hats,caps,tee shirts and shorts

The other day I made a comment about hats. I remarked how what the world needs is more hats and less ball caps. I was trying to say I think we need to grow up a little bit. Ball caps are a bit too informal for most occasions. It turned into a little bit of a discussion. Well from that discussion I got to thinking about tee shirts. I wondered when we started wearing our tee shirts as regular shirts. I checked with my ever present friend, Google. Google says the popularity of tee shirts began with the second world war. Our boys overseas saw our allies wearing them and they were much cooler than the wool shirts they were wearing. Soon the Army and the Navy adopted them. The returning soldiers and sailors continued to wear them. Marlon Brando and John Wayne started wearing them as part of their bad boy images. Tee shirts became somewhat like the saggy pants are today, frowned upon in polite society and the mark of a rebel. Throughout most of the fifties plain white tee shirts were the symbol.
In the sixties, during my time, ringer tee shirts were introduced. I hadn't remembered them being called that but that is the name of the company that produced them first. A ringer tee shirt has contrasting colors on the neck and end of the sleeves. It was also in the sixties when we started tie dying our shirts. Groovy man. In the late sixties and early seventies logos, advertising and personal statements began to appear on them. We have gone casual my friends.
I have witnessed the change from men wearing a good hat to wearing mostly ball caps, and half of them on backwards, and we went from regular shirts to just tee shirts. I haven't Googled this but it appears to me cargo shorts are becoming the norm for everyday wear. Men in short pants ! Isn't the way I was raised though. Short pants were for children and those on vacation. Real men don't wear shorts. Some guys are even wearing sandals ! Well I agree with Merle, boots are still in style for man made footwear.
All of this is just a matter of fashion. And fashion should be what you are comfortable with. I have always gone pretty much in that direction. I'm not saying I haven't tried other fashions to attract the opposite sex but the fashions I stay with are the ones I am comfortable with. Tee shirts are alright and I wear a ball cap most of the time but shorts ? That's where I'm drawing another line in the sand. No sandals either !
I can't help but wonder if all this changed ; if we reverted to the ways of the past ;  if things wouldn't improve in the world. A return to those old world manners and code of conduct. Gentleman tipping their hats to the ladies and the ladies being demure. Maybe all it takes is dressing for the part. The story of Clothes make the Man does have truth in it. We can be whatever we believe we should be. How much of what we do nowadays is just for the sake of convenience ?  Just throw on a tee shirt and a pair of shorts, good enough. It does take effort to maintain ones image. I'm thinking we are all just getting a little too relaxed in our behavior. Maybe it is time to return to a more formal way of living, one with structure and order. I think I would like it better that way. The practice of living should be conducted as a formal affair not a summer camp ! We should dress the part.

The Days of Sale

Labor Day. Picnics and parades. The unofficial end of summer. Do you know when labor day began and why ? It was 1894 and the Labor Unions wanted it. That's right all the way back in 1894 people were complaining about having to work every day. Not much has changed except we have added a few more holidays ! That's another problem with labor unions, put the workers in charge and before you know it, higher wages and less work. Then, while we are relaxing, we can complain about the cost of everything. Don't get me started on Unions. The original premise was a fine and noble one, but they have been corrupted.
I am planning a small cookout for labor day. The summer has gone by and it is time to think of Fall. The weather will hopefully cooperate and we can spend a pleasant evening, eating and enjoying conversation. I really don't like planning these things, spontaneous celebration is always better, but you must plan. We are thinking of Sunday afternoon. I'll be working Labor Day. Retail doesn't take holidays. There was a time in America when they did. I remember those days. Mom had to buy what she wanted ahead of time. Yes, that was back in the day. The whole town could celebrate together, even the shop owners and there employees. They had a holiday too ! Quite a concept isn't it ? Yes, if we ran out of ketchup we had to wait until the next day to buy another bottle. We survived.
I think that is what is missing from our holidays, the holiday spirit. That spirit has been replaced with making money and excessive celebration. All things in moderation my friends. When I was younger, much younger, if you went to town on a holiday everything was closed. The streets would be empty except for those out for a walk or maybe waiting for the parade. There may be a few street vendors, very few, and everyone was in a good mood. Holidays were special days. They don't seem quite so special anymore. Seems more like sale days than holidays. Labor day used to be known for its' white sales. I don't hear about that much anymore. That is probably because it is fine to wear white after Labor day nowadays. Shoot now it is wear whatever,whenever and convention be damned. The ways of the past were a comfort of sorts. At least you had direction.
Following Labor day we head into the Holiday Season ! That's right an entire season of holidays. Told you about putting the workers in charge, didn't I ? Really it a season of spend,spend,spend. Rushing about and buying our gifts and planning all the celebrations to commemorate another year. The season of stress ! One event after another, one holiday after another with little time to even breathe. I do miss the individuality of each holiday. I miss the time when we celebrated each one as a separate entity. Now, lump them together and call them a season. Labor Day, might as well change that name to Gateway to the Season ! Ready,Set, Go !

Celebrity

Maybe growing up where I did had something to do with it,maybe it was just the attitude my parents had and maybe it was a combination of both, but I have never been overly impressed with celebrities. Oh there are some I would like to meet and have a chat with, but no more so than others. I wouldn't go too far out of my way to do that. I guess I've never really grasped the whole attraction thing. Fact is the majority of these celebrities I wouldn't have much use for, that is, if they are anything like their public image. Most seem to be a little out there, if you get my drift. I guess money and fame does that to a person.
Growing up I would see these famous and moderately famous people walking around town. Some I would recognize but most would have to be pointed out to me. I have to be the worlds worst celebrity spotter. Well, truth be told, I am the last person you would want to identify anyone. Sometimes I don't recognize myself in the mirror ! I never gave it any thought that these people were about, after all, they had to be somewhere. And I had little to do with these people. I did work for an interior decorating shop for a while and went to these famous homes. I even met a few of these folks. I wasn't impressed. They looked like me, talked like me and didn't pay any more attention to me, than I did to them. I remember a few of them by name. Who they were is not important. The concept of name dropping eludes me. Why would I have some special power or something from just having met someone famous ? Yet there are those that insist on doing just that.
I have seen over the years how these celebrities and wanna be celebrities destroyed the places they loved and in some cases themselves. Fame and fortune surely must take a toll upon a person. I haven't experienced that first hand but would be willing to try. The celebrities are followed in there actions by those of wealth. Wealthy people must feel like they are famous too. Does wealth equal fame ? I don't think so. Wealth does circulate around fame, and the famous however. It can cause destruction like a tornado. A storm sucking the very life of people and the area where they are living. When it has all been laid to waste it will move on. A new area will be discovered and the cycle repeats.

Parsons Electric

My thoughts often wander to the old hometown. I think about the good times and people there. I have been known to wax poetic about it, and once I got something in my eye and it began to water, while I was thinking about it. I take a mental walk down the sidewalks every now and again. I like to stop in the 5 and 10 ten cent store where I bought those little colored chicks at Easter, Sometimes I got a turtle. Marley's stationary store was always a fun place to shop. Down the street a little from there was the Newspaper company. Could stop in and say hello to Mr. Barnes. I can turn the corner and head up Newtown lane. The sporting goods store was on the left hand side, just past the old firehouse. Tony, the owner didn't mind me hanging out in there and checking the stuff out. I might even stop into Speeds restaurant for french fries and a coke. A coke in a real coca cola glass and filled from the fountain.
I was taking one of these memory walks when I paused in front of a store. The sign says, Parsons Electric. There are two front windows displaying some wares and the door is up some steps. This store looks a little dark and somewhat frightening. I can't explain why that is, but it is like something out of a Stephen King novel. There was just nothing of interest there. Or should I say ; inviting.
Thinking back I remember my father telling me that was the first place he had seen a television. He told me of the time they had a television set in the front window and a crowd gathered to watch. It was an amazing thing. Dad told me they left that television on until late in the evening, about eight o'clock, and some stayed and watched, just standing there on the sidewalk transfixed. I don't recall Parsons Electric selling televisions, you had to go down hook for that. Maltasanti (sp) had an appliance store there. It wasn't far from Liberts barber shop.
The old hometown was a small town. I figured I had been in most of the stores. I didn't go to the ladies dress shops, of course, but just about everywhere else. Parsons Electric eluded my interest somehow. I'm sure it was a fine store and a good place to do business. I wonder what they sold there ? Lamps and electrical fixtures maybe ? Perhaps toasters and other electrical appliances. I guess I just never had the need to go in there.
It is good to get up and walk about a bit. You just never know what you might see. How many times I walked right past that store I couldn't say but it had to be hundreds. I didn't stop in on this visit either. But maybe, like in a Stephen King novel, I will one day.

footnote : to those of you that know the town I'm walking in don't beat me up too much on the facts. I'm getting older and the memories are starting to fade a bit.

Obstacles of the past

Growing up in a small town was a wonderful thing. I have never felt deprived or that I missed out on anything. We knew each other, if not by name, by sight and familiarity. As children, no matter where we went there was a parent around, and they didn't have to be yours to correct you ! If they didn't confront you directly a report would be sent. I'm sure glad we didn't have cell phones and text messaging back then, the regular phone call or bumping into your parents gave some time for a buffering action on your part. I can't say that it ever helped all that much though. If an adult said it, it was true. Period, end of discussion and don't try and tell me Mr. Miller is making it up ! To question the integrity of an adult was akin to an attack on the Bible !
Even in small towns there are divisions. We had the upstreeters. They lived in town proper and owned the businesses and such. There were sections in town, like subdivisions, only we didn't call them that. There was the Springs. So named for a creek that people settled around. Round swamp was another section. The name is self explanatory. And there was Northwest. That is where I lived, down to Northwest. It was just across the way from Three Mile Harbor. Mostly the blue collar folks lived in those areas. Fisherman,farmers and tradesman.
When I was growing up Northwest was almost always referred to as Northwest Woods. It was a relatively large wooded area with houses scattered throughout. A town had been started there back a few generations. There was a harbor and shipping. A new harbor, with deeper anchorage and better access to the sea was opened on the other side of the bay and Northwest,as a town, died. Wasn't much to see down to Northwest except a few graves and some very old lop fences. There were a few barns sitting in the woods,abandoned and holding nothing but dust and memories. I played in those barns. Northwest was a lonely place.
When I was younger Northwest was considered so far away the mail wasn't even delivered there. You had to have a post office box in town. Was a good three miles to the post office. The school bus came down there but it was always the oldest one they had. Fact is the one I rode was green. The green bean we called it and it was an old one for sure. Probably could have had historic tags on it. Maybe it did ? We had a delicatessen. We called it a store. Well, Damarks store sits on the edge of Three Mile and Northwest woods. If you were coming into the wood down the Springy Banks road or the Three Mile harbor road that would be your last chance for anything. Keep going into the wood and you will wind up at the water sooner or later. No more stores past Damarks.
Now I haven't lived down to Northwest since back in '71. I hear tell Northwest is full of houses and celebrities. P-Diddy and the like. I hear there are roads everywhere. The days of roamin' the woods is long gone. I wonder how much was lost due to this expansion. How many lop fences destroyed. How many grave sites desecrated ? Well that is the way of progress. The past is always in the way of progress. Strange how things behind you can impede your progress, isn't it ? Don't let the past get in the way. No matter, build over them or plow them under. Man has always done so and that ain't gonna change, Bub !

Searching

Consider the things that you are told. Then consider whether you believe them or subscribe to their philosophy. The determination of truth should be a lifelong pursuit. The truth is determined by perception and perspective. The problem lies in both of these are variables By their very nature they change over time and experience. So the question remains how to determine the truth ? One needs a standard to compare it against. The defining of the standard can be as difficult as the determination of truth.
When we are children our parents are our primary source of information. They set the standards for right and wrong. It was their perceptions that we were taught as fact. From their perspective our view was tainted. As we grew our circle of influence grew as well. Soon the perceptions of our parents were being questioned. Siblings or other family members adding there ideas. In school the influences grew even greater. Some of us rebelled against those early standards and some of us continued to embrace them.
In my own experience I can say I was told some information that wasn't necessarily wrong, but a bit misleading. Not everyone that lived above the tracks was rich and a lot of them did do a hard days work and what's more, more than a day in their life. I found that out by independent study. Those with long hair may or may not not have been hippies. Unwed mothers do not always have loose moral values and those collecting assistance would like to work. I could go on and on about these " axioms " that we are taught but I think the point is made.
All that being said I do think it is important to have a firm foundation. One most adopt there own set of standards. It is important to realize your perception and perspective are transient things. It would be foolish to base your standards on those. Your foundation must be based in truth. Moreover the truth must be the truth as determined by you alone. It is only your own truth that can be trusted. You must set the standard. Having set the standard, you then must strive to adhere to those standards. It is a lifelong pursuit.
Our lives should be spent in the pursuit of truth. Truth is eternal. The truth needs neither fanfare nor theatrics. No greater thing can be said of man than, he spoke the truth. Seek the truth in all things and you will find happiness.

Is it necessary ?

School starts tomorrow. The grandchildren are all set and rarin' to go. If you were to pay attention to the television advertisements it is more about fashion than education. On one level there is some truth to that. New clothes have traditionally signaled the first few days of school. I think we got a weeks worth when I was growing up. We got more for Christmas, birthdays and Easter. Sometimes we did get a replacement pair of pants when we ripped the knees out beyond repair. I did have a lot of them with those iron on patches. I have been expecting the iron on patches to become a fashion fad, but haven't seen it yet. It would help out a lot of Moms and Dads. Of course fashion is seldom about practicality.
My granddaughter Morgan tells me they are starting the " common core " this year. She is in the fifth grade and the teacher has told her the common core for the fifth grade is like being in the seventh grade. She is a little nervous about that. I have done a little research into this common core stuff. What I take away from it is the teacher had best be teaching to the test ! I'm not convinced that is such a good thing. I really haven't read or studied enough about it to write an intelligent opinion. I have however noticed one thing in particular, there is no requirement to teach cursive writing in the common core. None. I have been aware that penmanship has not be a graded subject area for some time. My cursive handwriting style could only be described as chicken scratch. I remember being graded on that. The girls always seemed to have the best handwriting. Remember the three lined paper ? That was so you could form the letters properly. And they were supposed to slant slightly forward if I recall correctly. I remember vividly being told how terrible my penmanship was and how was I ever going to amount to anything if I couldn't write properly ? Poor penmanship was a sign of a scattered brain. Your writing should reflect the qualities of organization and clear, precise thoughts. It was important !
I am not sure we should teach cursive writing in school anymore. I myself very seldom use it,except when signing documents. A lawyer will tell you there is no requirement that you do so. You can print your name if you so desire, and it is just as legal and binding. On the other hand, I think it is an art. Perhaps not necessary but certainly beneficial. It does teach fine motor skills. Also if you can write in cursive, you can read it as well. I know that we type or print just about everything these days. E-mails and text messaging are the primary means of business communication these days. The written word, and by writing I mean writing, is becoming a thing of the past. Like the abacus that has been replaced by a pocket calculator and the slide rule by a computer program, cursive handwriting is no longer necessary. I still think a well rounded education should include its' use. As I have so often said, a hand written letter is far more personal and meaningful than any e-mail,text message or printed page. A well written letter in cursive can be a thing of beauty. Calligraphy has always impressed me and isn't cursive writing the basis for that ?
I'll go out on a limb here and say this much. It just seems to me the things that are being taught in school these days are all aimed at one goal. The receiving of grant money and funding based on standardized testing scores. The teachers are being forced to teach to the test. There ability to inspire the students is being hampered by the economic requirements. Yes some things we are taught we never use again but a well rounded education should include those things. No one has ever asked me to diagram a sentence but I still can. When was the last time you used algebra ? When was the last time you " wrote " a letter ? Will our children be able to do that ? Not if we don't teach them how, they won't. Cursive handwriting, necessary or not, I think it should be taught.

It's all good

On more than one occasion I have heard it said , you're just like your father ! That's not a bad thing and one I can take some pride in. I wonder if it was a conscious effort on my part ? I have been thinking about my school days recently and the little cliques we were part of. Surely our parents or siblings influenced our decisions as to which group we wanted to join. This joining was not a conscious decision, at least it wasn't for me, but definitely a choice.
I chose to emulate a lot of what my parents felt about things in general. I pretty much adopted their attitudes and outlook. I did listen to modern music ( rock and roll ) and my politics wasn't always in agreement with theirs. The group I  hung out with wouldn't be what you would call the " in " crowd. Not nerds, that group had not been identified in my day, but not the " cool " kids either. We were the middle of the roaders you might say. We had scholars, musicians and athletes in our group. We had a few regular guys too, I fit that category.
I always did wonder about the parents of the " cool " kids. Were they cool too ? Did they wear the latest fashions and just go with the latest trends and attitudes ? If they did not, why would they allow their children to do that ? I guess they just didn't care or something. That was my thinking. I didn't always like what my parents said or did but I had to respect it, to disrespect that, was to invite disaster. Discussion, at least with my parents, wasn't always the first course of action. Justice didn't always follow judgement !
I think basically what it boils down to is conservatism vs liberalism. My parents were conservative and so am I. Always have been and I expect I always will. Those good old conservative values from the heartland of America. Those values were brought here by my ancestors. They settled on the east coast first, namely New England. It was those settlers that expanded westward that created that heartland. And the heartland was based in traditional conservative values.
There are those conservatives that wish to be portrayed as liberal. There are liberals trying to appear conservative. When we are teens in high school, we just are. That, I think, is the basis for those little cliques. Find all the " cool " kids and you find the liberals. Find the regular kids and you find the conservatives. I also think that it can change over time. Going to college may change your outlook. Failures or disappointments in the causes you champion may alter your view. Just growing up and living life can have the same effect.
I would say I'm a little more liberal than my father but I'm still conservative. At sixty I don't think that will ever change. Doesn't mean that I'm not cool though. I'm hip and know what's happening. It's all good, Dog !

Expect Nothing

There is a commercial that comes on television every now and again. It begins with the line, " imagine, as a child, never having a summer vacation ? " My first thought is ,well I never did have a summer vacation. Vacations were for the rich folks. I did know one family that was very well off though. They went one summer to Yellowstone National Park ! They had a trailer, what we now call a camper, and actually drove out there and stayed. I was impressed ! Takes money to do something like that.
I would say my own family was pretty well off. We weren't poor folks or anything like that. We had everything we needed and most of what we wanted. We had extras. We never went on any family vacations though. About as close to that as we came was a trip to Riverhead on a Friday night. Riverhead had a large department store, Billy Blakes, and had a concession stand in the front of the store. You could get a hot dog ,chips and a drink and eat them, all the while shopping ! Now that was a vacation thing.
Vacations were something we heard about. Other people , mostly those on tv took them. They usually went to a beach somewhere. We had many beaches just down the road, so no need to go there. Others flew to far away destinations. We stood about as much chance as flying anywhere as the proverbial snowball in , you know where. That is not to say we didn't have vacation. We certainly did. It is just our vacation was spent doing stuff around home. Maybe those chores you didn't have time for while working or going to school. There were times when Mom let us kids sleep in too. That was vacation.
When I joined the Navy I got to fly on an airplane. Went from New York to Illinois. I was the first in my family to do so except for Dad who had flown in the war. After I was married and had children I took them on vacations. Yes they were very small vacations, no more than day trips really, but it was a start. Over the years my own kids have taken their children on vacations. Real vacations, like the ones I had heard about and seen on television. I have even been on these vacations ! The entire family, at least a large part of it, traveling together and staying in hotels. Growing up I would never have believed that possible.
Another thing we saw and heard about was families eating out. The whole family going to a restaurant together and having a meal. Never happened in my family. I can honestly say I never went to dinner with Mom and Dad, ever. Had a beer with Dad once down to Maggies place. Took my Mother to a Pizza hut after my father passed away. Within the last ten years I have had dinner,at a restaurant, with one brother and  my sister. Oh we went individually, at least all us kids did, but never as a family.
Funny how those things are expected today. I would guess from that commercial I should feel deprived if I do not get a summer vacation. Imagine ,as a child never having a summer vacation ? "  Not hard to imagine that. Guess I missed out but I wasn't aware of it. Well, Mom always gave us this advice, " expect nothing, that way you don't get disappointed ! " Good advice and words to live by. Not just with summer vacations either, but in general.

Bonds

As I was writing about my high school days and reminiscing a bit, the thought came to me about bonds. We hear a lot about bonding these days. We talk about creating a bond, maintaining a bond and developing those bonds that tie us. But just what is a bond ? One online dictionary says this; something that binds,fastens,confines or holds together. A cord,rope or ligament. Something that binds a person or persons to a certain circumstance or line of behavior. Reading that last definition made me realize just how binding attending school joins us together. We forever share a certain circumstance. The bond grows stronger with time. Like the curing of an adhesive, it just grows stronger.
This is evident when we connect on social media, Those friends we had in school have remained as friends. What is more interesting are those that we may not have had as much contact with then, we speak with now. We all travel within our own little circles or cliques, if you will. We were separated by social and economic classes. It is true we were all a part of the larger group, classmates, but that wasn't fully recognized. It was the " I can't see the forest for the trees syndrome. " As we age the bond becomes more evident. We have began to lose some of the " trees. " Our forest is thinning out.
The bond that was formed not only grows stronger it grows wider. This bond begins to stretch to include upper and lower classmates. When we are in school two or three years makes a big difference. There were many upper and lower classmates that I was unaware of. Nameless faces in the hallways. Only when they did something to draw attention to themselves, usually in a negative fashion, did they become known to me. I'm quite sure the same could be said for me. I too, was a nameless face in the crowd.
I consider myself very lucky to have attended school were and when I did. It was a great education and shared with great people. Our school had a great atmosphere and for the most part very accepting and non judgmental. It was a diverse group both in economic standing and color. We had our share of disagreements and spats. The thing is the bond was formed, and will remain with us forever. Remarkable that, that bond has lasted longer than some marriages ! LOL That bond identifies us and gives us placement in the world. Strange too is the fact that the bond is stronger since we separated. A sociologist could write an entire paper on the whys of that, and probably has. Me, I'm not going to question it. I'll just say hello and welcome home. I'll hold high the colors of East Hampton High !

Firm friends and Classmates

School starts at different times throughout the country. It starts here next Monday. The backpacks have been purchased, pencils sharpened and new clothes ready. The kids are excited to go back, although reluctant to admit it. This will be Morgans' last year at the elementary school. Fifth grade is the end here and I wonder if that is so everywhere. We went to sixth before going to middle school. It just seems we are hurrying the kids up a little these days. I'm thinking if we allowed our children to remain children a little longer we might be better off. That is a discussion for another day.
When I was going to school the middle school and high school were the same building. That school building had been there a long time. My parents went to school there. The school was built in 1935 and for a while every grade went there. You could start and finish your education in the same building, what a concept. Without looking up the history I couldn't say when that changed but must not have lasted all that long. I attended elementary school at the new elementary school. I didn't know it then but I was to graduate from the new high school. Mine was the first class to graduate in 1971 from a brand new school building. State of the art and full of unheard of amenities. It has been added on to and modified to such an extent I wouldn't recognize the building. I haven't been there in forty years.
Of all the school buildings I attended I would have to say the old high school building was my favorite. I loved the stairs, the hallways, the big windows that would be opened on warm days, and the sense of history there. A grand building standing stately in the heart of town. Those big steps leading up into the front of the columned entrance just spoke of education. It may not have been modern but it was more than sufficient.
Looking back I remember being pretty excited that we were getting a new school building. When you are young anything new has to be better, doesn't it ? This new school was outside of town, sorta. No more walking downtown for lunch from this school. But this school had a big parking lot right out front. Now that was convenient. It was also a sign of the times. More kids driving cars to school. Progress, I guess so. I'm sure it had a negative impact at the downtown restaurants. There were several, what you could call malt shops, downtown that relied on the business from the high school. That was pretty much ended with the new school. It was just the beginning of the change.
Every school has a song. Ours contained the line, " East Hampton High is marching, follow the lead. Firm friends and classmates will will always be. " What we were unaware of was my class , the class of 71, were to lead the class mostly out of town. Not many of us remained in good old East Hampton. For reasons as different as the number of students graduated, we left. But thanks to the miracle of social media many of us have reconnected. We have remained firm friends and classmates ! 

The Cast of Characters

One of my neighbors was a short,heavy set man that Dad called Patty the mad hatter. A sort of hometown entrepreneur I would say. I'm not sure he had a regular job per se but was always doing something. He had a scallop opening house but I'm not sure he ever went scalloping himself. I know he could mend and fabricate fishing nets. I saw him stretching that string between trees in the yard and then weaving the nets. What other enterprises he may have been involved in I cannot say.

Now Patty, sometimes called Dick, or mostly called Dick and sometimes Patty, I'm not sure which is the case, was from away. That is to say he wasn't a native born resident of the town. He came from up the Island or maybe even New York City. At one time he was a haberdasher, that is what my father told me, and a hat maker. Hence the nickname, Patty the Mad Hatter. How he wound up in East Hampton I don't know. How he came to acquire all the different skills he had I couldn't say either.

When I was very young my parents would go to play board games with Dick and his wife. My memories of that time are very vague. I remember them playing at his kitchen table. This was in the time of kids were to be seen and not heard. We, my sister and I , were told to play in the other room. There was no place for children in the room with adults. That changed when Dick lost his wife. Dick remained friends with the family, of course, but the dynamic had been changed.
I knew this man and he was a man with a bit of bluster about him. A man of strong opinions. A bit of a know it all, they used to say. He did have many skills that much was evident to me. Like the majority of men during this time and place, he was pretty much self sufficient. Carpenter, fisherman, mechanic or plumber, whatever was needed at the moment. I remember the truck that he drove for what seemed like forever. A blue Chevrolet panel truck circa 1964. His yard was usually filled with " junk " of some kind. Old boats, motors, fishing gear and at one point golf carts ! I recall he had about twenty five of those three wheeled Cushman golf carts. What his plan for them was I don't remember but he wouldn't sell me one. He did sell me an old self propelled reel type lawn mower. He told me it wouldn't run and that I could have it for five dollars. I bought that mower and got it to running. I asked him ( Dick ) if he needed his grass cut a few days later. He said yes and we agreed upon two dollars. When I started cutting that grass with the mower I had bought from him he got upset. He said, you're charging me two dollars to mow my grass with my mower ? I politely told him it wasn't his mower and I needed to earn my five dollars back. He didn't say more but was furious ! Dad talked to him and went away laughing.
You know William Shakespeare said all the worlds a stage and each of us must play our part,or something similar, and I enjoy looking at the characters in that play. I expect it is much the same everywhere but it sure seemed like we had quite a cast of characters when I was growing up. Their names and faces appear to me every now and again and it is a comfort. Makes me smile. Patty the Mad Hatter was one of those characters. One day I may speak of eel spear or owl eyes. Johnny chains comes to mind and OOH child. An interesting cast indeed.

Big Dreams

Great Grandfather Lester lived in a big house on the corner of Floyd street and Springs Highway. I remember going there many times growing up. By the time I came along he lived there alone. Great Grandmother had passed on and most of the house sat empty and unused. Seldom did I wander far from the kitchen were he spent most of his time. It was a big old country kitchen with a coal stove for cooking and his bed was in the far corner of the room. Certain things are ingrained in my memory and that he had a heavy wool army blanket on his bed is one of them. If I close my eyes and think about it I can feel that fabric and how it felt on that bed. The smell of that kitchen was one of heat. It had a warm smell. I know that sounds weird but I can think of no other description. It was not an unpleasant smell.
On those rare times when I did wander the house I found it full of strange things. Old things ! There were spinning wheels and shoe makers tools. There were old books and magazines sitting in baskets or piled in a corner. There were jars full of old buttons. The other rooms always felt lifeless. It seemed to me that light didn't penetrate the old glass panes in the windows. The dust was thick and the curtains dark. The room he called the parlor had a big old bed in it and some antique looking medical equipment. I didn't know it then but it was the room that Great Grandmother passed away in.
At some point in time Great Grandfather had to leave this house. Circumstance s beyond his control forced this move. I think I was probably about twelve years old when that happened. It must have been a bitter pill to swallow for him. A lot of the contents of that house went to a local museum. Great Grandfather was reduced to living in a eight foot by fifty foot mobile home. To have to part with most of your lifelong possessions must surely have hurt. In August of 1968 he passed away in that trailer. I was fifteen and it was my first experience with death. I didn't handle it well.
Looking back I always wonder why I didn't talk with him more. The stories he had to tell must have been really something. Of course I do realize that back in the day people did not talk as freely about the past as they do today. The old folks left a lot unsaid. A hundred years or so ago that was the norm. We do not speak of the dead or speak of past mistakes. Children were to be seen and not heard. A child's' position was to listen when spoken to, and remain quiet unless asked to speak.
Many years after his passing I came into possession of some of Great Grandfathers belongings. A wonderful brass clock and old photographs. In the collection of old photographs there were some old postcards. One in particular aroused my interest. That postcard lead me to asking a lot of questions. The answers were not easy to get,but I believe I did. And the answer turned out to be quite a story.
The short story is this; Great Grandfather had a home on Floyd street. Great Grandmother Clara lived on the corner of Floyd and Springs Highway. When they were first married she moved into his house. He took out a mortgage on that home to purchase a wagon and horses. His plan was to run a taxi service. He called it the " Maidstone Taxi. " He thought surely there was a need for this service from the train station to the other sections around the town. This was in a time when the roads were mostly dirt. There were a few of those horseless carriages around, but he wasn't convinced that they would catch on much. They were quite expensive and a bit more finicky than horses. In the end he lost everything. His mortgage was foreclosed upon and he lost it. Great Grandmothers' father was a veteran of the civil war and highly respected in the community. This was quite an embarrassment to him. He subsequently gave his home to Great Grandmother . This was the house on the corner of Floyd street. The deed was in her name only and was never to be mortgaged or transferred to Great Grandfather. They were harsh stipulations but Great Grandfather had no choice but to agree. Eventually the house went to one of the daughters who sold it sometime in the 1970's.
One postcard led me to uncover this bit of history. Fascinating stuff.

                                                                           

Great Grandfather and his Taxi

                                                                             

Going There

There are corners in my mind where I seldom go. Places with memories and thoughts long ago stored. There are times when I must go there, forced by circumstance to visit. I am there and all I have found so far, is sorrow. Sorrow and regret. Sorrow for my loss, and regret for choices made. Question without answers and wounds without healing.

Looking closely I see some happiness and light. Both are but dim visions, but they are there. Time, mans friend and enemy, will reveal them, and time will heal. In those corners are the pieces that I seek. The pieces that bring comfort once again. How long will it take to find them ? I can not know but I must continue. Continue in that exploration, moving ever forward. It is not helpful to dwell upon the causes of the loss but rather dwell upon the resolution of the grief. The direction is there, I must find it.

These little corners in my mind can be uncomfortable little places. That, I imagine, is why I do not go there often. Yet, these places, memories if you will, exist, and all existence has a purpose. It is the meaning of this existence that causes anxiety and sometimes grief. When existence is gone, all that is left is speculation. The whys and what ifs ? I am left with those.

I write these words not to elicit sympathy. I write these words to promote healing. Writing them forces the light to shine in those little corners, and reveal what I am seeking. The whys and what ifs of life are beyond our comprehension. I can only hope to find a little key that unlocks some understanding. The key is within me and has lain dormant, but now the time has come. It is not an ominous thing or scary thing, it is just time. Some call it " closure. "  The memories never go away ,they are only stored. Stored until needed and then the door is opened.  

By the Moment

I got some terrible news last evening. News that made me realize one stark reality of life, life is lived not by days,weeks or years, but by the moment. Life is lived in moments. We travel along this plain forever moving forward. We can look behind and remember, but never turn around. The choices we make are permanent. There is no eraser for our regrets or mistakes, only sorrow is left. In that moment , my life changed. The change is not a visible thing, the change is both ephemeral and lasting. Another of life's paradoxes. Consumed by emotions and helpless against them I weep and try to reason. One can not reason the past however, one can only review.
With all tragedy there is a lesson, and I should heed the lesson. All too often we are so busy with our lives that we miss these signposts. We continue along having read the sign, but ignoring the direction. We are living," in the moment," but unaware of it. We should be aware at all times of the transient nature of this existence. Time lasts forever,we do not. We are as a speck of sand against the tide of time. It is that way for us all.
This new enlightenment on my part will take time to digest. Change happens quickly, but acceptance takes thought and contemplation. Time can be used to our advantage in this situation. Still, do not squander the resource of time, for it is limited, and you have no method of measurement. I must learn to apply this new knowledge, this new understanding, in a constructive way. I must use this as a positive force.
My heart is heavy and my mind occupied with thought. I will continue along however and another moment will present itself. I can only hope I am prepared for that moment in time. Life truly is ;  lived by the moment.

A Gift

For my last birthday my Grandson Mark gave me a tool bag, It is embroidered with the word, Essentials, in bright bold white letters. Inside where basic hand tools. There are pouches on the outside that he filled with nails and screws. It is a handy little thing. Oh, it has a shoulder strap for carrying.
He was quite pleased with his selection of a gift and I must say I am too. Very thoughtful and practical of him. I have had many tool boxes over the years but this is the first cloth one.
I have had it sitting next to me ,by my computer. Yesterday I had occasion to take it to work with me. My son,who manages the Save-A-Lot asked me to take a look at a mechanical issue. I normally walk to work, as it is only a short distance. I put that bag on my shoulder and off I went. As I was walking up the sidewalk the thought came to me, I'm carrying a man-purse !  That's right, a bag filled with man stuff, Screwdrivers, wrenches, a hammer and of course a tape measure. Yeah, we men are big on measuring things. I felt like one of those servicemen you see in the television commercials. Nice, neat clean clothing, carrying a man-purse that is just as clean as the clothing. I'm coming to fix everything and anything and all I need is this bag. Progress indeed from the old days of lugging a metal box,rusty and dirty and wearing filthy coveralls. Why I must be a technician !
When I arrived at the store the girls noticed my bag. I quickly explained to them about it being a man-purse and I had a job to do. I even threw a few technical terms in there to impress them. I assured them this was no Thirty One bag ! I did feel somewhat like a technician or perhaps an old time doctor as I unzipped that bag and reached inside. I pulled out the screwdriver, er, the multi- function tool with removable drivers I mean, and removed the access cover. I'll have this fixed up in no time. As I worked I thought of Mark and how pleased he would be to know I was using his gift. It pleased me too.

Gardiner's Island

When I was a young man I sang in the choir at St. Luke's Episcopal church. We practiced every saturday morning and did the family service at nine o'clock. That was the junior choir and I enjoyed that very much. Soon my voice changed, and it wasn't for the better, my singing career was over. Truth be told, it never really began, somehow my vocal chords never did get tuned.
A Mr. Gardiner attended our church. His ancestors settled what was first called , the Isle of Wight, and later changed to Gardiner's Island. The first Gardiner was a man named Lion. His effigy lies in the cemetery on a table of stone, not far from the Church. He is dressed in armor. He purchased the land in 1639 from the local Indians. The Island has remained in the possession of his ancestors ever since. Every year Mr. Gardiner would graciously host the St. Luke's junior choir on his island. This was a rare and special treat. The Island is privately owned and trespass upon it is not allowed. Not many get to see this island other than from the coastline, or I suppose in today's world, google earth.
This would have been in the 1960's. My memory of details is getting a little fuzzy so if there any inaccuracies it is not my fault. I remember we would meet at the Three Mile Harbor dock. There Mr. Gardiner had a large wooden boat waiting to transport us to the island. His personal boat was a black runabout named the " Rumrunner. " It was reputed to be very fast. It was only a short ride out to the Island. Most of us on board had seen it many times while out on the bay. A windmill could be seen and inviting beaches. We had all been warned about trespassing on that Island. Local tales told of men being beheaded for that offense. We were told that the Island was under it's own jurisdiction and local laws did not apply. The Gardiners could do as they pleased with trespassers. At least that what was said.
When we arrived at the island two pick up trucks were waiting for us. We all jumped in the back of those trucks to begin the tour of the Island. By today's standards I expect every rule was broken. No seat belts in the back of the truck, or I guess just riding in the back of a pick truck ! No one ever fell out or got hurt that I can recall. We rode up a dirt lane and would stop at certain points. Mr. Gardiner would tell us the history and importance of each spot. I remember the " hanging " tree. A large white oak with a thick branch sticking out nearly parallel to the ground. There were grooves in it were I could only assume the rope had worn it. We stopped in a small valley and there was a marker there. It was in this valley that the famous Captain Kidd had left treasure in 1699. Mr. Gardiner told us of that and how Captain Kidd never made it back to the island. He was hanged in England. His family recovered the treasure and returned it to the Queen.
We went to the Manor House. It was an impressive structure. I remember seeing gold plated faucets in the bathroom. I was impressed ! Their was a gun room as well. Rifles of all types in cases lining the walls. Underneath were drawers full of pistols. Everything from ancient flintlocks to the latest in weaponry
Other than a building full of batteries, for powering the home and a well, were we were told, the family silver had been hidden from pirates, a different bunch, not Kidd, I don't remember a whole lot.
I remember the island being a beautiful place. Open meadows and dense forest. Back in the old days it had been farmed and worked as a Manor. The Island remained active in that capacity for many years. Later in life I was to learn my own Grandmother had worked on that Island. Sadly she passed away before I knew that and could ask her about it.
Gardiners Island remains in the care of the family. It is still private. I feel privileged to have been given the chance,several times, to visit this special little place. The Island is about five square miles in area. and is possibly the most pristine five acres of old land in America. It has a fascinating history. And I got that by singing in the choir. I can't imagine what else I may have received if I had continued my singing career. LOL
Probably the dog pound.

Meeting the Elephant

I have no great tale to tell. No big war stories. I neither deserved nor earned any prestigious medals for courage in the face of danger. No accolades for service above those normally awarded. I simply served my country as best as I could, and expect nothing in return. Nothing more that is, than what I have earned. Those promises contained within my enlistment contract. After twenty years of service, I retired. The old sailor moored and resting in dry dock.
When I first enlisted the Vietnam war was in full swing but beginning to wind down some. It wasn't that we were winning the war or that the enemy was losing their resolve, it was politics. The war had become a political nightmare and uncomfortable. Protests at home and unbelievably negative reactions to our troops was causing very low morale in the ranks. Those serving could not openly express their pride with the general public. It was a war without honor,at least in the public view. Those serving however, did so with honor. Honor and heroism go hand in hand. My participation was from a distance,supplying ammo to other ships at sea and refueling the combatants. In 1975 that war came to an end. No great victory was won and none was celebrated. I returned home in August of that year. No yellow ribbons or parades. It was back to civilian life.
In 1977 for various reasons I reenlisted in the Navy. Back to sea for this old salt. All remained calm during a time of relative peace. Not much opportunity for awards and heroic deeds during peacetime. Of course the plus side is, there was a significantly smaller chance of getting killed. That changed a little bit when in 1990 the Gulf War began. I was part of Operation Desert Storm/Desert Shield. Again my primary mission was supplying ammo and oil to the combatants. I was off the coast and subject to attack but we were never seriously threatened. The Iraqis had nothing to intimidate us with. The closest we came was transiting the Straights of Hormuz where a scud missile could reach us. It never happened. I did receive,along with everyone else, a medal from the Kuwait government. A token of their appreciation. A nice gesture on their part and a medal I display with some pride. That action was the last of my war time experiences. I finished up my career and retired in 1993. Then I was transferred to the permanently retired list in 2001. The age of service or potential service exceeded. I would sail no more.
My Naval career was a time of service and commitment. I didn't really think of it that way at the time. It was a job that needed doing. I served alongside hundreds of others. Each one of us did our jobs to the best of our abilities. I am left with a few anecdotes and some stories. Nothing very exciting to tell. Now in my retirement I am pleased to see a swell of support for those who serve.
When you retire you are afforded an opportunity to give a little speech, say a few words. I recall a some of what I had to say. I spoke of long nights at sea and on watch. The months spent away from home and family and that loneliness. The one thing I will never forget is the people. I may not remember their names or faces but I remember them. Those nameless, faceless shipmates. I remember how they shared their lives,loves and loneliness with me. I listened to their stories and they listened to mine. I think about my shipmates often and wonder about their lives. It was a good time to serve and I would gladly do it all again. I do feel a little tinge of jealousy every now and again. It would be nice to be able to sit, as an old man, and tell tales of grand adventure and death defying feats but it was not my lot. Strange how you wouldn't want to be in those situations, but can feel a little jealous that you weren't. I have been fortunate and for that I am grateful. I am not alone. There are thousands of others that have served in relative obscurity. Those that went and were the fortunate ones. Time and circumstance shielding us. I am left wondering. Wondering if I could have met the challenge, to " meet the elephant " as the saying goes. An unanswered question and one best left that way. 

Summer of '68

I spent a lot of time pumping gasoline in the summer of '68. I was helping out down to Olympic Heights service station. I wasn't a real employee as I didn't get an hourly wage. If I had it would have had to have been a dollar and sixty cents an hour, that was the minimum wage then. Gas itself was up to thirty four cents ! Most people just got two dollars worth or a fill up. That seemed to be the going thing anyway. I wasn't complaining though because I got to be around cars and engines. Uncle George, not really a Uncle but what I addressed him as, promised to teach me some stuff. I got to hang out down there too, which I figured made me pretty cool with the girls. There were a couple of the older girls that could drive and they would stop in for gas. Fifty cents worth but really they wanted me to wash the windshield and stuff. I gladly did. You see I figured I was just being eye candy for them and that couldn't be a bad thing. Shoot, they would have to give in to temptation sooner or later. Ah, the optimism of youth. It was a good summer.
Most days I would get to help work on some car or maybe an outboard motor. We worked on both. Uncle George,true to his word,taught me a lot of things. The thing is, he taught me more than engines,he taught me about life and working. He never said a lot and was always soft spoken. I can honestly say I never saw him really angry. It was this calm, measured approach to everything that influenced me the most. He always seemed to be in control. He was a good businessman and I began to understand why. He treated everyone equally and fairly. He listened when you spoke. And one day he even let me drive his pick up truck into the garage. It was a manual shift and I jerked it forward, tipping over the toolbox in the back, but he just laughed and explained I needed to ease the clutch out. I felt a little foolish and a little grown up at the same time.
At the end of the day Uncle George would give me two dollars. I was happy enough with that. In 1968 a movie ticket was one fifty and a box of JuJu bees were fifty cents. So, I was good to go. I had no girls to take to the movie,yet, but I'd probably get a few extra bucks before I did.
Yes I would say the summer of '68 was an education. Probably one of the more important summers of my youth. While the other kids were off to camp or perhaps playing ball I was learning things. I was learning about cars, but more importantly about life. I got to hang out with the men folk ! We shared men stuff too. There was a certain magazine ,hidden in a toolbox, that I got a sneak peek at. Yup, I was definitely a man now. It was a little bit embarrassing though and I tried not to show it. Yeah, no big deal.
Olympic Heights Service, down on the Three Mile Harbor road was my classroom for that summer. It was an education that much is sure. I would recommend it to any young man. The education I got there is better than any thing you can learn in college and I got paid to learn it ! Two dollars every day. Not a bad deal at all.

Time and Progress

I often bemoan the loss of my little hometown. It has apparently become the playground for the wealthy. It was always so,even in my youth and my parents youth, it just now the " tourists " have become an invasive species. They are taking over our little garden. I really don't feel qualified to address this subject directly as I have not lived there in a number of years. I can, however , see the cause and effect.
This invasion is not only occurring in my hometown, it is happening in small towns across America. The real invasion is a corporate one. The giant chain stores destroying the Mom and Pop stores. Those stores are the lifeblood of small town America. That lifeblood is being sucked dry by the likes of Walmart,Target,Seven Eleven and others. When those little shops are gone, so is small town America.
The lucky towns, if you want to call it lucky, survive because they have something else of interest. Proximity to a body of water being the foremost draw I would say. If they can become a gateway to entertainment they will survive. The others will wind up almost as ghost towns on the landscape.
We have traded, and continue to do so, our support for local business to the big corporations in exchange for savings. This process has a been a slow progression but I have watched it creeping across the land. Early examples were the catalog stores. Dear Mr. Sears and Montgomery Ward. How many dollars were taken from the local shop owner when that convenience became available ? The revolving credit plan was the prime motivator in that process. Chain stores appeared on the land. Soon it was shopping centers. These shopping centers shifted the " center " of commerce from the town. The downtown's began to die. And we called it progress.
The resurgence of the small town will only occur when the population has a lot of disposable income. Money to be spent on the luxuries of life. Then small specialty shops and boutiques can thrive. The down town area of the small town taking on a carnival atmosphere. That portion of the town that once housed the business and civic leaders, becoming a playground.
Those left behind will remember the old home town. They will try to preserve what they can. It is a noble cause and one worth doing. Make no mistake about it though, time moves forward. We can only reflect upon the past and a way of life gone. For surely it is being lost, lost to time and progress.

Making Contact

I posted this strange happening on Facebook. Some of you reading this will remember it. For those that do not, I will tell the tale again.
I was shopping at the Walmart store with my wife and her sister. We had just picked up some prints from the Rite Aid drugstore. Joan, my wife's sister, wanted to buy some frames for these prints. We went to the aisle to look at frames. As the girls were checking some out I noticed a frame that said, record your message in the frame. The frames were lined up ,one behind the other, in a box. I reached in and took the second frame out of the box. There was a sticker on it saying, try me. So, I pushed the button on the side of the frame. About this time Joan was standing there and the frame said, " Hi Ben. " Joan ,astonished ,says to me, what did it say ? I pushed the button again and it repeated that message, " Hi Ben " in a soft, almost whisper like, female voice. It has an almost supernatural quality. I tried all the other frames in that box and each was loaded with a factory message in a male voice. It was very creepy ! Coincidence or fate ?
We left the frame sitting on the shelf and proceeded with our shopping. The subject of the frame kept reoccurring. Finally Joan says , I can't stand it, I have to buy that frame. We go back and get the frame. The girls are talking about it and speculating. By the time we got it home the theories were growing. I decided the voice may be my Great Grandmother Katherine. Hers is the only picture I don't have in a frame in my collection of ancestors. I immediately printed it and put it in that frame.
The mystery of how that recording got on that frame is one that will never be solved. I can assure you no one could have planted that there in anticipation of my arrival. There was no one else at the Walmart that even knew my name. In addition to that, in order to record a message on that frame one has to remove the battery cover,turn a switch,record the message,turn off a switch and then replace the cover. No way did anyone have any time to do any of that !
What do you think ? An unlikely coincidence or fate ? Was there intervention from beyond ? I often play the lottery but have never won a thing. Is this my stroke of luck ? Surely the odds are just as high. There is a website mentioned on the back of the frame for questions and help. Mychatterbox.com. I wonder if I should contact them ?  Maybe, just Maybe, they are waiting for my call. But who is waiting ? Not sure I want to know.

Happiness

Acceptance is the key to happiness. When one can accept a fact or situation for what it is , that leads to happiness. Happiness isn't necessarily jumping up and down with joy. Happiness can be much more subtle than that. Everyday that passes without sorrow, is a day of happiness. We all should learn to accept ourselves and our situations. That is the foundation. The motto of Alcoholic Anonymous is Give me the strength to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. It is this wisdom that we should really be focused upon. It is this wisdom that we should all seek. It is a difficult task.
I think our Grandparents had a better grasp on this concept than we do today. Their attitude was definitely different than ours. Some things will never change and there is no sense wasting your energy upon them. You may force someone to comply, but that is not acceptance. It is when free will is employed that happiness ensues. I can't make anyone have a good time or make their lives happy. Happiness is a personal thing.
My advice is , remain calm, reason it out and act accordingly. Take opportunity when offered ( answer the door ) but do not insist upon it. The road we walk is a long one. Do not stop at every attraction along the way. Decide upon the destination. Focus your attention there.
I would have to say I wandered around a bit in my youth and perhaps a bit beyond. I've got a few regrets. The road can be winding and it is easy to become lost. It does no good to dwell on the past. Learn from it certainly, but do not become bogged down in it. What we leave behind is not as important as the inspiration for the future that we may instill. All the great people in history have done this. They left inspiration. So, be inspired with obtaining happiness. Happiness is right there at your doorstep, no need to look any further than that.

Small Town

All over the country small towns are dying. They are being replaced by housing communities. The town proper is still there but local business is all but non existent. Mom and Pop replaced by the chain stores. The residents of these communities have little connection with the past. They move there for the peace and quiet of that small town experience but demand amenities. Shopping twenty four hours, fancy eateries and movie theater complexes. These centers of commerce pop up in various locations. Good night Mom and Pop. And it is these Mom and Pops that are the soul of the town. Make no mistake about it, these businesses are what drew the community together in the first place. The Mom and Pops were the first step to settlement. They provided a service that was necessary. They began by providing the staples and expanded as the town prospered. Now, it would seem America is outgrowing itself. The staples are not enough anymore.
The lucky little towns have something to offer. They are by the water or scenic area in the country. Maybe they have a significant connection to history. The unlucky ones are just withering up. Like those old ghost towns in the west they are becoming abandoned.
It is all just the progression of time. Time changes all things. And now we want it all. We want small town ambiance and big city service. We want to have the past,while living in the future. Our children will be saying the same thing about their childhood. They will lament the loss.
The real underlying issue behind all this is the tax base. Without a tax base to support the town, it dies. This tax may have to come from other sources. The Mom and Pop stores and businesses cannot support the towns anymore. There was a time when it was possible. Government regulation and restrictions have made that an impossibility. Small towns everywhere are scrambling to develop this tax base. And the cycle continues. We want more, we need more and that means money. More money for the taxpayer,more money for the businessman and more money for the government ! Money is the engine that drives all of this. An unfortunate and sad fact. One fact remains, no matter how much money is spent you cannot buy back the past. The past  is gone. 

Sammys

Just head down the Springy Banks rd. Roll on past Settlers Landing and Boys Harbor. When you go far enough turn left and head on down to Sammys beach. Rode and drove that route many times but still can't tell you the names of the roads. Sammys was " the beach " when I was growing up. That's were Mom took us kids in the afternoons when Dad got back from his shift at Promise Land. He was tired and needed to rest so us kids needed to be out of the house. So Mom packed up the lunch and a small cooler and off we went.
We had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with sand. Kool Aid was the order of the day, usually a bit warm but still wet anyway. Mom took a book or magazine. We kids had old inner tubes that we got from the garage. The garage, that is all we called Olympic Heights Service Station. Mr. Rosen was a good friend of Dads and would fix us up. Sometimes they were car inner tubes and if we got real lucky a truck or tractor tube. I remember the smell, look and feel of those tubes. The valve stem would stick you in the butt if you weren't paying attention. There were always several patches on the tube. Square ones and oblong ones. They were glued on and stuck up just a little bit. We floated,flipped and paddled those tubes all over the place. Mom would yell for us to come back,we were going to far out into the bay. " Do you want to get run over by a boat ?  " Don't you have any sense ? " " Get in here ! "
There were some small dunes just past the parking lot. The lot wasn't paved but that ground was as hard as any pavement. There was room enough for six cars or more. After that you just had to park alongside the road. If that was the case when we got there, Mom would usually just turn around and head for hands creek (pronounched crik ). Mom didn't like crowds and if there were more than six cars there, you can bet it was crowded !
Up in the dunes were three or four outhouses. The town boys put them there and took care of them. They doubled as dressing rooms. They didn't smell too good and usually had those big green horsefly's in there. Those fly's were vicious ! Most times there was a roll of paper in there for your convenience. Was better than nothing but only used in a true emergency situation. Not pleasant.
Coming down from the dunes you first walked across a stretch of seaweed. This seaweed was washed up there and dry as a bone. It was mostly a black color and stretched like a ribbon along the shoreline. Then you hit the sand. A nice fine grained sand with just a hint of color to it. This was the area to put your blanket down. Beach towels were a bit of a rarity. We mostly brought an old blanket and the towels from the bathroom. Having a regular beach towel was a luxury ! Mom did have the ultimate luxury though, a beach umbrella. She didn't bring it often because it was so heavy. Wooden pole with real canvas covering. The metal rods that made up the frame could easily have doubled as girders.
We spent a couple hours down there almost every day while school was out. Other Moms would be there and we played with the other kids. Skimmer clams could be had if you went offshore a little ways. An occasional chowder clam could be had too. The bottlefish,as we called them, would nibble at your toes while you drifted on your tube. Horseshoe crabs both living and deceased were plentiful. I hated stepping on them. They would move and just scare the beJesus out of me.
How many hours I spent on that beach I couldn't begin to guess. I have many fond memories of the time there. It was a special place to go. Just Mom and us kids and a few others. We pretty much had a private beach. I often walk on that beach in my memories. I can see it clearly and enjoy the sights and sounds there. And yes, in a strange sort of way I kinda miss those outhouses too. Things were simple and straightforward back then. Just the way I like it.

I used the name Sammys because that is what we called it. It's true name is Sammis beach,after a family named Sammis. Oh, and beach plums grew there too. Right in front of the parking lot. Some good, Bub. Yes,Yes.

Summer People

Those big old houses stood like sentinels on the shore. Looking out over the dunes toward the Ocean. They stood silent and empty waiting,waiting for the arrival of spring. These were the summer " cottages "of the rich. Artists and business moguls escaping to the seclusion of the eastern end of Long Island. That was back in the day. Back in the days of old money and the Gentry. It was a time not so long ago. It was the time of my childhood.
I grew up in the shadow of the summer people. There influence was everywhere. Dad always said, money talks. The life of the town revolved around the influx of money from the summer crowd. Everyone knew this but no one wanted to admit it. We (the locals) are a proud lot. Set in our ways and opinionated, but willing to bend just a little for a dollar. It is that way with most everyone, an ugly little fact of life. A mans gotta do what a mans gotta do, to get by.
The summer people were an elusive bunch. Rarely did you see them, and that is what they preferred. Some were famous people and some just plain rich. They circulated within there own little groups according to their shared interests. The horse people doing whatever it is you do with those fancy horses, something about dressing or dressage. All I knew was you had to wear boots, pants like a WW1 veteran and a helmet that looked like a ball cap ! Others played golf and hung out at the country club. The country club was in town though, so I didn't get that either. Wasn't much country about it that I could see. Maybe they wore cowboy hats when inside, never went inside one. You would bump into them sometimes at the store or in a restaurant. All that I met were friendly enough and I never did make much of a fuss over them. To be truthful, never gave it much mind at all, like the windmills in town, they just were.
In the later part of the 1960's, my that sounds so long ago, their presence began to be felt more and more. But it was a new breed of rich. An arrogant bunch that demanded everything their way.They certainly weren't the gentry of old. They even began to interfere with the local government. Showing up at town meetings and such, griping about things that didn't matter. These were the " no class " wealthy. That was about all they had going for them, money. Money talks. They couldn't buy the homes of the old Summer People, so they started building their own. Buying up properties and building ridiculous looking places. And they built them to visit year round ! These people seldom went away except for the work week. Every weekend they came in, more and more of them. This was something different altogether. The old summer people, the ones that had real wealth, came and stayed for maybe a month or six weeks. Then they closed up their home and went away. They came, spent their money and went back wherever they came from in the first place. By 1969 that whole thing was becoming just a memory. This new bunch was trouble.
The new crowd turned the place into a playground. A playground for those that had plenty of money and wanted everyone to know it. No quiet dignity with these people. No sir, this bunch is altogether different. This is a bunch that will use this place up and then discard it as quickly as yesterdays fashions. The only good part is that I am not there to see it in person. I only read and hear tales of it. My heart longs for this place but I know it no longer exists. The place I remember is just a memory,a bygone time. But there is always hope. The natural beauty of the place hasn't changed much . That is what attracted those summer people in the first place. Perhaps after these new rich become bored with it and move on to another " in " spot some of it will return.
A few of my classmates and acquaintances still live there and carry on. It pleases me to see them preserving our shared heritage. There are the stalwarts. The old guard and I admire them. Fate and circumstance has taken me away and fate and circumstance has left them there. The merits of either could be debated. It would appear that Dad was correct in one thing, Money talks. The old money and the new both impacting our lives. The old money was a lot more comfortable, this new money irritates. Time changes all things.  

Shopping at Brills

School clothes. Now it is the mall and the outlet stores. That's were you go for school clothes. When I was growing up it was the Sears catalog and Bobby Brills. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with Mom as we went through the book. Pants and shirts were selected. The price was the primary concern, fashion was definitely a secondary consideration. That was alright though, because half the kids in school were shopping from this same book. The rich kids, from uptown, might be going to Robert Halls or some other fancy place in Riverhead but not us. Whatever fashion dear Mr. Sears offered, is what we got.
Other needs we usually picked up at Brills clothing store. This store was located b'low the bridge in the section of town known as the hook. My neighbors Mom worked there,I think she worked there forever. You went in that front door and was greeted by two rows of what can only be described as bins. Wooden bins that ran almost the length of the store itself. The floor was wooden too, and creaked as you walked. In places you could feel it give just a little.
Those bins were filled with shirts,pants,sweaters,jackets,dresses and skirts. Some had underwear in them and tee shirts. There weren't too many things on hangers in this store. And the store always seemed a little dark. Brills sold shoes too. All manner of shoes. They had tennis shoes with their trademark green soles. Anyone in town that saw those shoes with the green soles knew that is where they came from. The Brills specials we called them.
All the way toward the back right hand side of the store was the checkout. Close to this area was a rack with belts on it. They had wide black leather belts that we called garrison belts. For some unknown reason we thought these belts were somehow special and a little dangerous. Maybe that was because they resembled the belts the Police wore, not to mention other very bad people like Nazis. Whatever the case. I wanted one but Mom said no.
When I got to high school I did my own shopping and Brills faded into memory. Seldom did I shop there anymore. I started to go to Riverhead to shop. I took the bus. Mom thought it a foolish thing but I had the need to be cool. Brills just didn't fit the bill.
Years later I happened to be talking with my Mom about this. It was then she told me that Brills sold mostly factory seconds. There were slight defects in that clothing. Sleeves different lengths or pockets not aligned exactly right. I never noticed. And now the memory of Brills store brings a pleasant feeling. I can smell the new clothes smell and hear the creak of the floor. I remember having to ask for the correct size and Mrs. Collum rummaging through those bins to retrieve it. Brills was a great place to shop. Another piece of Americana, small town America, relegated to memory. It's hard to explain to anyone that has never have that pleasure but those of us that did, remember. 

Mr. Mitchell

It was to be the boys tenth birthday. He was really growing up, even his Grandmother said so. He had never known his mother,she passed away shortly after his birth. Of course he had an older brother and he knew his father. Dad would come and visit on occasion. He could remember a time or two when he had taken him to Montauk, all the way to the end of the island. Dad was a fisherman and spent a lot of time on the water. In the last few years he had taken up house painting. After Mom died, Dad went off and lived alone for awhile, that is why he and his older brother lived with grandma and grandpa. They were his mothers parents and had a big old house. After a while Dad met a lady named Lina. They got married and had two sons, his half brothers Dad called them. Pete and Harry. He didn't think they would be coming for his birthday. He didn't see them much. You see, Dad had bought a new car and was heading for Florida. He was going down there to see Uncle Fred. Uncle Fred was a photographer and had his own studio. He was a man who knew people. He told Dad to come on down and he would get him fixed up with a good job and everything.
That was back in 1932 and times were hard. Everybody said so, although the boy had known no other. Dad said he would come back and get them all. But Dad passed away on the trip. He barely reached Florida when something called his appendix burst. There was nothing the doctors could do, he was gone. That was two years ago. Seemed a lot longer.
The boy sat there,feeding the chickens and thinking about all this. Grandma was baking him a cake. He knew that because she had asked him to bring in more wood for the stove. His brother was in the house,reading. He was reading about this stuff called radio. That's all he ever wanted to do. He wasn't much for playing games. There were no other kids his age around. He sat there daydreaming about sailing on the bay and fishing. That's what he really wanted to do. Be a fisherman ,like his father was. Dad had told him some pretty exciting tales about being on the bay and even out in Long Island sound. The sea and the air. And nobody telling you what to do. Sounded like his way of life. Great Grandfather had been a whaler ! He didn't think he wanted to go to sea for years though. Grandma told her she worried all the time when he was gone. That's why her Bible had so many worn pages, from reading it and praying. That whaling must be pretty dangerous stuff.
He was lost in this dream when he heard a voice calling. At first he thought it was saying, Ahoy there or some other nautical greeting. He looked up sharply. There, across the cow lot, came Mr. Mitchell and he was carrying something. Mr. Mitchell was a kindly old man. He often sat and talked with him. Mr. Mitchell had many tales to tell. Tales of the old days. Tales of horses and cowboys. He had seen Mr. Roosevelt and the rough riders when they had camped at Fort Hero out to Montauk. He was calling to the boy, Ben, Ben come give me a hand. So, the boy sprang up and took off running. Across the cow lot he went, dodging the cow patties along the way. He joined Mr. Mitchell who had a large box. This box was tied shut with a piece of string. Mr. Mitchell handed it to the boy and asked him to carry it. I'm getting on in years and that box was getting to be a bit of a struggle. What's in the box, Mr. Mitchell ? You'll see soon enough. And so they continued to walk to the boys house.
When they reached the house they went into the kitchen. Hello Mrs. Lester, a beautiful fall day isn't it ? Grandma agreed that indeed it was and she didn't mind having the stove going on this day, a chill was already beginning to creep in. Well, it is the middle of September. Grandma said, do you know what day it is ? Mr. Mitchell smiled and said, why it is the 18th, I believe. Chuckling, Grandma said yes it is, and do you know it is Ben's' birthday ? It is ? Well, Happy Birthday Ben ! The boy smiled and said politely Thank You Mr. Mitchell. Then he said, Mr. Mitchell what is in the box ? Why it is something for you Ben. For me ? Really ? Yes sir, just for you. Happy Birthday.
The boy could hardly untie the string because his fingers were shaking, he was that anxious to see what it could be. He knew better than to cut that string, Grandpa wouldn't be happy if he did that. Gramp would always say, you never know when you are going to need a good piece of string. And so he fumbled with the knots, had Mr. Mitchell been a sailor ? These knots were the devil to undo. Finally freeing the string from the box, he opened the top and peered inside. What was this ? The first object out of the box was a tall bottle with a stopper in the top. But inside the bottle was something amazing. It looked like a small village. There was a windmill, some ships with sails and a few other things inside. How had Mr. Mitchell gotten those things inside that bottle ? They were all bigger than the hole in the neck ? Still in the box was another item. This was a lamp. The base of the lamp was two jars, looked like relish jars, and they were filled with the same things as the tall bottle. The mouth on these jars were wider but still, how had he gotten those things in there ? The boy was fascinated and thrilled. Thanking Mr. Mitchell he took the lamp and bottle directly to his room. There he plugged in the lamp and studied that bottle. It was amazing.
I have that bottle today. It sits on a shelf and it was my fathers. There is a small sticker, a picture of George Washington in fact, on the bottom of the bottle. The date on it is 1934. I also have the two small jars that comprised the base of the lamp. I can recall as a child seeing this lamp when it was complete. Now it is only the two jars. Why the lamp was taken apart I cannot say. I enjoy these things because I am reminded. Reminded of my father and reminded of days gone by. These objects have meaning for me and I think it is important to share that meaning. That is the reason for this story.

footnote: My sister married a man whose name is, you guessed it, Mr. Mitchell. Not related but an interesting coincidence nevertheless.

                                                                           

1934

Old is new

Each of us are connected to the past. The degree of that connection differs for each. How strong do you feel that pull ? It would seem the older I get, the stronger the pull becomes. I wonder if this is the case for everyone. Is that why we become nostalgic ? A type of reverse gravity. The further we get from the past, the stronger the pull. Although the past is only yesterday. A paradox of time.
Those that subscribe to the theory of reincarnation certainly must feel that pull. At least they proclaim an awareness of the past. Of course if their past wasn't what was expected of them ,in their belief, to move forward toward enlightenment they would then be pushing against it. The past that is. Isn't that their theory ? To move forward in time, to gain that enlightened status so as not to live here on this earth again. I'm not sure about that. I'll have to do some reading about it. At any rate it really doesn't effect me as I don't have that belief system. I do think our souls are immortal. After our passing our souls are distributed among those who loved us here on this earth. That is the eternal life we all seek. There are no bad souls, only bad people. That is a result of the whole free will thing.
I have wandered off track in my thoughts. This often happens to me and can prove to be a distraction. I was speaking of our connections to the past. We are connected there by heritage and to some degree, location. Separation from either can leave that empty feeling. That feeling that something is just missing. Old pictures and memories can serve as a bridge but not a true connection. Old pictures and memories fade with time. The connection itself only grows brighter, becoming clearer with the passage of time. Is this the light we hear tell of ? The light we move toward in death ? The light that completes the circle ?
Life is indeed a circle. We move toward the past ,not the future. For in the end all that is old is new again. That's why we say history repeats itself. It surely does. The names change,the causes change and technology changes. Man and his motivations do not. Our connection to the past is real and vital. We should not strive to live in the past but certainly we should should work towards the past. For in the distant past man was free,  Then we tried to make it better. Silly man.

Making Claim

Man has always sought a faster, more efficient way to get a job done. We have invented all matter of machinery to save us from our labors. Ways to plow it, build it, make it or grow it. Ways to increase industry ,to increase profits, and increase our leisure time. And then what do we do with this leisure time ? For some of us we spend it doing the labors we invented machinery to replace. We want things, hand made. Hand made is always the best, isn't it ? Some of us even get jobs depicting the way we used to work. Historical reenactments. 

We do have a tendency to romanticize those bygone occupations. A deep sea whaler for instance. Images of the sea and a mighty struggle with the great beast immediately comes to mind. We forget about the weeks or months that may transpire between those encounters. The crowded, smelly living conditions and boredom. It wasn't a romantic notion to those fellows. It was all about risk and reward. The cowboy ! We have built an entire industry around this occupation. Cowboy, just the word evokes hundreds of images. We think we know the cowboy trade and have glorified it. The reality is much different. Low pay, long hours, extreme discomfort and ever present danger from nature and their fellow man. A glorious occupation ? Not to the cowboy. 

There are some of us that want to cling to those images of the bygone era. We claim, through heritage alone, to be a part of that. Even though we never have worked in that occupation ourselves, we claim that heritage. The slightest connection to that trade will suffice. In some instances just living in a particular area will do. I suppose it has something to do with mystique. 

Those that worked those trades of the past never gave it a thought. They did not think of themselves as anything special or unique. They were just doing their jobs the same way we do ours today. Now if we do things the old fashioned way, ie: by hand, we call ourselves craftsmen. Some even call themselves Artisans. A whole industry is being built around this desire, it is the Do It Yourself industry. How many things do we do ourselves today, that we take great pride in showing off, that was done everyday not so many years ago ? Our ancestors didn't think of it as being handy, but as doing what was necessary. It was just part of the job. The job of living.

What occupation will you claim ? The truth is what occupation will history give you ? Are there any occupations of real adventure left ? Astronaut could fall into that category. Jet fighter pilot. Fishing off the Alaska coast on those ships of the Deadliest catch. Maybe working on an offshore oil rig ? Humm, in thinking about my life and the occupations I have held I'm claiming sailor. From the bay of my youth to the seven seas of the world I have sailed them. Aye, Aye Captain. I claim to know the mysteries of the sea. 

Building a past

There are times when I feel I have no identity. The roots of my raising have been severed and the ground that fostered them gone. The only connection that remains are memories, and flawed ones at that. The fog of time has clouded them. During my military years I lived in many places. I stayed for a while and then was gone. Some places I remember well and others not so much. Places,faces and time all grown together. Finally settling here in Greensboro, where, for the foreseeable future anyway, I shall remain.Even parts of my time here in Greensboro are fragmented. I moved here in the later stages of my career but was still sailing the seas. Large portions of time and family events were missed. Roots started and uprooted. After over twenty some years I still feel like a visitor. It can be a strange and troubling feeling.
I do not feel this way all the time. It is not a conscience thing. It is more of an awareness. When speaking with my contemporaries, those of my age group, I can not speak of the old days in Greensboro. I am relegated to listening. Fortunately for me, I like history. I can not share my childhood with them either,as they have no point of reference about my upbringing. And it is this that is the root cause of my restlessness. A point of reference. People need a point of reference,common ground upon which to build. As we age we build upon the past. Could it be any other way ? When young everything is new and we begin to build. We will build upon the shakiest of ground in the belief that it will last forever. Later in life we do become more selective. Our foundation becomes stable,unchanging. The build is a lot slower.
It is a difficult thing to reconcile. Here in Greensboro I have no connection to the past. My connection rests in the future. The future of my son and grandchildren. Will they remain in Greensboro and witness the growth ? Will they tell their children tales of old Greensboro, the days when Grandpa walked the streets ?
There has to be a first. Guess that is me. The first Reichart in Greensboro. I do like it and think I'll stay a while. I'm beginning to know a few people and starting to have some common ground upon which to build. My history in Greensboro is short but I've got time to build some more.
My memories are just stories to you. The same is true of yours. Shared memories make the best stories. It just takes time. 

Tilting at Windmills

There are days when I feel like the proverbial voice in the wilderness,crying out for justice. I'm sure you feel the same way. The actions of others often puzzle me. Why they act or react the way they do. I find it difficult to understand. What could have happened in their lives to cause these reactions ? Each of us respond according to the conditions. The conditions of our raising and the conditions of our lives. Negative actions lead me to believe that must be their experience. That is a sad thing. Surely their entire life could not have been so. Is it that they have forgotten ? Or is it the desire to just impose their will upon others ? It does seem to me that society today does tend to operate more in a confrontational mode, than one of cooperation. The number of lawsuits is testimony to that. A lot of the music I hear today,from all genres, is rather confrontational.

I wonder how this came to be. It isn't the way I remember it being. Of course I am from the old days. All the way back into the sixties ! Back in the day when manners were taught. Back when we watched our P's and Q's, even when we didn't know what they were ! A time when we didn't feel entitled to anything but the air we breathed. A time when we used words like please and thank you. We were taught to be polite to others even when we weren't feeling so great ourselves. Or was it just that we learned to deal with disappointments. We didn't always get our way. We accepted the authority of others without feeling threatened by it. 

It is my thinking that society today is undergoing a major shift. That shift is a lack of commitment. We do not want to commit to anything anymore. All things have become transient. Promises made no longer valid. Our word is not our bond, the only thing binding is a well written contract and even those are subject to arbitration. The foundation of our society is shifting and becoming unstable. Without belief,without faith in our decisions how can it be otherwise ?  I would much rather be remembered as a man of convictions than one who is unsure. There are days when I feel like Don Quixote trying to retain the old morality. Only Sancho understood and I have yet to meet him. Perhaps it will be today.