placing his thumb to his nose and wiggling his fingers. I didn't know him at all, but something about him was right up my alley.

OCTOBER 2017
 The Reunion was about what you might expect from a VERY large graduating class, a big turnout, and many surprised encounters with old friends and acquaintances. In one corner of the room, someone had created a somber display with the names of our classmates who had passed in the years since we had said our goodbyes in the parking lot at the Westbury Music Fair, the site of our 
graduation Ceremony. I was aware, of course, that quite a few classmates had died. Just the same, I avoided the table which held the display.
 I said my hellos and sought out those I had become friendly with on Facebook. Social media is wonderful for easing the shock of seeing those folks who have aged beyond our teenage memories of them.
 Several of my Classmates asked the question I was dreading in the past week or so:
"Hey..is Mike coming?"
I looked around for something to focus on. I blew out a deep sigh, and answered.
"No. Mike was moved to a Hospice Facility yesterday." I felt my face get hot.
I had to answer the same question about a half dozen times that evening, each time I thought more and more about getting into my truck and leaving.
  At some point, it was time for the group photo, and as we took our places, I was reminded of the Album cover from 50 years ago. Some familiar faces, some not.

DECEMBER 2000
 I met Mike at a Diner in Bethpage, not far from where he had his Violin Shop. He had started his business in my Father's basement workshop, the horsehair for the Bows hanging down like so much Spanish Moss.
 We spoke, of course, about old times and new, his family, my family,...the world. I have always been guilty of being sarcastic, and caustic, and intolerant of others in general.... Mike, on the other hand, tended to be constantly amused at the human condition, and had mellowed considerably since we last met.
"Tom,..he said..I have found it so much easier to be nice."
It was a good reunion. I saw him a lot less over the years, but kept in touch regularly. Even at the end
of his fight, when he had all but lost the power of speech.
BE NICE.

OCTOBER 2017
I left the Holiday Inn the morning after the High School Reunion. I was heading home to South Carolina. I had no way of knowing I would be driving back to Huntington in a couple of days.

Mike Masone died on Halloween.
He wasn't perfect. But he was a perfect friend.

NOVEMBER 2017
  Maybe someday one of my Grandchildren will ask me:
"Grandpa..what should I be when I grow up?"
 BE NICE.
Be like Mike.

VETERAN'S DAY 2016

   This little guy, sleeping peacefully, is my Grandson, Asher McRedmond. Clutched in his grip are my dogtags, and those of his Dad, my Son Jesse. They could belong to any number of people I know and have known of..they are ALL part of the reason we all can sleep and live in peace. So..here, once again in no particular order, is my personal list of American Heroes. :

  John McRedmond III         Jesse McRedmond          James McRedmond       James McRedmond Jr
Kevin McRedmond            Barbara McRedmond         Nicholas deSeve            Thomas deSeve
Robert Mason                     Craig Roseberry                 Howard Fisher               Scott Kennedy
Anthony Oreto *                 Walter Suskevich            William Suskevich         Eric Suskevich
Matthew Suskevich            Joseph Stevens                  Joseph Brady                  Richard Foley
Donnie Sallah                       Bryan Galante                 Matt Galante                   Peter Taurassi
Kevin Gerioux                      Eugene Rosamilia           John Rulli                       Ken Rulli
George Rath                          Larry Brody                    Raymond Heins              Thomas Gonce
Gavin Neighbor*                Vince Sorrentino             Justin Searror                  Robbie Curaba
Michael Ferraro                    Victor Tastrom                Sam Dimon                     Anthony Carravalo
Gregory Blass                       Timothy Green                John Garland                  Joseph Como
Linda Boggio                        Joseph Snellenburg         Thomas Coughlin           Rich Herscher
Bob Herscher                        Bruce Berger                   Eric Saltz *                    Theodore Broome
Theodore Broome Jr              Michael Masone              Joseph Lyons                Frank Lyons
Pasquale Ferrara                   Eugene McNamara          Steven Brenner               Isaiah Brenner
Dylan Hartnett                      Michael Labarbera           Mark Nagle                   Irving Brenner
Frank Maielo                        Barry Walsh                     John LeBeck                  Billy LeBeck
Nick Cappolla                       Tony Salerno                   Paul DiPietro                 Joel Simon
Christopher Ball                    Richard Ketcham            Robert Gallo                  Mark Jackson
George Petr

Special Thanks to JR for filling in the blanks for me...

I am humbled to add my own name to this list of those who have served.
I apologize for anyone I have omitted.

And to the parents, Wives, Husbands, Children and Loved Ones,...

"THEY ALSO SERVE, WHO SIT AND WAIT..."


*Killed in Action

                                       

It's in the Genes..

I don't hate shopping. I hate to GO shopping. I'm ok once I am actually in the store. I just don't like the getting in the car, driving to the store, parking...you know. But I needed new jeans and no matter what angle I looked at the half dozen or so pair I have, none were really nice enough for a "smart casual" outing. So, I am at the store, exploring the inventory and a young lady approaches and asks if she can help me find something.
"I'm looking for jeans"
"Okay...we have Slim Fit, Boot Cut, Low-rise, High Rise, Five-Pocket, Regular fit or Relaxed fit. "
"What's the difference between Regular and Relaxed?"
"I'm not sure"
"Well, if you point me towards the jeans..I will look around and figure it out."
I wandered around through the stacks of jeans, longing for the days when my Mom would take us to Lobells to get...well, Jeans. Not low-rise or boot cut. Jeans. And she always picked out a package of the Denim Iron-on patches that would extend the life of the jeans well into my teen years. She knew that we were only a few days away from the first skinned knee incident that for some reason would easily tear through one of the strongest fabrics ever invented.

I tried on a pair of Regular fit jeans in my normal size...Whew!. They must have been cut smaller. Too tight EVERYWHERE.  I walked out of the fitting room and back to the stacks of jeans.
The young salesperson was back.
"Find everything ok?"
"I guess," I lied. Then I grabbed a pair of RELAXED FIT in the next larger size..this was unexplored terrain for me. Still tight.
"How are those relaxed fit?" She asked, sweetly.
"Do you have anything a little more relaxed?....Like maybe Perry Como jeans?"
"I never heard of Terry Como" she answered.
 So, I grabbed the next larger pair and went again into the dressing room. As I pulled on the jeans I avoided looking into the full-length mirror, because the only one looking back at me was my Father.
"Well, Pop....I've arrived. Move over, it's my turn."

At the register, my wife picked up the price tag and wide-eyed said: "THAT'S what you're paying for these jeans?"
"They're designer," I blurted out.
"Yeah? Who?
"Hindenburg" I growled...."Let's go"

Relaxed Fit, My Ass.
Exactly.

The Penguin and the Hucklebuck

It's funny, the things you remember. Especially when you begin to retrieve those memories when you have reached your 60s. St.Pius X grade school opened in Plainview, NY on Washington Avenue , brand new, in 1959. I remember there was a cement cornerstone marking the date just to the left of the main entrance.Every Sunday the Churchgoers could watch and mark the progress of the new school which was of a new, progressive design that featured a large, circular auditorium.

Enrollment in the school was initially low, so the parish used an entire wing of the building as a convent for the dozen or so Sisters of Mercy who made up the majority of the teaching staff.  The school opened with 5th grade as the highest, and that is the level at which I entered. My class would continue each year, ending with 8th grade.

At first, we remained in the same classroom for the entire day, which the Sisters broke up into subject periods of an hour or so, I guess. At the time, Music and Art were very low on the curriculum, sometimes months would go by without a class in either subject. Some of the Sisters were either reluctant or unable to address either of these subjects, so a different Nun with a talent for one or the other would take over the class for that block of teaching.

When the time came for music instruction, Sister Mary Consuelo would take over our class and teach us songs or in a very rare event, tackle some rudimentary music theory. She was always in charge of the annual Christmas pageant in which all of the students in the school played a part. Willing or not.She had the voice of an angel and could play the piano flawlessly, or so it seemed. But always encouraged each student and never criticized or humiliated. At the end of the school year, I suppose the State of New York required some sort of final exam in each subject and Music was no exception. It was decided at some level that each student would stand and demonstrate the ability to carry a tune. If you have ever had a fear of public speaking...imagine having to sing in front of your classmates

Sister Mary Consuelo would come into our class and stand in front, patiently, as each of us droned on through "row,row,row your boat" or the ever popular "Mary Had a Little Lamb". Some of us made it through the whole song. Some were cut off after 2 or 3 bars. "Thank you, Thomas...you may be seated"
My friend, Warren Pujdak, stood up and proceeded to belt out the words to "The Hucklebuck"!
Not the Ed Norton version.....The Chubby Checker Version...

We had never heard anything like it...not in Catholic School.
Sister Mary Consuelo let him fly through the entire song, unable to hide the smile which lit up her face.

I read her obituary this morning in Newsday. I'm not sure how old she was. I hope that she will Rest in Peace with a song in her heart for all eternity.

Bye,Bye, Love

It was an early evening phone call.
"Hi Thom, it's Mark"
"Hey, what's up?"
Mark and I had been playing music together for years, starting around 1992 or so. He only lived two houses away, so it was easy to practice whenever we felt like it. Over the years the members of the "band" had changed many times, sometimes even including our wives, and other "strays" we picked up from time to time.

But basically, it was Mark and I. He had a better voice and wider range, but somehow we managed to put together quite a few songs..Mark on the drums, and me playing guitar.
I was fairly certain he wasn't calling with a record deal.

"Guess what...I got us a gig".
"Really ?...when ?"
"This afternoon."
"Hello?"  We hadn't practiced in some time...we barely had a solid set list.
I wasn't sure about any of this...."Where is it?" I asked. What the hell is open this afternoon?, I wondered.

"You know the Little Flower Nursing Home on Main St.?"
"Yeah, what's open near that place?"
"That's the gig"
"Hello?"...You're kidding?"
"No...I have a friend there that I visit and they have a community room, and sometimes they put on shows for the residents"
I hesitated..."I don't know......"
"C'mon...I kinda told them we would do it"

So there it was. We had another friend named Kevin who sometimes played with us, and he said he would sit in. He played very well and could follow whatever we played with no trouble at all.
So...we arrived at the nursing home and were shown to the community room to set up the equipment.Now, usually when you play a gig..the room is empty until "show time". Not so today. Many of the residents were already lined up in their wheelchairs..watching us set up.

The room was a balmy 85 degrees and I started to sweat like Mike Tyson on Father's Day.
The "Audience" started to stir and become restless.
"When are you going to sing?"
"Is there going to be Pudding?"

The heat was unbearable..I even had an Electric Fireplace going full blast behind me. Mark and Kevin were ready. We reached into our bag of tricks and opened with a song we had down solid..the Everly Brothers "WALK RIGHT BACK".
The song went beautifully, Mark and I harmonizing comfortably straight through.
Nothing.
No applause. Nada. Zip.
From the back row..a voice shouted out: "TAKE ME BACK UPSTAIRS"

Mark leaned into his mike and said: "Thanks Folks, that was "WALK RIGHT BACK...by the Everly Brothers.."

We played a dozen or more songs in the combination of sweltering heat and frigid response, and it was time to pack up. Our equipment was in the lobby and we shuttled back and forth, loading it into our cars.
Some of the residents had been moved into the lobby to await family visitors. One such lady had come to see her Mother, who waited quietly in her wheelchair, watching us.
The daughter arrived and saw the musical equipment and turned to her Mom:
"How nice, Mom....they had music for you!"
The old lady leaned towards her daughter and in a stage whisper, said:

"You see those two?....that's the Everly Brothers..."

Rest in Peace, Phil.

KRYPTONITE

"YOU ARE GOING TO MISS THE BUS!"..My Mom at the foot of the stairs.... She said the same thing every school day. I never missed the bus. It was just something she felt she had to say, I guess.

I shuffled down the stairs in my pajamas and sat at the kitchen table to have my breakfast. Orange juice and cinnamon toast. My Dad had made a shaker jar out of a small Hellman's Sandwich Spread glass jar by poking holes in the lid, just like you would to keep lightning bugs in. Mom mixed sugar and cinnamon in it and we would shake it onto our buttered toast. Breakfast. Large glass of OJ..ready for the sugar spike. I had some butter on my fingers when I lifted the glass and it hit the edge of the table before spilling in my lap. Crap. Back upstairs.

 Rummaging through my dresser drawer.."MA! I GOT NO CLEAN UNDERWEAR!"
"Well, I didn't do a wash...wear what you have on."
"I can't...I spilt juice on 'em!"
Footsteps up the stairs. Her searching hands feeling through the dresser. She pulled out a colorful cardboard package which was, until that morning, unopened since my eighth Birthday, almost two years ago.
"Here...wear these"
"I ain't wearin those...they're for babies"
"You are the big Superman fan...YOU WANTED these.."
"I ain't wearin them"
"You AREN'T wearing them...I mean you ARE....or I'll give you a pair of your sister's"
I stared at her as if she grew an alien head and she turned and walked downstairs. I opened the package of red and blue Superman briefs and held them in front of me.
"AND YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS"
I slipped on the undies..."Coming, Lois"

Fourth grade. I am in class with about 25 other kids and slogging through Arithmetic, Social Studies, Science. All the while looking at the clock, waiting for lunch. When the hour finally arrived, you could feel a sort of release ripple through the class. We ate at our desks..the Milk Monitor walked up and down the rows handing out the tiny containers to each student. Brown bags opened, some torn open...mine always carefully unfolded and refolded when empty, so many times that it was as soft as velvet.
Lunch over. Recess. NOW we're talking. Column of twos down the hall and outside...today, because it's nice weather. The level of noise in the schoolyard must be incredible as we fly around with games of tag, girls jumping rope, bouncing spaldeens on ice cream stcks. Amazing levels of energy, but none as great as mine, because unknown to anyone,....I am Superman, and I have the underwear to prove it.

I think I felt before I heard it. A great ripping sound as I jumped across a gigantic puddle as only the Man of Steel could attempt. Horrors...I had torn the middle seam of my trousers. I reached down when no one was looking and confirmed my greatest fear...at LEAST 10 inches torn. Opened like the side of the Titanic. The hole back of my seat. From that moment on, I made sure no one walked behind me and I sat on the sidelines, faking like I was out of breath.
My teacher, Mrs.Broderick , checked her watch and blew a little whistle, ending recess. I made sure I was last in my column and shuffled back to class...undetected.

When we got back into class, the movie screen was pulled down and the projector set up on its stand. This was the best news I could have gotten. No work at the blackboard for the rest of the day, no standing up to answer questions if I get called upon. I was home free, my torn pride and secret intact. Just about 2 hours to go and I can tie my windbreaker around my waist for the bus trip home. I was Clark Kent, smiling because nobody was on to me.

My mind didn't register the sound at first...it intruded, rudely but with a finality that kicked me in the stomach. The Hallway Gong...every second. Gong. Gong. Not a Fire Drill.
Worse.
AIR RAID DRILL.
Way back then..the world wasn't that far removed from World War, the Korean War. It was the Cold War now and we lived under the threat of attack from the Communists. The Reds. The Russians.
Authorities really didn't know how to respond to the threat, and knew even less of how to prepare for it.
So...in schools all over America, we prepared for attacks by Atom Bombs and H-Bombs by kneeling in school hallways...our young heinies in the air. Torn pants and all, thank you very much, Mr. Kruschev.
And as I knelt, horrified, with my head against the wall with my Super-Ass in the air...I listened for the Giggles or Snickers that surely had to come as the teachers walked up and down, inspecting us for proper Nuclear form. I couldn't make myself any smaller.
Then, it was over and I was back in my seat, getting ready to wrap my jacket around me and head for the bus.
The bell sounded and I walked slowly to the door,making sure I was last out.
"Thomas" the teacher called.
"Yes, Mrs. Broderick?"
"You know, if it was really an Atom Bomb, even Superman couldn't help"

The Bottle Boy

Friday night..and where the hell am I? I won't be 16 for another three months. Not old enough to drive. I smoke, away from home of course,  and I am going to be a rock and roll star someday. Or play for the Yankees. Or be a famous graphic artist. I don't know. All I know is that it's Friday night and I am stuck at work in a Deli in Old Bethpage. Deli clerk..you ask? No. Delivery guy? No.

I am the freaking Bottle Boy. That's right. Each day, after school, I walked from my home on Sheridan street in Old Bethpage, up Haypath Road to the German deli by the BethView Theatre. We called it the A&P shopping center then. It might have been a mile. Kids today wouldn't dream of walking that far, much less going to work in a Deli, for God's sake. Yep, the Bottle Boy. A lot of people don't know that long before it become a law in many states, you could get money back for the markets and delis for returning bottles. You didn't even have to pay a deposit, the big soda companies were glad to get the glass bottles back for refilling. 2 cents for a small bottle and 5 cents for the big, curved glass Pepsi and Coke bottles. One of my Uncles used to drink a lot of Pepsi and would accumulate quite a few  quart bottles (yes, I said Quart, not 2 liter or any other metric crap)..and if I could haul 20 of them, I had a dollar. Beautiful. Anyway, back to the story. I needed money..and part time jobs were not that easy to come by. My older brother John worked in the Deli as a clerk and told me that the owner got aggravated every day when he walked in and saw the hundreds of glass bottles that his customers had dropped off. They needed a bottle boy to sort them out and stack them for the soda delivery drivers to pick up. Sixty-five cents an hour, off the books. Good deal. Or so I thought.

    There were actually two owners of the Deli..Herman, the young hotshot and silent partner..(though he wasn't so silent when I was around) and old John, the kindly German gentleman who was there all the time. Old John took me aside and said he would give me a Dollar an hour, just not to let Herman know. Okay...better deal.

   I usually went into the deli as a customer or with my Dad a couple of times a week to get some cold cuts or give my Brother a chance to give me the finger when Dad wasn't looking. Anyhow, I never noticed the mountain of bottles before...not before it was my job to make them go away. Coke, Pepsi, Yoo-Hoo, Orange Crush, Like, Tab...all had to be sorted by brand and size and put into incredibly heavy wooden containers and stacked. Not such a great deal, as it turned out. But, I needed the money. I wanted to buy a new electric guitar at Sam Ash in Huntington and I knew it would cost at least $500. So, I started as the Bottle Boy last year, and worked seven days a week to save for the guitar. I even missed the World's Fair in Flushing to be able to save. The bottles just kept coming.

  As with most routine jobs, I settled into a comfort zone of tasks which I followed unconsciously. I became familiar with the "regulars" and could even predict their individual purchases. People like "Frankie Fox Head", who came in every Friday night and bought Fox Head Ale, the cheapest beer ever made.....or  "1/4 Pound Jimmy".. the cold cut expert who knew exactly how many slices of Boar's Head Bologna he would be going home with.

So...another Friday night and I am thinking about going to the movies after work. "FLIGHT OF THE PHOENIX" is playing at the Bethview...I get in for free because I work in the shopping center...but I've seen it twice. "THUNDERBALL",  the newest James Bond flick is at the Morton Village...but too far to walk. As I am weighing my options, one of the "regulars" walks in.., Bobby..I think his name was. Looks like James Dean, and he knows it. Rheingold Chug-a-Mugs, for sure. Tonight he buys 3 six-packs. He's older...you can buy beer at 18 in 1965...and has his own car...he drives what we would call a "junker" today, but I am 16 and wish it was mine.
"Hey, Bottle boy"
"Hey, Bobby"
"What's shakin?"
"I've got an hour to go...having a party?"
"Just cruising"
I thought he was drunk already. The old German rang him up and I walked with him to the front.
We stood in front of the store, smoking. The parking lot was empty except for a few cars.
"Hey...are you going anywhere near Morton Village later?"
"I don't know...when Later?"
"I get off in an hour"
"Maybe if I'm around"
He walked off towards his car...I could see one other person in the front seat. I flicked my cigarette away and went back inside. I still had to set up a display of Metracal...a diet drink.
About 20 minutes later..I was sweeping the sidewalk outside the store and Bobby pulled up again, this time with a car full of kids. I knew most of them...Paul L...Roger K...Stephanie M...and Nancy.
"You still wanta ride?"
"I don't get off for about a half hour"
"Too bad...You snooze, you lose."
He drove off towards Round Swamp Rd...in 2 hours, three of the five would be dead.
It was September 17th, 1965.

You snooze, you lose.

Not always.