THE LIMBURGER INCIDENT

The following story is about an old friend of mine from way back. Wayne Trout is no longer with us, but what an incredible character he was. If you were ever to have a gathering of friends and acquaintances and wanted it to be upbeat and successful, you just had to invite him. He was, without a doubt, the proverbial life of the party. Wayne had an incredible wit and sense of humor and, in the central Florida area, was a noted radio personality. He was one of the nicest guys I’ve ever known, too. Very down-to-earth, Wayne was the consummate social director who knew how to throw the best pool parties. All kinds of parties! For example…

Over the years, I spent a lot of Saturday afternoons with the guys at Wayne’s watching college football. Occasionally, a girl or two would slip in, but it was definitely a guy thing doing guy things (whatever that might be in today’s world.) In those days, it was sports, booze, and belching.

One day at happy hour, Wayne asked me what I was doing on Saturday. Nothing in particular, I responded. “Great,” he said, “we’re having a ‘Limburger cheese with onions on pumpernickel party’ and you’re invited. Come on over around noon.”

That meant tequila shots, too, with grapefruit instead of lemons because he had a grapefruit tree out back. Bring your own beer, of course. I had never eaten Limburger up to that point and it’s got to be one of the stinkiest cheeses on the planet. I know, because my father used to eat it when I was young, and I would have rather smelled his feet, to be honest with you.

Eventually, Saturday arrived, sooner than I had hoped, and I dressed in my stinky cheese finest. I mustered up the courage and drove through the drizzling rain to Wayne’s. He had set up a spread of cheese, sliced onions, pumpernickel bread, and the usual sides, like mayo, mustard, salt, and grapefruit slices. My understanding of the delectable cheese was that, underneath its horrid smell, it tasted a bit like heaven, and I was about to find out. Maybe heave was more like it.

One-by-one, we put our food on paper plates and found spots to eat. I will say this: I didn’t gag as I took my first bite, and it’s true, the flavor was soft and smooth. It’s exactly what I’d heard and anticipated — once you get past the smell.

That’s all we had to eat that day, as we watched football, usually the Gators. The more we ate, the easier it was to eat, if that makes sense. It’s as if the aroma simply subsided. Yup. Tequila, beer, and Limburger with raw onions! What better way to spend a rainy day?

I don’t know how many sandwiches we ate but, eventually, the food was gone, the day was winding down and, through the large plate glass living room window, the night was trying to let the darkness in. It was then that most of the married guys decided it was time to go home to their unsuspecting wives. Poor things. The rest of us just lingered for a while until Wayne exclaimed, “Let’s go to Harper’s!” Harper’s was a Winter Park neighborhood bar with an upscale French restaurant attached. The bar was a great hangout and we were all for it.

Slowly, we huddled near the front door. There must have been at least a half dozen of us. Outside, it was still drizzling. Suddenly, without warning, we got a whiff of each other, and it’s an indescribable odor I will never forget. We smelled like the concentrated dregs of… well, you don’t want to know, but it was at least six times the aroma of the smelliest of all stinky cheeses in the world, plus onions.

We looked at each other and said in unison, “Naaaah, we ain’t going anywhere.” We knew we’d have been asked to leave. No, check that. Not asked. They would have DEMANDED that we go. No telling what they’d think we’d gotten into, so we simply went back to our chairs until, one-by-one, each of us decided to go home. Our day was done. So was the night.

It was only that one time I ate Limburger cheese. It was quite an interesting experience and a quirky rite of passage, but would I do it again? Probably not. It would take a special man like Wayne to convince me and, with him, the mold was broken.

MAYBE SHE JUST DOESN'T LIKE ME

My Website, marinadedave.com or daveknechel.com is divided into three sections; a wide one in the center and two narrow ones on the left and right. There are ads and missing people notices and a lot of other things, including a way to contact me. If you scroll down and keep looking at the left column, you’ll find it. It says:

CONTACT ME:

This form will allow you to send a secure email to the owner of this page. Your email address is not logged by this system, but will be attached to the message that is forwarded from this page.

Believe it or not, I still receive “fan” mail occasionally, despite the fact that the Casey Anthony case ended almost six years ago. I also know that this case will never be forgotten. Casey is just as embedded in our psyches as Lizzie Borden. 125 years later, and many people still remember the Lizzie mantra, even though she was acquitted of murder…

LIZZIE BORDEN RHYME

Lizzie Borden had an axe
She gave her mother 40 whacks
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father 41

Of course, I had to write one about Casey, although I don’t think it will be said a hundred years from now…

THE BALLAD OF CASEY

For the rest of her life

Her name will be mud

For taking the life

Of her own flesh and blood.

For what lies ahead

Is a brewing storm.

Her Caylee long dead

Was fed chloroform.

I wrote that poem seven months before the trial, but did do some minor tweaking six months after it ended.

What’s my point? The hatred is still intact, and it sometimes includes writers like me, who covered it extensively. Please read the following letter I received last night, sent through my Website. I opened it this morning. I won’t identify the sender, of course, but it’s obvious she knows nothing about me and how I became an integral part of the Casey Anthony case. Obviously, she has no recollection of my participation in the case for three years; that I attended almost all of the hearings and the entire trial. She’s not aware that I covered it for 10 weeks as a credentialed journalist for Orlando magazine from inside the courtroom. Yes, it was a paid position. During my time as a writer, I investigated and exposed three different people and situations as frauds. I even received an excellent compliment from the judge early on, but we won’t go there.

The letter writer seems to be one very vindictive person. To feel this way nearly six years after it ended? Clearly, she’s obsessed and angry, not to mention uneducated. (The emphasis is mine.)

I know you followed the case of casey Anthony just like everyone else, even the real media but what makes u think you know so much about what really happened, especially just by hearsay. I hate her just as much as everyone else. But hate people like you more who read a bunch of everyone’s writings and now YOU’VE become an expert like you if your were personally there. I know you think you a writer, but try to stick to fictional books. You sound like a fool on scandal made me famous. Really.  

You know what they say.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but…

WAITING TO BURST

Every day, horror pays another visit. Murder, mayhem, war and dirty politicians. Liars, killers everywhere! How can anyone possibly expect a world of peace when our own citizens fight over fear and loathing from memes with made up truths and BREAKING NEWS on the TV screen? In the end, there’s no emotional difference between Republicans and Democrats. Both are crammed full of selfish, self-centered hate and rage. And blame no one’s willing to take. It’s times like this that push us closer to the edge…

Please take a moment to listen to kindness and love. Soothe your aching heart. This is a Chuck Wild (Liquid Mind) song called Awakening. I guarantee it will comfort you…

A FATHER'S DAY PRIMER IN EXTERIOR PAINTING

I originally wrote this in 2007. This morning, I made a couple of minor edits and here it is, my Father’s Day story. 

Way back in the 1970s, when I lived in New Jersey, my boss would lay me off during summer months because he could get three school kids on break to work for what he was paying me. I was happy since I got time off to work outside painting residential and commercial buildings. Without a doubt, I took great pride in my work and made pretty good money, to boot. Satisfaction all the way around!

In those days, I preferred oil base or alkyds over latex because there was less of a chance of mold and mildew developing on the surface, mostly on shaded sides. Occasionally, my father would drop by my job sites to see me diligently at work. He’d always call me Rembrandt.

About fifteen years ago, now in Florida, he asked me if I’d be interested in painting his house. Sure, I said. I wasn’t going to charge him for my work, but I certainly wasn’t going to pay for the cost of preparation and materials.

Two of my friends were professional painters. Since I had been out of that field for many years, I wanted to know what, if anything, was new since the days of old. I said I preferred oils over latex. They were adamant in their reply, “No! Latex today is much better than it was back then. It has really good mold inhibitors now. Oil base paint will actually encourage mold, especially here in Florida.”

That was a real surprise, but the last time I painted anything was when I lived up north. In Florida, structures have to contend with incredible heat, the effects of the sun and torrential downpours. The sun, in particular, depletes and dulls the paint’s pigment.

“Make sure you have the house pressure washed and sealed before you do it. That is very important,” they both told me, “or the paint won’t stick. If you don’t, the paint will crack, peel, and bubble in a year or two.”

I passed that information on to my father and he said, “No, I just want it painted. Just that, nothing more.”

I went back to my friends and told them what he said.

“When you run your finger across the surface and that chalky stuff comes off, that’s dead paint. Try painting chalk and see if it sticks. Go ahead.” They’d had these problems before, obviously, with cheap customers wanting to save money. These would be the same customers that would run back to the painter to complain at the first sign of trouble. That’s my father. Is that what I wanted? No, so I told him I wouldn’t do it unless he prepped the house. Period.

“Knowing you,” I said, “you’ll run back to the paint store screaming about inferior paint and the first thing they’re going to ask is, did you pressure wash and seal it first? What are you going to tell them?” He relented and agreed. He had no choice if he wanted me to do the job. I asked him to get it washed and I would seal it. It was still going to be much cheaper than hiring a painter because labor wouldn’t be a factor.

The house is one story with a full attic. It’s constructed of cement blocks with the front and sides having a stucco finish The attic is wood, gabled with a 6/12 pitch. I made sure all wood trim was scraped, allowed to dry, and primed where necessary. I always apply two coats. When I began my prep work, I dug out the foundation all around, brushed off the dirt, and allowed it ample time to dry. In case of ground erosion, I didn’t want any areas exposed without paint. Then, I began, from top down …

I made sure to paint under window sills that had never seen a brush. For some reason, many contractors avoid finishing areas you don’t normally see and that exposes part of the building to the elements. Besides, suppose someone’s planting flowers around the house. They look up at the sill and see sloppy, unfinished work. Not good. After painting the entire house by using only brushes, I finished and filled the dirt back in at the foundation. (I told you I am meticulous. Fifteen years later, the house is still in very good shape.)

Several months after I completed my job, the people next door decided to paint their house. It was a classic case of ‘keeping up with the Joneses.’ While it looked nice, he didn’t listen to the painter or he got his pimple-faced nephew to do it because, about a year or two later, like clockwork, the paint began to crack, peel, and bubble, just like my painter friends said.

One afternoon, the neighbor came knocking on my father’s door. Very puzzled, he asked, “Why aren’t you having the problem, too?”

Ahhh… my father had a very knowledgeable answer. “Did you pressure wash and seal it before painting?”

“No…” the neighbor replied.

“I see,” he said, already primed with an expert and authoritative response. “Well, you should have asked me first. I would have gladly told you.”

Hey Everybody!

This particular song brings back fond, fond memories. My little brother was around 2 or 3 years old and he’d stand on the front seat of the car with me holding onto him, singing “EVERYBODY, EVERYBODY, EVERYBODY…” as he wiggled to the music. He was born in 1961 and the song came out in 1963. That was back in the day when songs like this got a lot of long-lasting AM airplay. I was 11 or 12 and there were no seat belts or car seats. He was usually relaxed on my lap until this one started to play…

Judge Perry: Little Black Boy

The following is a true story from 1989.

I worked as an artist/designer for Stonebrook Advertising in Orlando. We created print ads and radio commercials for the Belk Lindsey department store chain. Mostly, it was newspaper ads, but, yes, I did a few voice overs. My boss was Glenn Stone, but you couldn’t call him Glenn. He was always Mr. Stone and he liked to wear dark, expensive suits, slick and kind of glossy looking; and just to give you an idea of how formal he was, I happened to be in his neighborhood late one Saturday morning. He was outside, cutting the grass while wearing a starched white shirt and tie. I kid you not. I think his wife even called him Mr. Stone.

One workday afternoon, he called me into his office. “Dave, come on in here and sit down. This here is Judge Byrd. He’s running for re-election and he needs some artwork done.”

I recognized the gentleman and offered a handshake. “Good afternoon, Your Honor.”

I knew right away that he and Mr. Stone were old friends. It was quite obvious they both were from the same “good ol’ boy” mold that still permeates in communities everywhere, especially in pockets of the deep south. Mr. Stone explained that Judge Byrd needed campaign designs including ads for newspapers, bumper stickers and bulk mailer pieces. Mr. Stone decided that I would do the work for the judge. Oh, great. Tag, you’re it.

Originally hailing from New Jersey, I had a few inherently stereotypical prejudice issues with southern judges and politicians from what I had heard in the news over the years — hanging trees and all. Nothing major at the time because I had already been in Florida for eight years; it was just a slight amount of apprehension. Being white, I wasn’t too concerned about myself, as long as I could muster up a good southern drawl if pulled over by the law. Not really, but I think you get my drift.

We sat there and discussed what kind of strategy would help in his bid to retain his seat. We went over design ideas. Judge Byrd was running against someone I had never heard of until a few weeks earlier, when some upstart named Belvin Perry announced his candidacy to unseat Judge Byrd in the Osceola County Circuit Judge race. I don’t recall that party affiliation had anything to do with it, but I was immediately rooting for Belvin. I couldn’t say exactly why at the time, but I just didn’t particularly care all that much for Judge Byrd. Although I couldn’t pinpoint the reason, it probably had to do with the southern thing and that persnickety air of white male privilege that wasn’t as inherent in the New York/Philadelphia corridor, from whence I came.

After going over the plan of attack and some incidentals about his opponent, Judge Byrd was ready to leave, confident in the knowledge that we would deliver exactly what he needed to garner a victory. As he walked out of Mr. Stone’s office, he proudly exclaimed something that I found quite shocking and highly offensive…

“I’m gonna kick that little black boy’s ass.”

Mr. Stone was all excited. I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I said nothing in return. As a matter of fact, I didn’t respond at all. My face went blank. How could a sitting judge display blatant racism like that? Suddenly, I had a real problem. Personally, I wanted to do everything I could to help Judge Byrd lose the election. Professionally, I had to do everything in my repertoire of artistic talents to get him re-elected or face losing my job. I was very confused, to say the least. It was a lose/win, win/lose proposition. I didn’t want him to be re-elected, but I had to do my professional best to design winning ads, bumper stickers and flyers. Why me, dear Lord, why me?

I called an attorney friend of mine and told him I needed to talk about something VERY important. We met after work and I explained my moral and professional dilemma.

“My personality is split in half on this, Bill. I don’t want to do it, but I don’t want to lose my job. Since I’m obligated to do it, I’ve got to give it my all as a professional. I have to help the guy get re-elected and it goes against my moral fiber.”

He was quite familiar with the judge, too, and pretty much felt the same way. “Boy, Dave, I’ve been an attorney a long time now and that’s a new one on me. It’s a mess and I don’t envy you at all. If you want my professional advice, you have to do it unless you have another job lined up somewhere and I’m sure you don’t.” 

He was right, I didn’t.

I went to work on a strategy I felt would benefit Judge Byrd. I set up a slate of ads that had to run at certain times throughout the campaign. They had to be laid out in different sizes, too, since, in those days, newspapers weren’t alike. I worked on demographics so I could recommend where I felt mailing the flyers would benefit him the most. And the bumper stickers. Oh, yes, those things. They looked nice, but I cringed when I got behind his supporters, and I saw quite a few. I wanted to say, “Hey! That’s my design. Oh, never mind.”

I was proud of my work. I was sick of my work. And I waited for election day with bated breath.

Judge Byrd lost his bid for re-election. It was a bittersweet victory for me. I wondered if there was something I did wrong. But I was glad he didn’t win and I knew in the end that it didn’t hurt me professionally. There was no blame; no guilt. Judge Byrd took his loss well. All politicians know one day they will lose.

Bill asked me how I felt. Very relieved, I said. Was there something subconscious inside that held me back from really giving it my all? Oh well, it was over and my secret personal nightmare was, too.

Judge Belvin Perry went on to become Chief Judge of the Ninth Judicial Circuit and, of note, he presided over the Casey Anthony trial. And Judge Byrd? I saw him years later at a Belk Lindsey store. He remembered me and we had a very nice chat. He went back into private practice.

My friend Bill became a workmen’s compensation judge for the state of Florida, appointed by then governor Jeb Bush. I always told him what a fine, fine judge he’d make one day and he did. He’s still as humble as the day we first met.

In the end, it was the will of the people that unseated Judge Byrd, not my designs. Thank God I was never asked to do anything like that again. Torn apart, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

FEEL THE TERN

To everything, tern, tern, tern.
There is a season, tern, tern, tern.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.

Bernie Sanders was giving a speech in Portland, Oregon last week when a little bird decided to ‪#feelthebern‬. It landed onstage, flew off and returned, perching itself on the podium. The crowd roared with exuberant excitement! It was seen as some sort of presidential prediction - an omen of good things to come. Perhaps it was, because I have an experience; a first-hand account of how birds can alter the course of human history. Sometimes good, other times…

Many years ago, in the 1970s, I spent a lot of time on Long Beach Island in New Jersey. Beach Haven, in particular. My old boss, Jack Little, the best boss in the world, owned a Weiner King restaurant there (open from Memorial Day through Labor Day) and I’d drive ‘down the shore’ once a week to relieve the managers; to give them a day off. I don’t know if that was the case or not on this particular day. I do know that I wasn’t working and I met a beautiful young girl. We hit it off right away and I could sense a budding relationship blossom as the intensity began to build. I knew she felt it, too. It was destiny… Or so I thought.

I don’t think we had been conversing all that long when we went into an ice cream shop and got a couple of cones. We went back outside and sat on a sidewalk bench, close together. I was on her right. At this point in my life, I was physically coordinated enough to be able to hold a soft-serve cone in one hand, licking away, while my other arm slowly inched its way around her shoulders. Life was feeling very good. Good food. Good conversation. Good looking girl.

Good thing I was wearing shorts, too. As my enthusiasm toward our fledgling friendship continued to grow, SPLAT! A huge gob of something even warmer landed on top of my left thigh. It was a huge deposit of BIRD CRAP! It missed her, fortunately, but it wiped the mood right out of us. She began to laugh. The kind of laugh you know isn’t in your favor. It must have been the biggest seabird ever!

“I’ll go get napkins,” she said, giggling all the way inside the store, only to return moments later with lots and lots of wet and dry paper towels. “OK, I’ve gotta go.”

“No!” I begged, but it was too late. A ‘tern’ of events and off she went. The damage was done and I was left with a giant mess to clean. There was no way I could have chased after her - poop running down my leg.

Who knows what would have happened that day, but it’s safe to say a solitary bird changed my fate as I watched her disappear around the corner, most likely electing to search for another fun candidate to party with.

Doctor Dilemma

Click to enlarge image

I stood and I stood and I stood and the receptionist was nowhere to be found. Finally, I heard a voice from the other window ask for my cell phone number. I gave it to her and then it rang.

“Hello?” I inquired. “Who’s this?”

“This is the receptionist. You’re standing at the wrong window.”

“Oh.” And I sauntered over to the other side. All I wanted were my special medications and I can’t believe I waited so long.

When I finally walked through the door, a crowd of nurses stood by. They hugged me and patted my back. “There, there,” they said, “everything will be alright, Mr. Dave…”

Whiskey River and the 3 Marlboro Omelet

This is a piece I wrote in February, 2006, although I did edit it when I last published it in 2012 and again today. The message is the same. Times may change, but it’s not always for the better. Yesterday’s Chicago fiasco is a stark and sickening reminder that prejudice still divides us. This is one story, but in reality, it’s not limited to one side. Winds blow in all directions.

§

When I was doing art & design work for a local printer, we had a film stripper who set up our work to make plates for the presses. He was a really good guy and we got along quite well. I was from New Jersey and he was a Florida native. A lot of people from here have a fair amount of resentment towards people from other parts of the country, especially northerners. If you were from Alabamee or Mississippa, you were OK. The northeast? Eh. Not so much.

Ron and I used to tease each other about northern and southern differences - the Civil War, the South Rising Again! That sort of thing, but it was all done in a good-natured, friendly manner with no implied intent. Whenever he tried to goad me with some Yankee insult, I had a standard reply; one he could not defend, “Well, at least I didn’t have a hangin’ tree in my back yard.”

Ron was, by no means, a racist. He lived in Apopka, which is a relatively rural town northwest of Orlando. Plenty of the deep south has areas of racial hatred, including parts of Apopka. I’m not trying to single out any community. They’re everywhere, all across America, and most of the town is not like that, but there’s a long history steeped in racial bias and, yes, hangin’ trees that should have been chopped down a long time ago. Ain’t been no hangins’ around these here parts in a long time, yet there still exists a small faction of folks who believe the old rules of the deeply segregated south should never and shall never change.

When I moved here in 1981, I found a place in Winter Park called Harrigan’s. My sister used to work there. It’s been gone a long time now, but one of the bartenders ended up buying an established business in downtown Orlando on the corner of Orange Avenue and Pine Street called Tanqueray’s. It used to be part of a bank and housed the vault. You walk down a flight of stairs from street level, step inside, and immediately feel the warmth of the friendly crowd.

Many of the regulars from those days were professionals who worked downtown and stopped in for a drink or two to unwind and socialize. It was known as a hangout for local lawyers and it always seemed to be a well mannered, intellectual group. That’s where I met attorney John Morgan, later of Zenaida Gonzalez fame, but that has nothing to do with this story. I seldom go downtown anymore, but if I do, I try to stop by, since I’ve known Dan a long time and he always has a few good jokes to tell, plus he’s an all-around great guy.

One day, I dropped by for happy hour. I had to go into the city for some reason and, I figured, why not go see Dan. I took a seat at the bar, near the front door, and we exchanged some friendly banter. The place was quite busy, so we didn’t have much time to talk. Moments after I arrived, some guy appeared on my immediate left. Talk about rough around the edges, he didn’t quite fit in with the rest of that crowd. He ordered a draft beer and said to me, “Yup, I was at Whiskey River at 7 o’clock this morning.”

Whiskey River is a liquor store on S. Orange Blossom Trail. It’s certainly not in one of the nicest parts of the city. There are a few scattered around and they have a reputation for catering to hardcore drinkers - the labor pool and unemployment collecting types who live off their pay buying cheap booze and cigarettes. That was a perfect description of this particular fellow. I have no idea why he chose me out of the crowd to enlighten, but there we were…

“Whiskey River? At 7 AM? So, tell me, what did you have for breakfast?” I asked.

“I had me a 3 Marlboro omelet,” he responded in his gruff, seasoned and rather pickled sounding voice.

“Hmm. Sounds delicious.”

“Yup. It was.” Suddenly, out of the blue, he blurted, “I’m a card carrying member of the KKK.”

“No. No way.”

“Yup.”

I had never met anyone with any sort of affiliation to a white supremacy organization. You know, you always hear stories, but have you ever met anyone like that for real? “OK. Let me see your membership card.”

“Ain’t got one. Don’t need one.”

He didn’t come across as some sort of nasty fellow. He didn’t seem to have gone in there to start trouble. I think he just wanted someone from the “big city” to talk to. Maybe, I looked slick enough. I seem to collect those types, anyway, but I don’t mind. I guess I have a friendly demeanor that people pick up on.

After telling me he lived in the outskirts of Apopka, I thought to myself, why not give the guy a chance to speak his mind. I would try to rationalize everything he says and come back with an appropriate response. I asked him how he could feel this way. How could you harbor so much hatred inside?

“They’re animals. Damn [N-WORD] are monkeys.” I think he really wanted to test me, yet I sensed sincerity in his statement and a certain curiosity on his own part, like he was questioning his own tenets; the ones I’m certain was a huge part of his upbringing.

“Animals? What if you had sex with a monkey, could you get her pregnant?” No need to question his own sexual identity.

“Nah, of course not. That’s stupid.”

“What if you had sex with a black woman, could you get her pregnant?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, what you are accepting is that if black people are animals and you could get that type of animal pregnant, then you are an animal, too; a monkey. We’re ALL monkeys!”

“Uh… uh…” I don’t think he knew what to say.

With every racist claim he made, I had a response. At one point, I asked him, “What if you were in a horrible accident and needed a blood transfusion? What if you later find out it was the blood of a black man? A NEGRO. AN AFRICAN-AMERICAN. What would you do? Would you try to bleed yourself out? Would you tell your card carrying KKK members that you are now tainted with the blood of an animal? Would they hang you from the highest tree?”

No responses to my queries made sense, yet he stuck around to hear everything I had to say. He didn’t necessarily agree with me, but I could tell he was grasping, if not absorbing, everything. He really WAS trying to understand the other side. I brought up the “be they yellow, black or white, they are precious in his sight” song from Sunday School days of my youth. He knew the song, but many southern racists are born into religious families that adhere to odd and distorted interpretations of the Bible, as if Jesus was lily-white and black folk dangled from fig trees.

I asked him about black heroes who had saved plenty of white hide during our nation’s wars throughout the world, like WWll. A lot of us wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for good ol’ blackie, would we?

The conversation had taken on a kind of flow. It was never a heated exchange and we showed each other respect. I couldn’t judge him for his status in life, but I surely did question his morals and prejudices with a vengeance. Our discussion began to wind down without ever really unwinding. The conversation had just taken its natural course. At the end, I had one final thought.

“What if we were on a deserted island — just you, me and a really good looking black woman…” Suddenly, the door opened up and a group of very good looking women sauntered in, one of whom was black. “HER!” I exclaimed. She didn’t see or hear a thing. “What if it was just you, her and me?”

“I’d kill YOU, not HER. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” I knew what he meant. Sex. Ain’t no way this dude was gonna go for me, Deliverance-style.

“You mean to tell me you’d kill a white man to save a black woman? Wait a minute. Doesn’t this go against your entire credo? People you’ve hated all your life? What would the KKK say about that? Kill a WHITE to save a BLACK?”

“You’re confusing me, man, you’re confusing me!” Aha! Gotcha, I thought to myself. “You know, you’re right.” he continued, “Yup, you are, but I’ll never tell my friends about it. I can’t. They’re my friends and they’d kill me.”

I guess I felt some satisfaction in thinking I had gotten through to the guy, but did I really? He had listened to enough, I reckon, and I’ll never know for sure.

“Thanks for the talk. Gotta go.” He gulped what little beer he had left and off he went.

What surprised me the most was that the patrons sitting at the bar had listened intently to our conversation, unbeknownst to me. After the guy walked out and the door closed behind him, they broke into a loud applause. They, too, thought that, maybe, just maybe, I had gotten through to him. Perhaps, I did, but I doubt it.

Occasionally, I think about the KKK man who sucks Marlboros for breakfast — the guy who went home to the hangin’ trees that still stand and sway; returned to the recollections of fiery crosses from yesteryear. I hope and pray those fires will be extinguished from our memories and that warm breezes of kinship will sweep through the minds of people like him. Gone with the wind.

For Whom the Cock Crows

Only in rural America would you see a rooster in this sort of setting. Located just north of Clermont, which is west of Orlando, Minneola is a quaint kind of community; quiet and peaceful. It was, anyway, until a couple of roosters showed up unannounced. No one is complaining, probably because their presence reminds the residents of times past. (I grew up hearing them.) This guy was just up the street from our family friends, who we go to see every week while they’re here from New Jersey during the winter months.

Captain Rooster, so I was duly informed, was offered a position, which he accepted, with Lake EMS as the new siren at the Minneola location. When an emergency call comes in, he’s safely strapped into a harness mounted on the roof of the vehicle shown in the photo. And no feathers are ever harmed. Here’s our hero taking a little R&R while waiting for his favorite hen to show up. He’s very special because, well, not just any cock’ll doodle do.

We live in different times

I drove my mother and aunt around to thrift stores today, plus one antiques/collectables place. It was a lot of fun and the ladies really enjoyed themselves. So did I. The last stop was the Habitat for Humanity “ReStore” store. When we walked in, I noticed a big clock against the wall.

To show them what a civic “progressive” I am, I felt it was my duty to enlighten them. They just had to know how incorrect they were socially and politically.

“Oh, look!” I said to my mother and aunt, but loud enough for the counter people to hear. “A grandperson clock!”

“You mean a grandfather clock,” one of my relatives responded.

“No, a grandperson clock. You can’t call it a grandfather clock anymore because it’s SO SEXIST!”

One of the young girls behind the counter smiled and let out a little laugh. So did my mother and aunt. This sexist stuff isn’t for them. I guess they didn’t get Madeleine Albright’s memo about there being a “special place in hell” for women who do not support other women. Oh well.

I know I’m not two times a lady. Heck, I’m not even a woman, but I’m taking no chances. So from now on, this is a GRANDPERSON clock! No grandmothers, either. We are living in an asexual/pansexual world and we need to accept it.

Now, excuse me. I’ve got my nightly twerk-a-cizes to do.  

UP FOR AUCTION...

RARE COLLECTOR’S ITEM

FROM GEORGE ZIMMERMAN TRIAL!!!

With Provenance

During the Casey Anthony trial, I sat on a cushioned seat, like the kind you’d find in a movie theater. The George Zimmerman trial, however, was not the same type of seating arrangement. We sat on uncomfortable hardwood benches the entire time, similar to the ones in an old Quaker church. I needed comfort! I dragged this into the courtroom every day. Many other journalists brought something in for their tushes, too.

This is the actual cushion I sat on during the trial. Here’s your chance to own a piece of American history…

BIDDING STARTS AT $12,000.00

(And I hope you know a parody when you see one, but this is the real cushion. I found it in a closet.)

Forever the Optimist

After the water pump was replaced and everything seemed to be back to normal, I was on my way to getting my groove back, so to speak. The next morning, a nice, little, two-part jingle popped into my bean and I sat down with the iPad on my lap. Then I opened one of the piano apps.

Years ago, I would sometimes wake up in the wee hours with beautiful songs playing in my head; full orchestration and all. One at a time, of course. What always roused me was the sense that I had never heard them before. I’d promptly sit up and within seconds, the song would disappear from my mind, gone forever. Today, it would be like my brain hitting the delete button. It was heartbreaking. Now, I’ve got my trusty iPad by my side, so when something pops up, I can play it out and record it for future use. Sometimes, these ditties hit me when I’m in the shower or during the day. I’ve disciplined myself to keep playing them over and over and over in my head until I can record them. Usually, but I’ve lost a few here and there.

On this particular morning, the song that came to me had a real country sound, which is unusual. I can’t really classify my style, but having a western theme grabbed my attention. Clint Eastwood sauntered across my head. On horseback. Before I sat down, I went into the kitchen and toasted an English muffin, continuously looping the song so I wouldn’t forget it. I don’t like to eat too much butter, so I put peanut butter on one slice and butter on the other. OK, ready.

I went to the trusty iPad and played out the tune. Most of the time, I have to play it and play it and play it until I have it right. Then, I record it. On that particular morning, while I’m playing it, I’m eating the muffin. I saved the butter one for last, kind of as a reward because it tastes better than the PB one. Bite. Play. Bite. Play. Bite. Play…

Suddenly, I felt something rock hard in my mouth. Not large or anything, but I knew right away what it had to be. There was nothing THAT hard in the muffin. A tooth had broken off! Which tooth? I ran my tongue across the top front of my teeth and there it was — a hole! I had lost #7 (as the dentist later called it) right at the gum line. It’s one of the ones next to the two front teeth. Immediately, I stopped what I was doing and called the dentist.

“Can you come in right away? The dentist has time to see you now.” If I couldn’t go right then and there, I’d have to wait five days until the next opening, so I said I’d be right in. It’s only a ten minute drive. I brushed my teeth, but had one final thing to do. I know how my memory works (and doesn’t) and I had to record that song. It was of utmost importance. I sat back down, hit the red record button and played. Then, I hit save and off I went.

What’s most interesting about this is that the same darn tooth problem happened to someone very near and dear to me, like smiling peas in a pod. One of the peas fell out! 

Fortunately, I was in no pain, and when the dentist scraped it with one of those nasty looking shiny metal tools, “Does that hurt?” everywhere on the tooth, I didn’t feel a thing. Eventually, the office manager worked up a few different options. I decided to go with the best one. The remaining root had to come out, a screw hole had to be drilled into my top jaw, and a metal post had to be put in with a wrench. Of course, I was totally numb to it as he diligently did his work. Finally, my head turned slightly as he screwed the post in. Then, he capped it off, stitched it, and built a new cosmetic tooth so I wouldn’t walk around looking like a redneck hillbilly… not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not my style. Good to go!

I was able to smile again, but when the Novacain wore off, I was in terrible pain. As days went on, the pain got worse and worse and spread to the back gum. I was in agony. The dentist gave me a prescription for Tylenol 3, which I filled and took, but it made me throw up. I also have Tramadol for migraines and bone pain (that’s another story.) I don’t like taking anything unless I really have to, and those pain meds raised havoc with my gut, without going into further detail. I stopped and decided that I simply had to cope with the pain.

This incident happened a week-and-a-half ago and, on Thursday, I returned to have the stitch removed. This was also the first day the pain somewhat subsided. My mouth is still sore, and I’ve lost five pounds, but I’m getting used to eating mashed potatoes and soup. At the end of January, the permanent implant will go in and I should be back to my old self. Except that I’m still waiting for something else in the house to break down. It’s been a terrible year, not that I’m a pessimist or anything.

Oh yes, one more thing. When I came back from the dentist, I opened up the iPad to listen to the song I came up with. What was it? I forgot. OH NO!!! It was still in the “Save” mode, spinning around and around. I knew right then and there that the piano app had locked up, and I also realized that the song was gone forever. It was a good one, too, but I have to keep on smiling through and through. Why? Because there’s new ones to write and…

The pea is back in the pod! Right where it belongs.

Whipped Cream & Wet Nuts

When I was in the Weiner King restaurant business in central NJ back in the late 70s, we sold soft serve ice cream from behind the counter and had a self-serve sundae bar in the dining room area. This was long before the days of sneeze guards. Customers could load their cones or bowls with a wide array of syrups, like chocolate and butterscotch. We had whipped cream, wet, sticky walnuts, marshmallow goop, chunky strawberry and pineapple fruit syrups, and a nice assortment of sprinkles — also known as jimmies in some circles. I don’t know if they were called sprinkles in NYC and jimmies in Philadelphia or how it worked, but I preferred jimmies. Where I lived was kind of like an out of focus line of demarcation between the two cities and people had their selective allegiances.

At one point, I played around with the idea of getting a sign painted to hang above the sundae bar, but I found that people were such disgusting slobs, it became downright impossible to keep clean. I mean, have you ever tried scouring gooey, syrupy stuff that was spilled all over the counter and floor, and splashed on the wall? With sprinkly fruit stuck to it? Walnuts became glued within minutes and you needed a paint scraper to get them up. There was the problem with maraschino cherries, too. They rolled across the floor and customers stepped on them. This went on day and night. Eventually, I yanked the darn thing out because it got completely out of hand. There was no such thing as respect. Oh well, it’s too bad, because it was designed with children in mind (and their supervising, adult-like, responsible parents,) and the sign I came up with would have been perfect for it. I would have called it the…

Cafe Perks

I recently finished a new trifold menu for Cafe Perks, a mom & pop, breakfast/lunch-style restaurant with four locations in the Orlando area. The owner is a friend of mine. We met years ago when I worked for one of his companies as a graphic artist. It was in the flexographic industry. Flexo is a printing process which uses a flexible relief plate. The art and design work I did was for plastic bags, like you’d get from supermarkets, and coffee packages inside motel/hotel rooms. That sort of thing. Flexo is a lot different from the offset web and sheet fed printing designs I did for many years, even though both use four color process (CMYK) and Pantone inks. Today, companies can go to places like Staples to get jobs run off a B&W or color copier. That’s exactly the case with these menus, although I don’t know where they were copied. In this instance, after I burned PDF files of the pages to a CD, my job was finished.

What the owner wanted was the look and feel of a good, old-fashioned American diner, and he wanted an image of a diner on the front cover page. Having grown up in New Jersey, probably the birthplace of this genre of restaurants, I knew a thing or two about them, especially at 2:00-2:30 in the morning, after local bars locked their doors. As a matter of fact, my hometown of Flemington had the Circle Diner, where I munched out on French fries with gravy on many-a-night, along with a few slices of the best cheesecake in the universe.

While I knew how to design the menu from many, many years of working in the field of graphics and typography, I just couldn’t find the right picture. There was nothing at all that I could appropriately incorporate, so the cover went on hiatus. Meanwhile, I had the rest of the menu to work on. The owner and I met many times to go over items, including additions, deletions and prices. This type of work is something I can really sink my teeth into because I spent so many years in the restaurant business. It’s in my blood, and there were four pages of food and a back cover that needed attention. The back was going to be daily specials. As far as the front cover was concerned, whenever I put something on the back burner, a design recipe always pops into my head out of nowhere, like rye toast in a New York minute. I wasn’t the least bit concerned.

Eventually, I convinced him that there was no reason to put a diner on the cover. Not only could I not find one, I didn’t think it was necessary or pertinent. I guess it harked back to my old diner days because I couldn’t get the feel of the real deal out of my head. Take Denny’s, for example. Many of them call themselves diners, but are they really? Do you feel like you’re walking into one? I didn’t think so, and it’s the same thing with Cafe Perks. However, there was no reason why I couldn’t make the menu look like you were sitting inside of one and, in this regard, I left the integrity of his wishes intact. He wanted food pictures and I gave him that, although there were so many food items, it couldn’t be as loaded with photos as I wanted without becoming too busy.

Here is what I ended up doing. If you live in (or visit) the Orlando area, please stop by Cafe Perks. Believe me, the food is really good — exactly what you’d expect from a diner, but without the diner prices.

(Someone else sold and designed the ads, which paid for printing the menus.)

UH-MUSINGS, Part1

AMERICANS-IN-WAITING

That’s the term President Obama coined for the old, politically incorrect euphemism, illegal aliens. Yes, the president said so in his amnesty action, “Taking Action to Unlock the Economic Contributions of Americans-in-Waiting,” on Tuesday, February 24. Does this mean we cannot call them illegal aliens now, lest we have his PC Police come around to harass us for acting like disgruntled Americans? No, of course not.

Coming into the country is an easy free-for-all today; however, it’s not what I’m concerned with at the moment. It’s about one more aggravating notch in the realm of political correctness. Aggravating in the sense that “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander,” unless one disagrees politically. Trust me, it’s always about the politics!

First off, I’m not a gun owner and I will never be one. That’s my choice, but I do believe in the Second Amendment. That said, the president seriously wants gun control. To an extent, I agree with him, but this is too much of a mess. He can’t simply wave his hand by executive order and wish the problem away. So, for now, because of his new nomenclature for illegal aliens, I offer politically correct alternative terminology for gun owners.

While the president prefers AMERICANS-IN-WAITING, some may like the other politically correct term UNDOCUMENTED IMMIGRANTS over ILLEGAL ALIENS. Applying this very same politically correct logic, along with the ‘good for the goose and gander’ idiom, doesn’t it make perfect sense that legally purchased guns should be referred to as DOCUMENTED WEAPONS? They are, after all, documented. On the flip side, consider illegal guns. Shouldn’t they be called UNDOCUMENTED WEAPONS? Or, since the president likes the term AMERICANS-IN-WAITING, how about going first-class executive branch with FIREARMS-IN-WAITING?

The Mushroom Incident

Since I was a child, I could spot a hair on my plate, whether it was on top, mixed in, or at the very bottom of whatever I was eating. For some reason, hairs always migrated my way.

When I was in the Weiner King business, we bought most of our foodstuff from R&R Provision Co. based out of Easton, PA. Weiner King, for those of you who don’t know, was primarily located in the central NJ area. As the name implies, we specialized in hot dogs and hamburgers — Texas Weiners, in particular, with mustard, onions and homemade chili sauce. No restaurant made a better chili dog, and that’s a fact!

To say that, after many years in the business, I got a little tired of the same food every day would be an understatement. Don’t get me wrong, I tried every variation possible — hot dogs and hamburgers with any and all combinations of toppings imaginable, but it got old. You could only eat so many French fries with mustard, in other words, and fish sandwiches with pickles and ketchup.

Invariably, I’d send one of the workers out for a couple of good steaks. “Get one for me and one for you.” Or fresh sea scallops. Whatever I was in the mood for. A lot of times, the R&R rep would bring us samples in hopes that we’d put them on the menu, but we pretty much stuck with our main theme. The samples sure were a nice change, though.

On my nights off, I would sometimes go to the Union Hotel on Main Street in the heart of Flemington, and order breaded, deep fried, mushrooms. For years, they were one of my all-time favorites, so when R&R gave me a flyer with them as one of the specials, I gobbled up the offer and bought a 10lb. case. Holy mackerel!!! I was in my glory. When the delivery truck arrived, I went outside to greet the driver.

“Do you have my mushrooms?” He could check what was on the list.

“No,” he responded, “not today.” Fortunately, deliveries were twice a week.

I don’t know if I had to wait a week or not, but it seemed like an eternity, and my mouth was watering at the thought of biting into those delectable, deep fried to a golden brown, morels. Oops! I mean, morsels. They were button mushrooms, after all.

Finally, the frozen treats arrived and I quickly and carefully cut open the box. Certainly, I didn’t want any of them to spill on the floor. Not a single one. I threw a whole bunch into the deep fryer and told my employees, “Eat them while you can. The rest are mine. That’s the law.”

We were very liberal when it came to employee meals. They were always free and plentiful but, when it came to my mushrooms, I took a hands-off approach. Anything but them. While they were cooking, I went into the back room to close up the case and throw it in the freezer. I may have written DO NOT TOUCH on the box, too, but I did notice one thing that was printed on it: PRODUCT OF THE PHILIPPINES.

I didn’t care where they were from, but it goes to show you that, even in the 1970s, we were outsourcing. Did I worry about foreign pesticides, hormones and antibiotics back then? No. All I cared about was that I could eat my mushrooms every single day until I looked like a fungus. Well, not really. As a rule, I ate them in the late afternoons, when it was very slow. I didn’t want customers wondering if I was serving them, and I didn’t want employees asking me to share. 99% of the time, I’m a very giving person, but not with breaded or battered mushrooms. Until one day…

I was probably about halfway into the box when, one fateful afternoon, I had a life-changing experience. It altered this one eating habit of mine for the rest of my life. Believe me when I say that, until that day, I was enjoying bite-after-bite. I sat with my plate of about a dozen mushrooms when, as usual, I popped one in my mouth. As I chewed and chewed, I thought there might be a hair in there. Yuck! I stuck my fingers in my mouth and, yup, it was, indeed, a hair. I should have just spit the darn thing out on the spot, but I didn’t.

I managed to grab the end of it without losing any of the mushroom or breading. Then, I started to pull. Out and out it came. I moved my fingers away from my mouth. The farther they got, I realized this was no ordinary hair. It was LONG and STRAIGHT and BLACK! It was as long as my left arm could stretch by the time it was completely out. I immediately spit the mushroom into the garbage and just about heaved on the spot. I was totally shocked and disgusted. How did something that long get wound up into one mushroom? I didn’t want to think about it. My appetite was gone. I threw the remainder of that case into the dumpster and, to this very day, I cannot eat deep fried, breaded mushrooms. Just thinking about them would make the hair on my head stand up… if I had any, but I won’t eat them to this very day.

Nothing Beats Homemade Cornbread

I think my mother is losing it. She used to make the best cornbread. This morning, she decided to make some. Oh, good, because it’s always been one of my favorites! After a minute or two in the kitchen, she plopped herself in her recliner and began humming hymns and watching The Gospel Hour on TV. This went on for some time and, eventually, I became a little alarmed. She hadn’t done this before, plus I was afraid the cornbread might burn or something, so I decided to check and this is what I found. Very bad, I thought; however, in a sense, I was quite fortunate, for she had forgotten to turn the oven on.

Next time, if she tries to make carrot cake, I’d better give her a hand!

My Garden of Weeden

By Doris Willman 

After contracting polio in 1953, I faced the challenge of leg braces and crutches. By 1981, I became a wheelchair user with post-polio syndrome. By this time, my three daughters were quite self-sufficient and I had some blessed leisure time.

Coming from a family of avid gardeners, I thought, why not me too? My knowledge of gardening was quite limited, except for minor chores back home in the family garden before I acquired a disability. I obtained a copy of The Complete Vegetable Garden by John Seymore. And a very compassionate husband, fortunately for me, was handy with carpentry tools.

At first we erected four planters, measuring eight feet long and two feet wide with a depth of approximately 14 inches. These planters were supported by legs and cross braces to make an overall height of about 28 inches.

The planters were placed parallel to each other, with ample room to manoeuvre the wheelchair between each one. Each planter was filled with purchased garden soil and peat moss. A lightweight garden hose took care of the watering needs. My first crops consisted of radishes, onions, carrots, beets, Swiss chard and tomatoes.

There is an advantage to container planting: Because of the wide row system, radishes, carrots and the like can be spaced as little as two inches apart.

A good-sized crop can be harvested from a confined space. Close planting also creates shading, eliminating most weeds while retaining moisture in the soil. Most crops require tilling the soil only to a depth of eight inches. This can readily be done with small hand tools. Cucumbers, a vine crop, can be trained up five-foot poles and still be within easy reach of a gardener using a wheelchair. The height of the planters enables the wheelchair user to garden with a minimum of exertion. You are also in a position to make eye contact with any garden pests — get a jump on the flea beetle before he lands on your prized tomatoes!

My planters were so successful that my husband then built my “Garden of Weeden.” This garden is 45 feet long by 30 feet wide. With the exception of a small tool shed and gateway, two-foot-wide planters extend around the full perimeter. The central area comprises three planters measuring 10 feet by four feet, lawn space bordered with flowers, and a few small shrubs thrown in.

A wooden walkway provides sufficient space to service all planting areas. A watering hose is mounted at each end of the garden.

Unless you are a fanatic gardener like myself, a garden this size is an option rather than a necessity. Much success and pleasure can be derived from smaller ones.

I can truly say my “Garden of Weeden” has been my utopia — a place where I can get lost in the magic of nature. Stress evaporates once I wheel through that gate and am in complete control of my surroundings. I spend so much time in my garden, I expect my wheelchair tires will one day take root.

Like the saying goes, we have to “stop and smell the roses.” My philosophy is, “Let’s grow ’em!”

 

In memory of my close personal friend, Doris, now gardening in Heaven

February 20, 1939 - June 25, 2015

†

A Haunting Portrait of War

I know I have published this before, but, in my opinion, it will never lose its importance. Each time, I try to bring it up to date. We should forever keep the memories of our lost soldiers alive in our hearts and minds…

There isn’t a day that goes by when the thundering echoes of war escape us. Today, we live in a world rife with radical extremists like al Qaeda and daesh, defiantly justified to maim and kill in the name of their god. The following story is my hideous wake-up call. It came at a time when most wars were fought over more mundane causes - nationalism, patriotism, democracy, communism, bigotry and territorial rights. This was back when building a bigger and more powerful bomb was all the rage, and nations proudly strutted their massive hardware in shows of strength and unity in order to intimidate their neighbors and perceived threats. Today, our enemies use IEDs or strap a bomb to their chests and blow themselves up.

On a distant morning in 1967, one of my classmates at East Amwell Township School was quietly asked to get up from his desk and follow the administrator out of the classroom. I remember that day and wondering why. Did he do something wrong? Of course not, and it didn’t take very long before the principal announced on the P.A. system that his cousin, Van Dyke Manners, was killed in action in Vietnam. He was one of the first from Hunterdon County, New Jersey, to die in the line of duty. I didn’t know him personally, but I remember it well because it was a solemn day. My friend had lost a loved one. Greg did not come back to class that week. To a 14-year-old, those echoes of war were a distant sound that lightly flickered in our young minds. We never thought of death then. We were invincible, but with each passing day, the reverberation grew louder and louder, and reality hit us fast and hard. The Vietnam War was in full boom.

Back then, what was going on in our own back yards seemed more important than anything else, but the Vietnam war was lurking out there - somewhere in our heads. Despite our youthful dreams and aspirations, the war never escaped us. We saw it on our black & white television sets. We heard it on our AM radios. It made headlines in the daily newspapers. Everywhere we went, the specter loomed large and cut deeply into our subconscious minds.

§

Early in 1968, a girl who lived up the street from me asked if I would be interested in creating a portrait of her boyfriend. Back in those days, a small town was just that; there was no city in sight. Windows were left open to let air breeze through because air conditioning was a luxury. We weren’t afraid to leave our doors unlocked, and neighbors knew all the gossip. I was known as the left-handed artistic kid. Ask Dave. He knows how to draw.

She was a little older than me, and her boyfriend had enlisted in the Army. She offered to pay me and I accepted. I asked her to round up whatever photographs she could so I had something to work with. I asked her if I could meet him. To an artist, it’s good to know something about a subject that photographs alone cannot tell you. In the flesh, you get to know the person. Because of that request, I got to know Mike Baldwin. At 21, he was a man. At 15, I was not. He was old and mature. I was still a kid. He shaved, I didn’t, and with a war raging, I was in no hurry to buy my first razor.

His girlfriend asked me to draw the portrait as big as I could. When I went to the store to buy materials, my old “Be Prepared” Boy Scout lessons taught me to have a back-up plan, so I purchased two giant drawing boards, just in case I messed up. I couldn’t simply up and go to the store back then because I was too young to drive.  Fortunately, I didn’t mess up, so I decided to draw another one, identical to the first. The original BOGO! I don’t know what compelled me to do it, but I’m glad I did. Maybe I thought if the relationship didn’t work out years later, at least he would have one to share with his family. That must have been the reason. Maybe the death of Van Dyke put apprehension in my heart. You know, one for his mother, just in case.

When I finished the drawings, I made a date to deliver the artwork. My neighbor had invited Mike and his mother to “attend” the presentation. Everyone was very pleased with the job I had done, especially his mother, who was honored to have her son’s portrait captured by a local artist.

Soon afterward, he left for Vietnam. He went because he believed in a cause. He believed in America and freedom. In school, we were taught about the Domino Theory. Back then, it meant that if one country falls under the influence of communism, then the surrounding countries would follow. Red China didn’t exist on any of our maps and globes. It was just a grayed out mass of nonexistent land, but it was still a major threat because North Vietnam was one of the countries under their grip. South Vietnam was not, and we came to its defense. Today, Vietnam is one country but, by the end of the war, 58,000 red-blooded Americans gave up their lives. Michael Baldwin was one of them.

Nearly 46 years ago, he became a statistic. His body was zipped up in a bag and shipped home. That was the day I woke up to the horrible tragedy of war. It was my first experience. Someone I knew personally was dead because of it. 

One of the things I learned, and it’s very important, was that Michael Baldwin put his country before his life. We lost so many and what did we gain? I know I gained a whole lot of respect for those who march off to war. Michael Baldwin was a man and I was a boy when we met, but I still look up to him and I will soon be 45 years older than he was on the day he died. To this very day, I wonder what would life be like had he lived. Would he have married my neighbor or someone else? Would he be happy? Or would he be mourning the loss of his children or grandchildren because of our brutal and self-inflicted world of terrorism, home-spun jihadists and plain, old weirdos? The more violence changes, the more it remains the same. Death is still death and the loss of loved ones over religion and politics is still just as senseless as it was the day Michael Baldwin died.

On July 19, he would be turning 68. I will remember him as a true American hero; a very proud young man. As for the identical pictures I drew, they are lost and gone, but not forgotten. In my mind, the memory of them will forever remain a haunting portrait of war.

Sgt. Michael Richard Baldwin (7/19/1947 - 9/12/1968) KIA - Binh Long Province, South Vietnam, ambushed while on reconnaissance 5 kilometers Northeast of Loc Ninh, along with:
Ssgt. Phillip Kenneth Baker - Detroit, MI
Pfc. Eugene Russell Boyce - Spartanburg, SC
Sp4. Wayne Daniel Jenkins - Bryson City, NC
Pfc. Kenneth Leroy Martin - Los Angeles, CA
Pfc. Marion Luther Oxner - Leesville, SC
Pfc. Dale Arden Palm - Toledo, OH
Pfc. Kurt Francis Ponath - Cudahy, WI
Sp4. J C Williams Jr. - Muncie, IN
Pfc. William Wittman - Binghamton, NY

September 12, 1968, was a long and sad day for Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry, 1st Infantry Division.

Pfc. Van Dyke William Manners (11/10/1945 - 2/15/1967) KIA - Kontum Province, South Vietnam

To all our brethren lost in wars, rest in peace. Your deaths will never be in vain.

I first published a different version of this story in 2006. Michael Baldwin’s cousin searched his name on Google and found my blog about a year later. She wrote me and said, “I just found your website and read your article about Mike.  I just wanted to say thank you…  It touched me and helped me remember my cousin very fondly.  He was a good guy and the last of the Baldwin men in our family.  He is remembered fondly by many of my friends who still [live] in Flemington, as well as my family.

“I also wanted to let you know that Aunt Peg didn’t handle Mike’s death very well.  She couldn’t even bring herself to go to the funeral.  I do remember that both she and my Uncle Alvin (Mike’s Dad) did attend the memorial at Ft. Dix after his death.  That was really all she could handle.  She always said she preferred to remember people while they were alive.  I can’t say that I blame her.  I didn’t understand it in 1968, but I get it now.

“Mike left a large impact on me.  The memorial service was really something and I can still remember the 21 gun salute at his funeral in the cemetery in Flemington.”

Mike’s mother passed away in 1993. His sister contacted me right after her cousin got in touch with her. Here is what she told me:

“My cousin called me and told me about your blog.  She had seen Michael’s name in it and read the story.  I read it too and also your reply to her.  I am Mike’s youngest sister.  You made me cry—but it was a good cry.

“My family and I are so pleased that we are not the only one’s who remember Mike.  Looking through your blog and your e-mail to Mary, I found it so interesting that there are so many things we are connected through.

“I go to church at Kirkpatrick Memorial Presbyterian church in Ringoes. Van Dyke’s mother went there before she died a couple of years ago and there is a stained glass window dedicated to him.

“My father worked for the Forans in the foundry they owned in Flemington.  My father was friends with Walt Foran. [My friend Frank’s father.]

“When I read your blog, I could feel that you knew Mike well.  He was a great kid and we loved him.  You talk about my mother—you may not know it but I had a brother who was older than Mike—his name was Alvin—we called him Skip.  He died in a car accident on Sept. 13, 1958.  No, I didn’t confuse the dates, it was one day short of 10 years later that Mike was killed.  It was a blow that my parents never recovered from.

“I am so glad that you wrote about Mike, it makes me feel that we are not the only ones who remember. Thank you again for keeping his memory alive.”

Please see: NJ Vietnam War Memorial - Michael Baldwin

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