And That is Where the Children Play

It’s the end of the evening; the homework is done, the dinner dishes are drying in the rack. Now it’s reading time. I send my two oldest boys, Nick who is 10 and Brian 8, upstairs to read by themselves. I tell Charlie, my four year old, to go upstairs and grab us a book. We usually read in the living room. You see, I read aloud with Charlie, and my one foot voice is really more like a twenty five foot voice. We read downstairs so as to not disturb the big boys. Charlie scampers down the stairs with Margaret Wise Brown’s Big Red Barn. I smile. He’s excited, “Hey dad, I found this book! It looks like a good one.” Somehow, in the reading rotation, we have not seen this classic in a while. I say, “I know Charlie, that’s a special book. It’s been in the Spinner household for a long time. Nick got that when he was a baby. It’s gone through all three Spinner boys.” Something clicks. What are the chances? I think. A few hours before, Nick got off the school bus and asked me about “the movie.” We have been hearing about “the movie” for a few years now. Apparently towards the end of fourth grade, the boys and the girls go to separate rooms to see The Puberty Movie. As Nick says, "We learn about growing hair in weird places. And we are not allowed to laugh or we get sent to the principal’s office.” Not allowed to laugh? I’m having suppressed laughter just thinking of this "ABC After School Movie"/knock-off about growing up. A movie starring some Mister Rogers-type dad where the teacher talks about private parts and pubic hair. Not laugh. Fourth graders? My sentimental moment radar is tingling. I notice that Charlie and I are about to read a book we received as a gift when Nick was first born. And tomorrow morning my little Nicholas is going to learn about perspiration and hormones. I hug Charlie a little closer and I begin to read, “By the big red barn In the great green field…” While I am reading I am thinking…who gave us the book. I think it was Murph, Nick’s godfather, I'm thinking it was one of Kira's high school friends, Heather Burke. “There was a pink pig Who was learning to squeal.” What house were we living in when I first read this book to baby Nicholas? “There was a great big horse And a very little horse.” How many houses have we lived in? The “River House” in Oxford. When did I first read this book to Brian? Arden Road in Waterbury? Then the move to Middlebury...

“And on every barn…” I hear footsteps on the stairs. Nick peeks his head into the living room and says, “Dad I have to get my…Hey, I remember that book.” And he walks over, head tilted, with a quizzical look on his face. So I say, “Nick, you want to read it with us?” Because he’s ten, I’m thinking he might say no. “Sure.” Nick snuggles up next to Charlie and I. I think about how long until Nick recognizes this moment too. Those apples don't fall far from the tree. I continue to read. Nick says, "Hey I remember this part! On the next page the bats come out of the barn." I'm thinking this is going to be it. I continue to read, looking at the back of Nick's head and my voice cracks. Nick picks his head off my shoulder to look at me. He doesn’t say anything but I can see he’s getting emotional too. Charlie hears the emotion in my voice and cranes his neck and says, “Daddy, why are you crying?” To which I say, “I was just thinking about how long we’ve had this book. And that my Nicholas is growing up and sometimes I don’t want him to grow up.” And Charlie says, "I know Dad, me too." Then it’s three boys, a group hug and quite a few tears.

Parenting’s a lot of work but moments like that make it all worth it. “There was a big pile of hay And a little pile of hay, And that is where the children play.”

Road Rage

Road Rage

Kira and I were sitting on our front porch recently with another couple as our six boys played football in the backyard. Something I like to call a family play date. Melissa Migliaccio, our close friend asks, “Jim when’s the last time you washed your car.” She wasn’t being rude, just trying to point out that it needed a wash. Like you would point out to your roommate that his shirt was wrinkled as he was leaving for work. I smirked because I knew the reaction my response would get. Melissa and her husband Mark, both successful lawyers, drive fairly nice cars and make an effort at upkeep.
“Never.”
Mark’s head snapped. “Never!? You’ve never washed your car?”
“Not the outside. The rain does it for me.”
“What about road salt!? That stuff will eat at your undercarriage, it will cause rust.”
“Miggie, it’s a ‘98 Nissan Altima for Christ sakes, it lasted this long, what do you want from me?” Enjoying the game a little I continue, “I wash the inside; every once in a while I take a little Windex to the windows. That counts right?”

Honestly, I never saw the sense in washing the car when I could be reading a book or playing basketball. Most of the guys I knew in Brooklyn who washed and primped their cars were usually doing it to impress women. I always thought, You really must have no personality if you have to use your car to get a date. I could never fathom wanting to date a girl who would be attracted to you because you drove a shiny car with some nice rims and a spoiler.

As you can see, I’m not a car guy, for me, a car is a conveyance. I suppose the utilitarian nature of the automobile was ingrained by my urban upbringing. In Brooklyn, you didn’t need a car. I took the F train to get to high school. When I joined the work force after college, the F train proved very handy then as well.

I would have loved it back in the day when Henry Ford’s assembly line was pumping out Model T’s in only one color, black. I wonder what the early car entrepreneurs would think of all of today’s makes, models and accessories. When did this movable appliance become so caught up in our image? Why does this material possession seem to say something about us? I suppose in America, this kind of thing was bound to happen.

100 years or so of mass-produced cars and some interesting things have happened. People use their cars as mobile bulletin boards. Let’s dispense with the most obvious, the cost of the car telling everyone how successful you are. Given that, it also seems that certain makes and models seem to attract certain kinds of people. What this amounts to is one giant high school clique…clearly the worst are the Jeep owners.

“You wouldn’t understand, it’s a Jeep thing.” I see this phrase on the tire cover of some dude filling up at the pump in front of me at a local gas station. I’m not sure but I think I may have laughed out loud. I may have even said, under my breath, “How cool are you?” Have you seen these Jeep people on the road? One giant fraternity/sorority waving to each other as they drive past each other? What they are saying is… “Hey, you’re a Jeep guy, I’m a Jeep guy aren't we so cool?” Big deal. So you bought the same car. And now you are compelled to make goo-goo eyes at all the other 4.5 million Jeep owners on the road? I mean how hard is it to get into this club? You go to the dealership, fill out some paperwork, and wallah, I’m a Jeep guy! Puhlease. These guys are one step away from the dork in your office who always points out when you are wearing the same shirt.

Speaking of making goo-goo eyes. When the nice weather comes to the NW corner of Connecticut, it’s time for riding motorcycles. And apparently, like the Jeep guys, if you join this frat, you must wave at every other motorcycle guy or gal you pass. And there's a lot of them! What’s up with this? I mean I am all for being friendly but, shouldn’t these motorcyclists keep both hands on the wheel?

Back to the cars. Not only are we buying our cars to impress, or to make a statement, Americans use their cars to tell us all manner of things about themselves. Bumper Stickers? Do you think this is what James Madison and our Founders had in mind for the first amendment? Was the Constitutional Convention fighting for my right to free speech so that I could tell you that I Cruise? Like I care? A lot of people choose to brag on their bumper about all of the really cool places they’ve been. ADK, BI, ACK. If I were to put one on my car it would say, BFD.

Once I was behind a mini-van cueing up to school and I read, “Don’t even think about talking to me until I’ve had my coffee.” I chuckled and I’m thinking, How much would I have to love a beverage to go to all that trouble?

I guess Ben Franklin and company would be heartened by Americans using their vehicles to persuade fellow voters to choose their respective candidate. (Obama/Biden, yes!) I do see some benefits to bumper stickers, at least they give us something to look at while we sit in traffic. I often wonder at the wisdom of espousing radical opinions on the bumper of your car. No matter which side of the Pro-Life/Pro-Choice issue you land, we all know there are zealots on either side. If these people get worked up enough about this issue to blow up a clinic, what do you think they might do to the Honda Odyssey you left unattended in the mall parking lot while you went to pick out lawn furniture?

I laugh heartily at the red-necks who drive their pick-ups around all-white, rural, enclaves with their Confederate flags announcing their rebel (read racist) nature. I’d love to see Mr. Lynard Skynard wind up with some car trouble in Hollis, Queens on the way to Kennedy Airport. Wouldn’t that be a scene? Big old pick-up rumbling off The Van Wyck Expressway in a neighborhood that would not take too kindly to the Stars and Bars.

And aren’t some things private? Why should we be announcing our sexual leanings on our vehicles? Do I want to know what you are doing in your bedroom as you careen past me on the Merritt Parkway? It’s mostly members of the gay community that feel compelled to show their true colors to other motorists. Should heterosexuals do this too? My buddy Steve likes his wife to dress up as a cheerleader. Should he tell his fellow commuters that? I mean just to be fair?

Lastly, I have to talk about Vanity plates. Just the name itself is a turnoff to me. If I even get past that, I can’t imagine purchasing something that would have me spending more time in the DMV. Is there any word or phrase, composed of 9 characters or less, that I would want on my car for the life of the vehicle? Isn’t this tantamount to a tattoo for your car? I am paralyzed trying to think of some witty phrase that I could use to entertain and impress for the next 3 years or 36,000 miles.

What’s the deal with people who talk in code on their license plates? How the heck are we supposed to figure out what all the letters and numbers mean? Well, if I did get a vanity plate, I suppose I might actually do something in code. I think I would like, FA Q. If that is taken I suppose I would settle for FA Q2.

Happy Motoring!

Victory Garden

Out Plowing the Back 1/4 of an Acre

As I hopscotched the canyons of Wall Street my first ten years of employment, I actually learned a few things. One of the most important, which I use often in teaching 8th graders, involves the ability to sell. The Dean Witter brass taught us to “sell the benefits.” Mark Kelly, my manager, would say, “You are not selling a stock, bond, or mutual fund. You are selling the benefits of buying that investment. It’s a different kind of sale, you are selling an intangible. If your client puts down 40,000 dollars on a car, he or she gets a car, something they can touch, sit in and drive. You are asking them to give you $40,000 for an idea. You have to sell the benefits.”

Considering the fates of the markets recently…I have something I would like to sell you that has myriad benefits. I like to get the word myriad in whenever I can. This product is really more of a system, or life change. I DO NOT want to be preachy, I can only tell you what it did for our family, you can make your own decision. I can tell you if you try what I am asking you to do you will: 1) Get more exercise, 2) Bring your family closer together, 3) Save money 4) Live a Greener lifestyle, 5) Teach your children valuable life lessons, 6) Decrease our country’s dependence on foreign oil, 7) Become the envy of your friends and neighbors 8) And gather hundreds of dollars of fresh, tasty produce.

Of course I am suggesting that you start a family garden, if you have the space. I have to say, as we were putting away the beach toys and cleaning out our locker at the town beach this past September, Kira, my wife, asked me, as she always does, “What was your favorite part of the summer?” This time it was a no-brainer, as we stood on the sand of Lake Quassapaug with the late summer sun setting I said, “The family garden.”

There was a certain vindication in my answer. For once I was right. I have been asking to do a garden for the past 5 or so years. My motivation being that I HATE to mow the lawn. I figured if we had a garden, less grass to mow. I also figured at least we would get something for our labors besides poison ivy. Standing in our kitchen last April 5th, I know the date because it’s my son Brian’s birthday) I said to Papa Bill , (My boy’s grandfather is an organic farmer of some note) “I’d like to do a garden with the boys, what do I have to do?” To which my lovely bride chimed in from somewhere else in the house, “It’s a lot of work. Don’t think I am going to help you with that because I’m not!” Kira was obviously thinking of the Jim Spinner who despises yard work, who hates to continuously hack back the encroaching forest, who once a year gets poison ivy so bad he needs intravenous steroids. She could not have known that Farmer Jim was a different Jim, a motivated Jim.

So with Bill and Suzanne’s (Kira’s mom) expertise, support and their compost, the Spinner boys started a garden. Believe it or not, the boy from Brooklyn actually put down The Times, got up off the couch and did some farming. Whenever I say farming Kira laughs. "Jim, when your farm is the size of your living room, it's called gardening." So every time I do farm, just to annoy my wife, I put on my overalls and my farming boots. It's always funny too.

The hardest part was removing the grass, we had to spade it out by the shovelful. Admittedly, it was back breaking work but Nick, Brian and Charlie helped me. It felt like we were doing something healthy; all of us sweating in the sunshine, clearing the land for our “crops.” It was a lot better than working the rowing machine at the Waterbury Y.

Usually I have to beg my boys to feed the dogs; a job which takes 47 seconds, I timed it. To get one of them to fill the dog’s dishes with a few morsels of chow is like trying to get the Israelis and the Palestinians to throw a block party on the Gaza Strip. But this farming stuff, they were doing it willingly. I can’t tell you how many times, once the garden was planted and fenced off, that I would ask Kira, “Where’s Brian?” and she would say, “Look in the garden.” I’d look out the window, and there’s my little toe-head, up to his wrists in dirt, weeding the furrows.

It did bring us closer together. Threee generations, working together for a common goal, a family garden, proved motivational. We talked while we gardened, about all manner of things. And to see the boys put their elementary school science lessons to work, not using a mimeographed sheet but real live earth worms in the soil was really cool. Having the boys explain to me the benefits of earthworms in the soil gave me hope for the future. To see them identify the stages of the water cycle as it relates to our garden, just confirmed that we were doing the right thing. Of course Charlie wanted to know, “Daddy, where does pee come in on the water cycle?”

If you are rolling your eyes at this point, I apologize. I have actually been avoiding writing a piece about our garden because I could not figure out a way to do it without sounding like a Hallmark card. But with the planting season on us, I really wanted to get this one posted. If this sounds like one of those saccharine Christmas letters that your friends send you about how perfect their family is (just once don’t you want to hear about their neuroses?) that is not my intention. I promise I will do another piece about how neurotic my family is. But I digress.

All we needed was the cost of the seeds (which Grandma and Grandpa Duesing thankfully paid for) and the family’s labor. To think that our tomatoes did not have to come prepackaged and shipped on a truck from Florida made all of us feel good. As gas prices were skyrocketing last summer, not only was a lot of our produce free, we didn’t even have to drive to get it. And I was conscious of the fact that this was good for the environment. And in some small way, it was good for the United States, that we were doing our part to decrease our country’s dependence on oil. Not to mention how good everything tasted. I have not had a tomato since last September that was even close to what we grew in our little patch of land. The heirloom tomatoes were my favorites. Of course as the first few ripened I told Kira we had some mutant tomatoes and I thought we should throw them out. Those heirlooms wound up being my favorite, once I got past the look of them.

Eventually we got so much produce, we got to give it away. A little bit of Christmas in August. We would dole the veggies out to our friends and family. I’d fill up a little brown bag and tell my boys to head over to the McNamara’s next door. And it made us feel good, we wanted to share our bounty. We’d go to see Kristen and Pat Lewis for a barbeque and just before leaving I’d say to the boys, “Go grab Miss Kristen some cucumbers and tomatoes and put them in this bag.” And I could see my boys beaming, choosing some choice cucumbers and some heirloom tomatoes to give to our friends.

So if I could try and sell you on the benefits of the family garden, from someone who hates to work in the yard. This garden was a rousing success. We learned about working hard, about working together as a family, about caring for the earth, about how veggies grown taste just a little better than veggies bought. Gotta go. Out to plant the back 1/2 of an acre.

P.S. We really could not have done this garden without Grandma and Grandpa Duesing. If you need a little advice from Papa Bill Duesing or Suzanne I am sure they would be glad to help, as this is part of their life's work. If we all do our little part to make the earth a little healthier it might go a long way.

Innocents Ablaze

March 25, 1911 was an early Spring Saturday. Kate Leone, age 14 rose early in the fourth floor apartment she shared with the rest of her family. Careful not to wake her little brothers as she got dressed, she double checked that she had her lunch as she closed the apartment door behind her. Walking down the stairs Kate is warmed by the smells of breakfast cooking as she passes the apartments of the other, mostly Italian immigrant families. She smiles at the pleadings and the familiar voices she hears of her neighbors getting ready for another day in the big city. Waiting for Kate on the front stoop of 515 East 11th Street are the other girls she walks to work with most every day. As they walked west on East 11th Street the conversation turned more than likely to some holiday celebrations as Passover and Easter were both on the horizon. Probably they talked about boys. Fanciful thoughts of a new skirt or hat for the holidays would not have been out of the question as Saturday was a day of possibilities, Saturday was payday.

Sadly, Kate and her friends would never cash their checks, or buy those special holiday treats. At about a quarter of five, as the girls packed their belongings at the end of a long work day, a fire broke out on the 8th floor of the Asche Building, home to the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. It was a perfect storm for an industrial tragedy. The factory was crowded with seamstresses packed close together to maximize profits. The women were told to dump the scrap fabric right at their feet to limit time away from the machines, leaving an abundance of fuel. Most of the girls were Italian like Kate or from Eastern Europe like her friend Ida Brodsky, age 16. The girls had never been trained in what to do in case of a fire. So as the conflagration spread, they panicked. Screaming, hundreds of young women headed for the exits. Most Americans familiar with this story have heard that the owners of the company locked the doors to keep the girls at work and to keep them from stealing fabric. Investigations later revealed that the doors opened inward and the crush of bodies in a panic prevented the girls from simply stepping back and opening the door. The owners of the factory were later aquitted of manslaughter charges.

Some workers found a way to get down. A few lucky girls rode the freight elevator which apparently made only one trip. With the elevator stalled, some girls attempted to slide down the elevator cables, some actually made it, many were found later in a crumpled heap of bodies on top of the elevator. A number of girls found their way to the only working fire escape. This worked for a while until the fire escape collapsed under the weight of so many women. Killing many who were so close to saftey. With the fire spreading quickly and the FDNY ladders only reaching the 6th floor, many girls were left with no choice. According to an eyewitness...

"I walked through Washington Square Park to get closer to the commotion. As I neared the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place I noticed a bale of dark dress goods come out of a top floor window. I thought that someone was trying to save expensive cloth. Then another bale came down, and another. One caught the wind and opened. It was not a bale of goods, it was a young woman." Driven to the choice of burning to death or plummeting 8 or 9 stories to the concrete, many girls chose the latter. Many of the girls, too scared to jump alone, actually held hands in pairs or large groups and jumped together. It was this image, seared into the minds of so many New Yorkers, that proved symbolic of the tragedy of the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire.

I first learned of this fire in History of The American Labor Movement, a class I took at SUNY Buffalo. Haunted by the stories of these girls I continued to read all I could about the fire. Home on break my junior year I took a pilgrimage to the very spot. I worked on the assumption there would be a small museum, or something to commemorate the 146 people who died in the fire. Before 9/11, this was the worst workplace fire in New York City history. I got off the F train, and like the eyewitness, I walked through Washington Square Park. As I neared the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place I felt myself looking up towards the 8th, 9th and 10th floors. Once in front of the building, I checked the lobby for a list of tenants, figuring the museum would be listed there. Nothing. I asked a few pedestrians, all I got was blank stares. And then I saw it, as I was standing on the corner, the only thing to remind New Yorkers as they pass this historic spot during their workaday lives, a small commemorative plaque on the corner of the Asche Building.

November 22, 1963

December 7, 1941

September 11, 2001

Kate Leone and all of the young women who died that fateful Saturday deserve to be remembered. March 25, 1911 should take it's rightful place alongside the other dates we rightfully commemorate every year.

I would imagine Kate's family and the families of the victims could eventually take solace in the what happened after the fire. News of the fire captivated New Yorkers immediately. A huge public outcry called for: safer working conditions, mandatory fire drills and sprinkler systems among other things. And change came quickly. The FDNY started the Fire Commission, and the State of New York gave it some authority to actually enforce the new laws.

P.S.

I can't explain why I have been so drawn to this story. One of my more "mystical" friends says she thinks I must be related to one of the victims. If you have any interest, Cornell University has a great site devoted to the fire. And David Von Drehle's book was very readable narrative history.

Triangle : The Fire that Changed America by David Von Drehle

http://www.ilr.cornell.edu/trianglefire/

Happy St. Patrick's Day

"Ah, I blame your father." My mother would say. It is partially my father's fault that I feel at home in a bar. Some of my best memories are of my dad and I going to get a haircut up on 9th Avenue in Windsor Terrace. This was back in the day when they still used hot foam and a straight razor. Both of us, closely shorn, me with a lollipop in my mouth, would find our way into one of our neighborhood pubs.


Early on a Saturday afternoon we'd walk into Rattigan's, Gerard's, The Terrace or more than likely Ulmer's. No matter the joint, my father knew everybody. I thought that was pretty cool. We'd walk in and my father would get a big hello from the bartender and the sprinkling of regulars at the bar. "Hey Jimmy howya doin'?" "Hey, Jimmy Spinner, cold Schaefer? If it was Ulmer's, Mary Quinn would usually be behind the bar. I always remembered Mary's name because it was the same as my Dad's mother. She'd place my dad's Schaefer on a coaster. Then she'd peer over the bar at me, "And is this Jimmy Jr. I see here? The little baseball player? We can't get your father to stop talking about you. What do you want young man?" Climbing onto the stool next to my Dad I know the routine. I order a Coke and Mary gives me a high ball glass with ice in it. After some conversation, Mary walks over with a marker (usually a coaster or an upside down shot glass) to say, "Next one's on Billy." And my father would raise his glass in Billy's direction and nod his head. When my Dad has some change on the bar he'll ask, "Hey Butch want to play a game?" Usually the choice would be pinball but in Ulmer's they had Flash Bowling with the heavy metal disk and the sawdust on the lanes. You know the game where the pins pop up into the machine? This was Nirvana for a kid. I had an endless supply of Cokes and quarters and the attention of all my father's friends. It felt like home.

So, it is my father's fault. I remember when my friends and I were just out of college. Flush with cash, we'd spend our weekends partying in Manhattan. Most 20 somethings would be going to "clubs." Sure my friends and I would occasionally go to Limelight or Palladium, but we all seemed to prefer a night at McAleer's, The Emerald Inn or Farrell's. I blame my father.

Considering it's St. Patrick's Day, as a tribute to my old man, (he passed in '85) I figured I'd give you the recipe for a good Irish-American Pub as my father taught it to me. Like a good drink, you have to have the right ingredients:

The bar itself has to be made of wood, marinated in spilled beer and whiskey, aged with the tears and laughter of past decades. You should be able to tell that someone loves this bar, that someone cares for this bar. More than likely it's a family place. Behind Farrell's there's an Eddie Farrell. At Peter McManus's (7th Avenue and 19th Street), there's a McManus family. Usually, if it's an old joint, the woodwork behind the bar is coordinated with the wood of the bar itself. The mirrors, the molding, and the wooden architecture around the bar were usually built by the same company. The name of the company, can usually be found on the center mirror behind the bar. At Boru's, here on West Main Street in Waterbury, Connecticut it says, Brunswick, 1934. Growing up Catholic, the bar and the church always seemed similar to me. In both places there's one person in charge. The decor is similar, the varnished wood of the pews and the bar. Both venues use dim lighting and hushed tones (sometimes). The stained glass of the church, always eerily similar to the colors of the liquor bottles reflecting off the bar mirror. Both places are steeped in their routines and customs.










Next add your Irish bartender. At Farrell's we had Eddie, and we had Houlie (pictured) , which if you're Irish you know is short for Houlihan. Farrell's always had a soft spot for civil servants too, mostly FDNY guys moonlighting. Guys like Vinny "the bartender" Brunton. Vinny bravely paid the ultimate price on 9/11. Happy St. Patrick's Day Vinny. Nowadays we have Duffy. It's been my experience that Irish bartenders come in two versions. You have your smiley, full of Blarney, happy go lucky bartender (Houlie). Or you have your surly, curmudgeon bartender, (Eddie). This guy acts like he's doing you a favor every time he sees you. It's really just his schtick but he's letting you know that it's his bar and you're on probation. It's a select few who are allowed into his "club" and the jury seems to be out on most patrons, especially you.

You also obviously have to have the right crowd. Looking back now, my Dad probably picked working class bars that tended to have more Met fans than Yankee fans. I can also see now, that the patrons of the bar were so happy to see my Dad because then they were not alone. It was their social outlet, their country club. There's a cameraderie in frequenting the same pub on a regular basis. You have to feel the crowd out, it might take a few trips and multiple conversations to figure out if it's the right place for you.

A little lower down on this list of ingredients is music. Tunes are important but not crucial. For years Farrell's had no music and we didn't even notice. You're there to lubricate the vocal chords for conversation. But over the last few years, in a nod to the more refined crowd encroaching from Park Slope, even Farrell's has added music. More than likely it's the music's volume that's the key; and most bartenders will work with the crowd. If music is key for you then it used to really matter if a bar had a good jukebox. Nowadays, with computers and cd's, the volume of choices available make this a non-issue. As long as the patrons play the right tunes, you're in for a good night.

Connected to music on the entertainment spectrum would be sports. This is probably, in an Irish-American bar, a little more important than music. For me, and I hate to say this, but if it's a sports-oriented bar, it's probably going to be frequented by guys I might actually like to have a beer with. So, sports and tv for my friends and I, pretty important.

So there you have it. A simple recipe for an Irish-American pub as gleaned from my father. This might help you find a place to unwind with a frosted mug and a few friends. I hope I wet your whistle for tomorrow. Unfortunately, my wife is working the evening shift Tuesday, so I'll have to be with you in spirit. Happy St. Patrick's Day.

P.S. If you want to read a good book, look for a book by Gwendolyn Bounds called
Little Chapel on the River: A Pub, a Town and the Search for What Matters Most

Joe Cool

Thank you Joe Cool


“He’s just such a cool guy. All my life, I never got to hang out with a cool guy.”

Seinfeld fans will recall this George Costanza line from the episode where Dan Cortese guest stars as Elaine’s boyfriend, Tony. Tony is cool. He’s good looking, athletic, confident, likable. George becomes enamored with Tony, begins to mimic his mannerisms. Sitting in a booth at Monk’s diner, Tony is telling a story and he takes his baseball hat off and puts it on backwards. George does the same. George’s admiration for Tony becomes obvious and Kramer says, “You’ve got a male crush on him.” Watching this I always squirm with George, I see myself, in George.

I think about, as the oldest boy in my family, how important those “relationships” were in my life. I look back and I laugh at Jimmy Spinner, the puppy dog, looking up with admiring eyes at various “cool guys.” Guys who taught me stuff, good and bad, about being a guy...

My first exposure to cool...Sitting in my 7th grade classroom listening to Sister Mary Pat drone on at the end of the day. I am distracted by gathering teenagers in front of Gino’s Pizza across the street. It’s leather jackets and t-shirts, cigarettes and punches in the arm. The bell rings and my friends and I walk over to the pizzeria. It’s a mob scene, kids dying to spend mom and dad’s money on a slice or a Coke. My buddies and I are younger, we are relegated to the fringes. I observe. I notice Charlie Lumia. (Lou me ah) There’s something about him. Slouchy in his leather jacket, leaning against a parked car, hands in his pockets, black hair parted in the middle. He’s funny, he’s got that look in his eye that says, I know just a little more about what’s going on than you do. Cathy Cavanaugh is there, the cutest girl in the 7th grade, in her maroon plaid skirt and white blouse. She’s talking to Charlie, wrinkling her pert, freckled nose at his jokes. She sees it too.

Over the next couple of months, my friends and I begin to hang out with the guys in front of the pizzeria. Sometimes we go to the park and play football. Most of our time is spent making each other laugh and showing off. As 7th graders we are newbies, learning the ropes from the older guys. We begin dressing like the older guys, talking like them. At some point, my buddies and I are walking down East 3rd Street, after hanging out all afternoon. I have my hands in my pockets, my fake leather jacket on, (derided by most as pleather) and one of my best friends, Jimmy Quinlan, says,
“What are you doing Spinner?”
I know I’m nailed, Jimmy doesn’t miss a trick. “Nothing, what are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about! Look at him Tweety, he’s walking like Charlie Lumia! You don’t walk like that! That’s Charlie’s walk.”
Switching back to my normal gait I say, “What? This is how I walk.” I want to say, “So what, I think Charlie’s cool and I want to walk like him. He gets all the hot girls. You noticed that I was walking like him. That means you know how he walks too.” But in 7th grade you don’t stand up for yourself all the time.
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Writing in my journal after watching that Seinfeld episode, I wrote about how important those “relationships” are for us. These were our role models. That’s how we learned how to handle ourselves in a fight, how to talk to girls, how to smoke a cigarette. We watched and we learned. The guys who were successful, we mimicked, and the guys who weren’t, well they were models too.

I have had a few of these, cool guy friendships, (sounds much better than male crush don't you think). And one of the most important was Neil O’Callaghan. Neil was to be a senior when I was entering my freshman year at John Dewey High School in Coney Island. Late August in the summer between 8th and 9th grade , my friends and I on East 4th Street were in the middle of a touch football game. Neil appears, hovers over the game for a second and says, “Spinner, I hear you’re going to Dewey.” Turning my head as I walk up to the line of scrimmage I say, “Yeh.” Neil glances over his shoulder as he walks away and says, “Meet me in front of my house at ten after seven tomorrow. And don’t be late, Freshman.”

He says freshman with a little edge to it, poking fun at me. He wasn’t being mean, he was busting on me while inviting me into his club. And this is the thing about someone who is genuinely cool, Neil could pull it off.

John Dewey High School was a world away from our Irish/Italian working class neighborhood. Neil decided to attend Dewey I am sure for the same reasons I did, the local catholic high school would have been expensive. Neil was one of ten O’Callaghan children, and I was one of four Spinners. Truth be told, I was closer with Andrew O’Callaghan; who was closer to my age than I than I was with Neil. If we were to choose up teams for stickball or touch football, Andrew was more in my circle of friends than Neil. Neil hung out with the older guys on Ronny Lopez’s porch. Guys who occasionally beaned us with snowballs or maybe asked us to play roller hockey only if they were short a guy. Usually our groups were like two ferry boats in New York harbor, we saw each other a lot but rarely did we connect.

All of the guys in Ronny Lopez’s crew were good guys and I love them like big brothers but there was something charismatic about Neil. The fact that he was a senior and he took me under his wing when I was a freshman always meant something to me. He was fun to hang out with, he made stuff exciting.

First day of school, I show up on time, aware this senior is doing me and my fellow freshman, Vinny Tomasi, a favor. Neil’s best friend, Bobby Slesarcik, another senior and a great guy meets us in front of the O’Callaghan’s house. We walk over to take the “F” train for the 50 minute trip to John Dewey. “Now freshman, the way you know the train is coming is you look down the tunnel towards Fort Hamilton Parkway, you can see the lights way before you hear the train.”

“Now freshman, the train always comes at the same time and it lands in the same spot. If you want to get a seat, you gotta line yourself up with where the door will land so you beat the other riders into the train.”

Neil and Bobby taught us to cut through the Marboro Projects and into the back door of John Dewey. Something a cool guy would know, a short cut. That first day Vinny and I were escorted to our respective homerooms and I figured that would be the last we would see of Neil and Bobby. I knew seniors didn’t want Vinny and I tagging along. But that’s where the coolness factor comes in. After a matching up of schedules, Neil and Bobby tell us to meet them in the caf for lunch.

Like I said, they taught us stuff. Two wide-eyed freshman, Vinny and I were prepared to follow all the rules. I was assigned a locker in what amounted to Siberia. Neil gave me a combination lock, put it on a locker right near his and said, “Don’t worry about it freshman, nobody uses their assigned lockers after freshman year.”

Walking to class a few weeks into the school year, I find out I have a substitute teacher. As I head into the class, Neil grabs me by the collar. “Mr. Wolfson’s not here? You have a sub? You don’t have to go to class.” Free period!

Watching Neil and Bobby I learned about women. I learned not to run after them with my tongue hanging out. Neil and Bobby seemed to be surrounded with beautiful upper classman. Two who come to mind, Helene Halperin and Lisa Goldglit, I swear that was her name. These girls were my first exposure to (JAPS) Jewish American Princesses. They were exotic. They dressed so nicely, Jordache jeans! They had perfect teeth. After a month or so of Neil and Bobby flirting with Helene and Lisa, dancing around each other, we are on the train on the way home. Vinny and I watching the conversation like a tennis match.
“Alright, so Helene gave me her number Bob, when should I call?”
“Well you knew this was coming. Don’t want to seem too eager. Wait a few days, call Wednesday and try to set up something for the weekend. What are you going to do with her?”
“ I was thinking ice skating at Sky Rink and then dinner and drinks in The Village.”

Vinny and I were in awe. These girls were untouchable. And Neil and Bobby had their choice. They were in charge, they were deciding when to call! I would have melted if Helene Halperin gave me her number.

Both Neil and Bobby worked. Neil was an actual soda jerk at a local luncheonette. He made the best chocolate egg cream I have ever had. Bobby worked in a local pharmacy. Vinny and I learned, if you had more money than the next guy, you buy. Those guys treated us all the time, and to this day I appreciate that.

Truthfully, I owe a debt of gratitude to Neil and Bobby and all the cool guys who "mentored" me along the way. Right around 8th and 9th grade I started to get into what we today call “high risk behavior.” These guys were there to corral me. To show me that roller hockey was better than rolling doobies. That an adrenaline rush was better than any other rush. That going to college was a realistic option. And I thank them for that every day of my life!

Coerced by Quaint

Einstein defined insanity as, “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” If there was any doubt, by that definition, I am insane.

Around Valentine’s Day, about every three years or so, I surprise my wife with a romantic weekend at a Bed & Breakfast. Coerced by quaint, and waylaid by warm muffins, it’s once more into the breach my friend. When I do come to this decision I envision it sets in motion some cosmic Candid Camera. And I turn into Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast.

Our first time..“The Inn at Lareau Farm is a classic Vermont farmhouse nestled on the banks of the Mad River.” Nestled? How can you resist nestling? After a long drive, Kira and I pull off Vermont 100 North and are greeted by the soft-spoken owner of the inn, “Welcome to the Lareau Farm Inn, I am Sue, my husband and I bought this place 15 years ago and fixed it up. This is the main sitting area, feel free to come downstairs in your pj’s and sit by the fire and read your book…This is your room...Tomorrow’s breakfast will be Canadian Bacon and Vermont cheddar cheese omellettes, served with….”

The first night goes fairly well, and in the morning the breakfast is unbelievable. We spend Saturday skiing Sugarbush. Satiated by skiing and enlivened with an après ski buzz we go back to the inn. Kira opts for a nap. I don my sweatpants and sweatshirt and head downstairs. There are a few guests reading around the fire and looking very New Englandy. Cheese and crackers are laid out, hot chocolate and cider, are available. Sue and her husband are flitting in and out of the room. I hear them snipping at each other in the kitchen. A few door slams and some sharp words later, Sue comes in.

The other guests head off, eventually it’s Sue and I. I can tell by her unsteady gait, and ruddy complexion, she’s been drinking. I figure her for 60. Her faded Levi’s and work shirt, show me the flower child still in her. She lies on the rug in front of the fireplace, and begins to pet her gorgeous, golden retriever, Orvis. She’s snuggling with the dog, and feeding him crackers. We chat about the Mad River Valley area. She suggests we have dinner at American Flatbread. Sue begins to feed the dog crackers from her mouth, slowly, teasingly. “Did you know that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s?” She says. I have seen people feed their dogs like this before and it always strikes me as odd. At some point she lays on her back, tilts her head and Orvis begins to lick around her mouth. I can see the pooch knows the routine, reacting to her cues. Next, she opens her mouth wide and sticks her tongue out. Orvis was rounding first and heading for second as I high-tailed it upstairs.

Dinner at American Flatbread almost cured my “hair of the dog.” It was that good. Sunday morning we were up and out early for the long ride home. I swear Orvis was checking Kira out as we crossed the parking lot. On the way home we recounted the weekend, the pros and cons of the B & B. Kira, not wanting to ruin my little gift, tip-toes around the issue but she keeps saying, “Do you really think we are B & B people?” Not picking up on the clues, I keep saying, “What’s not to like? Beautiful house, nice bed, great food?” To which Kira says, “Yeh it was nice and all but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in someone else’s house.”

Valentine’s Day a few years later, always the optimist: the inn I chose was recommended by a friend. It’s another ski trip for Kira and I. This time to Sunday River. I don my Chevy Chase costume and we are set for scene two of National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast. For brevity’s sake we’ll dispense with the description of the inn.

After a 7 hour drive, we are escorted, coldly to our room. Finally in our room I say to Kira, “Did we do something wrong? Were we supposed to be here earlier?” Kira says, “I don’t know but I definitely got the feeling we were putting her out.”

After unpacking, we head down to the living room. The place is quiet, we are the only guests in a very large Victorian. The husband is stoking the fire as Kira and I sit down. “So what’s the weather supposed to be like for the next couple of days?” I ask in my friendly-tourist voice. The owner, still staring into the fire says, “Supposed to rain for the next 4 days, last time we had rain like this we had a guy from New York lose one of his ski boots in the parking lot. Never did see that boot again. If you guys get all muddy, I’d appreciate it if you come in through the mud room.” He says this with an edge, emphasis on New Yorkers and you guys. I look at Kira and gesture what gives? Kira tries a volley, “What a beautiful home you have here, I’ve always loved old Victorians.” Ethan Frome then begins to tell us that they have owned it for 15 years and that the only way they could afford the house, was to run it as an inn. Then his eyes focus right on me and he says, “And you two are our last guests. We never have to do this ever again. The mortgage is all paid for and we can have our house all to ourselves.” I could see as he looked past me that we were going to pay the price for all of the obnoxious guests who had ever stayed at the The House of Mirth.

When we are alone, Kira says, “This is ridiculous. We are paying good money for this place and these people are treating us like crap. Why don’t we go somewhere else?” I agree. At some point I pull the owner aside and I say, “You don’t really seem like you are up for guests. Maybe we’d be better off if we went to another inn?” To which he says, “You’re not getting your money back. We won’t give you a refund. We will provide the services you paid for, if you stay.”

On Saturday, Kira and I skied in the 38 degree rain, for about two and a half hours. I don’t know if you’ve ever skied slush but you really don’t ski it. And after driving 7 hours and envisioning a winter wonderland, you can imagine our moods. At some point, ski clothes saturated, a couple of drowned rats, we cut our losses and head back to the inn. Edith Wharton is there to make sure we come in through the mud room. Reluctantly, she agrees to dry our ski clothes for us as they would never dry in our room. No snacks, no hot chocolate, no smile. We slink up to our room to seethe and snooze.

Dinner that night was at some Mexican place right in The Village of Bethel. We wind up closing the place, which in Bethel, Maine was midnight at best. Back at the gates of hell, buzzed and obnoxious, we clomp and giggle our way up to our room. At the door to our room, I realize I don’t have the key. I check all of my pockets. “Do you have the key?” I ask Kira. She pats herself down. “No.” “Shit, we have to go back to the restaurant.” Off we go, 4 miles down the road and by now they’ve pulled the sidewalks in. We pull up and I realize the staff has cleaned up and gone home, already. I place one hand on the window to cut down on the glare. I place my face against the glass. There it is, right next to the napkin holder and the small bottle of Tabasco sauce, our key.

So we head back to see Beelzebub about how we can get into our room. We are in the living room, calling out quietly, hoping to wake someone. This doesn’t work and we begin to get annoyed. Kira coaxes me to explore the house. I walk through the French doors into the kitchen area. I could swear I saw a rabbit stewing in a pot. You have to know that it’s dark, really dark. As I walk I am calling out to the owner, “Hello. Hello. Can you help us? We seem to have lost our key.” I am reaching and probing my way around. Through a door, no luck, it’s the pantry. Back into the kitchen, through another door, I call out again, “Hello, anybody…” Suddenly a dog barks viciously at my feet but I can’t see him. I bump against something. A woman screams, “WHO’S THERE?” She sits bolt upright in bed and pulls the sheets up to her chest. “WHO IS IT? HONEY DO SOMETHING!!!!” I am frozen, hoping Cujo doesn’t decide to bite me, praying Ethan Frome doesn’t have a gun in his bedside nightstand. “It’s Jim Spinner, it’s Jim Spinner.” I stammer. “I’m really sorry, it seems that Kira and I left our key…..I’ll close the curtain on this scene here.

At breakfast the next morning, I apologized profusely, and they didn’t say anything, not a word. No, “Don’t worry about it.” No, “It’s happened before.” Nothing, just thrusting of breakfast plates at us. I am sure, some nights in Bethel, Maine, Ethan and Edith recount the tale of their last guest in The House of Mirth.

The ride home from Bethel, Maine was a long one. At that point I was 0 for 2 on the Bed & Breakfast front. You have to understand my wife, she gets so keyed up for these trips. And truthfully she’s relatively easy to please. In the car, we replay the weekend, seething at the treatment we received. Again that phrase, “You know Jim, maybe we’re not B & B people?”

Of course you can figure out now I’m not a quick study. I must have this mythic Bed & Breakfast weekend in my head. A few years go by and I try AGAIN. In retelling this I don’t believe it myself. Back to that Einstein thing…

Another Valentine’s Day and I am going to surprise Kira. This time it’s going to work. New Hampshire is the answer. I do research, I check websites. I find, The Cutter’s Loft Inn. This is the one. I read the reviews, both of them. On the drive up, Kira is quiet, I try to reassure her, “Don’t worry Sweetie, this place is great, you’ll love it. Look at the pictures! And it won an award!”

Kira and I, playing The Griswolds again, arrive at The Cutter’s Loft around dinner time. We are greeted by our hostess, and by the smell. I look at Kira, we both notice it. Not sure what the fragrance is but my synapses recognize it. Sadie escorts us through her living room, up the stairs to a bedroom over the garage. It’s clear that this room was put there for this express purpose. I can see that our inn keeper thinks she is an entrepreneur; that she has been reading all of the B & B trade magazines. Entering the bedroom, I am expecting to see her son getting out of bed and heading to the shower in his boxers. Sadie is telling us about the gas powered fire place, which is on wheels. I am wondering why she fails to mention the pink, fly swatter hanging on a nail by the door. No need. I can see that, either someone was a crack shot or nobody has been in this room since the Clinton administration. All of the flies are dead, more than likely of old age.

As soon as we are alone, Kira gives me the look. The, you screwed up again look. “I am leaving. I am not spending our only weekend away in this place.” I don’t even try the, It’s not so bad tack, I agree. I also know that I can’t tell this woman, who is so proud of her business acumen, that after our initial look at the indoor/outdoor carpet and the upright aluminum shower with the plastic curtain, we would like to check out. I just couldn’t do it. “I don’t care.” Kira the shark says, “I’ll do it. I’ll tell her. This is bullshit. This is false advertising! We are staying in her guest bedroom! Look at the dead flies!” We sit on the bed, and it sags, Kira gives me another look. I hear Pat Sajak selling someone a vowel downstairs in the living room and I say, “Let’s go get a bite to eat.”

We go to a local pub/restaurant for dinner. Kira is fuming. You have to realize, by this Valentine’s Day we have kids. This is our first weekend, first NIGHT away in a really long time. Wild eyed she says, “We’ll tell her we got an emergency call on our cell and we have to leave. Then we’ll go get a room somewhere else.” I hesitate. I think Sadie will see through it. I feel so bad. “I don’t think I can do that Sweetie. You can see how hard she’s worked, she’s so proud of herself. She’s such a sweet little old lady. She reminds me of…” And it hits me. “I know what that smell is! It smells like your Aunt Ann’s house.” The light bulb goes on over Kira’s head, “My god, you’re right! That’s what it is!” Now this isn’t a bad smell so much as a family smell, a Thanksgiving with relatives smell. NOT the smell you want on your first romantic getaway in two and a half years.

After a nice dinner and a few drinks I convince Kira that checking out would break Aunt Sadie’s heart. She relents and we make the best of our stay at The Cutter’s Loft. On Sunday morning as we are checking out, Aunt Sadie is begging us to sign the guest book. With Kira looking over my shoulder, we read the names in the guest book, both of them. And I realize that my guess that the last person to stay at Cutter’s Loft was during the Clinton Administration wasn’t far off. Wanting to write something funny, but not wanting to hurt Aunt Sadie’s feelings I write, “Just like staying with family.”

On the way home Kira puts her foot down. Never again she tells me. “We are not B & B people. Next time you want to surprise me call 1 800 Marriot!”