Capo Di Tutti Capi (The Boss of Bosses)

I know it’s the thing to be thankful for our family and our friends this time of year. I am unbelievably thankful for all of those things. However, I’d like to talk to you about something else I am thankful for; something that a lot of us are thankful for. For me, like you I am sure, the soundtrack of my life is awesome. So many songs, so many artists…Neil Young, Tom Petty, Elvis Costello…But if I had to pick one artist that has provided the music for the screenplay of my life, it would have to be Bruce Springsteen. That’s right, I am thankful for The Boss.

 “The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves”…gives me goose bumps. “The dogs on Main Street howl ‘cause they understand” gives me that little catch in my throat. “No retreat, no surrender” gets me pumped, makes me feel I could tear down walls. “Bobby Jean” helps me reminisce. “Meet me tonight in Atlantic City” makes me cry. Springsteen reminds me of what it’s like to be human. When I am driving in my car he has me trying to, as Bruce would say, to, “Turn the mother up, as loud as she will go.”

What is it about Bruce? Why does he do it for a lot of us? Not long ago, at a local pub, I was talking with Pat Lewis, a fellow Middlebury dad, and a buddy with whom I share many interests. Our conversation turned to music. We ploughed coins in the juke box as we talked of our favorite bands from The Beach Boys to The Replacements. Assuming he would love him I venture, “And what about Springsteen?” Pat kind of grimaced and said, “I don’t know. I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.” That felt like a punch to the gut. How could Pat Lewis not like Bruce? Which made me think, what is it about Bruce that does it for so many of us?

When Bruce plays, you get the feeling that he’s earnest. Jon Stewart, hosting the Kennedy Center Honors, said of Springsteen, “Bruce doesn’t just sing, he testifies.” With Bruce, you never get the feeling he’s doing it for a paycheck. I think of the Dimaggio quote when Joltin’ Joe talked of why he gave his best every game, “Because there’s some kid in the stands, that’s the only game he’s going to see me play.” It’s that same passion you get from Springsteen, he’s up there, Proving it All Night, for you.

I remember when downloading music over the internet started happening, I was genuinely worried that we would lose our artists. My fear was that the future Lennons and McCartneys might not choose to go into the music business if it meant they couldn’t cash in on their rock star dreams. No reason to have worried though because real artists, are going to have to sing, or play, no matter what. If Bruce never made it big, Bruce fans know, he’d probably be working a 9 to 5 gig in some office complex on Route 1 in Jersey. But you could rest assured he’d be playing on the weekends in some local bars down the Jersey shore. He’s got this rock and roll in him, these songs, and he has to get them out.

And what a gift it is. Whatever music does it for you, from Sheryl Crow to the Counting Crows, we have to take a second to thank the artists. How hard it must be to write a song, from the lyrics to the melody, damn, I don’t know enough about it to even sound like I
know what I’m talking about. I’m just glad they pursue their dreams, they give their blood, sweat and tears, for us really.

I tell my students, I teach 8th grade, that I might not have survived adolescence, were it not for the music of Bruce Springsteen. I can picture myself in my bedroom, gingerly placing Darkness on the Edge of Town, the album, on my Hitachi stereo turntable. Those of you of a certain age will recognize my hi-fi; an all-in-one unit I bought at Macy’s. For $220 I got a turntable, cassette player and AM/FM stereo. Throw in some milk-crate-sized speakers and I was rocking out in my room; much to my Dad’s dismay. Early on I felt a strong connection to Springsteen’s songs. He was cool and vulnerable at the same time. In the same song you got the feeling he could kick your ass or he could be getting his heart crushed. The Boss’s music was the perfect lyrical elixir for an adolescent finding his way in the world. I can still picture 10th grade, in the room I shared with both of my brothers, singing along with Bruce to an imaginary girlfriend I hadn’t even met yet. “Well if she wants to see me! You can tell her that I’m easily found. Tell her there’s a spot out ‘neath Abram’s Bridge. And tell her, there’s a darkness on the edge of town.”

Bruce fans stick together, those of us that are actually drinking the Kool-Aid. I got a call this past week from Glen Gruder, one of my East 4th Street cronies. He called to let me know that I HAD to pick up Springsteen’s recently released multi-disk set. Glen turned 50 this past summer but I could hear the excitement in his voice as he talked about this new version of “Candy’s Room” on the new disk. Our connection goes way back.

Early on, we made Bruce our own. It felt cool to know about Bruce before other people, before he got big. “Darkness” came out in ’78 and there started to be a buzz about this Springsteen guy. Gruder and I were the big Springsteen fans on East 4th Street, buying vinyl versions of The Wild The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle in our local record store on 13th avenue.

It was Glen actually, who took me to my first Bruce concert. In 1980, G-man won 4 tickets to Springsteen’s New Year’s Eve show at the Nassau Coliseum. Springsteen was still relatively unknown or unappreciated in our circles. Actually we couldn’t even get two other friends to go with us. Springsteen on New Year’s Eve! We wound up scalping two of the tix, interestingly enough to Cathy Cavanaugh, a friend of ours from the neighborhood, who happened to be outside the Coliseum, looking for tickets.

When I got a counselor job, at YMCA Silver Lake in New Jersey in 1980, the Springsteen tattoo became permanent. Much to the chagrin of my co-counselor, Jim-Bob Mitchell, I bought a cassette of “Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ” at the Sussex County Fair. That whole summer in Cabin 17, I played that cassette over- and over. “Billy slammed on his coaster brakes and said, anybody want to head on out to Greasy Lake?” Even if the lyrics didn’t fit, I made them fit, Greasy Lake? Silver Lake? “Princess cards she sends me, with her regards...” Bruce’s songs are narratives, telling stories that seemed somehow to work for me.  “For you, for you I came for you
but you did not need my urgency…” thinking of a certain girl at camp, someone I have a crush on but she doesn’t know.

One of my other camp buddies who is “drinking the Kool-Aid” is Steve Swierczek. Every once in a while, after the kids go to sleep, the phone will ring. When I answer, all I can hear is crowd noise. Then I can hear Bruce singing “Night.” Swierczek knows, this is the first song I heard Bruce sing live. He calls so I can share the concert with him, me on my couch in Connecticut and Steve in some stadium, thinking of me when he hears, “And the world is bustin’ at its seams. And your just a prisoner of your dreams…” Those calls always mean a lot to me.

After 9/11, Bruce released an album of healing, “The Rising.” It was upsetting at first to listen to it, but eventually it became cathartic. No better artist to write that album except maybe Billy Joel. During “The Rising” tour, I joined Swierczek and a group of his Rutgers buddies for a tailgate before one of the summer shows at Giants Stadium. I had no ticket so I had to scalp a single. Tough to sit by yourself but I just had to go to this show. Second song in, I am surrounded by fellow Bruce fans, but strangers none the less, and Bruce goes into “The Rising,” a haunting tune about America picking itself up after 9/11. “I see you Mary in the garden. In the garden of a thousand sighs. There’s holy pictures of our children...” My mind flashes to people I know, and the horrors of that time and I feel a raindrop. I look up into the graying summer sky and there’s another one, not a deluge, just a few, like tears, falling slowly.

Maybe for you it’s not Bruce? Maybe it’s The Beatles? The Stones? Whoever it is that moves you, give thanks that they followed their muse. When you hear that song that gives YOU goosebumps, take a second to say Thanks to the artist for putting it out there for us, for sharing their humanity with us.

I often think of students that I’ve had over the years, the Jason Kinnards, the Pat Lamothes, the Jacob Calos, the Michael Griffins, middle school kids forming rock bands in their garage. I always think, this kid just might have "it." I say, keep going! Follow your passion, put yourself out there, the world needs musicians. We should all be thankful that they take a chance. “Tramps like us…”

The Postman Never Rings Anymore

Most of us are optimists. I can prove it. Raise your hand if you look forward to going to the mail box? Come on, be honest. Raise your hand

if when you see the mail truck coming down your street, or the letter carrier walking up the block, you get a little excited. We all have a little lilt in our voice when we say, “Hey, here comes the mailman.” This optimism continues, despite the overwhelming evidence. I mean, Monday thru Saturday, 52 weeks a year, for years if not decades now, you can assume all you will get in the mail is crap. Sure we get the occasional magazine subscription. And those are mostly single people. People I know with kids, quickly let their subscriptions lapse. Give or take a birthday card, or a refund check in April, there’s really no good reason to go to the mail box. So why do we still have a spring in our step as we go to check the mail?

Somewhere, deep in our DNA, we remember a time when the mailbox held treats; letters written by far away friends. Maybe you’d get a letter from a college buddy, a camp friend or if you're lucky, someone you have a crush on? I’m no Luddite, I am all for the forward march of technology. I mean if I had to write this on a Smith-Corona, I despised those machines, I might not write at all. This email stuff is cool, but we’ve lost a little something when we stopped writing letters. Don’t you think? Now there’s nothing to touch; nothing to smell, nothing to reread or savor. How many times have you reread an email?”

I really do miss going to the mailbox and seeing one of those special envelopes, mixed in with all the other mail, that was a letter from a friend. Maybe you were like me? I would tease myself, put the letter to the side, put the other mail in its proper pile, read everything else and then finally get to the letter. I had the pleasure of being a camp counselor during my high school and college years. That’s when the letter writing bug bit me. I made a lot of friends at YMCA Silver Lake and camp people liked to keep in touch the 10 months we were not at camp. At a time when long distance calls were still measured in minutes and fathers policed the phone bill, letters were an economical option to stay in touch. As an avid reader, someone who values his friendships and enjoys writing, letters were a no-brainer.

There was nothing like writing to a friend, trying to entertain, updating them on our lives all while trying to speak in our voice in the process. I loved crafting the letter, snickering at my desk picturing one of my buddies getting a kick out of one of my sophomoric stories. I guess that’s not all that different from email. But part of the joy was the anticipation, knowing the letter was in the postal system, meandering its way to Anytown, USA. For a few days picturing my friend’s mailbox at his or her house, knowing or hoping that they will be excited to receive a letter. Assuming their response is similar to my response when their return letter arrives a few weeks later.

Those of us who were letter writers could recognize letters by their post-mark, type of stationary, maybe a peculiar handwriting or of course a return address. To this day I could tell you that Kira’s, (that’s my wife) home address was 2 Dawn Lane in Ridgefield CT. Mike and Chrissy Parker lived at 62 Rodgers Lane in Sparta, NJ. If the post mark was Kilmer Facility? It’s a letter from Moira Flanagan in Phillipsburg. Bill Dunleavy, who enlisted in the army after college? He could be anywhere from Fort Benning, Georgia to Germany.

Winters in Brooklyn could be cold, months long roller hockey seasons, ice cold train platforms, and touch football games on East 4th Street so a letter from a friend was a ray of summer sunshine. And one of the beauties was we could save letters, not like emails. My letters were in a pair of cardboard boxes. Now that was something entertaining, to come across a box of letters months if not years later. I usually uncovered mine each time I moved. To sit on the basement floor and pick out a handful of letters was special. And again, email? To revisit our personal history, to go back in time, to remember what we were doing sophomore year in college…

Fargo Quad’s mailroom was right off the terrace on the second floor. The mail was delivered every day at around 3:30. And it was a social event. If I was in the vicinity, I’d stick around. Most of the "mailroom groupies," looking back, were probably girls awaiting letters from boyfriends and the occasional geek like me. We had those old-fashioned, little door mail boxes. You know the brass rectangles with the little glass window and the dial for your combo? We’d position ourselves near our mailboxes and watch Cheryl’s silhouette as she moved around behind the mailboxes, teasing us with visions of an incoming letter. Back and forth her shadow’d go, tantalizing us…here she comes, this is going to be for me, she’s reaching her hand up….No or Yes! It was always kinda cool if you got a letter, or maybe even two. It felt a little, I hate to admit it, but a little like, proof that you might actually have friends. That someone else thought you were letter-worthy, sadly, felt a little cool. Those who walked away from the mailroom empty handed, their envy was just icing on the cake. I once parlayed a letter from Robin Omark, a camp friend, into a bit of intrigue with one particularly cute freshman. “Oh, Spinner, who is Robin Omark?” But that’s a story for another time.

So I am not asking you to become a Quaker or to move to Amish country but maybe we could all take out a legal pad, or dust off that box of picturesque cards you bought while on vacation and write a letter to a friend. Think about the smile you will create on the other end when this old friend goes to the mailbox and sees a letter, from you! Wouldn’t that be cool? I know I am being a dreamer. And on that note, I am going to check the mail.

"I Didn't Rub. I Didn't Rub"(Ode to Big Al)

Daddy do you ever cry?


Nicholas, my eight year old asked me that on a Thursday not so long ago. I only know it was a Thursday evening because the very next day, a Friday, I took a call from one of my college buddies that would prove to him exactly what I was talking about. I told him that, “Surely I cry all the time. I cried when my Dad died. Nick I’m as sappy as they come, just ask your Mom. I cry during the National Anthem, especially after September 11th.” So when I took the call from Billy Murphy, on that Friday morning, Nicholas had his proof.

I could hear in Murph’s voice that something was off. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I picked up the phone last night two or three times to call you, but I just couldn’t make the call.”

I’m thinking, what could be so bad that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t call me?

“What Murph? Just tell me.”

“Al Duarte’s dead. I don’t know how else to tell you. He went to the Yankee game last night and apparently he had a heart attack in the parking lot. He’s dead. It’s not his father, who is 73, I asked. It’s Al. Al Duarte’s dead.”
“No. No. No way.”

I was standing in the front entrance of my house. I walked into the kitchen. Nick picked up on the emotion, followed me, with his big, blue eyes wide open. During my conversation with Murph I had one hand on the phone and one around Nick’s shoulder as he came over and hugged me. That was enough to start the water works. I knew I should cry. I wanted to show Nick that it was okay to cry.

Murph and I discussed a plan of action, whom to call, when the services might be. I hung up the phone, stood in my kitchen, one arm around Nick’s shoulder and stared out the window. I tried to compose myself, to continue my day. My wife was at work, I had our three boys and we had plans. I figured doing something normal would help. I took my boys to a local library, for a Thomas the Tank Engine Fair. I got the boys in the car and we drive over to Silas Bronson Library in Waterbury. Walking around Library Park with my boys, watching them have fun with all of the different Thomas themed booths; I am in a daze, staring off...Al’s dead. What the -----?

I put on a happy face while I was walking around watching my kids eat fried dough. I thought of Al’s family, a parent's worst nightmare, burying a son. I thought of Al’s friends, What’s going through Murph’s mind? He’s known Al since they were little? And how is Jack Doyle doing? Jack’s on vacation in Nantucket. I am sure he knows by now. Maybe Billy O’Mara called him? I could picture Jack sitting on the beach while his kids frolic in the waves, his wife continues to talk to him about their plans. Jack is trying to maintain some type of normalcy but finds himself staring off into the surf….

And O’Connell? The New York City Firefighter. How much death has Chris had to deal with? How many funerals has he attended over the past few years? I know this one is different for Chris. I called Chris to let him know, figuring if calling me was that difficult for Murph I could call O’Connell.

We got home from the library and Kira, my wife, met me at the front door, “You should listen to the messages, Jack Doyle called, it sounds serious.”
“I know. Sad news, Big Al passed away.”
We hugged for a minute and she asked, “How are you doing?” I wanted to tell her I was fine.
“Not good. I’m having a tough time with this one...... This is a hard one to get a grip on. I need to go for a walk.”
“You better take a water bottle. And Be Careful!” I could see the fear in her eyes, Kira was saying, it’s hot, we don’t need another tragedy on our hands.

I grabbed a bottle of water and walked. I thought of Al; of all of us at college. I smiled. I laughed. I talked to myself. As I passed fellow walkers on the Middlebury Greenway, I realized I was talking out loud. I was aware that people were probably thinking I was weird, I didn’t care. The overwhelming refrain during my walk was, What the ----? I kept thinking of Al, of one of my friends, my peers dying. “What the ----?”

He was a funny guy. Al always made you feel like you were special; like you and he were in on an inside joke but not in a mean way. I pictured us at an off-campus party, he and I against the wall, beers in hand, and Al whispering something goofy in my ear and the two of us laughing. I thought of how this one, this death, was different. Most of the time it’s older people who die. Something as shocking as 9/11 was an anomaly. That’s how we digested it. But college buddies, guys we played intramural football with weren’t supposed to have heart attacks.

I knew that my response was cliché, I thought of: When was the last time I saw him? Has it been that long?I just played golf with him last year…a foursome of me, Murph, O’Connell and Al played a golf course in Dutchess County, NY. We had a riot, busting on each other, not missing a beat, as if we were in college 6 months ago and not 25 years. How glad am I that we made that effort, now!

I always called Al on the last day of school. Al had a job that enabled him to take a weekday off; he managed the pro shop at a local golf course. This was part of our schtick. As a teacher, I always called Al to “announce” the beginning of summer. I am so glad that I did that because that was the last time Al and I spoke.
“Ring the bell Duarte, school’s out!”
“Hey SpinnER!”
The ER, always sounded funny, most of my life was spent in Brooklyn and the Spinner was usually, Spinnah. Al grew up in Westchester County where they pronounce their r’s.

I thought again of Jack Doyle, in Nantucket. I knew part of Jack’s Big Al movie: him and Al living together in college, years of playing baseball for the Panas baseball team, Al saying, “I didn’t rub. I didn’t rub.” This was supposed to be a sign of toughness if you got drilled by the pitcher but didn’t rub the spot and just trotted quickly down to first base.

I thought of other Al memories. Memories that I knew I wanted to write down so that I wouldn’t forget them. Memories that I was storing up so I had some stories for the upcoming wake. A wake? For one of our buddies? What the…?

Al Stories:

On NFL draft day Al would set himself up in his favorite chair (You had to see the furniture in our off-campus house, years, if not decades of food stains) with a two liter Pepsi by his side, a bag of chips and the house phone at his feet. He placed the phone there because he was acting as if the New York Jets might actually be calling. He acted all earnest which made it legitimately funny. Over the years, every year on draft day I would call Al. I would inform him that he was chosen in the 6th round. Al would play along. He’d hold the receiver away and act like he was yelling to his family, “I got drafted by the Jets!”

My senior year, living on 75 Lebrun Road in Buffalo, the five of us in the house would rush home to watch reruns of “Leave it to Beaver.” Those were some of the funniest times. Usually those were the things Al would say to me at a party, “I might be a rat Wally but I’m a rat with 9 dollars.” That’s all Al would have to say and I would burst out laughing.

Al was quietly clever. Early, super-senior year, my girlfriend was coming to visit. Al was great with girlfriends. Every girl I ever dated that met Al, loved him. I am sure Jack, Murph, Weizner and O’Connell would say the same. He had that big Teddy Bear thing going. So, Susan O’Neill is coming to Buffalo for a weekend visit. She was a senior at The University of Michigan while we were at SUNY Buffalo. So after a month and a half of phone calls, O’Neill was on her way. At that point she knew the guys in the house from chatting with them on the phone, particularly Al. Friday night, she says hello to the guys, drops her bags in my room and we go out to dinner. After dinner we go back to Lebrun Road to get ready to go out. Sue and I walk in and we’re hanging out in the living room enjoying some Bud cans before we head to PJ Bottoms on Main Street in Buffalo. O’Neill goes up to my room to “freshen up.”

On the walk to the bar, Al, Jack, Murph and O’Connell are ahead of us. And O’Neill is noticeably quiet. I keep asking if she’s okay. Eventually she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and tearfully tells me, “I want to go home.”
“What?”
“Take me home. I want to go home. I want to go back to Michigan.”
At this point she’s on the verge of tears and I am trying to put out the fire.
“What? What did I do? Do you not feel comfortable? Is it the guys?”
“Who is Lisa?”
“I don’t know any Lisa, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie! I read the letter from Lisa. Who is she?”
“There’s no Lisa I swear.”
“I read the letter!”

At that point my housemates come back to diffuse the situation. Al tells Sue that it was a fake letter. They wrote it. They placed it “just so” so she would find it. There’s no Lisa. You had to see the relief on O’Neill’s face and mine as well I am sure. Then we went back to get the letter. Was it a riot. All about what a great lover I was. Which should have been O’Neill’s clue that it was fake. That was Al, he was the mastermind behind the whole thing. I can picture him snickering as he and the guys crafted the letter. It was so over the top, Luscious Lisa, he figured Sue would know it was fake.

As I walk I’m Picturing Al, always a big guy but great hands and very athletic. Competitive but not psychotic about it. Avid sports fan, knows so much about a ton of teams but particularly the Yankees, Jets and Notre Dame football.

My task here is to capture the essence of a friend. And maybe to remind all of us to appreciate our friends while they are around. Because, you never know. Of course it's a textbook case of “you had to be there.” The truth is if you never met Al Duarte, I can’t help you. I can give you a ton of background information, use all of the sensory detail I can think of. I can set the scene with some timely references to pop culture like “Take on Me” videos on MTV. I know I am doomed to fail. The real Al Duarte was an inside joke. An easy to talk to, Teddy Bear of a guy, who made all of his friends feel special.

Now we are all left to contemplate Al. And to confront our own mortality. To live life without Al. It’s funny now that he’s gone, we’re all thinking of him more often. All of my college buddies, independently, have said exactly the same thing, “You know, I couldn’t tell you how often I thought of Al over the past few years but it seems like every day now I see something that reminds me of him.” I know, the things that prompt these memories: songs on the radio, an obscure sports fact, a Leave it to Beaver clip, a quick quip to a colleague that makes you smile. “I didn’t rub.”

I know Al would get a kick out of that.

Sleepy Time

(This is known as "pulling a Miggie")

In early May I got an evite to Ray Lynch’s bachelor party. Ray is an old college buddy, and at 47, was getting married for the first time. The party was at Connelly’s, an Irish pub, a stone’s throw from St. Patrick’s Cathedral in midtown. My first call was to Billy Murphy to secure lodging. Murph lives on the Upper West Side, he’s also an old college buddy and he has a spare bedroom. I invite Murph to join me, as he and Ray are also buddies and then I confirm that I can crash in his spare bedroom. Visions of a night of uninterrupted sleep dance in my head…

The party was the Saturday night of the Preakness. Early that May afternoon, I kissed my wife and kids good-bye; and with my duffel bag on the back seat and Elvis Costello on the audio, I drove to West 76th Street. Pumped could not begin to describe how I felt. I was flying solo, there were no whiny voices from the back seat, I was secure in the knowledge that my next two meals I would not have to cut anyone else’s meat. Depending on how drunk Murph gets. I was looking forward to seeing old friends, having some decent food and maybe a frosty mug of beer or two. I mean, it was a bachelor party. But near the top of the list, I was looking forward to sleeping, for 8, 10, 12 straight hours.

I exit the West Side Highway, and quickly find a spot. Murph buzzes me in and I climb the stairs to his fifth floor walk-up. I had to stop on the fourth floor to set up base camp in preparation for my summit attempt. Murph opens the door, a quick hand shake, a peck on the cheek for his girlfriend Carolyn, a few verbal pleasantries and I go to drop my duffel bag in the guest room. I stop. There’s women’s stuff on the bed: blow dryer, make-up and something with spaghetti straps. Like a kid who just had his birthday candles blown out for him, I turn to Murph for clearance. “Oh yeh Spin-man, I forgot to tell you, Sara is still crashing here. You can crash on the couch.” I smile, the politician’s smile. Inside I am throwing a temper tantrum my six year old would be proud of, “But you SAID! That’s MY room! You PROMISED!” As I walk towards the sectional couch, I look longingly at the queen-sized bed, my fingers gripping the door knob, Murph and Carolyn are pulling me by the legs….NOOOOOOOOO!

My days of sleeping on the couch ended when Paula Abdul had her last number one hit. I drop my duffel bag at the foot of the sectional sofa. It’s not the first time I crashed on Murph’s couch so I know what it entails. My thoughts are reeling…How do I get out of this? I was SO looking forward to a night of uninterrupted sleep, the kind of sleep I have not gotten since we started having kids. Should I get a hotel room? Will Murph be insulted? How could he do this to me? The Bastard. Doesn’t he know how important this is? He doesn’t have kids, he can sleep all he wants. Should I crash at my mother’s house in Brooklyn? Do I want to drive after a Lynch party? Probably not. . And, his couch is free.

When did I become such a wuss? Don’t answer that. There was a day when a crumb-encrusted couch in Belmar, NJ would work for an entire summer weekend. Like most of you, not so long ago my mantra could have been Warren Zevon’s “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.” Over the years, things changed. What the hell happened to the Jimmy Spinner I used to know? Murph and I go for a bike ride along the Hudson River and I am shooting hate daggers into his back as we ride….and I think about sleep, and how my opinion of it has changed over the years. I think of my first visit back to college…

After graduating from SUNY Buffalo, my buddy Dave Gordon and I use the Bills-Jet game as an excuse to visit the campus. Big Al Duarte picks us up at the airport in his sky blue Granada. Al drives us to an off campus house, a house similar to one we had shared less than a year before. We walk in, get a raucous hello from the housemates, most of whom I know, and grab a can of Bud as it flies through the air. Dave and I drop our bags and begin to party. As the night moves, Gordo and I, independent of each other, are doing reconnaissance on the lodging. I am peering in bedrooms and looking at the living room furniture, which looks like it might be the couch I slept on in that shore house in Belmar. Grabbing another beer out of the fridge I see pats of butter on the door, some take-out tins and a single onion in the produce drawer that might have been there when these guys moved in. Was our house this bad? How did we live like this? This is disgusting. After using the facilities I bump into Gordo in the foyer on his way to the latrine. We exchange a look. He glances both ways and says, “What do you think?” Whispering, so as not to insult our college student hosts, “There’s no way I’m staying here.” Gordo emits a massive sigh. “Oh thank God. I was worried there for a minute. What should we do?” “Don’t worry Gordo, I’ll think of something.” We party for a little while longer and eventually I throw Gordo under the bus. I pull Murph and Big Al aside and I say, “You know guys, I’d love to stay with you. Dave, he’s a little soft. You know, he’s been married for a few years, he’s got a nice house, he’s used to his creature comforts. Thanks for the offer but Gordo wants to get a room at the Marriot. I can’t in good conscience, let him stay there alone.”

So it looks like it started once I got my BA. Over the years I have become more enamored with sleep. For the first couple of decades of life I didn’t need much sleep. Adrenaline seemed to work just fine. Even today, if I get six solid hours, I’m good. The problem is the solid part. I haven’t had r.e.m. sleep since the Clinton administration. You have to understand, not only do I have three boys, age 11, 9 and 6. My wife is also auditioning for Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Right now we have two dogs and one cat. And that’s only because I have steadfastly held to THAT line in the sand. Over the past 10 years I have said NO to countless: dogs, cats, rabbits, hamsters, gerbils, chickens, goats, (I swear) ferrets, salamanders…If it were up to my wife, we’d have our own freaking petting zoo. You can figure out what these pets do for our sleep.

On any given night now: the cat will walk ON me, or he’ll snuggle up in some crevice next to me. There’s a word that I have added to my vocabulary, snuggle. If the cat doesn’t purr or claw me awake, the pooches will become ninja-like watch-dogs. Or worse, they will “talk” in their sleep, chasing an imaginary squirrel, woof woof woof, while there legs are scraping on the hard wood floors.

If by chance I am sleeping soundly, maybe our fire alarm will go off. It’s one of those systems like you have in schools or town building. Every unit is connected to the system and it talks to you while it’s blaring some ear piercing horn in your ear. I would imagine someone might die of a heart attack before the fire, if there ever is one, actually gets to them.

If miraculously, none of those things happen, the phone will ring…a friend who is three sheets to the wind will call me from a bar in some ski town. I pick up the phone, bleary-eyed at 2 in the morning, praying it’s not bad news only to hear, “SPINNER! WE’RE IN VAIL, COLORADO! WE WERE JUST TELLING THE STOry…” Click. Finally, I probably don’t have to mention all of the interruptions to sleep 3 boys bring: bad dreams, wet bed, upset tummy, can’t sleep. To make matters worse, my wife is hanging on to Charlie, "the baby" so he's in our bed twice a night. And guess who has to move him back to his bed? The boys are into Greek mythology now and I heard Charlie saying something about a guy who killed his father....So those are just the interruptions in our house.

Outside the house…At five in the morning the garbage man comes. At 7, on most Saturdays some pea-brain in the neighborhood who has no kids, has to get a jump on the yard work. We have a wealthy neighbor, an heiress, the kind that has streets named after her family in our town. This woman has more money than Bill Gates and she uses it to hire all manner of men. I imagine that she peruses the section of the Yellow Pages for “guys with really freaking loud equipment.” Over the past 4 years she has had landscapers with backhoes, masons with jack-hammers, chimney fixer-uppers with…you find it in the yellow pages, she’ll put the poor bastard and his sleep deprivation machine to work.

My love of sleep has evolved slowly, I guess you might say it has sleepily progressed. Coinciding with marriage, I have become more tame. And that’s not a bad thing, well not too bad. I have started to take naps. Yeh, there’s the après dinner, dozing off during Jeopardy nap, which I LOVE. We call that “pulling a Miggie” after my friend Mark Migliaccio (in the photo at the beginning) who gets a lot of zzz’s on his couch. But I’m talking about REAL naps. The kind my wife takes…I am talking, middle of the day, kids are out of the house, close the blinds, forget about riding the bike or doing the yard work…napping. And it’s great! It’s energizing. I am a little groggy when I first wake up from one of these naps. And initially, I wouldn’t admit that I take them. Someone would call at 3:15 in the afternoon, “Spinner, did I wake you?” “Oh, no, I just rode 15 miles on my bike, and I was just about to go chop down this big tree or do something really manly….”

If you are going to become a sleep maven, you have to know the terminology. Starting with snuggling, spooning….Now I know about stuff like thread count on sheets. Whenever I see advertisements for new mattresses (The Dux bed, the Sleep Number bed) my ears perk up. Christ, I spent more time researching our mattress purchase than I spent on our tv/stereo purchase. Well, all of this writing has made me sleepy, I think I need a nap.

Token Memories

Lying in bed here in Middlebury, CT my mind begins wandering. It’s early summer, bedroom windows are open. I smile at the concert of crickets outside. I think of the contrast, the sounds my boys hear while falling asleep, and the sounds I heard. Open windows on Brooklyn’s East 4th Street meant we dozed off to: the occasional car lolling down the street, far off sirens and the most distinguishing sound, the subway. The F train, which traveled down McDonald Avenue, some four blocks away, changed from an elevated train to a subway on its way into Manhattan. My boyhood friends would tell you that the rhythmic, slowly decreasing, clankity-clank of the subway was the defining sound of our summer evenings.


For New Yorkers, the subway is always just underneath, literally and figuratively. Growing up in the 70’s it was part of the fabric of our lives. After falling asleep to our urban lullaby we could keep time on a summer morning by the predictable faces, the waves of professionals, Wall Street traders and secretaries for Ad agencies flowing toward Manhattan.

At school and on the street, we heard stories of the subway; urban legends of rats the size of cats, or tales of the power of the 660 volts of electricity flowing through the lethal 3rd rail. Scariest were the rumors of roving, knife-wielding gangs wreaking havoc on unsuspecting innocents like my friends and I. This was New York in the 70’s, the New York of graffiti, and squeegee men, the New York of Abe Beame, well before Rudy Guiliani cleaned it up. New York and the subway in particular was a scary place.
Thanksgiving 1972, and Mr. Tracey is taking his son John and I to the Macy’s Parade. Two nine year olds, jumping out of our skin, going to see Snoopy floats and Santa Claus. The fly in the ointment is, we have to take the subway to get there. Wide-eyed, we stay close to John’s dad as we buy our tokens and head down the stairs of the Church Ave station. On the platform, giggling nervously, John and I scan the tracks for the legendary rats; all we see are scraps of newspaper and some stray soda cans. “Which one is the third rail dad?” “You see the rail against the wall? With the plank of wood over it? That’s the third rail.” Disappointing, not exactly what I pictured.

The train arrives and we take our seats. The two of us read the advertisements for Broadway plays and dermatologists, we swing on the poles, do chin ups on the hand holds. John’s dad takes us to the front window so we can watch the tunnel as the train’s headlights light the way. We spend most of our time looking out the window. At each new station, we watch passengers getting on and off, keeping a wary eye open for the much feared gangs. Nothing. Warming to the trip, we hit Carroll Street, Jay Street, Delancey Street…arriving eventually at 34th Street. I can only speak for myself but if John was anything like me he had a sense of relief. We had made it! We had run the gauntlet of NYC’s big bad subway. For now.

After the parade, we make our way back downstairs to the Herald Square platform. Once again our minds begin to wander. Maybe on the way home we’ll get mugged? Maybe some bum, in the 70’s we called them bums, will push us onto the tracks as the train is arriving? Maybe we’ll slip and hit the third rail? Or maybe one of those gangs will catch up to us? After standing in the cold, drinking hot chocolate, we both have to visit the bathroom. Panic! If the subway is scary, the subway bathroom has got to be even scarier. Tweety says, “Dad, I have to use the bathroom.” Scanning the area, Mr. Tracey takes us back towards the token booth. The three of us walk right up to the door and John’s dad stops. Is he crazy? He’s going to let us use the bathroom ourselves? Hesitating, we look at each other and back at Mr. Tracey. We’re too little! I want to scream. He’s oblivious to our plight. Slowly, glancing from side to side, looking for random psychopaths, we make our way into the bathroom. Should we use a stall with a door? Should we go together? Should we use the urinal? I suggest, “Why don’t I use the stall and you stand guard, then I’ll stand guard while you use the stall?” That’s our plan. We finish our business quickly and head for the exit. We wash our hands and both scan the bathroom, one of us notices a flesh colored mass, something that used to be round but is now squished in the fetid ooze around the urinal. Tweety points, “Do you think?” “I don’t know. Looks like one!” Ahhhhhhhhh! We run out of the bathroom screaming in Mr. Tracy’s face, “Daaaad, there’s a ball, someone got his ball cut off and it’s squished on the floor in there. Let’s get out of here!” I am sure Mr. Tracy got a lot of mileage out of that story at Hurley’s bar…My son and his friend think they found a removed testicle...

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Around the middle of 8th grade, a group of boys from our grammar school, Immaculate Heart of Mary, were chosen to take the entrance exam for Regis High School. Regis is a scholarship only, boys only, catholic school, on the upper East Side of Manhattan. Regis boasts an impressive reputation and an equally impressive list of alumni. To be “chosen” to go to Regis, and then to attend for free, would be a big deal for any catholic school boy. The exam was on a Saturday morning, in late fall. Following the city axiom of safety in numbers, Sister Elizabeth organized us to meet on the Church Avenue platform at 7:30. We would be escorted by Bobby Snow, a freshman at Regis, and a graduate of our school. Poor Bob had to spend his Saturday going back to school!

We begin to trickle in from all corners of our neighborhood with our bag lunches. There’s Jimmy Quinlan, Mark Bowen, Timmy Boyle, Matty Milbauer & company. It’s funny how we all look different without our school uniforms. “Anybody see the Ranger game last night?”
“What I saw was Lorraine Baldwin’s skirt yesterday. Man! I can’t believe she didn’t get in trouble for wearing it that short.”
“You know Sister Florence would yell at her if she noticed, probably jealous she doesn’t have legs like that.” “And she doesn’t have boobs like Laura DelSorbo, man I think those things are getting bigger daily. She needs a new school uniform.”

Eventually the conversation turns to our trip on the subway. Timmy Boyle is an old pro as his dad works for the Transit Authority. He regales us with tales of something called the dead man’s lever. “You see, there’s a safety device on the train so that anyone controlling the train has to keep squeezing this lever. Then, if the “driver” of the train dies, the train will come to a stop because he can’t maintain the pressure. You see, dead man’s lever.” Jimmy Quinlan tells us a story of his older brother, Johnny, fending off a gang of kids around Brooklyn Tech with a fire extinguisher. “Broke one guys arm in four places.” Jimmy claims as he makes the swinging motion with his arm. Waiting for just the right moment to reveal my secret, I pipe in, “Nobody’s going to mess with me, cause I brought THIS!” I pull out my garden-variety pocket knife. You know the one, with the faux wooden handle, stamped with Pocono Mountains. “Ooooh.” Impressed, the boys circle closer; then I hear Bobby Snow, our escort, with derision in his voice, “Put that thing away Spinner, as a matter of fact give it to me. The only one’s going to get stabbed with that thing is YOU when someone takes it off you and stabs you with it.”

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I didn't get in to Regis but I am admitted to John Dewey High School, out towards Coney Island which means a 50 minute train ride on the subway. By senior year I am an experienced straphanger. I know how to position myself to get a seat on a crowded train. My friends and I from our neighborhood, still travel together but now we cause our own mischief. Over the four years of high school, the only roving gangs I witnessed were fellow high schoolers, usually from FDR or one of the other schools our train passed during our commute. Senior year, I got a job at Barnes & Noble right around Union Square in Manhattan. As a senior I could leave school when my classes were done. I rigged my schedule so that I could be in B&N around 1 p.m.. This required that I travel the B train from the next to last stop, through many Brooklyn neighborhoods, across the Manhattan Bridge, through Chinatown and the lower East Side to Union Square. The issue here was the time I was traveling. At that time of day, almost nobody takes the train, nobody.

If I ran out of my English class and ran, I could just catch the B as it pulled in to the station. Winded, I would walk through the cars to get to the front car. Not because I wanted to look out the front window, I was a jaded New Yorker by then. No, I would walk to the front car because when we got to Union Square, the front of the train would be closest to the exit I needed to get to 18th Street and 5th Ave. One day, early spring, I catch the B, and out of breath I begin to weave my way from car to car towards the front. But…. as soon as I enter the second car, I get slammed in the face with the smell of pot. It awakens me, I look up and I am surrounded by three guys, about my age, clearly cutting school and looking for trouble. I try to act cool, nod to one of them and keep walking to the front of the car. I prepare to enter the first car and put some distance between myself and the thugs but the door is stuck, or locked, but either way, I’m screwed. I walk back a few steps, pull out my copy of Stephen King’s Christine, put my foot up on the metal pole in front of me and slouch down. I act like I am reading but I am listening to the potheads talk at the other end of the train. It’s not 20 seconds until I hear one of them say, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to go get me a quarter off a white boy.” Gulp. I thought it odd that he only wanted a quarter but, whatever. So the leader saunters over and stands over me. His compadres quickly join him and sit on either side of me. They are toying with me, having fun. “What’s that your reading?” “Nothing, Stephen King, you know the horror writer?” “No I don’t know.” The guy standing over me takes his hand and slaps my feet off the pole. I sit up. They are about my age, I'm thinking I could fend them off and make a break for it at the next stop. The dude on my left tries to go through the pockets on my denim jacket. I try and keep his hands away. He persists. I look up to my left and standing in the first car, taking in the whole scene, is a cop. A big meaty, cop with his hands on his hips snickering at the whole situation. I can’t believe my luck. I point and say, “Don’t look now but there’s a cop in the next car.” At first they snicker and then the leader does a double-take puts his hands in the air and says, ‘Don’t worry, we’s cool, we’s cool.” At the next stop, the cop moves into our car. Doesn’t say a word to me, slaps the cuffs on one of them and takes all three of them off the train. Whenever someone says, “There’s never a cop around when you need one.” I tell them that story.

After college, I worked on Wall Street and became a regular commuter, one of the guys walking down the street that my friends and I used to notice I suppose. The subway became part of my New York lifeline. As with a lot of things we fear, once I got to know it, the subway was not something I was afraid of but something I needed and appreciated. In my decades of commuting on the subway, I was only accosted twice, the story you just heard and one night I took the train home late at night when I should have taken a cab. But that’s a story for another time…

The Grasshopper

Preface: This is a piece I wrote right before Nicholas was starting kindergarten (2004) at Middlebury Elementary School. Now he's in fifth grade and about to graduate, I thought I would reprise it. A handful of you may have already read it.

The Grasshopper

It was moving time. We sold our house and bought a new one about three miles away. Our family is growing you know. We called the movers, packed the boxes, swept the floors and left nothing but memories. Actually we took those with us. With the house empty I did one last melancholy walk-through. A melodramatic father on the verge of tears meandering through the only house my boys had ever known. A rapid fire 8mm family movie scrolled across my mind: late night feedings, Winnie the Pooh Halloween costumes, Christmas mornings…

Then I began thinking about the new people who would be moving into our house and changing everything around, just as we had done. I gravitated to the room of my five year old, Nicholas. The room I had painstakingly painted; Nicholas’ favorite color blue and then we stamped little yellow moons and stars all over the walls. This was the signature room of our first house, the room where Nicholas and Brian, my three year old, spent so much of their time.

I stood in the room wondering, Will Nicholas and Brian remember this room? What memories will they have from this house? Will Brian, the three year old, remember anything?

I left what we now call “the Arden Road house” (Waterbury, CT) for the last time. In the car on the way to our new house, about 3 miles away in Middlebury, I realized there was a Spinner family circularity to the move. My parents had moved into a new house on East 4th Street when I was 5 and entering Kindergarten, just like Nicholas. I was worried about how the move would affect my boys, I felt like I was tearing their world apart. So I took some comfort in the fact that I moved when I was five and everything turned out okay. I reminisced about my first house:

• Walks along Brooklyn’s Fort Hamilton Parkway to go food shopping with my mom and four your old sister. A mom, her two kids and a squeaky wheeled shopping cart

• Slices of Boar’s Head baloney passed across the counter to eagerly awaiting hands by Patsy our neighborhood butcher

The timing of the move made me keenly aware in everything we did that Nicholas just might remember this. Many of us have memories from that time in our life, right? Our Saturday morning ritual trip to Ami’s Bagels just might be something Nick remembers for the rest of his life. What he actually will remember I don’t know and I can’t control. I do know that I want his to be pleasant memories, like mine.

In the midst of all of the chaos of moving my wife Kira and I took Nicholas to kindergarten orientation. Pulling into the parking lot at Middlebury Elementary School, I’m thinking, What a quintessential American scene: Mini-Vans and SUV’s, moms, dads, boys and girls partaking in this right of passage...first day at the new school.

For the first time in three years, Nicholas, the oldest of three boys, has his parent’s undivided attention. He revels in holding both of our hands as we amble toward the building. And my mind’s working…I wonder what’s going through his mind? I envision that he must be anxious and I want to ease his fears when I spy this copper weather vane in the shape of a grasshopper atop one of the buildings. “Hey Nick look a grasshopper!” I say. Which leads to the futile search and frustration. “Up there. No by that tree.” “But DAAAD I can’t see it!” I have not gotten it through my thick skull that kids can’t follow directions to something as noticeable as a metal grasshopper. Eventually, he saw it.

Walking into the school I have this epiphany, This will be one of Nick’s memories! I was sure of it. Shortly thereafter I sat in the cafeteria, scrunched into one of the seats as the principal drones on about bus schedules and healthy snacks and I build a scenario in my head. I jot down some thoughts on a napkin. That night I write a story in my journal…

In this story, the weather vane grasshopper from that first day comes to mean so much. On Nick’s first real day of kindergarten he’s scared and alone as the big yellow bus pulls into the school loop. As the building looms in the foreground Nick spies the grasshopper, our grasshopper. He remembers that day, just a week before, when he walked hand-in-hand with his mom and dad into the building and he feels better.

In my glance into the future, Nick is a second grader on a raw and rainy November morning sitting in the nurse’s office with the sniffles, waiting for his mom to come pick him up. As he rests his head on the cold window he stares up at the gray sky and picks out our grasshopper. And little second grade Nicholas smiles and feels secure, knowing his parents love him and that his mommy is coming to get him. I know it’s sappy but just stay with me.

Fourth grade arrives and in my forward reverie Nicholas is out on the soccer field during gym. As the action moves to the other end of the field, he daydreams halfheartedly, pawing at a butterfly fluttering by. As he follows the butterfly’s flight up into the sky his eyes catch the grasshopper, our grasshopper. And he thinks, Wow there’s the metal grasshopper from my first day here. I’ve been here at Middlebury Elementary School a long time and what a great time I’ve been having.

Then we are all dressed up for 5th grade graduation. My prepubescent 11 year old is clinging to his childhood as the world around him and biology conspire to rush him toward the scary world of the Middle School. Dun-Dun-Dun. On this sunny June day, six years in the future, Nick is surrounded by his friends, goofing around during the ceremony as the principal drones on about hope for the future and hard work… Nick begins to reminisce about his time at MES, as he leans back in his metal folding chair his eyes catch the grasshopper. He thinks about what a long time ago it was that he first saw it on that August day many years ago.

Finally, my story coming to an end, we are heading to the parking lot surrounded by parents and students celebrating. Nick is between his parents once again, not holding hands this time, as that wouldn’t be cool. As we pass the now mythical grasshopper Nick glances at me for a second, gives me a knowing look before he turns to his youngest brother, Charley, who is starting his MES career and says, “Hey Charlie you see that grasshopper up there. That’s a very special grasshopper.”

I read this fictitious story from my journal to my wife and Nicholas the night before his first day of Kindergarten. Kira and I were blubbering, sniffling idiots as I read it. We looked at each other and then at Nick when I finished, eager to see his reaction. He stared at me for a second, tilted his head and said, “Daddy. What grasshopper?”

By the time we stopped laughing I thought, I don’t know what my son’s memories will be. Obviously not the same as I envision but I am keenly aware that these memories are forming now and I only hope they can be as good as I imagined.


Post Script: Now Nick is graduating, I know he enjoyed his time at MES. Special thanks to all the Middlebury Elementary School staff for helping mold our life long learners.

Currency Exchange

I recently received a forwarded email from a friend. One of those, “If you are upset, pass it on” kind of things. This one had to do with Americans being upset with the fact that “In God We Trust” might not be included on the new dollar coins. It turned out to be a hoax like many of these things. Of course this email resulted in a series of emails back and forth among the addressees on the list. I thought I might add my two cents, from what I have gleaned in my years of reading about the founding of our nation.


As most of us know, our early colonies were settled for a variety of reasons. Early efforts to establish a foothold in the new world were to make money for the home country or the company that was financing the colony. And of course, many colonies were founded as religious havens for colonists who fled Europe to come to America. People like the Pilgrims were trying to set up a place where they could worship freely. Somewhere between 1607 (the founding of Jamestown) and 1776 (the signing of our Declaration of Independence) the melting pot that is our nation began to take on its present form.

Over this span of 169 years, people of many ethnicities, religious backgrounds and cultures settled all throughout the 13 colonies. Admittedly, many of the early colonists were Christians and devout at that. It would be hard not to admit that many of our Founding Fathers were Christians and that their Christianity affected their philosophies but here is where the genius of the Founding Fathers emerged. The Framers of our nation were able to be objective, to see past their own world views and realize that, in America there had to be room for anyone’s world view, especially where religion is concerned. We can see this in the First Amendment, arguably the most important amendment.

Amendment I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

We can see how important the Freedom of Religion is as the Framers listed it first. If the founders are saying that Congress shall make no law establishing a religion, doesn’t it hold true that even if their own Christianity was paramount to them, they had the foresight to realize that America was a polyglot nation and that there was room here for followers of all of the various sects of Christianity as well as Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism etc…and even people who don’t believe in a god. That is why it is really not necessary to have “In God We Trust” on our money. Having that printed on our currency implies certain beliefs and as the founders understood, maybe all Americans don’t share those beliefs.

In 1801, a group of Baptist ministers in Danbury, CT wrote a letter to the third president of the United States, Thomas Jefferson. They congratulated the new president and then they had a favor to ask. The Baptists were a minority group and they were nervous. The Baptists could see how powerful the firmly established religions were and the Baptists were being persecuted and made to feel unwelcome. They asked Jefferson, “Our constitution of government is not specific with regard to a guarantee of religious freedom that would protect the Baptists. Might the president offer some thoughts on that, like the radiant beams of the sun, and shed some light on the intent of the framers.”

In his reply Jefferson said it was not the place of the president to involve himself in religion and he expressed his belief that the First Amendment’s clauses-that the government must not establish a state religion (the establishment clause) but also that it must ensure the free exercise of religion (what became known as the free-exercise clause)-meant, as far as Jefferson was concerned, that there was, "a wall of separation between Church and State.”

You can decide what the scribe of the Declaration of Independence meant for yourself. Isn’t it obvious that he is offering the Baptist minority of Danbury, CT the protection of our First Amendment? And isn’t he really offering it to every American, including those who don’t believe in god? It seems obvious to me that something like “In God We Trust” on our currency would break this theoretical wall of separation that Jefferson wrote about. That’s just my two cents on the issue.

The Birds & the Bees and the Fairies

Well the puberty talk popped its little head up again. You know that’s a little funny.

On a recent Saturday morning I am laying in bed reading. Kira, my wife, walks in with my oldest son Nicholas in tow. “Nick needs a little help with something. Go ahead Nick, ask your father, it’s okay.” I have an inkling what it’s about, Kira has been trying to get me to talk to Nick about the birds and the bees. Nick looks out the window, he shuffles his feet, eventually, he looks at me. “I don’t know. Dad will make fun of me.” I assure him, “Nicholas. If this is a sensitive topic, I will treat you with respect. You can ask me anything. I promise I won’t joke around.” Nick concentrates on his slippers. I still don’t know what the topic is, so I prompt my wife, as she sits on the side of the bed. “What does this concern? Is it something that happened at school?” “No, Nicholas has some questions about puberty, about how his body is going to change.” After some coaxing, Nick asks his question. “Dad, where does pubic hair come from?” How to answer this? We’ll come back to this later..

Usually my boys will ask these questions at the most inopportune time, causing me to spit my pea soup out in front of the waitress. So far, our efforts in the Spinner household to teach our boys about puberty and sex have been a series of feints, deflections and awkward non-sequiturs. Sitting in the living room I’ll hear Kira say, “Go ask your father, that’s his department.” My pat response has been, “Your mother is a nurse, she knows about stuff like that.” Usually, if I’m pinned down, I make jokes.

The boys are just as uncomfortable, I suppose the parents are supposed to be the mature ones right?  I call the conversations Nick and I have had, The “You Know” Tennis Match. We’ll be watching “2 ½ Men” and Charlie Sheen will make a joke about sleeping with women and Nicholas will laugh. I’ll pause the TV and ask, trying to figure out how much he knows.

“Nick, why did you laugh? Why is that funny?”
“Oh, you know Dad.”
“Nick I know why it’s funny but why do you think that’s funny?”
“Oh, you know. He’s talking about sex and stuff.”
“What does that mean Nick? Sex?”
“Dad, you know.”
“I’m not sure what you know is the point. And I want to be there for you if you have any questions about this stuff. So what does it mean? Sex?”
“Daaaaad, You know.”
“Just talk to me Nick.”
“You know, hugging and kissing and stuff.”
“Yes I do know. But it’s the and stuff I want to know if you know.”
“Yes DAD I know. Can we leave it alone?”
“Sure we can. But know that you can always ask me anything.”

Truth is, I am as relieved as Nick when these conversations end. I want to be the understanding father who my kids can come to and talk about anything. There’s also a part of me that doesn’t want to be that father. My father and I never talked about that stuff. Shouldn’t it be a little uncomfortable to talk to your dad about boners and pubic hair? Parenting is interesting because we want to take all of the good things our parents did with us and we want to tweak the things that maybe we see could have been improved upon. I grew up in a Catholic neighborhood in the 70’s, my father and I never talked about that stuff. And I think I turned out okay? I’m just not sure where I stand on this sex talk thing. I’m sure I’m probably dropping the ball. I act like I am there for my boys, I say all the right things, but at this point, in terms of the bird and the bees talk, I’ve been pretty slippery.

I avoid it because my friends and I learned it on the streets. Shouldn’t Nick learn about puberty like I did? Johnny Palladino, who started shaving for his Confirmation, pulled me and my buddy Tweety into the bathroom of my boyhood home. “Pssst, check this out!” Johnny Boy pulls his skivvies down revealing his adolescent starter kit. Now isn’t that better than some brochure from the school counselor? Or worse, something to be learned from his father?

I remember exactly where I was when I learned what the “F” word really meant. We were in 5th grade and my friends and I were on our walk to school. A few doors down from my house, we stopped in front of Mrs. Brody’s house. The Brody’s had this really cool climbing tree that the branches hung over the sidewalk. We used to hide in the tree at night and drop rubber bats, tied on fishing line, down on unsuspecting pedestrians. And it was under this tree that, with the help of my friends, I connected the dots on the sex act. My buddy Tweety was there again, explaining the science of it he says, “I’m telling you Spinner, look at how they are shaped! They go together, like this.” The evidence was overwhelming; I knew he was right. Then I had to gather myself for the walk to school. What a scene, me in my Catholic schoolboy uniform, thinking about my mom and dad doing it. Ugh! At least how many times? And my teachers! Ewww! Do I want to deprive Nick of these memories?

Of course you want your kids to have a healthy respect for the opposite sex and you want them to protect themselves etc…I’ve been taking an impromptu poll as I have been writing this piece and my friend’s stories are all similar to mine. Their responses, eerily the same. We recently visited an old Wall Street crony of mine, Steve Boyle. In discussing this topic over a few beers Steve said he had recently embarrassed his 7th grade daughter with a discussion of first base, second base. It sounded a lot like mine and Nick's verbal tennis game.  I asked Steve how he learned of the birds and the bees growing up in Verona, NJ... “My father and I would never talk about that stuff. He didn’t help me with that at all.” And Steve's been happily married for longer than I have.

I know the old method is not foolproof. We all made some mistakes along the way. I know I bumbled and fumbled my way through puberty but didn’t we all? I remember in 8th grade, the scuttlebutt was that Kevin J and Debbie V were “doing it.” Whispering in the hallway between classes someone told me that “Kevin had a condom in school!” I wondered, sitting there in my next class, if Kevin had to wear the condom all day long. And if so, would that be uncomfortable. So, maybe I could have used some help. Not sure how much help though. And should it have come from my dad?

My worry today is how much information is too much? Nick still believes in Santa Clause, do I want to take him to a birthing unit? Is it my responsibility to connect the dots for him? Nick believes babies come from hugging and kissing. Should I leave it at that for now? Do I want him to associate ME with this crashing of his innocence party? My fear is that I am going to give him a description of the actual act and of placentas and fluids and C-sections and he’s always going to connect that to me. I can’t have that. It’s too much pressure! His images of this should be more like mine. Don’t you agree?

When our dogs are humping on the front lawn as the yellow school bus pulls up in the morning, the windows are filled with laughing elementary school children. The dogs are both fixed by the way. In the Spinner house, the euphemism we use is the dogs are “dancing.” Nick says to me recently, “Dad, you know even Lenny the bus driver laughs when our dogs do that on the front lawn. And I know it’s not dancing.” So despite my avoidance and my ham-handed efforts to help him, he is learning something. I’m just not sure what.

We’ve all seen what happens when kids get too much info from their parents. The guys will know this. Weren’t we all lucky enough to date a girl who said, “My Mom and I are best friends. We tell each other everything.” Every guy can tell you, if you hear that while sipping margaritas you are in my friend. Kids and parents should be close, but best friends? Eating Mexican food at Panchito’s in the Village, I had this girl tell me that her mom took her for her diaphragm when she was 15. "Check please!"

I do know, as I am avoiding this talk, that I have to do something. I have sought help. Recently I went to a friend, Lee Hubbard, the Health teacher at my school. Lee teaches classrooms full of 8th graders about hormones and menstrual cycles. She hands out mimeographed pictures of the male and female genitalia, to 8th graders! She is the parent I want to be. Lee is accessible, patient, intelligent and mature; all with 25 giggling, squirming students in her class. Right now, I just want to do it with ONE. So one lunch period recently I stopped by the Health room, “Lee, Nick is asking questions, stuff comes up when we are watching TV. How much should I tell him? And when?” Lee told me this joke…Mom is in the kitchen with little Johnny, explaining to him in detail about sex, about where babies really come from. Johnny stares wide eyed during his mother’s lengthy, graphic lecture. When she is finished she asks, “Do you have any questions Johnny?” To which, Johnny says, “No Mom, that’s all very interesting. I was just asking because Brendan next door said he came from Ireland. I was just wondering where I came from?”

After the joke, Lee gave me some really good advice. She said to fish around to find out what Nick knows and then give him the additional information that you think he will need. This way you won’t give him more than he can handle.

Armed with Lee’s advice, let’s go back to my bedroom. Remember Nick had just asked me, “Dad where does pubic hair come from?” I put my book to the side, I sit up in bed to give this some thought. I am so proud of Nick for feeling comfortable enough to finally talk to me about it. I can feel Kira’s eyes watching me. Eventually I think of the perfect way to explain it. I suppress a smile, “Nick, you know how there’s a tooth fairy? And you put your teeth under your pillow and the tooth fairy comes at night and gives you money for your teeth? There’s also a Pubic Hair Fairy. And when you are asleep, this big hairy guy comes around and sprinkles pubic hair on you while you are sleeping.” Nick and I thought it was hysterical, Kira, not so much.

Caught by the Catcher

Sometimes we choose the books we read; sometimes the books choose us. We’ve all had serendipitous reader moments when you are reading and thinking, what are the chances I would be reading this book at this very time in my life? Did something align in the cosmos to place this book in my hand at the very time that I am dealing with this situation? Relationship break ups? New child on the way? Family health issues? Moving to a new home? Happy stuff and tough stuff, it doesn’t matter, sometimes we find solace in printed words on bleached white pages. An author’s words, written days, years, decades or centuries ago, provide healing, answers, a chance to feel less alone.


That’s the way it was for me, and many readers apparently, when I read J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. At a time when I was maneuvering from the shallow end of the pool, under the rope, down the slippery slope toward the adult end of the pool, I found Holden Caulfield. Scared and exhilarated at the same time, Holden and I were kindred spirits. I could hear my voice in his.

Sophomore year at John Dewey High School, 1979, I sign up for Generation Gap with Mr. Levy. Mr. Levy was part linebacker, part motivational speaker. He had meaty hands, an adam’s apple the size of a real apple and a booming voice that would wake any snoozing teen. We had multiple deans to handle discipline at Dewey and Levy was one of them; he was scary but smart. He was the kind of guy you don’t want to let down. Early spring in Brooklyn, the air is warm and full of blossoms, hormones are coursing and high schoolers are acting goofy. It’s Friday, our English class has just finished The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (also one of my favs) and Levy goes into the closet and takes out a stack of paperbacks. I recognize the maroon rectangles, stamped with JDHS on the binding from our school hallways. He passes out our next book, The Catcher in the Rye printed in yellow on the cover. A few students groan as Mr. Levy gives us an assignment for the weekend.

No need to have assigned anything; I crack the book on the F train on the way home. I had my homework finished before I reached the Church Ave stop, 50 minutes away. Back home on East 4th, I toss my books on my bed, grab a snack and head outside. I play roller hockey with my buddies for a few hours, and then we knock off for dinner.

After dinner, my sister Julie says to me, “I am staying at Sandra’s tonight if you want to use my room you can.” Julie, 15 months younger than me, is the lone female of the Spinner siblings so she had her own bedroom. My brothers, and I shared a room, three boys, one bedroom. It wasn’t too bad sharing a room but Jeff and Jerry were significantly younger so if I wanted to stay up and read or listen to music, my sis knew her room would be a nice option. I always appreciated that.

After curfew, I came in, watched Fantasy Island with my parents for a bit and then went into Julie’s room. It always took a few minutes to remove the pillows and stuffed animals, my sister loved frogs. After setting up the bed, I tune the stereo to WNEW 102.7, to hear Carol Miller playing the latest rock. And I picked up The Catcher in the Rye. I continued to be intrigued by Holden.  He talked like me. He used words like crap, and his sentences ended with and all.   Like this, when we find out he's leaving school...“I forgot to tell you about that. They kicked me out. I wasn’t supposed to come back after Christmas vacation on account of I was flunking four subjects and not applying myself and all.” He had opinions and theories about everything. Holden, clinging to his childhood and hurtling to adulthood at the same time: rebellious, content, confused, angry, happy, sad. A lot like someone else I knew.

I loved reading Holden, talking to me as he picks apart the hypocrisy in the advertisement for Pencey Prep, “You probably heard of it. You’ve probably seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always showing some hot-shot guy on a horse jumping over a fence. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place.” Salinger had me, I had never read anything like it.

This wicked-smart underachiever was figuring out the world. He had some answers and he was confused about a lot of things. He was cocky and immature all at the same time. He categorized people, just like we all were doing. I remember thinking, he’s funny and all but where would Holden fit in with my friends? Would I even hang out with him? I loved when he talked about his suitemate in the early scenes. Salinger is opening up a world of prep schools, rep ties and Park Avenue but it seems eerily similar to my world, boys finding their way. Thirty years later, I don’t even have to return to the book to know that Holden toyed with his suitemate, the ever annoying Ackley. Ackley was 18 and a senior, picking his zits and hovering around the room, never knowing when to leave.  Holden was 16 and a sophomore but Caulfield insisted on calling him Ackley Kid, just to needle him! He’s doing it on purpose! How freaking funny is that?

I read the book in one night; the first time that happened, besides Where the Wild Things Are. I don’t know what time I finished…2:30? 3:00? I just know I couldn’t put it down, I read until my eyes were burning. I couldn’t wait to get to school Monday morning to discuss the book.

Class on Monday, surrounded by other sophomores; was my first experience with what felt like literary analysis. In our class discussions with Mr. Levy I was on point; I knew the book, and the characters. I could see the many symbols; like Holden clinging to his childhood, typified in his relationship with Phoebe, his little sister. A whole new reading world opened up, like removing the training wheels on my bike. And Mr. Levy validated my feedback, he was impressed. Years later, when I was in his dean’s office for burning Dolores Sigelakis's picture of her boyfriend (that's a story for another time)  he said, “Spinner, what are you doing? You’re a smart guy. You should know better.” He looked me in the eye with a little disappointment and sent me on my way, didn't even punish me!

At the end of the book, I was echoing Holden when he said, “What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.” When I was 16, I wanted to call J. D. Salinger and thank him. I wanted to tell him that I was glad that he wrote Catcher and that it helped me through some tough times. I envisioned, in my 16 year old egotism, that I could be the one to pull him out of his self-imposed seclusion. I would take the bus from Port Authority, kind of Holden-like I suppose, and zip up to New Hampshire. I’d just hang around the post office or the General Store until I bumped into old Jerome David Salinger. And I’d look him in the eye and tell him how much his book meant to me and all.

Rest in Peace J.D. Salinger.

Tell me about the books that moved you, the books that spoke to you, the books that changed your life…

One in Eight Million

Preface: In the early 90’s, I was browsing in a bookstore along the Maine coast. I always like to read books with local flavor when I am visiting a new place. The owner of the store recommended what appeared to be a home-made book. It was 75 pages long, with a plain brown wrapper for a cover. The book was titled "One in a Million." It was an elegy from a son to a father. Dad was a family man who lived his entire life fishing and farming in this small Maine town. And except for the son writing this book, about a fairly uninspiring life, I would have never heard of the father. I always thought that was pretty cool. As many of my readers know, (cool to think that I have readers) my father, Jimmy Spinner Sr. passed when I was a senior in college. He lived his entire life in Brooklyn, leaving his impact on his family and friends. I know this will feel like hero worship, so I should dispense with the fact that I know that my pops had his demons. I am sure I could do an essay about that too. There were reasons he died at 46. But that’s not what this is about.
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It was the end of the greatest Christmas break of my life.  I am sitting next to my father in our Caprice Classic station wagon as he drives me to the airport to catch a People’s Express flight back to Buffalo. I begin to replay the vacation in my mind. Glancing at Jimmy Spinner Sr. in his ever present flannel shirt, wavy brown hair and sad grey eyes I smile. It all began a few weeks before as we left this very same airport terminal at the end of December, 1981…

I had a late final at the end of my first semester. The dorms were silent and depressing as most people had already gone home. Coming off the plane, in a more innocent time of lax security, I spy my dad in his red and black hunting jacket. I give him a hug, which was always awkward for my dad but I never let that stop me. I picked up the hugging habit at summer camp and to this day I need that closeness. We walked together through the old terminal my dad looking out of place amid the business travelers as he slouched to put on his knit longshoreman’s cap. Sitting in traffic on the BQE, we talk about school, the family and the Jets. Eventually my father says, “I got you a job down the shop. You’ll be going to work with me in the morning.” Most college kids would have bitched about the grind of the semester, about all-nighters and final exams. I didn’t even think about not having a vacation. My response, “Cool.”

I didn’t have to ask what time we would be leaving in the morning. You could set your watch by my father for the years he worked at ExhibitGroupNY. Our morning school routines timed to his coffee cup clanks, the starting of the family car to warm it up…That first morning I decide to take a shower, I know Dad scoffs at that idea, You’re just going to get dirty again he’s thinking. I don’t really have work clothes so I put on my Herman Survivors, a flannel shirt and a pair of Levi's. We’re off. I climb into the back seat and sit on my hands to warm them up. I knew the front seat was reserved for Sammy Yannonne, the father of one of my boyhood friends. Some years before, Sammy had lost his job. My father knew Sammy was handy, so he got him a job as a carpenter. Over the years they became friends; going on fishing trips and out for beers every payday. I loved watching the interplay between them. These were men who called a car or boat “she” as in, “She’s running good lately.” To this day if I do that I sound like a tool. Most of their communication was semi-verbal, a series of grunts and groans, kind of like whales. Morning Jim. Morning Sam.

That morning, like every morning, we weave our way through the Brooklyn streets toward the waterfront, stopping at a deli for a cup of coffee and a corn muffin. Real food, for real men, no foofy café lattes. Looking back now I am sure Sam and my dad were excited to have me tag along. Must have been a nice break to their routine to have this 19 year old kid, full of energy, bouncing off the back seat, taking it all in. As a non-driver, I was duly impressed with the trust they had in each other. We’d get to a stop sign at 36th Street and 6th Avenue and my father would look left and Sammy right. Sammy’d say, “tsgoodthisway.” And my father would go, wouldn’t double-check, he'd just go. I thought that was so cool.

Arriving at the “parking lot,” we bump our way past trucks and loading docks until we park right up against the fence. Getting out of the car I see white caps and the Statue of Liberty. The canyons of Wall Street are visible across the harbor but a continent away from this rough and tumble place. ExhibitGroupNY was in a block-long  factory on 44th Street just North of 1st Avenue. Those of you who drove the Gowanus back in the 80’s might recall the “Whale Fuel Oil” advertisement on the smokestack. That was my father’s workplace. A place where the cobblestones are for working and shipping not walking and shopping. It’s freaking cold. We park in the same spot every day, far from the front door. We were supposed to be in by 8 and that’s what time we’d get there. There was a punch clock with punch cards. If we were a few minutes late, someone would have punched us in. The guys looking out for each other. You see, union guys get paid in ¼ hour increments; so at 8:08, you lost the first quarter hour. The guys always assumed my old man and Sammy would be in, I never remember him taking a sick day, well until…again, that's a different story for a another time.

My father was the foreman of the carpenters. The most important part of his job was designing wooden cases to ship exhibits. At ExhibitGroupNY they built exhibits for conventions like the car or boat show. The guys would build the exhibits in the warehouse; shiny-aluminum and plexiglass-temporary structures designed to impress. Exhibits would be built in such a way that you could take them apart in big pieces. These pieces would be put into “my dad’s” wooden crates and shipped to the host city, St. Louis for instance. The goal was to make it easy to put the exhibits together at the convention site.

A few days into the routine, I notice there are only three people in the company who have their own parking spot. I see Tony’s Cadillac parked right in front; seems about right, he’s the big boss. There’s a placard on the wall with Tony’s name on it. To the right, an identical placard reserves a spot for Tony B, foreman of the electricians. Finally, to the right of Tony B’s spot it says Jim Spinner but someone else’s car is parked there. I warehouse this info for the right time. I wait until Sammy’s not in the car and I ask, “That’s pretty cool dad, you have your own parking spot! Out of all the guys in the company, only three guys get their own spot.” I get no response. “And someone else is parking in your spot.We gotta park all the way by the fence. Whose car is it? Why don’t you say something?” My father must have been chuckling, leading me right where he wanted me to go, “That’s not an 8 o’clock spot.” “What do you mean by that Dad? That’s your spot.” “I mean, those spots are for people who get in early, the guys who open the shop at 6:30 when it’s really cold, like Joe Brown, that’s Joe’s spot. Those spots against the fence, those are 8 o’clock spots.”

Throughout the month I kept picking up tid-bits about my dad. As I watched him play poker with his buddies at lunch or saw him in action during the work day, I could see he was an integral part of the Exhibitgroup hierarchy. Already prone to hero worship, he was my father, I am still impressed with what I learned. One day I was working on the loading dock, riding the back of the forklift with Lou and Louis. This father and son team from Sunset Park were in charge of getting the large wooden crates with the exhibits in them, onto and off the trucks. Big Lou hid bottles of rum among the crates around the warehouse, so the two were usually half soused by 11 o’clock. Thursday was payday, and these were the days before direct deposit so one of the girls from the office delivered our paychecks. At the end of my second week, Diane, this cute little Italian girl from Bensonhurst uses my name as she hands me my paycheck, “And for Jim Spinner Junior.” I smile and put the envelope in my pocket. As she walks away, Louis turns to me and says, “Yo, your father is Jim Spinner?” When I say yes, father and son look at each other and the son says, “The fuck you working on the loading dock for?”  
“I don’t know, it’s a good job.”
“Bullshit, you should be working with the other carpenters or in the office with the shirts and skirts.”

As I said, Thursday was Payday. Every payday Dad, Sammy and I would go to Ulmer’s, a neighborhood bar. We’d each put up a 20 and sit at the bar and talk. Those were some of the best beers I've ever had. Both Sam and my father were Schaefer drinkers. In 1981, I was a Bud drinker. The entire month Sam, Mary Quinn the bartender, and my father busted my chops, telling me I couldn’t tell the difference. Sammy really loved to rag on me, “Snot-nosed college kid, doesn’t know Budweiser from Schaefer. I bet you you can’t tell the difference. Turn around and let Mary pour you one.” They’d make me turn around and Mary’d pour a few beers. I would have to pick the Budweiser. In the entire month I never got it wrong. In the way of working class dads, I could see my father was proud of that.

I continued to fly under the radar at ExhibitGroup as most people did not know me. I loved to overhear conversations about my father, to find out that my dad was respected, that he was important, especially to Tony, the owner. Now you have to remember, this was the beginning of the go-go 80's. One night dad and I are in the living room at home and I ask him, “You know Louie and Lou say I shouldn’t be working on the loading dock, that you should have gotten me a better job with you, or in the office.” My father thought about it for a second and said, “You’re making good money on the loading dock?” “YEH, really good!” “You know what happens I get you a job in the office? You start to make real money, you won’t want to go back to college. Don’t worry, you graduate, Tony’ll give you a sales job in the office, if you still want it.”

My last week there, my last payday at Ulmer’s, I begin to make the case for my dad to ask for a raise. I cite evidence about how much Tony really needs him, how much the company needs him, how everyone respects him.
“You should ask Tony for a raise.”
“Why do I need a raise?”
“Because it’s like more money.”
“What do I need more money for Butch?”
“You know, more money! It’s a good thing dad!”
With a few beers in him my dad is willing to open up, to get emotional, “Why do I need more money? I have a wife who loves me, a job that I like, the respect of my peers and my children. I have a house and a boat. What do I need more money for. I’ve got peace of mind.”

That whole month's vacation my father was teaching me life lessons. I am most proud of the fact that I went to work willingly, subconcsiously maybe I knew I wouldn't have many more vacations with him. I chose the title in a nod to the fact that my dad was a New Yorker so he was One in 8 Million.