Rules of the Road: Part II

I know New York State already has a written driver's test, but it doesn't really prepare new drivers to operate a motor vehicle on our roads. I thought as a public service, especially since I have to share the road with the pinheads around me, I would offer some more realistic alternatives to the current test answers. Below are the current rules, the example used in the test book to illustrate them, and my alternative answers based on over fifty years of driving in this state.

Rule: Drivers must yield to pedestrians legally using marked or unmarked crosswalks. Example: You are stopped at a red light. A pedestrian steps into the crosswalk, and then the light turns green. You must wait for the pedestrian to cross. You must also yield to pedestrians in crosswalks on your left or right before turning. Jim's Rule: When the light turns green in your favor, gun the car, then screech on the brakes. As the pedestrian stumbles to pick up his packages and brush himself off, proceed through the intersection being sure to glare at the pedestrian as you go by.

Rule: Traffic conditions change constantly. You cannot afford to let your attention wander from what is going on around you. Always scan the road ahead. Do not use the road or even the vehicle directly ahead as your only focal point. Look ahead so you can avoid, or lessen, potential problems. Example: When a car in front of you puts on a turn signal indication he is about to move into your lane, take your foot off the gas pedal and allow him to safely enter the lane. Jim's Rule: Never let anyone get in front of you. When their signal goes on indicating they are changing lanes, speed up immediately to pass them; blaring horn is optional.

Rule: When approaching a STOP sign, come to a full stop, yield the right-of-way to vehicles and pedestrians in or approaching the intersection. Go when it is safe. Example: When required to stop because of a sign, you must stop before reaching the stop line, if there is one, or the crosswalk. Jim's Rule: Coming to a full stop slows you down and allows annoying pedestrians to cross. Instead, use the rolling stop so pedestrians are never really sure of your intentions. Proceed boldly through the intersection; any cars approaching from your right or left may curse you, but they will stop.

Rule: Even the most careful drivers are involved in crashes caused by unexpected events or the mistakes of other drivers. If you are involved in a traffic crash, you must be ready to react responsibly at the scene and obey the law in reporting the incident. Example: Regardless of the extent of damage. It is a traffic violation to leave the scene of an incident, such as a traffic crash involving property damage. Jim's Rule: If you hit another vehicle, stagger out of your vehicle and fake a heart attack. While the other driver is calling 9-1-1 and looking for help, crawl back into your car and speed away in a direction such that your license plate number is not visible.

Rule: Traffic lights are usually red, yellow and green from top to bottom. Some traffic lights are steady, others flash. Some are circular, and some are arrows. Understand and obey all traffic lights. Example: STEADY YELLOW: The light is changing from green to red. Slow down and be ready to stop for the red light. Jim's Rule: A yellow light is the signal to immediately accelerate your vehicle to avoid getting stuck at a red light. If behind another vehicle at the time, swerve around the vehicle, leaning hard on your horn, and extend your left arm straight up out the window, middle finger raised high. Note: Be sure to grip the steering wheel firmly in your right hand for safety's sake.

Rule: Parallel parking takes practice and skill, and is part of every road test. You should also know where parking is illegal and what NO PARKING, NO STANDING and NO STOPPING signs mean. Example: Many motorists consider parallel parking the most difficult part of driving. But practice will teach you how to back up properly and to judge distances and angles. Patience and self confidence will help you master the task. Jim's Rule: Parallel parking is difficult, but can be simplified immeasurably by using the bumpers of the cars immediately in front of and behind you as guides. (Be sure your own bumpers are equipped with bumper protectors before employing this helpful technique.)

Driving in a crowded city like New York, especially with all the overstressed, psychotic rage-a-holics, can be intimidating for new drivers. Don't let these road warriors kick sand in your face you girly-man. Set aside that wimpy New York State driver's manual and make it your business to live by Jim's Rules when you get behind the wheel. When that frazzled freak you just cut off flips you the bird and screams a string of obscenities in your direction, that's just his way of saying: "Welcome to the road, rookie."

(If you missed Part I of Rules of the Road, click here. View)

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Chariots of Fire

Last night I watched Chariots of Fire, a 1981 British film. It tells the fact-based story of two Cambridge athletes in the 1924 Olympics: Eric Liddell, a devout Scottish Christian who runs for the glory of God, and Harold Abrahams, an English Jew who runs to overcome prejudice and for the glory of winning. Contrasting the spiritual motives of one man versus the more selfish goals of the other, the film shows that despite the different reasons they run, both men are prepared to make great personal sacrifices to be the very best at what they do. Their fierce, personal competition ends up uniting them in a great victory in the 1924 Olympics against a highly favored American team.

What makes a person so single-minded that they can focus intently on a goal and shut everything out of his or her life that does not contribute to the achievement of that goal? It's common to hear the advice: You can do anything you put your mind to, but it takes a very strong person to actually want something so badly that they are prepared to do what it takes to get it. How we deal with the obstacles that stand between us and what we want to accomplish says a lot about our character and endurance. When we hear an inspirational story like Chariots of Fire, we admire these men who overcame adversity and triumphed.

When you think about it, we are surrounded by heroic people who struggle every day to get by. We may not think about their deeds as heroic, but when you consider the harsh hands they have been dealt, you must acknowledge the great courage they show just getting out of bed. Many have physical or mental problems that should limit what they can do, but by the sheer force of their wills, they rise above what is "normal" and lead rich, full lives. They refuse to accept that they are in any way limited, and look for ways to compensate. Someone sent me an e-mail recently with some beautiful paintings attached. At the end of the e-mail I learned that the artist was a quadriplegic who painted with the brush between his teeth.

Parents with special needs children have certainly been dealt harsh hands and yet so many of them find wellsprings of strength that help them learn as much as they can about their child's condition, often as much as many non-specialist doctors. They network with each other and learn things about coping that even doctors can't tell them. They advocate fiercely for their children, sometimes boldly questioning a doctor's diagnosis, or advice that seems wrong to them, and often time proves them right. These heroes, outside their circle of family and friends, get no special recognition for their efforts, no gold medals, no movies made about them, but they are perhaps more deserving of our admiration. They fight, not for fame or fortune, but for the best life their child can have.

What if Liddell and Abrahams had not won those races in the 1924 Olympics, would we consider them failures? No, it is not so much the victory that defines success but the striving. When we put everything we have into an endeavor and hold nothing back, we have already won, no matter the outcome. At some point in Chariots of Fire, Abrahams, who is obsessed with winning, tells his girlfriend: If I can't win, I won't run! Her wise reply: If you don't run, you can't win.

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The Dallas School Book Depository

If ever there was a building that no one in the world would have heard of except the people who worked there, it was the Dallas School Book Depository. That all changed on November 22, 1963 when Lee Harvey Oswald aimed a Mannlicher-Carcano rifle at the head of President John F. Kennedy, and burned the name of that building into our memories and the pages of history. How many times during the weeks that followed JFK's assassination did we hear the words "Dallas School Book Depository" mentioned in the news?

In 1963 the building, located in Dealey Plaza, was in use as a seven-story warehouse for the storage of school textbooks. On that fateful day in November, Oswald, a 24-year-old former U.S. Marine who was working as a holiday-rush temporary employee at the building, fired rifle shots from the sixth floor of the Depository into the motorcade of John F. Kennedy. Anyone who lived through that tragedy and its aftermath will never forget the image of First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy cradling the head of her mortally wounded husband in her lap as pandemonium erupted around her. The motorcade raced to Parkland Memorial Hospital, but sadly it was too late for Kennedy.

Still reeling from news footage of the shooting, Americans were jolted again two days later when Oswald was shot and killed on camera by a shadowy mobster-wanna be named Jack Ruby while being escorted to a car for transfer from Dallas Police Headquarters to the Dallas County Jail. The conclusion of many in law enforcement at the time, including the FBI, and the Presidentially-appointed Warren Commission, was that Oswald acted alone. The second major investigation by the U S Government of the events of 11/22/63 in Dallas, the House Select Committee on Assassinations, concluded that there was a high degree of probability of conspiracy in the murder of the 35th President of the United States.

The entire scenario, had it not actually transpired, would probably have been rejected as not believable had it been presented as a screen play. A lone, disaffected sniper who had failed miserably at everything else in his life, taking out the President of the United States in broad daylight under the noses of the police and the Secret Service was too implausible to ponder. I feel the same way about the destruction of the twin towers at the World Trade Center by a bunch of bumbling terrorists who confounded our "world-class" intelligence and anti-terrorist forces...how could it happen?

Those of us who were around in 1963 will always remember where we were on that sad day. I was at a job interview chatting amiably with some H.R. guy when his secretary walked in. He was annoyed at the interruption, but our jaws dropped when she blurted out that the President had been shot. Naturally we broke off the interview, and I don't recall if I got the job. I do remember going home and being glued to the TV set for the next couple of days watching this unlikely drama unfold. Later, during the funeral, we were presented with more images that would remain with us forever...the riderless black horse following the hearse to symbolize our fallen leader, and the heartbreaking picture of his young widow and her children watching, little John-John saluting, as his father's casket passed by.

The Kennedys, like most politicians, would be proven by history to have feet of clay. Things were much different though in 1963. My eyes well up thinking about that day and the sense of loss we all felt over the death of a man who many believed was the hope of the free world.

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Ah Peez

Pizza is probably in my top three all time favorite foods. I can eat it any time, night or day, but it has to be good pizza. I'm not a pizza snob; I've enjoyed it at some of the most renown pizza joints in New York as well as the unheralded little storefront places that sell it by the slice. It is the ultimate comfort food for me, recalling the days when we sat in Sportsman's Cafe on Fulton street, first with my family, and later with my friends, enjoying their unique square, thin pizza prepared lovingly by my cousin, Pete Caruso. Sportsman's was an unassuming neighborhood bar that just happened to make incredible pizza.

Over the years I have found some great pizza places to indulge my passion. One is John's Pizzeria in Manhattan. They have several places, but the best is on on West 44th Street in an old converted church. The place is enormous, beautifully constructed, and a great stop for a pre-theater bite. Other great pizza places in New York include Lombardi's on Spring Street in Little Italy, Patsy's in East Harlem, DiFara's on Avenue J in Brooklyn, Totonno's in Coney Island, and maybe the best of them all, Grimaldi's at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge in Brooklyn.

Last night, to celebrate my nephew's birthday, we went to Grimaldi's . Grimaldi's is a dump. They haven't put ten cents into the place for fifty years. You stand in long lines to get in. They sell no slices, only whole pizzas, and they accept just one form of payment...cash. None of the furniture matches. The peeling paint on the walls is covered with signed pictures of celebrities who have eaten there. There is only one, grimy, unisex bathroom. Parking is nearly impossible. Why would anyone go to such a place you ask? The pizza my friends, the pizza. Their pies are to die for, especially the white pie with no tomato sauce.

People come to Grimaldi's from all over the world because of the pizza, and nobody leaves disappointed. A couple of years ago some friends of my daughter Laura were in town visiting from Oregon. Carolyn and Mike wanted to visit an authentic New York pizzeria, so naturally we took them to Grimaldi's. After waiting in line we were seated at a crowded table by the owner, who looks like a benevolent Mafiosi. When it came time to order, Carolyn asked about getting some pineapple and ham on her pizza. Silence fell over the room. The waiter looked embarrassed and the owner strolled over with danger in his eyes.

We hurriedly explained to the owner that Carolyn and Mike were from Oregon and that's how they serve pizza there. From the look on his face, I might as well have said they put dog turds and fish eyes on their pie. I thought I heard him silently uncock the hammer of his Smith and Wesson as he nodded in understanding. What could anybody from Oregon know about pizza. Don Pepperoni immediately summoned his oily Italian charm and graciously explained to the bewildered couple that Grimaldi's wouldn't dream of putting pineapple on a pizza, and suggested some authentic alternatives instead.


I'm happy to say that Carolyn and Mike, a really nice couple, enjoyed the pizza immensely, not knowing how close they came to starting a shooting war. Italians are very touchy about their food. I'd bet my next Social Security check that somewhere in Southern Italy, someone has been murdered for putting too much oregano in the sauce.

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The Geezers

My regular golf partner is away for 3 weeks vacation so I showed up at the golf course hoping to get teamed up with someone. This is usually not a problem since there are always groups short of a foursome. Sure enough, Sal, the starter, says he has a threesome I can join. He tells me that all are old geezers, but I don't complain since I just want to get out. I usually try to walk for the exercise when I play, but because most people seem to prefer riding in a cart, especially in the heat, I rented a cart. As I pulled up to the first tee, imagine my surprise when I see that all the geezers are walking and here I am riding like a girley-man. I felt even worse when they introduced themselves: Bob is 84, Skip is 85, and Freddy is 89.

One of the things I like about golf is that it's a highly social game. The walk between shots, and standing around on the tee waiting your turn to hit affords plenty of time for chit chat. I learn that all three geezers are ex-Marines who served in WWII. Bob saw action at Iwo Jima, and Chip and Fred were at the battle of Okinawa. Fred told me he remembers digging a foxhole on Okinawa as his buddies serenaded him on his 23rd birthday. None of these guys could hit the ball very far, but that didn't matter much. Since I had the cart and their eyesight was poor, I would help them find the balls they sprayed all over the place. Despite being in their eighties, the geezers were full of P&V and needled each other mercilessly.

If Fred mis-hit a ball and it only traveled 20 yards, Skip would ask him if his club got caught on his skirt. When Bob would leave a long putt 20 feet short of the hole, and he did this often, Freddie would ask him if his husband played too. And he said this after every weak putt Bob hit. All through the round, one or the other would pull a club from his bag and proudly tell me he paid only $19 for it at a garage sale. Of course the rejoinder was not long in coming from the other geezers: "Why that's perfect, since you've only got a $19 swing." These were friends who had passed through a lot as young men and who were obviously enjoying each others' company very much. Skip had to leave us after 9 holes because he cares for an invalid wife. I'm sure his time on the golf course is a welcome break from a hard routine.

We were playing slowly since a man in front of us was teaching his son the game and not really moving along as per the rules of golf. Freddy, at 89 the most impatient of the three, maybe figuring he had less time left on earth than the others, had to be restrained from hitting into this group to speed them up. Fred also had the marvelous habit of uttering the following words after every shot: "Freddie, you got to HIT the fu**ing ball!" Every once in a while one of them would weigh in on things like politics. Clearly all three were conservatives and didn't like one bit the direction the country was taking. They resent that America gets pushed around by "these little piss-ant countries who all hate us until they need our help."

The geezers are a dying breed. As young men they saw indescribable horrors that no one should have to see. By the grace of God they came back in one piece and got to live out their lives in the country for which they and their comrades fought and died. Patriotism ran high in WWII with many young men lying about their ages to get into the war. They didn't complain, didn't protest or run to Canada, they just did what their country asked of them. I'll be honest with you, when Sal told me he was sending me out today with three eighty-somethings, I wasn't exactly thrilled. I felt very differently though after finding out who I had the singular honor to be playing with.

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Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Well, after winning it all in 2009, the Staten Island Yankees ended their 2010 season last in their NY Penn League division with a dismal 34-40 record. On the other hand, the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Yankees' rivals across the water, finished first in the same division. We had an 8-game seat package this season that included all-you-can-eat (my four favorite words) food and drink at the concession stands. Anyhow, the Yankee team lacks a real starter who can hold the opposition to a couple of runs. They also come up short in the power department because the guys who can hit it out swing at way too many bad pitches.

The Brooklyn Cyclones on the other hand have some major league talent who should soon graduate from AA ball to the big leagues. They have at least four pitchers with winning percentages over .700 and ERAs under 3.5. They can hit too, with six starters batting .300 or better. I guess Karma is catching up with the Yankees who practically owned the Brooklyn Dodgers in post-season play during the '40s and '50s. The Cyclones are a Brooklyn team extracting their revenge for all those World Series losses.

Watching baseball in a minor league park is a genuine pleasure. The seats don't cost an arm and a leg, parking is easy, and the food concession prices don't kill you. The Staten Island Yankees' stadium is a beautiful place with no bad seats in the house. The view from home plate is spectacular, out over New York harbor with the Manhattan skyline in the background. The bright orange ferries scurry back and forth carrying people between Staten Island and Battery Park. After most night games, fans are treated to a rousing fireworks display. The Brooklyn Cyclones have a comparable field in Coney Island just a stone's throw from Nathan's Famous hot dog stand.

These minor league ball fields are also very kid friendly. There are between-inning fun events like sack races that the kids can join in. The players are highly accessible, unlike many of the pros who won't sign a kid's baseball unless it's for money. They constantly toss foul balls to kids carrying over sized gloves, and give those kids a memory for a lifetime. After the game the kids are invited down onto the field to run the bases. It gives me a warm feeling to see fathers and sons attending the games together. One of my fondest childhood memories is when my Dad took me to see DiMaggio and the Yankees in the old stadium.

Baseball is one of the things that defines America. It's changed very little from the day when Civil War general Abner Doubleday "invented" the game. Baseball's origins are uncertain, but Doubleday was the first to be officially recognized as its creator. A turn-of-the-century national baseball panel awarded him the honor on the strength of a letter from an old schoolmate claiming Abner devised the rules for the game in 1839 in Cooperstown, New York. No matter how it came to be, baseball is a part of most boys' childhoods. I smile as I watch the kids in the Staten Island Yankees' stadium scramble for foul balls in the seats. It seems like only yesterday that I was chasing down fly balls in Callahan and Kelly Park in Brooklyn. It was really a lifetime ago.

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Daisy's Diner

To me, there is nothing like a diner breakfast. One of life's great pleasures is to sit in a real diner (most seem to be run by Greeks) and enjoy all the foods I'm not supposed to eat. There are other breakfast places like Friendly's, Perkins and I-Hop, but they just don't make it for me. They all have standardized, sanitized interiors with no character or homeyness, and the food tastes bland. I just don't walk away with the same satisfied feeling as when I eat in one of my favorite diners.

On Staten Island, Mike the Greek owns all the good diners. He has maybe six places and all are thriving. Mike started small, but he knows what people want and he gives it to them. Most of his places offer specials during the week that include coffee and sometimes a small juice. The specials are reasonably priced and as a result more people come in than if he tried to gouge them. Mike's success also stems from his hands-on management style. He has hand picked his managers, including a couple of his kids, and he trains them to run the place the way he would. When he buys out a diner from someone else, a total renovation usually follows, so the place looks good.

There are a few things I look for in a good diner. First the food must be good and the service prompt and friendly. I like my home fries well done and I always order them just this side of burned. If they arrive boiled and mushy looking, I'm probably not going back. I also like the fat, Italian-style sausages, not the skinny, anemic links some diners serve. I tried to describe these sausages once to a waitress in a Connecticut diner, and she looked at me in total bewilderment. She asked me if I was from the South. The coffee should also be good and I shouldn't have to search for my waiter or waitress for a refill.

As for diner decor, older is better than newer. I like a place with some age on it as if the owner has been around for a few years. I prefer comfortable booths over tables, and natural incandescent lighting rather than the harsh neon glow that makes my eggs look blue. Wait staff should get orders right without having them repeated, and it goes without saying that I expect a mint and a toothpick on the way out. Parking should be reasonably available; meters are OK as long as they work. Many of the newer diners are way too glitzy for me. I feel like I'm having breakfast on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise.

If you think my demands are impossible to meet, I would encourage you to visit Daisy's Diner on Fifth Avenue between 9th and 10th Streets in Brooklyn. The place is long and narrow, with booths at either end and a counter in the middle. All the requirements I spelled out above are met at Daisy's. The food and service are great. The decor is comfortable and kitchy, with odd but appealing wall hangings and bric-a-brac scattered around. There is a black wrought iron fence along one wall that makes it look like a neighborhood block. A vintage, bright red telephone booth from jolly old England graces the counter area. The overall effect is aesthetically pleasing and very welcoming.

I can't tell you the enjoyment I get eating there. If I know we're going, I'll think about it for days. If ever I was looking for reasons to move back to Brooklyn, Daisy's would be high on the list.

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Ranting Again

This post started out as a forum to vent my frustration about the little things in life that bother me. My wife pointed out the other day that I'm getting too mellow and need to get a good rant going to get back on track.

What idiot decided where in a hotel room bathroom to locate the rolls of toilet paper? Wouldn't it make sense to put them where it does not require the gymnastic ability of Olga Korbut to reach them. While we're in the hotel bathroom, let me question the wisdom of a shower with just two water temperature settings: scald and shiver. And what's with that exhaust fan? It sounds like an SST breaking the sound barrier. If your trips to the potty are so toxic that you need a fan from a Boeing 747 to vent them, they should have to post a warning in the hotel lobby for anyone staying on the same floor.

I have nothing against people who ride bicycles, but what the hell is with these bicycle lanes sprouting up all over the city? There is no room for cars in NYC, much less bicycle lanes that take up needed street space. It's a real treat sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic while that empty bike lane sits there laughing at you. Cyclists are a menace anyhow. They bitch about drivers ignoring them, but they are equally guilty of ignoring traffic regulations and pedestrians. Why should they have their own little safe zones to get around. Let these Nancy-boys man up and take their chances like the rest of us.

Every so often we have to redefine 'stupid' to take into account the actions of a rapidly growing population of idiots. Some NYC teachers were caught taking fun and sun vacations while out sick from work. Why did this push the needle into the red on the Stupidmeter you ask? The jaboneys posted pictures of their smiling faces on Facebook for all to see! Even the Inspector Clouseaus at the Department of Education were able to connect the dots on this one. It seems to me that anybody this stupid is in no position to teach kids anything.

The Muslims pushing to build this mosque at Ground Zero are pissing off a lot of people. Why the strident insistence on this particular spot? Muslims are welcome to build their mosque anywhere else, so why push so hard for an area where so many people died at the hands of Muslim extremists? Would their prayers to Allah be heard any less if they moved a short distance away? It would be as if the Japanese wanted to build a Buddhist temple on Pearl Harbor after bombing the hell out of it to start WWII. Sorry but I'm in the ranks of the 'Opposed' on this one. If Muslims want to change their image in America and truly want to fit in, they are certainly going about it in a strange way.

People who should just go away: In Politics: The Obamas, Chuck Schumer, Charlie Rangel, Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid, Al Sharpton, Christine Quinn, Barbara Boxer, Barney Frank, any leftover Kennedys, Pedro Espada and the entire New York State Senate. In Entertainment: Mel Gibson, Lindsay Lohan, Lady Gaga, Brangelina, Alec Baldwin, Barbra Streisand, Katie Couric, all rappers, The Beach Boys (enough already) In Sports: Roger Clemens, Isiah Thomas, Ben Roethlisberger, Serena Williams, Alex Rodriguez, Manny Ramirez, and Plaxico Burress.

Sorry to go all 'Alan Alda' on you faithful readers. The rant is back and it's take no prisoners.

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The Gilded Age

I love a crook who knows his business. That description certainly applies to the so-called Robber Barons of the "Gilded Age" (1870 to 1900) in American History. Men like John D. Rockefeller, Cornelius Vanderbuilt, J.P. Morgan and Andrew Carnegie amassed vast fortunes in such industries as railroads, oil, gas, coal and steel production, banking and commercial shipping, not always caring about the methods they used. They preferred to think of themselves by the more flattering term: "Captains of Industry", and since they made their money in the glorious days before income taxes, they got to keep every dollar...sweet. It's no wonder these men had a little extra spending money to build "summer cottages" in a seaside town off Narraganset Bay called Newport, Rhode Island.

The word "cottages" is misleading based on our current understanding of the term. America was still a relatively new country during the Gilded Age, and looked to Europe for social and cultural enlightenment. Consequently, the palaces and grand homes in Europe became the models for these summer cottages in Newport. No expense was spared as each wealthy family tried to outdo the others. The most renown architects were hired and given unlimited budgets; the best and richest building materials were used; and because the Gilded Age coincided with the first waves of European immigration to America, a plentiful supply of master craftsmen and domestic workers was available as well. In many cases, European castles were simply dismantled, crated and reassembled in Newport. Elaborate fireplaces, marble columns, rare wooden paneling, statuary, Renaissance artwork...nothing was too good for the Robber Barons.

Although these Newport mansions were magnificent, they had their critics who felt that such over-the-top homes were not only vulgar and ostentatious, but had no aesthetic or architectural merit. Architectural critic Montgomery Schuyler said that the style was "...completely classicized and purged of its great Gothic heritage." Another critic moaned about The Breakers that "...it strikes the observer as a pretentious family hotel rather than an elegant, luxurious family home." Also, such excess was frowned upon by the common man in a time when many Americans were struggling to put food on the table. The term "Gilded Age" came from a book title by Mark Twain, and means covered with gold on the outside, but not really golden on the inside.

Soon after the enactment of the 16th Amendment authorizing a national income tax in America around 1913, even wealthy families had difficulty finding the funds needed to modernize and maintain these vast homes. Many employed domestic staffs of 30-50 people who had to not only be paid, but housed, fed and cared for. Since the mansions were occupied only in the summer, many were allowed to fall into disrepair. Their owners had elaborate homes elsewhere and just stopped coming to Newport for summer vacations. As hard as it is to imagine, the city of Newport thought about buying up these magnificent homes, tearing them down, and building such needed infrastructure as schools, and not-so-needed shopping malls!

We owe a debt of gratitude to the Preservation Society of Newport for saving "America's Castles" from the wrecking ball. They worked out agreements with many of the owners to sell the mansions to the Society for a nominal sum on the condition that they be preserved for posterity. Many owners also provided an annual stipend for maintenance which was supplemented when the Society opened the mansions to the public. Some may not like the mansions or the people who built them, but these spectacular homes deserve to stand as a monument to a unique period in American history. In a day when flip flops and tank tops pass for casual attire, the mansions evoke a way of life when elegance, gentility and breeding were greatly valued.

During our visit this week I found the Newport homes to be as beautiful inside and out as I remembered them from our last visit many years ago. One could only imagine what it must have been like living in these palaces. On the guided tour of The Breakers we were told that the Vanderbuilt children would have fun by sitting on silver trays and sliding down the grand marble staircase. Hey, didn't we all! As we walked through the terraced gardens I could almost hear the music of the society orchestra, as impeccably dressed ladies and gentlemen danced away on a warm summer evening.

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LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association

Dear Dad...

Saturday we went to see "Mamma Mia" on Broadway. My wife's been trying to get me to see this show for years, but I resisted. Big mistake on my part (there's a rarity) and I apologized for keeping her from seeing it sooner. Aside from the memorable songs by ABBA so skillfully worked into the story line, the plot fascinated me. If you don't know the story, a young girl (Sophie) is about to get married. She lives with her mother, who owns a small hotel on a Greek island. The girl never knew her father who left before she was born, and her mother refuses to speak of him. Sophie finds her mother's old diary and identifies three men her Mom wrote about with whom she was romantically involved at around the time Sophie would have been conceived. Sophie always wanted to know her Dad and decides to send wedding invitations to all three, hoping to finally meet her father.

As the show progressed, my mind wandered and I began to think of how in real life the three men might react after receiving such an invitation. All they knew initially was that the daughter of a woman they once loved was getting married, and they were invited to the wedding. As the story unfolds, each man learns that he could possibly have fathered Sophie some 21 years ago. The story has a happy ending after many funny and tender plot twists, and the identity of Sophie's father is never revealed. In the end, Sophie realizes that knowing her father is not as important as she once thought. She is the person she is because of the efforts and love of her one parent... her mother. Curtain descends, wipe away tears, big, showy finale number, "Dancing Queen" gets the crowd on their feet clapping and cheering.

I couldn't shake the idea of getting such a surprise announcement in the mail. Although my younger years were quite celibate as I saved myself for Miss Right, the story outlined in the play was not so far fetched. Sohpie was born in the 1970s, an era before STDs like Aids were prevalent and when "free love" was the anthem of the young. Flower children hopped in and out of beds, and contraceptives were hit or miss, if they were used at all. What if, twenty years after sowing his wild oats, some guy were to find out that across the world there lived a young girl who might be his daughter? What would his reaction be? What would my reaction be? As it turns out in the play, none of the three men involved were currently married, a circumstance that more easily allows them to follow their curiosity and show up for the wedding, but what if they were?

We tend to live predictable lives, or at least we try. As much as people complain about being in a rut, the routine is something we know. When we are forced out of our comfort zone, we don't always welcome the change. Getting a letter in the mail that said you might have fathered a daughter 20 years ago would certainly qualify as such a surprise. I honestly don't know what I'd do. Knowing I had a daughter who was searching for me...it would be very hard to just walk away from that. On the other hand it would cause complications in my family life to be sure. I can't imagine what my wife's reaction would be...not unadulterated joy. What would I do if the shoe was on the other foot? I know I would be less than thrilled. Would my kids want to meet their half-sister?

It's a little like the complicated emotions adopted children must feel. On the one hand they are curious about their birth parents, while on the other the parents who raised them are the only family they have known, and they might be hurt if their child began searching for the people who put them up for adoption. Luckily, my life is not that dramatic and I only have to deal with this dilemma hypothetically. I am blessed with a wonderful wife and three great children and that's enough for me. Hold the surprises please.

SEE DATES ABOVE RIGHT FOR OTHER POSTS FROM "BRAINDROPS". ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG: SPALDEEN DREAMS

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: Children's Craniofacial Association