Firsts

This is long…

Well, it’s like this… I was sitting in a familiar location one night after work, thinking about the flotsam and jetsam of my day. To ease the process along, as is my custom, I sipped on some of Kentucky’s finest. I put aside my review for a moment and tried to recall the first time I tasted Wild Turkey 101. When was the first time I drank Wild Turkey Bourbon? I peeled back layers of time trying to uncover the mythic date; but it was for naught.

But now my thinking was drawn to a new tack… When was the first time I did this? When was the first time I did that? And so forth. I took out some paper… the back of something that I had already written months ago… and started to put pen to drawing up a list. By my second Wild Turkey I had a list of 20 odd firsts.

I had just begun a fun and rewarding journey… re-visiting some things that I hadn’t thought about for awhile. I champed at the bit to get started.

Now I will tell you what this is not… this is not something that I have re-cycled from a circulated email. Those can be fun, highly entertaining, and in one instance, for me anyway, a springboard to establishing a beautiful relationship with someone.

This is also not a list of firsts that will be easily transposed into other people’s lives (although a few are more universal in application).

What follows is a personal list of things that I have experienced and they are included herein because I can pin them to a specific starting point (although not necessarily a specific date)… some are more important than others… some represent the beginning of similar or same experiences to follow… some represent one time occurrences that in some cases I pray will never be duplicated.

Don’t pay attention to the order. I have picked to write from my list on a random basis depending on how my mood hit me… some have been more difficult to write about than others.

See you on the other side.

FIRSTS

First time I shot a gun. Not gun, rather a weapon. The Army makes a distinction between guns and weapons. A “gun” is a team operated weapon… like a machine gun. A rifle is a weapon. To drive this point home, the Drill Sergeants devised an amusing little exercise for trainees who referred to their rifle as a gun.

The trainee would be told to unzip his fly and take hold of his “manhood” in one hand, and his M-16 in the other and run around the Company compound yelling… “this is my weapon, this is my gun, this is for killing, this is for fun…”

I had never fired a weapon before traveling to Ft. Jackson, South Carolina in September of 1971.

By way of background, my idea of a rifle was based on movies & pictures of rifles used during WWI & WWII. The Army rifle employed in 1971 was the M16 1A. And to me it looked like a “toy gun”. And, as it turned out, the plastic parts of the weapon were in fact made by Mattel Toy Company.

In basic training, firing for record occupied a two week block of time. And when all was said and done I made marksman. I attribute that in part to wearing polarized sun glasses (“they’re prescription, Drill Sergeant”) the day we qualified, and I was one of the few who had no trouble picking out the 500 meter targets in the sun reflected chalk hills.

My most fun while learning to shoot the M16 was when we were allowed to fire it on fully automatic with tracer bullets… the rate of fire on the M16 on fully automatic is greater than a machine gun.

I hope I never have to fire weapon again. For any reason.

The first time I slept thru my train stop. I commuted from my home to NYC for 24 years. I have used the following stations at one time or another: Stamford, Glenbrook (on the Main Line), Glenbrook (on the New Canaan spur), Westport, Talmadge Hill, Darien, Noroton Heights, South Norwalk, East Norwalk… and at first, New Haven.

In all the years I commuted, many of those years filled with constant sleep debt, it amazed me that I didn’t sleep past my stop more… but it only happened twice… the first when I first moved to Stamford.

My first apartment was on Courtland Ave in Stamford… it was a short walk to either Glenbrook stations. I had just moved into the apartment and knew absolutely nothing about the immediate area other than what took place on my brief walking routes.

On the given day (the specific date is lost to me; but it happened in April or May of 1972) Ellen was coming down from New Haven to join me for dinner after work. I slept thru the Glenbrook stop and got up panic stricken. I got off at the next stop… I had no idea was it simply the next one… or maybe I had slept thru 2 or 3 additional stops… who knew?

I got off… went to the nearby KFC to ask where I was, and the worker there spoke no English other than the words that specifically pertained to chicken and side dishes.

I called Ellen (and this is before cell phones, ladies and gentlemen) and asked her to fetch me… I had gotten off at the Springdale Station… and for all I knew it was in Vermont. And after a bit of help from a gas station attendant (who was also English challenged) I was able to give Ellen directions to Springdale more or less.

This turned into somewhat of a joke… I could have walked home from that station, too.

But my lesson had been learned well… over the next 5000 trips heading home… I would only sleep thru my stop one more time.

The first time I appeared on stage. If I appeared on stage in some Kindergarten Christmas show I have long forgotten it; but what I do remember is playing in George Bernard Shaw’s Androcles and the Lion in the Spring of 1967.

It was my Senior year at Hamden Hall and the Drama “Coach” was Mr. Osburn my English Teacher. He and I got along very well… finally there was someone who had a sense of humor & who would let me write with one, as well. There wasn’t an essay I wrote that year that in some way did not reflect my “take” on things…

He told me once, that everything I wrote looked like “marching instructions” to laugh… that humor for me was a “serious business, not to be taken lightly”… Fuckin’ A!!!

Anyway… he asked me to try out for our Spring Production… and I did. Not because I sought the “roar of the greasepaint & the smell of the crowd”; but because Fowler Osburn asked me to… and I didn’t want to disappoint the man who liberated me artistically in what I wrote.

And lest you guess about this… I played in the role of the Lion. Ellen also had a part in the play… she was one of the Courtesans… and she looked very pretty indeed.

My role was in fact without lines… I did have to growl, snarl & pounce about the stage (Bert Lahr had nothing on me)… & when Androcles pulled a thorn from my paw, Bill Morrison (Androcles) and I had to waltz around the stage (I led). After the prologue, I had a brief appearance at the conclusion of Act I, and then I re-appeared in the final scene.

In between, I was off stage in the wings doing my best to distract my fellow players as they performed the rest of the play in front of the multitude.

We put on two performances. I had a blast… I am very happy that there are no pictures of me in my lion costume.

Fowler Osburn inscribed my year book as follows: He was the noblest lion of them all..

The first movie I had to see a multiple of times. The movie played at the Whalley Theatre… and it was Lawrence of Arabia. If recollection serves, I saw it 6 times on the big screen. I loved the film… I guess that’s obvious.

I was simply enthralled by the sweeping scenes and the amazing musical score that magnified those scenes. I was simply drawn in.

Perhaps it is a point that is so simple that it is missed. Today we live in an era of the video and the dvd… it’s easy to pop in a favorite and watch a movie anytime we like… I can’t think of the number of times I have seen Casablanca or Bridge on the River Kwai or Shakespeare in Love or Beauty and the Beast…each which I have seen many, many more times than Lawrence… but to pay to go to see a movie, and then see it according to their schedule… that’s something else.

And each time I left the Whalley, all I could think about was when can I see this again…

What adds sweetness to this recollection is that without my influence, Zachary has also found great pleasure in this film.

First touchdown pass. The Year was 1965 and I started the season as the second string quarterback. Chuck Kleiner was to start; but broke his wrist and could no longer handle the chore of handling the ball… he was moved to end and played with a cast; and initially he still called the plays. Eventually he stopped playing on offense & I called my own plays.

We had a miserable year that year. Our best player was hurt in pre-season practice and never played a down.

I suffered two concussions that year. But against Cedar Knolls, on a broken play I got the ball to my classmate Art Riccio who ran like the wind on a 50+ yard scamper. It would be recorded as a 50 yd touchdown pass by Jim Winston to Art Riccio… but don’t think that this was Steve Young to Jerry Rice. I think I threw the ball all of 10 yards… the rest was all Art.

We lost that game. But I had my first taste of a personal success on the gridiron.

The first time I had a drink. I think I must have been the only kid not to have a drink of some sort before leaving High School. Hell, I was still drinking grape juice at Passover.

But it is true. When I entered Union in September of 1967 I had not had one drink… not a shot of booze, not a glass of wine, not a sip of beer.

Somewhere it occurred to me that this lack of imbibing was going to put me at a social disadvantage as my College career progressed. I had Ellen coming up for a College weekend… there were parties, football games, concerts & I didn’t even like the smell of beer.

Still… I felt the need to get a boost in the sophistication department. Then one Saturday afternoon I happen to catch a movie on TV… it was an old B&W starring Cary Grant. He played a Naval Officer on leave in San Francisco during WWII… at the Hotel bar he ordered a stinger on the rocks.

Well… there it is. Was there any one more sophisticated, more debonair, more cool than Cary Grant? And in a crisp Naval Officer’s uniform yet! If it was good enough for Cary it was good enough for me. Now I needed a suitable place to give this stinger a “shake down” cruise.

By the weekend most of us had our fill of the Freshman Commons dinning hall food. Sunday our group would head over to Mother Ferro’s for a dinner of Italian comfort food. But on Saturday Nights, Matt Sadowsky and I went over to Lum Fungs for our fix of Chinese food. Sometimes others would join us, too… but let’s make this point very clear… right after the Synagogue, the most important establishment to a Jew is a Chinese Restaurant.

It is to Lum Fungs that I went one Saturday that Fall to spread my wings, so to speak. When our waiter came to take our drink order, Matt ordered his usual, a whisky sour… and then I said for the first time in my life (and it would not be the last), “I’ll have a Stinger…” Shit, was I cool…

Well… not entirely cool. I had already prepared a safety net… I had asked Matt if I didn’t like this drink… would he drink it, too. I didn’t want it going to waste. And yes, he agreed to drink it if required. What can I say? This was a “training session”.

My drink arrived in a tall slender frosted glass. It was a deep pink in colour and was handsomely garnished with a parasol, a piece of pineapple, a cherry & a slice of orange. My first sip was a relief. It wasn’t poison…

It also wasn’t a Stinger… a fact I wouldn’t learn until later when I took Ellen out to a fancy shmancy dinner and was served a proper Stinger. I nearly died a thousand deaths when I tasted it. Did I let on to my mistake? Are you out of your fucking mind?? Hey! I was debonair… and besides, what would Cary Grant have said?

The first time I became aware of the powerful effect of girls. This happened a long time before I met Ellen. I think I might have been in either the 8th or 9th grade. To say that I was completely shy about girls is a major understatement. I still carry that shyness with me to this day.

Back then it was worse. I could not see myself connecting with girls. Sure there were kids in my class who were active socially. But I had no idea how to get started.

Then one Saturday afternoon I was sitting in our den watching TV. I can remember the sun streaming into that room. The phone rang; but I didn’t pick it up. I was atypical of my age with regard to phones… I did not like talking on the phone (I still don’t like talking on the phone). My friends would have conversations that could go on for hours… not me.

So the phone ringing on a Saturday afternoon would have been of no concern to me. But from the kitchen someone (Bessie?) called to me…”Jimmy pick up the phone, it’s for you…”

I pick it up and say “Hello” or some other neutral greeting. It was a girl. I had no idea who she was… she never introduced herself to me. I don’t know how she knew me. I can not recall a word of the conversation. I am not particularly good at thinking on my feet (given the time to rehearse some things I can put an articulate thought or two together), so I am sure that whatever was my part of the conversation lacked sufficient weight (or suaveness) to encourage further calls.

There was no follow-up to that call. I never got her name. I never learned who this mysterious caller was.

But I do remember two things from that day.

1. That a girl would call me, made me tingle. It felt scary, it put butterflies in my stomach, it felt good. It made me dream.

2. The television commercial that was playing when this conversation was going on was for Johnson & Johsnon’s Floorwax.

Commercials can stay in play for sometime. I think that Johnson’s commercial was on the air for a full year. And every time it came on the air, I felt a tingle over take me. It was strangely unsettling… it stirred me to think about a girl calling me.

The first time I saw an opera. I was 11 or 12, and by this time I was an old hand at seeing Broadway Musicals. I also had seen at least one of Shakespeare’s plays at the Festival Theatre in Stratford every year since the sixth grade. My Father had already introduced me to the extraordinary genius of Charlie Chaplin courtesy of a small “revival” theatre on the Upper Eastside. I had numerous visits to the Guggenheim and the Met…

I guess Mom and Dad thought my cultural foundation was not yet complete. It was time to take me to the Metropolitan Opera…

They had season’s tickets to the Met… Thursday Night. Thursday Night at the Met was a “dress night”. Mom wore an Evening Gown… Dad wore his “black tie”… and yes, I was outfitted in black tie as well. And I suppose we cut a nice figure as a threesome as we entered the chandeliered lobby (I probably looked like a midget).

Our seats were in the Orchestra, maybe some 15 rows back on the right. I now know how great those seats were.

The Opera I saw was La Boheme. I hated it. I would be taken to one or maybe two other Operas. I hated them, too.

I would complain to my Father. “I don’t understand what they’re singing…” Dad tried to explain, “That’s what the Libretto is for… you can read about what is happening in the Playbill.”

But that was not good enough for me… “Then I know what’s happening before it happens… that takes the fun away.”

He tried one more time…”Since you already know the story line, you can just sit back and enjoy the grandeur of the music, the theatricality and the staging…”

I didn’t buy it… then.

But I do… now. I love the emotion of the voices. I love the “spectacle”. I love the over all effect. It moves me.

And as a bonus, my experience with opera put me in good stead when I attended my first Service at an Orthodox Temple… It was Stephen Miller’s Bar Mitzvah & I didn’t know what the hell was going on there, either!

The first time I rode a horse. You must remember that the most notable “gentrified sporting” pursuit in our family was acquiring a good sun tan. Riding horses or sailing in racing yachts were things that WASPs did.

But there we were in the Spring of 1957 (or maybe 1958, Lynn couldn’t remember the exact year; but I would have been 7 or 8 at the time) taking a family vacation in The Green Briar — one of the most exclusive resorts in the Country. Dad was a member of the YPO… an organization of fancy folks who became presidents of their businesses. Among other things they had yearly Conventions and that is why we found ourselves tucked away for a week in a nook of West Virginia.

Dad decided that we would get riding lessons while we were there.

I don’t remember what Lynn (Paul was not there for this vacation) wore on this assignment. But I do remember (thanks to a photo I had seen a while ago) that I was outfitted like I was a fledgling in the House of Windsor. I had one of those hard hats, a tweed jacket with hacking style pockets, jodhpurs and riding boots. It was just as improbable as a photo I had seen of my Father wearing a kilt.

What do I remember of that first ride? Nothing save the impression that a horse in “real life” was a good deal bigger than they seemed in cowboy movies. But then again, I was a pretty small kid.

The first time I saw naked women perform on stage. I think I was of a similar age ( 11, maybe I was a bit older). Still, I remember being very young for this sort of thing. Dad was taking all of us to the Latin Quarter on Broadway.

On the one hand, this seems improbable… I mean, you don’t see too many families that have outings to a Night Club where women parade around stage bare breasted. You know… most families go to the park together, or a museum or something.

But on the other hand, this was not some cheesy, crowded and smoky strip club. No. This was the Latin Quarter. I think it had been around for decades (maybe there was one in Paris, too?) and this was a prestigious place where the white collar hoi polloi could go and see a stage show that included a young Mel Torme, for instance… and see a bunch of beautiful women all dolled up in ridiculously garish costumes… and bare breasted.

Maybe they still have these revues in Las Vegas Night Clubs… I don’t know. But in the Late 50s and Early 60s, the Latin Quarter was a hot place.

My guess is that we were there for the music or the comedy act… and that part of the night I don’t remember at all.

I do remember this though… Paul, who may have been an undergraduate at the time, told me not to feel embarrassed if I stared… because he would be staring, too.

My Mother tried to make me feel less awkward by noting that the women were “covered”… meaning they were wearing a body stocking of some sort. I don’t think that was true… but it was good bluff.

I didn’t check to see if Paul was staring… but I felt that everyone in club knew I was staring.

The first time I cried as an adult. I have learned that there are different sort of cries. The cries of hurt. The cries of pain. The cries of sadness and loss. It seems to me that the cries of emotion, whether happy or sad are the cries that reach into our inner most soul.

Yes, there were tears in our marriage… more the product of the fatigue in arguing, pleading & promising… but nothing I had experienced to that time prepared me for the emotional explosion that I would undergo one night on the playing fields of West Rocks Middle School.

We were living in Sun Rise Hill Condos back then… our complex was adjacent to the playing fields of the Middle School. It is to this field that I would drive our Keeshonden (Barney & Cloris) for their exercise twice a day. As soon as we got to the field I would let them off their leads and they would go about their business.

I would head to an overlook that offered a decent view of Norwalk Harbor & to Norwalk’s Hospital on the far ridge. I loved going there. It was a place for me to look at the heavens and do some thinking.

I can’t remember the precise year… but it was in Fall… just before Thanksgiving. I mentioned to Ellen that I didn’t want to go into New Haven for Thanksgiving. I was not going to sit at the table and watch my obese and overweight Father stuff himself… and I told Ellen that while I was not forcing him into this destructive behavior, I felt that doing nothing about it was accepting a form of responsibility. And I didn’t want to be party to his slow motion suicide.

Ellen got pissed at me. We had no money to go out to California and be with her folks… then by God we were going to New Haven. That was that. We fought it out.

And then finally Ellen screamed this to me… “If your Father had cancer could you cure it?” “No.” I say. And then she yelled, “Well… you can’t cure this either!!!” In a strange way, Ellen lifted the burden of guilt from my shoulders. It was one of the finest things she ever did for me.

I put Barney and Cloris into the car and drove them to field. They darted off into the darkness & I went to my sanctuary, looked at the stars, emotions set to overflow and cried. The cries came in huge surges… and I could not stop… I held my hands to my face to desperately try and staunch the flow… my eyes burned, my cheeks were smeared in tears & I think it was 3 or 4 minutes (it felt like 20) before I could bring myself under control… only an occasional sob now, nose stuffed… I am sure my eyes were fully reddened. I was drained…

Oh yes, I cried that night… and there would be other times when I would know a sadness, a hurt, an emotional storm.

The first time I got sick drunk. The summer of ’69 brought me to Europe and a hosteling swing thru several countries. It was also my first visit to the Soviet Union. When we were in Leningrad (as St. Petersburg was called then) 3 of our number set off to stroll around Lenin’s Stadium early one evening, and it wasn’t long before we were picked up by some students and we were invited back to one of their flats to listen to music, chat, drink (a Russian necessity) and eat.

The “apartment” looked like a closet (and not a big closet). This guy had a complete collection of Beatles records and while he could not speak a word of English, he knew the lyrics of all the Beatles tunes off by heart.

How we all fit into that flat is still a mystery to me… but we listened, we talked… and because it was July 4th, we toasted our Revolution.

Boy did the vodka flow. Poured neat into small tumblers, with some table pepper added for spice. I would try and re-hydrate with water in between drinks… but it was a losing battle.

Even the accompanying banquet of black bread (the best), tomatoes, cucumbers, sausage and sour cream could not soak up all the vodka I consumed.

And then our hosts produced a bottle of Georgian Champagne to complete the evening festivities. Horrible stuff that was too sweet… but in truth, at that point the Champagne could have been Dom Perignon and it would have had the same effect.

Mixing that wine on top of all that peppered vodka & the food proved too much for my stomach to take.

We bid our friends good evening… and went to a main Street to look for ways to get back to our Hotel. The public forms of transportation had long since stopped running. Our Russian acquaintances assured us that we would be able to secure a ride from some charitable source.

Standing there waiting for “rescue”… the night air was all my system needed to ignite my stomach… and thankfully I completed “ralphing” in the street just as a police paddy wagon pulled up…

For $25 American, we were given “courtesy of the road” and a lift home.

The first time I looked up a women’s dress. Just checking to see if you’re skimming. Blesdt ft whoxbc blasttqpo lk. Mssxlwek duird aklsjke ndne leewkakaa ri, hdsksa w3poaa f0f0aa hrw al skrpalaao qrjsa EROLW bsdkfksm!! mS asdwjw xnsddikf ssls ws esk0wkls; mswww aoaa-alkss ccnd[wksm.

Layeiwpw snsnssjebnq sw dklssw skewislwslk ess menaldsiejksl djfjsd kswwp, jdmepwks djepw0ee dl eiow jdjelw dwljwd ekwl lweuuww wlccxz, lace is always nice odefjhd jdkw!!! Dlskwe dpwsje lwvaw eje ejlwwjeroxjw, x,mcvbn[==] cndnxnsh dendne esjewn skiiejw dne sjwwjde dhejw wjsiwww eheewk.

Pldke fjrd sdks wkekd erjwejrjs sks ejolekejf elkfslsw ejrj, wjekjs djewmasiwksd ndneow lssw dnde lwldns.

Loodmnske nsnew skwnsw rumdne ene wlwwlej den wlwldnm. Bnsgoopur weiuyop jsa srennnvl aasglee omnbccv ruoi zzxvc xo oi tkeww, purewas zvxmnoi ruideesaw cmnitt. “Rwsiocv!!”

The first time I wanted to seek revenge. One of the hardest things for Dad to accept was the imposition of Bank Factors in approving credit from our suppliers. Hand shakes were no longer good enough.

There were some suppliers could no longer finance their accounts and they turned to Factors to handle their accounts receivable.

One by one, the relationships that my Dad had forged in the first 25 years of being in business were being changed by the “impersonal” Factors. They were bottom line driven and had little or no concern about “customer loyalty” or long term association.

At Chipp we were, certainly in my time, “slow pay”. But there was never a bill we did not pay, and the interest if we were late… Every bill was paid.

There came a day that one of the suppliers who I used for knitted sport shirts & sweaters, A. Kuehnert & Sons (who we had been dealing with since the 50s), turned their receivables over to a Factor: Meinhard Commercial.

We gave Kuehnert a substantial amount of business… and I got a call from a guy at Meinhard who handled the Kuehnert account. I was told that Chipp was being denied credit, and the order I placed for spring would not be filled. We could pay cash if we liked.

I was dumbfounded. How could this be? We had been dealing with Kuehnert forever. We always paid… slow? yes… but we always, always paid.

This was no longer good enough. Al Manna was the name of the guy from Meinhard who told me this.

It would be my first taste of pure bitterness in our business. And I could only think of one thing: I wanted to tie Al Manna to the muzzle of a Napoleon Cannon and fire it, scattering small stir fry size pieces of him into the Atlantic Ocean.

The first time I laughed uncontrollably & inappropriately in a public place to the embarrassment of all. This is a story that has to go back at least 25 years. Ellen and I met Art and Lelah Riccio for dinner one evening. It was a fairly fancy restaurant in Branford. Art and I wore tie and jackets and the ladies were dressed beautifully.

The restaurant (name long forgotten) had been “other things”… was in fact a converted barn. But in this permutation it had become a high class place, thick table cloths, tables decently spaced, a Maitre D’ who dressed in Black tie, oversized menus.

Yes, very fancy indeed.

Going to dinner with the Riccios was a treat. I had known Art since the 7th Grade… and he had known Ellen for as long as I had known Ellen. And of my best friend’s choices in women, Lelah would be by far my favorite. She was pretty and she had a great laugh and an amazing sense of humor.

I don’t remember exactly where we were in the meal; but Lelah launched into a joke (noted below) told in a marvelous “Euro accent”… and it just hit me square…

A man with a gun gets into the Pope’s personal study in the Vatican and threatens to kill him. The Pope pleads for him not to do this terrible thing…”This you must not do my son, for if you were to kill me you will suffer the pain of hell for all eternity. My life is small and insignificant; but it is your eternal soul that I am concerned with…”

The gunman rethinks his position… “OK If I am not going to kill you… I want to watch you make love to a woman.”

“Oh… this I can not do. I have taken a vow of celibacy… and it would be the gravest of sins for me to do such a thing.”

“Well… you have to decide… I am going to kill you right now… or I am going to watch you make love to a woman.”

“Killing me would be far worse… that is a sin from which your soul could never be cleansed… but I will only make love to woman on four conditions.”

“You’re trying my patience… what are they?”

“First, she has to be blind so she can not see who is doing this terrible thing to her. Second, she has to be deaf so she can not hear me cry out in pain. Third, she has to be dumb so she can not tell anyone about this horrible event…

And fourth…

…she has to have big tits.”

Well… my God did I start to laugh. And I couldn’t stop… I could just picture such an improbable thing taking place… and my mind kept hitting the “replay button” on Lelah’s joke, and each time I would explode with laughter… it would get bigger & bigger.

And then it took off on a different course. I was aware that I was creating a bit of a fuss in the dinning room. So now I became intent on stifling the laughter… and that made things miles worse. I would hold the laugh in for a few seconds, and then I would burst like a balloon…

It wasn’t long before Lelah couldn’t control her laughter either… Art was now in… even Ellen, who had tried to be cool, started laughing to the point of tears… Now I’m laughing so hard that my glasses slip off my face… as I repeat Lelah’s punch line…”and she has to have big tits!!!”

The table near ours started to laugh, too… and the one next to them as well…

I simply can’t stop. Then the Maitre D’ strolls over (he in the Black Tie and the supercilious attitude) to inquire if everything is OK?

Yes… the remoulade was perfect, thankyou.

The first touch that chilled me to the bone. The day was May 4, 1983. Zack had just celebrated his 3rd birthday two days prior… Shaina was a mere 19 days old… nothing too unusual to the start of the day.

But it was around noon when I realized that I had not heard Dad page my name once. This was indeed a rarity… he couldn’t be up in his office for 30 minutes without finding something to bring to my attention…

From my desk on the second floor I called downstairs to Paul… “Have you heard from Dad?”

“No.”

“Did you see him come in?”

“No… not yet.”

I called upstairs to his office… no answer… I called to the main office… “Hey, is my Dad up there?”

“No we haven’t seen him yet…”

I called back to Paul… “Hey… he’s not up in his office. Did he have an appointment in New Haven or something?”

“Gee, I don’t know…”

“Do you think I should call Mom to see what’s up?”

Maybe I tried to reach Mom… I forget. Maybe we decided to wait… But finally Paul and I looked at each other… we were standing on the 3rd Floor at the time, and I take a coin out and say one of us has to go over to check out his apartment… “Call it”.

Without looking at the coin… I said “It looks like it is me…”

On the walk over to Dad’s apartment in Tudor City I had plenty of time to work out in my mind why Dad had not come to work and merely forgotten to tell Paul or me where he would be and why.

I opened the door and called his name… no reply (sure he’s in New Haven just like I thought)… and I walked to the bedroom and he was lying in bed.

“Dad?”

No answer… louder, “Dad?”

The strength of my voice was not going to wake Dad up from this slumber. Still I try to shake him to… “Dad?”

No… his arm had turned hard… hard as marble and cold. I had never felt anything that had chilled me so. It shocked me. It was like I had just touched a statue in repose… but this wasn’t a statue… it was my Dad & I so wanted him to get up from his sleep…  

The first time I had a Martini. Ellen & I were headed for Bermuda in April of 1973. This was less than a year after we married and it was where we honeymooned. We loved Cambridge Beaches… and I would go there without hesitation today.

Our day had been spent alternating between the small beaches on the property & the pool. We would always head for the pool around lunchtime, back to the beaches after lunch and by 4:00ish we would go back to our room and get cleaned up for cocktails and dinner.

Ellen’s repetoir of drinks back then was far broader than mine. Whether it was at lunch or for cocktails before dinner she would have either a Manhattan, an Old Fashioned, a Whisky Sour, a Screwdriver, a Planter’s Punch, a Pina Colada, a Rum Swizzle or a Vodka ‘n’ Tonic.

I would have a Bloody Mary. On our honeymoon I had many Bloody Marys. You would have thought that I had an interest in a tomato juice concern.

On the flight to Bermuda on our return trip I decided that I was lacking in the imbibing arts and I needed to broaden my drink selection. The first time I made this determination at Union, I ended up with a Stinger and it nearly killed me.

But I still yearned for a degree of sophistication and I was set against choosing a drink that had “training wheels”.

There I sat on the jet… leafing thru a magazine and having? Oh well, a Bloody Mary. An advertisement caught my eye. It was for Beefeaters Gin. The photo was shot at some outdoor deck with blue skies and pristine waters as a background… the bottle stood on a table, a Martini in an “up” glass with an olive, a Martini on the rocks with a lemon twist… beads of condensation adorn both glasses… you knew that both drinks were piercingly cold.

I was being drawn in…

This advert had a “scratch ‘n’ sniff” strip (like for perfumes and colognes)… so I give it a whirl. Hey! Wonderful freshness, not bad… I think we have a winner!

The noon hour approached on our first day down, and we moved from the Morning Beach to the pool and I was now armed with a drink to order (other than a Bloody Mary). We took up our places in two chaises separated by an umbrella table. Ellen ordered some rum concoction and I ordered a Beefeater Martini on the rocks with a twist. Ellen raised an eyebrow.

Our drinks arrive… the sun streamed down on us, the sky a perfect blue, the pool water sparkled blue & the Caribbean smiled in the distance… this is just how the Beefeater Advertisement pictured it! We toast… I taste… I wince! For the second time a drink has defeated me!

Well… I wasn’t go to give up that easy. I go back to the drink a second time. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. It still wasn’t good… and there was Ellen happily consuming something with a parasol, a cherry & an orange slice.

I gave it a few minutes before I steeled myself for a third attempt. Maybe the drink mellowed a bit as the ice melted some in the noon day heat… maybe the lethality of the drink was starting to work its calming effects. But by the third taste I started to appreciate the fresh and invigorating taste… the touch of citrus peel added to the perfume of the juniper berry. OK, this is alright.

We ordered the a second round before our sandwiches arrived. The second Martini was even better than the first… from the initial sip to last. This was going to be good.

When lunch was placed on the table between us I couldn’t reach for my sandwich. I was plastered to the back of the chaise completely incapable of movement. Ellen ordered me not to go swimming. Swimming? I could barely blink my eyes.

Martinis and I had arrived. The rest, as they say, is history.

The first time I had a beer. So what’s more improbable… getting out of Hamden Hall with never having a drink of any sort, or getting out of Union College with never having had as much as a sip of a beer?

And brother… a ton of beer was consumed in my four years at Union.

But it is true. We would go from Frat House to Frat House, party to party, beer coating the dance floor & I did not even pretend to drink a beer. Personally? I thought that beer quite simply stunk… how could anyone get by the stench. As far as I was concerned drinking a beer was the liquid equivalent to sitting down to a plate of dog shit.

This “not drinking beer” didn’t bug me… did not prey on my mind… I didn’t feel that life was short changing me in any way. There would be other things for me to drink, and by the time the Stones came into our life I had a pretty good command of a number of libations.

I think it was 1974 (maybe ’75?) when we moved into the first floor flat of 96 Mayflower Ave in Stamford. I forget who lived on the second floor when we first moved in; but that really didn’t matter because it wasn’t long before Kathleen & Bernie Stone took up residence in the second floor flat… they moved in & promptly left for a two week holiday to the beach house in Avalon, NJ…

When they returned our friendship would blossom and flourish. And between my Martinis and Bernie’s Manhattans (pitchers of both at the ready), there were nights that dinner was simply forgotten as the stories and the laughter unfolded. Our sounding call that echoed thru the back halls (somewhat like yodeling in the Swiss Alps) was “chill the glasses!” Which would then be followed by… “Upstairs or down?”.

I loved the way that Bernie & Kathleen would put things together. The components drawn together meant more than their individual parts…You know, Bloody Marys were meant for brunch, Gin ‘n’ Tonics were for the deck on sunny summer afternoons, and a good cold beer was great with a steak sandwich…

Beer? Stop there… I confessed to them that I had never had a beer before… perhaps there was an alternate recommendation? Never had a beer before?? You would have thought that I had just emerged from the LaBrea tar pits…

No… Kathleen assured me… a cold beer was the perfect accompaniment for a steak sandwich… a steak sandwich to be prepared with some sautéed onions and maybe a bit of au jus gravy.

Now the more Kathleen set to talking about & describing the damned sandwich, the hungrier I got… by then I was well aware that Kathleen knew her way around a kitchen… she was very, very skilled in the cooking arts.

I also knew that I wanted that sandwich badly, she just made it sound too damned good… and if she said (and Bernie concurred in this matter) that a beer was de rigeur for a steak sandwich, then it was a small price to pay.

So on the given day… it had to be a Sunday (I think it was the Fall) Bernie and I decided to clear out the tangled mess of what had once been a garden that stood between our kitchen and sun porch. The thinking was do some “manly” chore, work up a hunger and a thirst.

We applied ourselves to the task at hand… I couldn’t wait to finish so I could “tuck in”. And as promised, at the conclusion of our labors we were treated to a feast of steak sandwiches and beer.

I don’t remember the brand. I probably didn’t love it; but I was sold on the concept… I knew that we had another winning combination… just like Eggs Benedict & Champagne. The Stones knew how to do things right (and they still do).

I will never be a big beer drinker. For me it is something that I still associate with quenching a thirst… you know three hours cutting the grass — 2 beers… or shovel the drive and put a beer in the snow bank as a reward for working up a sweat… a perfect way to slake a thirst just as it was nearly 30 years ago when Bernie and I cleared Mr. Pasquino’s garden, had a beer and chased it with steak sandwich.

The first time I slept with a woman. This was originally going to be “the first time I kissed a woman”; but I couldn’t pin that time, other than to say that it was Ellen and, in truth, I really think that she initiated the first kiss. And this is not going to be a graphic description of a lewd escapade (so calm down… my kids are going to read this).

So turn back a few leaves in the book and settle into the chapter that dealt with our first big Fall Weekend at Union in 1967. I was a Freshman… and roomed with my Hamden Hall buddy, Art Riccio, in 209 South College.

Ellen was a Senior at Hamden Hall and would be coming up for the weekend. When I think about it now, I am floored that her parents allowed this. Ellen and I had started dating in the Fall of the previous year (and irony of ironies, she had originally expressed an interest in Art), and by the Summer of ’67 we were seriously dating (although she didn’t jettison her Marine in Viet Nam until the December of that year).

For that first visit to Schenectady I put her up at the Holiday Inn that was walking distance from the Campus. I got her squared away in her room and then brought her back to the Campus for the evening’s festivities. Art absented himself from the room so Ellen and I enjoyed a bit of privacy before we hit the Frat party trail… but smooching and all was not new for us.

After we had our fill of parties, it was time to take Ellen back to the Holiday Inn. My intention was to stay with her for a bit, and then go back to my room. There were stories that abounded… Security Personnel from the Hotel would knock on selected doors and throw students out, and I certainly didn’t want any part of that.

Well… there we were in the room, and one thing led to another… and the next thing is we were fast asleep. I got up at 3:30/4:00AM, panic stricken… My God, any minute there would be a bang on the door with trouble to follow… I had to get out of there!! Fast!!

I put on my shoes (I hadn’t taken off my trousers… which were tweed… Ellen must have loved that), grabbed my sweater, kissed Ellen good night & slipped out the door.

I walked down the hall to the back stairs… I wasn’t going to take the elevator to the lobby (they probably had 2 cops and a photographer from the local paper there waiting to catch Union students in “the act”).

I go out the back door to the parking area, and rather than walk directly back to Campus (which would take me by the main entrance to the Holiday Inn… and the gendarmes) I backtrack & loop around the block adding about 20 minutes to my walk.

When I get back to my room, I start to get undressed and Art wakes up… “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m getting undressed and going to bed”

“I see that, but what the hell are you doing back here?”

“Well… I fell asleep by accident and I didn’t want to get into trouble by staying…”

“Whatta you nuts? You gotta be joking!! Did you really think someone was going to knock on your door? You’re incredible!”

That was the last time I ever left Ellen. And that was the last time I left my pants on.

 

 

Well my lovelies… I think I am going to put my pen down. I have another dozen or so on my list & even without additional Wild Turkey, I could probably come up with another ten or so entries.

As I look over these words I am excited by the idea that we experience “firsts” on an on-going basis. Every day there are new wonderful things that enrich our lives… things small, things large, each in their own way contributing to the brick and mortar of our existence.

No, it doesn’t have to be the “big adventure” (although I am thinking of bungee jumping off my desk)… no, rather I think it is recognizing the special qualities of the “ordinary” things we do… because in truth, there is nothing ordinary about anything we do.

I love you all…