Rainy Sundays in August

There were days like we are having today with Hurricane Irene when we were growing up. They felt much more isolating than today, no doubt thanks to the invention of the Internet, Social Networking, and precise hurricane tracking maps. People criticize the Internet for allowing people to socialize without seeing one another face-to-face. I can tell you for a fact that as a kid I would have liked to have seen anyone during one of those storms, which left the streets and sometimes our basement flooded.

Today I have friends all over the map to touch base with, as long as the power stays on, and my assorted Internet connections stay up. I am a techie so I have redundant paths to the Internet and numerous backup batteries. As a kid we would have had the radio and TV, until the power went out, then we were alone and on our own. It didn't matter how many Three Musketeers bars my mother might offer us, we still felt alone and had no place to go.

When the storm had ceased we would go out and inspect the damage and the flooding. I can remember streets in my neighborhood where the water would be standing up to my knees. We would walk through it anyway, especially if there was no power and we had nothing better to do.

During these storm events I can remember the Hohokus brook would inevitably flood over its banks and people nearby would have to contend with a stream that was now on steroids. I have seen the improvements which have been made to the flood control system in and around the Hohokus brook and will be curious to hear how these modifications handled today's deluge.

Oh well, the only thing now is to wait and see, just like we did when we were younger. I think the fact that I recall Sunday storms in August infers they must have been memorable and somewhat traumatic. I'm sure this one will have its own set of difficult circumstances. What's more, now I am the adult and the one who must be brave. Wonder where the Three Musketeers bars are anyway?

Stay dry and indoors. The flooded streets will be there to wander through after the all clear has been sounded.

Randi Engle

This story was told to me by Russell Engle, RHS Class of 1977. It concerns his sister:

"Randi Engle is an Assoc. Prof. of Education at UC Berkeley. She just received tenure on July 1st. She is married with 2 daughters, ages 8 and 15.

With all the good things in her life, Randi has also been fighting pancreatic cancer for a year now, the condition was bad at that time. Though it hasn't stopped her P.C. research fundraising website at:

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/randi-engle/raisethecureforrandi

She's raised $42K so far and even traveled from Berkeley, CA to Wash, DC to lobby congress to increase federal funding. Thankfully, her disease is stable right now on the chemo she is taking."

Whenever I hear of story like this it makes me stop and wonder how I would handle the same situation. Would I lay down and stop fighting, or fight even harder like Randi has been doing? Nobody can say until they are placed in this sort of situation, and then their true character begins to show.

Glad to hear her condition is stable and I hope she keeps fighting as people like Randi are an inspiration to us all.

RHS Class of 1991 20th Reunion

The Official Reunion will be held at the Women's Club of Ridgewood, located near George Washington Middle School in Ridgewood, NJ. The Event will take place Saturday November 5th, 2011 from 7-11PM.

Tickets are $80.00 per person on or before September 15, 2011 and include beer, wine and a variety of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres. After September 15, 2011, the ticket price will increase to $90.00 per person. Guests are welcome and can be added to your ticket order online. Due to space and other restrictions, children, and/or anyone under the age of 21, are not permitted at this event.
We will have a special table set up where people can share business cards and gather to network and discuss business ventures. We hope that we can facilitate some valuable conversations and contacts among our fellow classmates. If you are interested in displaying any thing other than business cards, please go to the “contact us” link to send us a message with your contact information and a brief description of what you are interested in displaying. A reunion committee member will be in touch with you to discuss your request.

Overnight accomodations are available at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Paramus, NJ at a special rate of $99 per night. The rooms are blocked for both Friday and Saturday night. For reservations, please call (201) 262-6900 or visit the website: www.crowneplaza.com/paramus.
The Ridgewood Women’s Club is located at 215 West Ridgewood Avenue, Ridgewood, NJ 07450. It is close to mass transportation and within walking distance (less than ½ mile) from NJ Transit train/Ridgewood train station.

Broad Street 100 Years Ago

Thanks to our friends at the Ridgewood Patch! This is what Broad Street looked like roughly a century ago. Photo Credit Courtesy of the Bolger Heritage Center at the Ridgewood Public Library.





Ridgewood Patch Editor, James Kleimann:

"It's still known as the transit hub of Ridgewood, just as it was a century ago. But things have changed on Broad Street since the early 1900s, notably the name.

Back in 1906, the street that now houses Smith Brothers, Mediteraneo, Bagelicious and the train station was called "Rock Avenue" and even then featured some of the same landmarks that gives the thoroughfare its unique look.

According to a Ridgewood Herald article from June 28, 1906, property owners lobbied the village trustees to have the street changed to "Broad Street" though the reasons why were not disclosed in archives.

"Mr. Brackett opposed changing the names of streets but his was the only negative vote on a motion to instruct the counsel to prepare an ordinance complying with the request of the petitioners," the article stated."

Class of 1977 35th Reunion Weekend

My favorite poet, William Butler Yeats, penned a poem which I long ago committed to memory: "When You are Old."  It inspires me to this day, and hopefully will reveal to you the purpose and reason behind our 35th Reunion Weekend next summer. It begins, "When you are old and grey and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire…"

These lines suggest a comfort in old age. The poem also briefly traces the journey from youth to old age. It suggests we need to gather as many beautiful memories as we can during our short time on this planet. I hope this Reunion becomes just such a recollection for us all.

The Saturday night party will be held at the Marriott in Park Ridge, NJ on July 21st 2012 starting at 7PM.
Tickets are $95 and may be purchased online via our web site with a credit card or a PayPal account.
Rooms for both Friday and Saturday nights are $99.

More details regarding deadlines will be posted on our web site and on Facebook. Hope you all can make it.

August Days

It was always about this time of the summer when as a kid we used to feel out of sorts. The usual routines around school and friends had been broken, and the new school year was still a month away. We easily lost touch with our friends whenever someone went on vacation. We had no Internet or text messaging capabilities to tie us together like kids do these days. In August there always seemed like there was plenty of time, or too much time, and the days would sometimes drag.

This all wasn't a totally bad thing. The lack of routine combined with the oppressive heat of August always seemed to prompt one to do some brutal self-reckoning and maybe even take a chance or two like riding our bicycles through a different part of town or playing around with kids we previously had never hung around with. When we were old enough to drive there were trips to the Jersey Shore unaccompanied by adults. These sort of eye-opening activities seemed appropriate in August as we anticipated the coming of Labor Day and the beginning of the new school year.

In late August we always made a trip to MacHughs to buy new clothes for school. There was also a trip to Bill Lyons Shoe Store to buy shoes, and a trip to Perdues or Bernards to buy sneakers. These constants kept us grounded during this period. The malls had arrived and were beginning to grab our shopping attention but there was still enough customers for the local merchants.

The shopping also sparked our thinking once again about our friends from school, who might be our teachers, and who would be in our classes. I suppose we could have found out in advance if our parents had asked, but I doubt this would have alleviated our fear and excitement one iota. There was plenty of time before the natural flow of events would reveal these details. Besides, it was August and we were wearing shorts and often times were barefoot. There were BBQs still to attend, watermelon to eat, and fireflies to catch. All simple pleasures which would help propel us through the August Days of our youth.

Chris DuFlocq

Here is one we can brag about:
With the appointment last week of Chris DuFlocq to captain, the village now has a full staff of officers for the Ridgewood Fire Department.

Finite Possibilities

When we are in our teens and twenties, everything seems possible. Our bucket lists are endless, and  if we are lucky, our enthusiasm is equal to our lofty ambitions.

Something happens when we turn about thirty to relieve us of this self-imposed pressure. We are then free to recognize our limitations and chart a more realistic course for our lives.

I might have taken longer than most to come to this revelation, but I feel secure that my bucket list is much shorter than when I was 18 and much more doable.

This is very reassuring in the long run, and gives me the confidence to focus on things like our Class of 1977 35th Reunion. I hope to announce the exact time and place by the end of this week.

We have had so many stellar leaders of our past reunions that I feel guilty even asking them for help, because I know they will volunteer to do much more. To me, the responsibility for our reunions needs to be shared. I don't think that has been done in the past. Our reunions have been wonderful and many people are worthy of a "High Five" for their efforts.

The 35th Reunion is going to be lead by a new leader with a combination of old and new team members. I say this only because the past leaders are so dedicated that they might feel as guilty as I do for not participating more. This is a false supposition.

Let's be clear: If you worked on a past reunion, you are given a free pass on this reunion. This means you are a consultant only! The current team would be ignorant to not include your opinions. Please offer them freely.

The current status of the reunion is good. We only need to set the hotel and the price of the ticket. Please keep your email channels open, and watch our website and FaceBook page for details.


As always your comments and suggestions are welcome.

Peace,
Paul

4th of July

In the mind of a child, the Fourth of July ranks among the best days of the year. I always thought its place immediately after the last day of school did it justice. The village is in its glory on the 4th and throws a parade in the morning and a fireworks celebration at night, which make even the most jaded among us smile. The children who witness these events have no problem smiling at all. For the youngest of them watching the fireworks means they get to stay up past their school year bed time. This break from routine only adds to the excitement which a good fireworks display is always able to conjure up. If you are lucky enough to attend a BBQ in between the parade and the fireworks then falling asleep at the end of the day on the Fourth of July is no problem at all.

Hope you have a Happy Fourth of July.

End of June

I've always enjoyed the waning days of June. As a youth this meant that school was out and the summer months lay in front of me with all their wonderful possibilities. It has also always been the time when Jersey Blueberries hit the market, and for my money there are no better. The ones from Michigan are good but there is a hint of tartness in the Jersey variety which I find more to my liking.

The end of June means the 4th of July is near, with its parade and fireworks. In Ridgewood this has always been a huge tradition and probably the one day of the year where beers are openly consumed in public. I'm mostly talking about the people who watch the parade near the Railroad Station and grab some beers to go at Smith Brothers. We even did this the one year I was in the parade on the Graduating Seniors float. It was a hot day and the parade was moving at a glacial pace, so David Rorty and myself hopped off the float and bought a couple of six packs to go. We were back on the float and in the parade again so fast that we were barely missed.

June's closing for a working man may not hold the same possibilities it once had when we were young and anticipating where we might go and what we might do over the summer. It does give us the same pause on the 4th of July and if we are smart we'll buy all the Jersey blueberries we can and eat them until we can eat no more, then freeze the rest. When we defrost them sometime later, long after the blueberry season in Jersey is over, we can maybe for a moment recollect how good they were fresh and how much we enjoy looking forward to them each year.

Father's Day

My Dad always looked sheepish whenever Father's Day rolled around on the calendar. He spent 364 days a year providing for his family, paying for our educations, and being a fount of wisdom when we asked for his opinion. The fact there was a single day in the year designated to honor just such men as he was fine for the other Dads, but it put him at the center of attention and that was not something he was entirely comfortable with. I know how he feels and can relate to what he must have felt every year when we offered our tokens of appreciation and uttered the memorable phrase, "Happy Father's Day!"

This year my brothers and I came up with an idea which surely would have made him blush. We endowed a scholarship at Ridgewood High School in his honor. The John B. McCubbin Higher Education Scholarship will be given to a graduating senior each year who will be attending either college or trade school in the fall. The principal at RHS will make the selection of the boy or girl from a middle income family, with at least a B average, to receive the $1,000.

I know my Dad wouldn't have wanted his full name on the award, but we did it anyway. Thanks for all you did for us, Dad. We miss you.

School Spirit

Some people have it when they are in school and some people don't. Some people lose it after they graduate and some people kick themselves for not acknowledging it when they were in school.

I am referring to the emotional support one has for an educational institution. This is usually tied intrinsically to the town where you live. Unless you are a commuter student or attend a prep school, t one's feelings about a school are bound forever to the town.

I was lucky you could say because I had one town and one school system. I can see how hard it would be to develop an attachment for a place if it was one of a string of residences you lived in growing up.

One's school spirit is tested severely later in life by class reunions. Whether you admit it or not, everyone is concerned to a degree about how their lives have turned out when compared with the lives of their former classmates. I would readily admit this to anyone. Though I also know that once the reunion is over these comparisons become moot and I will return to comparing myself with my brothers, those I work with, and those I live around. These people are ubiquitous while those I see at reunions every five years or so who make me feel uncomfortable are more easily avoided.

The RHS Class of 1977 is planning a 35th reunion the weekend of July 20-22 2012. We have events starting on Friday night when the first performance of our Alumni All-Star band will be held at the Elks Club. Saturday morning at 11:00 AM we will have a student-led tour, the RHS Ambassadors will provide us a tour of the newly renovated Ridgewood High School. Saturday night at a 7:00 PM at a local hotel we will have the traditional reunion dinner with music, prizes and a great deal of picture taking I'm sure. Sunday afternoon we will have a picnic at Graydon and say our last goodbyes.

I am truly looking forward to this weekend. Not because I am so successful by any standard that I can fearlessly be compared with the accomplishments of my classmates, or because I am a social butterfly. No, the reason I want to go is to simply be in the presence of people who have known me longer than anyone outside my family. Some of these people will make me uncomfortable and some will bring joy to my heart. They will all remind me from whence I came. They will collectively serve as a touchstone and hopefully I'll gain some insight which will serve me well in the future. I guess that would sum up my reason for wanting to go, as scary as that might be.

RHS Class of 1977 Alumni Band

This idea was sent to me by Jim Velordi of the band Gypsies on Parole. It was seconded by Joanne Hunter. We have a lot of talented people and Jim thinks we need to add a Keyboardist and Bass player to the Alumni band he is envisioning. Jeff Robey and Chris Duflocq are squarely in Jim's sights.

 Let's this be a call to all musicians and singers in the Class of 1977. Let us know if you are interested.
Contact via this blog or our FaceBook page.

RHS Class of 1977 35th Reunion

We are in the planning stages as of today. Check out our Facebook page for possible dates and venues. We will gather people's views and then make a decision in a week or two.

RHS Class of 1977 Reunion Web Site

RHS Class of 1977 on FaceBook

Graydon Pool Early Birds

I've added a link to The Preserve Graydon Coalition to the sidebar under Ridgewood and Hohokus links. Here is an excerpt from their latest newsletter. Details for signing up to the newsletter can be found on their web site.

Be an Early Bird

Discounted prices (Ridgewood residents only) for Graydon badges will end after Saturday, May 21. Why not buy your badge now and pay less? Here's how:
Online, 24/7, through CommunityPass: http://ridgewoodnj.net/communitypass
          OR
In person THIS SATURDAY, May 14, and NEXT SATURDAY, May 21, 10 am to noon, badge office on the Graydon grounds
          OR
Age 62 and up: THIS THURSDAY, May 12, 9:30 am-12:30 pm, during Highlights in Leisure Time (HILT) meeting, Community Center, Village Hall, 131 N. Maple Ave., Ridgewood. Cash, check, Visa, and MasterCard accepted. Ridgewood seniors pay $15 (starting May 22: $20)
      
Full-price pool badges will be sold at the Graydon badge office starting June 4 during pool hours and through CommunityPass any time all summer.

More details: http://ridgewoodnj.net/graydon

Memories of 1974

Written by Guest Blogger Damian “Lou” Vidal RHS Class of 1978.

Memories are funny. Some like the birth of my children are vivid and almost tactile in form as the
images materialize in my head while others like my father’s funeral appear in a haze of emotion. Maybe it’s the content of our memories that makes the difference, maybe it’s the emotion, and maybe it’s both. Sometimes music or smells can pull you into a time warp of images that come rushing back like a flood bursting a dam.

Just a few Sundays ago my wife was cooking pancakes and my young seven year old son got up from bed and said to her “Mmm that smells good Mom” and as I smelled the same wonderful odor I remembered a similar day in my youth when I said a similar thing to my mother, the moment brought a smile to my face, memories are funny that way.

More and more as I get older it seems that the memories that hold their meaning to me are those that remind me of family and of friends. Even though it may be about something I was doing it always falls into the content of my memory because of those that were around me. It appears that what we are doing isn’t as important as who we were doing it with or for. I remember the first time I played touch football at Mount Carmel because of Bill DeMayo asking me if I wanted to play. I remember my first snowman because my older sister was telling me how it should be done. I remember the first time I dove off the high dive at Graydon Pool because of Joe Schroeder’s incessant ribbing that I wouldn’t. All those memories bring back a feeling of joy and happiness that are engraved in my essence. It is a time of innocence that I often think about and sometimes miss.

Funny how job promotions or bonuses or making a great deal of money don’t create any everlasting flashbacks in me, we seem to place such value on the material things in our lives yet it appears that what really counts are the relationships, and the emotions we attach to them. It seems that what matters most are those moments with people that retrospectively ripple back like waves in time crossing the pond of our lives.

 The other day I was going through some old photo albums and found a picture of one of those moments in time. It is 1974 and I am in ninth grade and I am doing one of those things that as young boys we loved about school, going to gym and playing for the love of it. There is no championship, no trophy, and no scholarships on the line, just the bragging rights for that afternoon and the feeling that you were the greatest athlete ever if you won. I have no idea where these boys are today, I hope and pray all are well, but they will forever exist in my memory as the teammates and opponents in a do or die game of flag football on a sunny fall day in the field across from GW JR. HIGH.

From right to left:

In the wonderfully stylish 70’s print shirt, Sam Ward, The massive Jim Foody getting ready to break
some bones, The diminutive Mike Travers who had a heart as big as the Titanic, great soccer player! The cool and collected Chip Conklin. The always smiling, I know you can’t see him, Chris Holmes, and me, an average kid with average talent who always gave it 101%, Damian “Lou” Vidal.

Thoughts and Memories of Graydon Pool

My memories of Graydon Pool are happy ones, anchored in the 1960s and 70s, of learning how to swim, water fights, 10 cent Good Humor Ice Cream, and of a group of stay-at-home Moms who would collectively watch us from morning until mid-afternoon.

I have always believed that the Village has done a fine job acting as Steward of the land which was willed to the Village and we know as Graydon Pool. Though times change and so has my opinion of the job the Village is currently doing.

The metrics I use to judge the Village are now quite different then the ones I used as a youth. As a child it was simple to say that if the pool was open, the lifeguards led by Richard Flectner were keeping order, and the Good Humor truck showed up that all was well. You would expect such judgments from a youth.

Today I offer 3 standard measures to assess the performance of the Village, and I offer them to everyone when judging the success or failure of Graydon Pool under its current administrative leaders.

1. Does Graydon make any money for the Village? No, according to reports it costs the Village $100,000 a year to maintain 365 Days a year.
2. Is the Graydon Pool membership on the rise or in a decline? All reports say it is in a decline and that members can now sponsor members from other towns in order to try and make up the difference.
3. Can Graydon be used for any functions during the other seasons of the year? In the spring and fall the muck and mire prevents any use of the pool grounds. In the winter at one time we ice skated on the pool, but I'm not sure if that's allowed anymore.

Now that you can see I am coming down hard on our current leaders you might ask what suggestion do I have to make in order to improve the situation.

I know of no law that says the Village must be the one to provide the money for operational support of Graydon Pool. The Village does it and with mixed results. If you follow this reasoning then why not consider offering to lease the Pool to a private professional organization on a renewable 10 year lease with strict covenants set forth by the Village.  

In return for the rights to run the pool the private operator would pay a mutually agreed to rent and would be asked to sponsor at least one town initiative like fund raising for the Library, or planting flowers in Van Neste Square Park, or supplying a boys and girls baseball team with equipment and uniforms. These are all details which would be negotiated with the winner of a transparent bidding process.

As we all know private companies advertise and under a plan like this we would see a corporate logo on things like pool signage and badges. The private operator likely would consider a refreshment stand with logos on their napkins and cups. They might even open a merchandise stand to sell t-shirts, towels, and other pool related items. Other ideas they might try could include giveaways of merchandise with sponsors names plastered on things like sand shovels and buckets.

Now the touchstone by which the advertising would be judged could be carefully spelled out in advance. My preference would be to keep it as low key as the names on all the baseball uniforms worn by boys and girls in the Ridgewood Baseball Association. Or maybe something along the lines of the Coca-Cola logo on the High School Football Scoreboard. Anything more garish than these suggestions would be crossing the line in my opinion.

There will no doubt be a legal challenge to any proposal which tries to change the intent of the original will that Graydon be a park. Though I don't believe that relieving the town of its self-imposed obligation to provide operational support would compromise the park in any way. What's more its goal would be to create a financially sound operation. Graydon Pool would remain the same beautifully designed, tranquil setting that it has always been. As well as remaining a huge storage area for flood waters. The big difference would be that professionals would be running the show.

Thoughts on Ridgewood Library Funding

As a lifetime lover of libraries I read with piqued interest in The Ridgewood Patch the recap of last nights Village Council meeting. This is an excerpt pertaining to the Ridgewood Public Library:

"Friends and trustees of the Ridgewood Public Library also took the floor to again express public support for the institution and the council said it was willing to give $35,000 of Director Nancy Greene's request of just over $75,000, which she has said if not granted will lead to closures over the summer."

It made me wonder why an institution which is transformational as well as informational is always having to go hat in hand to these meetings and seemingly never receives the full amount they ask for to keep the doors open.

Libraries not only provide information but they provide a space where people can dream and aspire to better themselves and the community around them. It is my fervent hope that the Village might see that given the chance to transform their residents they might make better citizens, and then possibly be capable of paying more taxes.

The problem here just might be that the voting public is not seeing the connection between how they perceive the library and the support they give the library. If they saw it as an incubator of new ideas and new ways of doing things, which could result in higher tax receipts, then they might not be so reluctant to fully fund the operations of the library. It's not as if there is a scandalous amount of waste going on or that Librarians are grossly overpaid.  This has never been the issue, yet the underfunding continues and it makes me wonder what people are thinking.

Thoughts About Valley Hospital Expansion

As someone who used to live in Ridgewood (over 30 years ago) I do know something of the layout of Valley Hospital and can understand how after repeated expansions over these last 30 years since I have been gone, some people might be saying enough is enough.

To my way of thinking there are 4 options to consider:

1. Allow further expansion on the current site. I haven't seen the plans and will only say that the area which Valley occupies is looking fully developed to my untrained eye.
2. Disallow further expansion on the current site. The common wisdom as I understand it is that hospitals need to be big to establish their reputations, to attract the best professionals to work within them, and to provide the most modern care to their patients. Putting an end expansion might go in the face of this common wisdom. Only time would tell.
3. Close Valley Hospital. This is ridiculous but I have seen hospitals closed in my neighborhood in Forest Hills because they were not big enough and had no room to expand. I wouldn't wish this on Ridgewood for anything.
4. Build a Valley Hospital Annex on another site. According to reports this is what is currently going on in the background of this discussion on expansion. Valley Hospital according to North Jersey.com:

"is in the process of acquiring the Community Blood Services building in Paramus, where it plans to provide treatment and cardiac rehab as well as conduct research, hospital officials confirmed."

If you know this site as I do then you might see the possibilities for the building of an annex. It would require tearing down an old shopping mall and some zoning variances to build a true hospital, though it would give Valley Hospital all the room it needed. The biggest issue the hospital would then face is who would initially have to work in the new facility. At the moment they are moving some rehabilitation and research down to the Community Blood Services building. If and when further expansion commenced there would certainly be plenty of internal fighting at Valley Hospital as to who has to move. This is fairly common in all lines of business when an expansion is proposed. The inevitable result is some people won't feel like they are in the loop when they have to work at the Annex and will find the commute to be inconvenient, especially in a snow or rain storm.

It almost looks to me that the people who favor expansion are throwing in the towel by this acquisition of the Community Blood Services building in Paramus and know that they can't win a fight to expand at the current location.

New Track at BF

For all of you who follow Track and Field or who once participated while in the Ridgewood School System, there is great news to share about the new track at BF Junior High School. According to Tom Thurston, who was our Track Captain in 1977 along with Andy Drapkin, this is "probably the nicest HS track and field facility in northern NJ."

To take a look click  here

You will be taken to Jacob Brown's web site. Yes, he is still a coach at RHS and is looking pretty good by all accounts and pictures. It must be the exercise and healthy living which he teaches.

When you see a track as fast as the one now at BF, it makes old time runners like me and Tom wonder how much faster we might have run if we hadn't been running on cinders and a 300 something yard track. It's pretty comical to consider what we had to compete on in the 1970s and earlier. This photo of Larry Coyle shows the kind of track we ran on, though I'm not sure if this was taken in Ridgewood.

More Baseball Fields

As a rapid Baseball fan and someone who played in seemingly thousands of games (pickup and organized) as a youth growing up in Ridgewood in the 1960s and 70s, it would seem to be logical for me to support the proposal to develop the Village's Shedler property near Route 17 for ball fields and walking paths.

Though in light of constrained budgets, decreasing levels of services, and the expectation of further tax increases I can only agree with the mayor. According to the Ridgewood Patch:

"Mayor Killion says village services should be restored, infrastructure improved before considering development of fields, which he says were never promised."

Schedler, a 7-acre property off Route 17 the Village purchased with bonds totaling $2 million with the inclusion of a recent grant, is earmarked to become a passive park.  Though even a passive park requires its grass to be regularly cut, its baseball diamond raked, its trash cans to be emptied, and its environs patrolled by the police. This all costs money as anyone will tell you.

My greatest for concern for my old home town is that unless new sources of tax and general revenue income can be developed, this latest field might very well end up like the ball fields at Willard School I played on as a youth: filled with weeds, trash, and  clay infields which couldn't absorb even a normal rain fall.

I only hope the Village Council considers some new ideas for increasing the Village coffers. Whether it is Cell Phone Towers, Advertising on Village property, or programs to decrease costs like the one developed by RHS Students for Environmental Action Club which has saved taxpayers thousands of dollars by regularly turning off classroom lights at RHS on Friday afternoons.

Moms and Baseball

As I am reminded by the author of the Watching The Game blog, Judy Van Sickle Johnson, it's not only fathers and sons who share memories of playing or watching baseball together.  My Mom easily saw just about every baseball game I ever played, including Summer Recreation Softball. If she ever missed one of my games it would have been because she was attending one of my brother's games instead.

My Mom still likes baseball and even watches the Little League World Series broadcast live from Williamsport, Pennsylvania each summer on ESPN. Now that is a fan!

The only live games she sees now are of my nephew in Los Angeles. He did not disappointment this past month when she was visiting LA on her 80th birthday. My nephew hit 2 home runs and pitched a complete game victory for his team. She couldn't have been happier if a time machine had transported her back to Ridgewood in the late 1960s and she had seen one of her own sons in action.

Turning Off The Lights

When I read in the Ridgewood Patch about how the RHS Students for Environmental Action Club was saving the taxpayers thousands of dollars, I had one of those, "Why didn't we do this when I was young?" moments. Their idea is a simple one, but takes perseverance and good record keeping. Every Friday afternoon as soon as school is over they split up in teams and turn out all the lights in all the classrooms.

According to Victoria Pan, a junior at Ridgewood High School and the co-president of Students for Environmental Action (SEA), an RHS club,

"Turn Off the Lights is a project in which our club turns off all the classroom lights at the end of the week. Every Friday after school, we basically “raid” the school, turning off all the light switches in the classrooms.

We measure our progress by keeping track of all the lights in our school and using charts to monitor their on/off status. At the end of each raid, I compile the results from the students. We continuously examine the monthly electricity bills every few months or so to check for reductions in energy costs. I’ve been consistently running this project every week for more than a year, and so far, it has saved the school thousands of dollars in electricity costs!"

What a brilliant idea! (pun intended).

The Ridgewood Guild

"The health of a democratic society may be measured by the quality of functions performed by private citizens." Alexis de Tocqueville

With the words of Tocqueville in mind, it was good to hear about the new, non-profit organization which was formed in Ridgewood.  The Ridgewood Guild " encourages smaller and more aesthetic projects, says Scott Lief, president of the Ridgewood Chamber of Commerce, such as planting flowers to adorn the empty tree wells in the business district and auditioning volunteer musicians to play acoustic repertoires at eight locations on the east and west sides of the village on Fridays through August.. This past April 27th was the first ever Ridgewood Film Festival held at Warner Theater."

From their website:

The Ridgewood Guild is an exciting new organization dedicated to making Ridgewood a more enjoyable place to shop, dine and visit. Our board is made up of a group of high-energy, hard working individuals who plan to make a difference. Because we have no rent, overhead, or salaries to pay, our annual dues are minimal. This gives us the opportunity to give back to the community via a carefully planned out series of events, fundraisers and marketing strategies.

The Guild's membership includes retailers, restaurateurs, non-profits, professionals and residents who have an interest in seeing our village thrive. We are always looking for ideas and suggestions, so don't hesitate to contact us. We hope you will join us!

201-493-9911 • ridgewoodguild@aol.com


Future Events

Spring Film Festival
Wednesday, April 27th and Thursday, April 28th
Ridgewood Clearview Cinema
Check our Film Festival page for entry information. More details coming soon....

Music in The Night
Our Downtown music series begins Friday, May 6th and runs every Friday night through July 29th.

Mom's the Word
Saturday, May 7th

Dads & Grads
Saturday, June 18th

Movies in The Park
Wednesday, July 6th and Wednesday, July 20th

Autumn in Ridgewood House Tour
Thursday, October 13th
(This is shaping up to be a fabulous event. More information coming soon....)

Cell Phone Towers in Ridgewood

First it was the installation of solar panels on utility poles and now it is cell phone towers which are making headlines in Ridgewood. Both are technological advances designed to make our lives more sustainable and convenient so on first glance why are residents making such a fuss?

Of course, it is easy for me to judge as I live in Forest Hills, NY and have towers all around me, as well as jets from La Guardia airport passing overhead on a regular basis. You could say this makes me immune to the beauty of nature and the tranquility of a quiet day. Though I knew what I was getting into when I moved here and scenic beauty and quiet afternoons were not part of the bargain of living in the Big Apple.

My hunch is that residents of Ridgewood are up in arms because the rules of the Village are seemingly being changed. I'm not here to argue about Master Plans or the particulars of zoning laws. I'll just point out that if you asked a resident whether they ever thought there would be solar panels in their southern facing front yards or cell phone towers on empty lots, they probable would have said no. It's not part of the idyllic image which Ridgewood cultivates so carefully.

It will be interesting to see how this works out, especially in an era where sources of new tax revenue are few and far between. These cell phone towers do bring in rental money and once you put up one for T-Mobile the other Telco Carriers will come with their checkbooks open. I could see this as being hard for a cash-strapped village government to turn down.

Gum Day

I actually had a teacher in the 6th grade, Miss Jensen, who would let us chew gum on Fridays. It was called Gum Day and you had to be on your best behavior and sitting in the book reading area of the classroom. This section had a couple of old comfy chairs and was screened off from the windows so passer-bys wouldn't see this limited bit of anarchy which was going on in our classroom.

This truly was an anomaly I believe for any classroom in Ridgewood. I can't think of any other teacher in my thirteen years spent in the Ridgewood Public Schools who condoned the chewing of gum during school hours.

Gum chewing was confined to after school where some of us learned to blow bubbles to various degrees of dexterity. I never learned to blow a bubble because I didn't like the taste of Bazooka Bubble Gum which was the standard by which all bubbles were judged. I liked the gum which came in the nickel packs of baseball cards ( 5 cards and a stick of gum). Though it was inferior bubble blowing gum so I would either chew it or throw it away.

Some of you may even remember the introduction of sugarless gum and one preposterous commercial produced by Dentyne. In the ad they stated, that if you chewed Dentyne after a meal you didn't need to brush your teeth. It went to show how brazen a fraud some companies were willing to try on a gullible public. This commercial lasted for months before being pulled from the airwaves after protests from dentists and parents alike.

Teaching Cursive Writing

Cursive writing was taught to everyone in the Ridgewood School System usually in the third grade. We were admonished to write our signatures neatly as this would likely be the same style we would use for the rest of our lives.

Implied in this warning was the strongly held opinion that something we did now would have repercussions much later in our lives. The same thing was said about cracking one's knuckles but to this was adding a warning about some hideous deformity which would surely afflict one's hands if you continued to crack your knuckles.

I heeded the second warning but am one of many I know who has let their cursive skills atrophy. The fear now is that with the use of computers some students many never learn cursive, except to sign their names. This would be a shame as there is an artistic skill which can inherently be taught along with cursive writing, even if I am not an art lover who makes this a personal practice.

Some educators are going as far as to complain that children are "losing time where they create beauty every day." These same people have a hard time making this a practical argument for cursive. Probably because they are mourning the beauty and the aesthetics of an increasingly lost artistic skill as well as an ability to read historical documents like the US Constitution in its original form.

Though this begs the question whether cursive is a 21st century skill. I am on the fence as to whether it is one. I do remember being kept after school because my handwriting was bad, though a lot of good this did me.

I have no problem with the teaching of cursive if it is placed in the context that those who learn to write by hand learn better. I recall it mostly as a rote exercise devoid of attempts at creating something appealing to gaze at or that by learning to write clearly by hand would make me a more capable student in the future.

Sometimes all it takes is a change of context for a seemingly cryptic lesson to become, in the words of the poet John Keats "a thing of beauty." In the end the argument for teaching cursive might come down to whether we want to teach our children be added that a thing of beauty can also be a joy for ever.

Solar Panels in Ridgewood

It's hard for an outsider like myself to come down on either side of the argument about the aesthetics of solar panels being mounted on PSE&G utility poles in Ridgewood. Our old house didn't have the southern exposure these panels require so we probably wouldn't have had a quarrel to pick. Though I can see how they might be an eyesore to some who once had a view and now found they were on the frontline in the fight to expand the use of clean energy in New Jersey. There hasn't been much warning according to reports in today's New York Times. People say they have left their homes for a few hours and returned to find the solar panels installed and the installers long gone.

There is talk in the village of steering the installations to the roofs of schools and that to me makes sense. As a matter of prudent public policy and as a teaching moment for students, placing them on the flat roofs of the public schools might very well be the best solution. Nobody is talking badly about solar power in general it's just how they look in someone's front yard and how that might lower the value of the property. If the installation of solar panels somehow lowered homeowner's property taxes there might be a line of people volunteering their utility poles. It might be difficult to place a dollar value on a view from one's front window but given enough incentive I bet people would name a price where suburban aesthetics could be bought.

HDTV

Let's be clear about one thing: no matter how much I might characterize the 1960s and 70s as a golden time to grow up in Ridgewood, there is still one thing without question which is better now: TV. We had channels 2,4,5,7,9,11,13, and the UHF (Ultra High Frequency) if you wanted to be adventurous. We had mostly black and white sets with rabbit ears and there was no cable or remote controls.

Today I can lay in bed at night and watch my Yankees live in HD (High Definition) or record them and watch something else. I can mute the sound at my whim and channel surf to my heart's content. It would probable do my heart good to get up and change the channels and volume like we used to do, but I'm not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. The fact that the picture is so sharp you can see the players sweat just adds to the experience.

While TV has become better it has also become a more personalized and solitary experience. Sure we still gather around the TV on occasion but with no where near the frequency as when we watched rockets blast off into space or for funeral processions of slain presidents. We don't even pay attention to the commercials anymore and nobody gets a laugh by repeating Alka Seltzer catch phrases like, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing" or even Wendys, "Where's the Beef?"

I'm not the one to judge whether this loss of a collective memory of what was on TV the night before is good or bad. It likely is just another sign of the times and what most people call progress. Nobody I know wants to give up their remote, or their cable connection, or HDTV and trade for an old black and white. Though I bet someone in the future will draw the connection between the obesity epidemic in this country and the introduction of the TV remote control. I don't believe we are watching more TV we are just naturally not getting up as often as we used to in order to change channels or fuss with the antennas. All those calories we used to burn are one day going to be estimated and give everyone pause for thought.

Baseball Played Without The Lines and Bases

It is impossible to travel through Ridgewood these days and not marvel at all the well groomed ball fields. There are more now than when I was growing up and they are infinitely better cared for by the Village. I am glad for the children living close by as these are good places for them to learn about life and the fine lines of differences between us all.

I can recall as a youth how when it rained the Willard School field would flood and the water would stand for days. It would produce a mud, in the outfield particularly, which made for many comical moments for these unlucky enough to have the outfield as their position. We called it the "Creek Mud" and one unlucky soul even had this nickname awarded to him after one very memorable slide through the creek mud in an attempt to field a ball.

It's funny to me now how our games were played with rags for bases, foul lines which were approximated and always a source of contention, and with various patches of grass in the outfield that no suburban homeowner would ever allow to grow on their property. All of these obstacles didn't deter our desire to play baseball. These were just incorporated into our games and became variations on a theme which could be played with a full contingent on each side or with half the outfield designated as foul territory. If somebody who didn't know the rules of the game had watched us all day they would have become quite confused as to what we were doing. You see, baseball could be played off the wall, off the steps, with a kickball, on a stickball court, and on any manner of baseball diamond we might configure. We might play with a hard ball, softball, red kickball, wiffle ball, or tennis ball. It was all the same to us, but to a stranger it would have been a real head-scratcher for someone to say them that we were all playing the same game.

RHS Class of 1973 40th Reunion

According to the folks on the planning committee of the RHS class of 1973 40th Reunion"

"Well we got together back in December for our first 40th reunion meeting - after all the laughs and inevitable memories and a few drinks we finally talked about places.

Attending were John Wescott, Frank Petrucci, Terri Dimodugno, Jack Wolfstirn and Rick Flannery (missing that day was Tom O'Connor). We met at the Village Grill in Waldwick. We will be meeting again in April! Frank is back in New Jersey!! Frank's another one of those ageless classmates - can you age please!

Hey you're not gonna want to miss this one everybody - its gonna be good! Teachers will be there too!"

Godzilla

A contribution from Jim Schoneman, RHS class of 1974


When older men recall their younger days, there is a tendency towards a selective ransacking of thoughts. It’s not intentional. More likely it has to do with survival. After five or more decades, if we were to remember everything as it actually happened, and then put it all together in one collective notion, many of us would volunteer to spend the rest of our lives in prison. Bill Heavey had it right when he said "that memory doesn’t give a damn what you think." We should be thankful for that.

But there are certain memories that withstand the whack job we politely call “time.” Some of those moments, and one in particular, I recall with clarity. But hardly anybody believes me, because there’s no such thing as a hundred pound snapping turtle.

Several years ago I was out fishing some northern Wisconsin back bay with a friend. Dean and I had been fishing partners for many years, and all you need to know about him is that when the game warden shows up, you want Dean in your boat.Dean and I have a longstanding agreement that if his ploy doesn’t work, then I’ll pay the fine.

We were fishing in early June, and even though the ice had gone out only a month previous, the weeds in this bay had already started to clog its warmer and quieter water; but that’s where the fish were. We casted the edge of the weeds and picked up some perch and bluegills, and the occasional walleye. Then the snapper showed up. By any measure, he was a big snapper; and we watched him while he quietly circled our boat, acting as if he had some previous experience with a fisherman’s leftovers.

When a snapping turtle is in the water, you can only see the top of the turtle’s shell and his snout sticking out above the surface. As a result, the best way to gauge size is to eyeball the distance between the snout and the part of the shell that is visible. Based on our hayseed assessment, it was clear that this was a high ranking cooter.

Dean was impressed. So much so that he put down his walleye rod and proceeded to rig up his hefty musky pole with the strongest and thickest hook he could find. He grabbed a sickly bluegill from the livewell, threaded it onto the hook, and threw it within striking distance of the snapper. Anticipating some form of prehistoric entertainment ahead, I sat down in the boat and popped open a Blatz. As an afterthought, I told Dean that he was going to need a stronger hook.

The snapper took the bait, and Dean managed to drag it to within 10 feet of the boat before it became aware of the minor inconvenience. Then the turtle simply dove into the weeds and dug his claws into the mucky bottom. It was slight bother for the submerged turtle, but above water Dean was picking himself up off the floor of the boat. The turtle had floored him, and he reeled in his slack line to find that his hook was now shaped like a fat toothpick.

“Did you see the size of that monster?!” Dean said. I had, and I was feeling quite satisfied when he was reminded of my warning about the need for a stronger hook. After reassuring Dean that he sure was a big old thing, I took another swig of Blatz, and silently reflected on that other turtle; the one I had seen and battled 30 years earlier. There was no point in mentioning it to Dean. It would only serve to spoil his queerly glorious turtle moment. I knew how Dean felt.

Back at the tavern, Dean proceeded to regale the patrons with the story of his turtle battle. It was fun to listen to, if only because Dean was a good teller of tales. But there came a point when the nonsense needed to be silenced, and I interrupted his story and told him, and everyone else in the bar, that I had once hooked into a hundred pounder. Then I held up my arm and stretched out my fingers, and pointed to the area between my elbow and fingertips. And then I said “His front foot was that big, and his claws were as long as my fingers.”

That got everyone’s attention, because this was a fisherman’s bar, and everyone in there knew that there’s no such thing as a hundred pound snapper, with claws as big as your fingers. Now I had to back up my preposterous claim with an even more preposterous story. But that was easy, because this story was true. I had once hooked into Godzilla.

Around the time South Vietnam fell to the communists, I got a job as a summer camp counselor. That would put me there about 1974 or ‘75, depending on which side you talked to. The camp was located in Harriman State Park, in lower New York state, and was situated on the banks of tiny Lake Stahahe.

Lake Stahahe was a small mounatin lake, perhaps 100 acres in surface area. It was long and narrow, and about 20 feet in its deepest hole. At its northern end there was a concrete dam that held back a ten foot head of water; so in its original state, Lake Stahahe was probably no more than a wet pothole, surrounded by bog. Once through the dam, the waters of Stahahe Brook flowed north, until it reached the upper stretch of the Ramapo River.

There were several small, rocky islands at the lake’s southern and deeper end. The biggest island we called Blueberry Island. It was simply a granite formation that for thousands of years had been nurturing a patch of wild blueberries. They tasted good in the pancakes.

This whole scene, including the pancakes, was nestled in a wild and comfortable valley of the Ramapo Mountains.

I worked the waterfront at the camp, and taught swimming and canoeing to poor kids from the South Bronx, and rich kids from Long Island and the Jersey suburbs. It was on this waterfront that I first heard of Godzilla.

Every summer camp has its legends of ghosts and goblins and escaped madmen who would dismember you in the dark if you misbehaved, but this camp had an advantage when it came to spook stories. It was only 20 miles from there, at a place called Sleepy Hollow, that Washington Irving was inspired to write about that headless apparition, riding on a horse. The Headless Horseman. There was something about the mountains and valleys and forests of the Ramapo and Catskill ranges, especially at dusk or dawn, that made a guy consider that a zombie with a hatchet could actually be waiting for you in the dim and misty twilight. It also helped having the Appalachian Trail run right through the camp. The only people who walked that trail were the deranged and parasitic type, and sometimes they’d get lost and ask us for spooky directions. But none of this has much to do with turtles.

What made Lake Stahahe truly unique, at least back in those days, was its infestation with Eurasian Milfoil. Sometime during the mid 20th century, some hunyak decided it would be a good idea to plant a sprig of the aquatic weed in his fish aquarium. Then, after he had emigrated to America, his fish died. So he flushed his dead fish, and the aquarium water, down the toilet. Somehow, some of that water ended up in Lake Stahahe, and the milfoil spores got together and decided to settle and build a colony. 40 years later, those of us living in the upper Midwest know that the rest is history.

Eurasian Milfoil is bad for lakes, but the turtles seem to like it.

My introduction to Godzilla came on my first day on the waterfront dock. It was during Class 1, Lesson A, of the Red Cross Introduction to Canoeing (RCIC) course. Being a recent graduate of the Red Cross Certified Canoeing Instructor (RCCCI) course, I was proud owner of an RCCCI manual. For Lesson A of the RCIC course, the manual said that the instructor should simply place the student inside the canoe, hand him a paddle, and then give the canoe a good shove.

My first two students sailed away smartly, but the third one, Norbert, was not cooperating. I pointed his canoe north, towards the dam, but as I prepared him for take-off Norbert grabbed the gunwales and started screaming “Don’t send me there! That’s where Godzilla is!!!”

I leafed through my RCCCI manual and scanned it for anything helpful, but there was nothing found in the index that even hinted at how to deal with a student who’s afraid of Godzilla. I did find an index entry relating to how to deal with a gunwale grabber, but that had more to do with the simple fear of water. The Red Cross had not considered that a fear of giant, fire blowing, Japanese dinosaurs might present itself as an obstacle to canoe instruction.

My partner on the dock, Larry, heard the commotion and came over to lend a hand. “What’s the screaming about?” he asked. I told Larry that I was simply pointing Norbert in a canoeable direction when he started screaming something about Godzilla. Larry replied, “Oh. Well, you can’t send them that way Jim. Godzilla’s down there.”

Larry was kind enough to elaborate, and he explained that Godzilla was a monster snapping turtle. He lived down by the dam, in the milfoil, and had been around for as long as anyone could remember. On occasion he would come out of the weeds and infiltrate the camper’s fishing hole. From the small and well worn platform of granite and sand above the hole, where the campers would stand and fish, he could be seen on the bottom, six feet down; and all you could see were his giant, white claws. Larry held up his hand, stretched out his fingers and said “His claws are as long as my fingers.”

Over the course of the summer I would often find myself fishing with the campers at the fishing hole. It was right next to the dam. Being next to the dam allowed for a decent flow of water, so the milfoil had never been allowed to take root. The water was clear, and it was loaded with fat bluegills. It was a good fishing hole. Godzilla thought so too, because he was a frequent visitor. He’d be on the bottom, six feet down; and except for those huge white claws, all you could see would be a ghostly shadow of his gargantuan head and carapace. For the kids on the rocks, it was a singular experience. You would overhear many youthful exclamations of the word “Wow!” expressed in various moods and tenses. And then you would see campers holding up their hands, and stretching out there fingers.

Godzilla would never be able to crawl out of the water and show himself completely. For without the benefit of the water’s neutral buoyancy, the shear mass of his body and shell would cause him to be crushed by normal gravity. But there came a day when Godzilla did show himself, at least a part of himself, above water. On that day, out in the milfoil patch, Godzilla stuck his snout up through the weeds. We were standing on the shore and watching, and he was watching us. Based on the size of that snout, it could be none other than the beast himself.

It was time for quick thinking. None of us had a rig suitable for this task. There was no fishing pole on earth that would volunteer for this job. I ran to my tackle box and rifled through its contents, looking for the hook that I knew was in there. And there it was. A zinc plated, galvanized steel triple hook, in size 3/0. It wasn’t necessarily large, but it was thick – and very strong. That hook had served me well at that trout farm back in New Jersey, under cover of darkness. That hook served only one purpose. It was never intended for legal sport.

Now we needed line. Line? This wasn’t a job for “line.” This was a job for rope, or cable or…lanyard string! This was a summer camp. Not only did we make a lot of lanyards, but we had lanyard string holding up our tents. We used it as clotheslines and climbing ropes. We even used it once to tow a 400 pound tombstone off the premises. It was amazing stuff. It looked like a flimsy plastic fiber, about the thickness of yarn, but it was reinforced with some kind of tungsten steel belting that made it extremely strong. I ordered one of the campers to head up to the Arts & Crafts cabin and grab about 30 yards of lanyard string. He returned quickly with the required amount – in green.

I hurriedly threaded the lanyard string through the hook, and told one of the campers to tie one of those strong knots he was supposed to have learned in Frontier Class. We were all acting as a cohesive unit, working quickly and efficiently, and casting fleet glances out to the milfoil to make sure the snout was still there.

The hook was now rigged, and I called for bait. “I need a lively bluegill!” Within seconds, a brightly colored six incher was impaled on the hook. I gave the loose end of the lanyard string to a camper to hold, and then I took that bluegill and gave him a mighty heave. It landed one foot from Godzilla, and it flopped as it lay on top of the heavy carpet of milfoil. It was a perfect shot.

My memory seems to recall that time stood still, and maybe it did. We watched the flopping bluegill, and we watched Godzilla. He was either going to pull his head back under the weeds, or he was going to advance on the bluegill. He chose the latter, and his front legs slowly pulled him through the thick milfoil. When he approached within striking distance, he paused and sniffed the air. And then, as fast as lightning, he opened his jaws and struck.

On shore, the camper holding the other end of the lanyard string held his poise. He would have made a good Marine. We all watched, and patiently waited, as Godzilla took several healthy chomps out of that poor fish. When we were confident that Godzilla had reached the hook, I gave the go-ahead to start pulling.

The camper took up slack and the lanyard string came taught. He pulled, and pulled some more, and even though we could see the camper was pulling with all he had, Godzilla wouldn’t budge.

We were now confident that the hook was firmly lodged in Godzilla’s bony jaw. It was time to put a bit more muscle into this turtle tug-of-war. I took over as chief turtle puller. I wrapped the lanyard string several times around my hand, and grabbed that hand with my other hand. I faced Godzilla, and began to walk slowly backwards on the gravel shoreline.

Godzilla began to part the milfoil. The lanyard string held. As Godzilla sensed his peril he began to backpaddle clumsily, but to no avail. As we pulled him closer to shore, we could see the full outline of his massive carapace. He was as big as a camper’s torso, and twice as thick. He had to weigh at least 100 pounds. But it was becoming clear that Godzilla’s last chapter was being written. I heaved back with all my might, and it was over. Godzilla had reached terra firma. He was out of his element.

What we didn’t realize was that it was all a trick. Godzilla was simply biding his time until his feet could touch the bottom. When he was in about two feet of water he was able to dig his claws into the gravely basin. It was never a contest. Like a Sherman tank, he backed up and never stopped. I had all my weight against the lanyard string, and the next thing I knew I was flat on my ass.

Godzilla had floored me, and as I reeled in the slack lanyard string, I saw that the number of barbs on my triple hook had been reduced by one third. He had broken the hook.

I stood up and joined the campers at the shoreline. We watched Godzilla slowly fade into the depths, and disappear into the forest of milfoil. And then he was gone.

**********

Twenty five years later, I had two little campers of my own, and on a spring day in Wisconsin the boys and I found ourselves exploring the edge of a nearby cattail marsh. As we walked along the cattails, one of the boys found a tiny turtle. He picked it up, and came running over to show it to me. It was a baby snapper, no bigger than a silver dollar. The boys wanted to take him home and keep him for a pet, and daddy was more than happy to oblige.

We named him Godzilla.

When we got home, we found the old 10 gallon aquarium and filled it with water. We threw some sand and gravel in the bottom, and dropped baby Godzilla into the tank. We watched him swim happily around, and then he got tired and rested on the bottom.

After I tucked the boys into bed, I told them the story about my adventures with the real Godzilla, and I explained to them that if they took real good care of their baby Godzilla, he might grow up to be a hundred pounds too. They were quiet, and they listened, and they looked into daddy’s eyes as only young boys can; and then they fell asleep.

As I closed their bedroom door, I took one more look at baby Godzilla. He was sleeping peacefully too.

**********

Aw, Jim. What a sweet ending to this story. Your little boys, falling asleep with baby Godzilla, while daddy tells a story.

Well…yeah. That is pretty sweet, but the story isn’t finished yet.

When we woke up in the morning, we all raced to the aquarium to look at baby Godzilla. He was still resting peacefully on the bottom of the tank. But this morning his eyelids seemed to be a little pale, and his shell had turned white. Oh no.

As God is my witness, I thought turtles could swim. When I saw baby Godzilla sleeping peacefully the night before on the bottom of the tank, I figured that when he needed to take a breath, he’d simply swim to the surface and get one; just like Flipper. The thought had never occurred to me that placing a turtle in deep water, and inside a glass lined canyon, meant certain death. I had not provided safe sanctuary, meaning a rock that would let him climb out of the water - and breathe. I had visions of poor baby Godzilla scratching against the glass all night, trying to gain a foothold somewhere, and then giving up, and drowning.

So I had managed to kill Godzilla after all, but not in a manner that I would dare tell in a fisherman’s tavern. I’m really not sure if the boys have ever forgiven me for that blunder. But they’re adults now, and will have to live with whatever traumas I’ve passed on, without any apology from me.

Now that the story is over, I’m wondering why I ever thought any of this was worth bragging about.

Why Blog?

Every once and while when the ideas for this blog seem few and far between, I have to ask myself the obvious question of why I recount a time so long ago. The answer today is that I believe in the benefits of technology and the Internet in particular. Nothing is ever forgotten on the Internet. Data sits in storage forever. This is a fact, and a good reason to have something memorable and or inspirational to write before you begin a blog as it will follow you to your grave.

This is not to give myself too much credit as I know I have good posts and bad. The important thing is I believe its important to recall a time and a town much different than the one which stands today. I sometimes sound old and say the "good old days were better" but that is fairly common as we age and I see nothing wrong about my including a subjective judgment or two into a blog for the world to criticize.

The fact is there are somethings I like better about the Village now than when I was growing up. It's hard to argue with a bigger library, more parks, and better cared for ball fields, to name a few of my favorite things.

I may not like the loss of a "local feel" to Ridgewood in the form of individual shopkeepers who operated store like Perdues, McHughs, Bill Lyons, and the hardware stores. Their children went to our schools and they all had commutes to work which were the envy of their customers who had to hop a train or bus into NYC. The localness of Ridgewood I remember has been replaced with restaurants and bank branches and brings with it a superfluousness that didn't exist when we had Moms at home and we at least tried to eat dinner together.

Who is to say Ridgewood won't return to some of the habits of its simpler roots? The furor created by talk of changing Graydon Pool is a good example. It was nice to see people become passionate and engage in a strong public debate over the pool's future. This leads me to believe their is a strong core of people, living among the McMansions, who will steward the Village through the coming years. Hopefully they will remember the history of Ridgewood and will continue to strongly debate any proposed changes to its aesthetics or the aura it so routinely projects as a nice place to live or to be from.

Super Science Saturday

Sorry about the poor quality picture I shot with my I-Phone. I took it at last month's Super Science Saturday at RHS, an annual event where science is the star and not athletics for a change. Don't get me wrong I was a jock and had a good time but now I am a network security geek and was very pleased to see all the attention these young scientists were receiving.

The photo was something of a discovery as it was not something we did in the 1960s and 1970s, namely, honoring teachers for their contributions to our education. You will see a few teachers in the photo receiving long overdue recognition and one teacher who is still active at RHS, Helen Aslanides.

Nature Walk at Habernickel Property

On one of my rare appearances in Ridgewood I drove past a site I found so unsettling that I had to stop and take these photos. If you are like me you can remember the stables on Hillcrest Road in Upper Ridgewood, and all the fun that we had exploring in the Hohokus woods behind them. In winter we went ice skating on the pond, and in summer we went wading in the small pond next to where the horses used to linger by the white fence and eat the grass.

What I later found out was that this is the newest park under construction in Ridgewood. It will have a nature walk and ballfields. The house will also be kept and will provide bathroom facilities.

Rob Lane Meets Dave Rorty

It is always a beautiful thing when old track pals get to see one another many years past their glory. This photo was taken in Sarasota, Florida. Here we have David Rorty and Rob Lane together again. They surely reminisced about past track meets and the time we went to the Penn Relays in 1977.

Hope they get the chance to see each other again soon.

A Sign of Spring

When the baseball pitchers and catchers begin their limbering up in places like Florida and Arizona I can't help but smile. Their annual arrival in these warm weather climates heralds the arrival of spring for people like me.

My RHS friends, like Rob Lane, Dave Rorty and Jens Larson, who live year round in these temperate climates I hope remember how it is now in the northeast and how they might have felt the same thing I feel now: a great sense of relief that winter is almost over!

At the bottom of the page are two of my all time favorite lefty pitchers: Lefty Grove and Ron Guidry. You can look up their statistics but I will add that both were fearless and accepted responsibilities. I personally believe the lessons we learn in sports carry over into the lives we live thereafter; if we only bother to remember them. My favorite lesson from my years of participating in sports has always been to dare to be good. This translates into being brave enough to take a chance and deliver more than you promise. It means standing up for what is right and letting the consequences fall as they may.

I sometimes wish we could put up posters in our bedrooms the way we did as kids of our favorite sports heroes. They were so perfect in their limited sphere of influence, and they did influence a great many young people. It would be wonderful if we could do the same with public figures. Though I realize their jobs and choices are much more complicated than Lefty Grove's or Ron Guidry's. I was told by someone who played with Lefty, Doc Cramer, that Lefty truly had one pitch: the fastball. He would dare you to hit it. His 300 wins and his place in the Baseball Hall of Fame seem to indicate this worked for him. In direct opposition is Ron Guidry, who retired before he was ready to leave the scene. He came back a couple years later and pitched a spring training game against the Yankees first team and shut them down. This wasn't an "I told you so moment" for Guidry. In hindsight, Lefty and Guidry stand as role models to all the hard work that has always been necessary to put into the craft of baseball, or any profession. The beauty of sports is sometimes seen in examples of hard work we can all learn from, especially as we examine the level of effort we all put into our own crafts. Play Ball!

The Way We Live Now

I bought a book of stamps the other day. This was quite unusual for me since I write exactly two checks every month and these are required to be sent via US Mail. When I bought this last book it got me thinking  about how we live now as compared to what I call the "simpler time" in which I grew up in Ridgewood. The mail was a much bigger part of our lives in those days. Now it is mostly an afterthought and sometimes a downright inconvenience. When I am feeling very patient I will go down to my local post office and peak in at the people waiting on line to transact their business. Nobody is happy to be there, especially the people working behind the bullet proof glass. It's not that I live in a bad neighborhood, it's only that people become so infuriated at having to wait on line that even the most calm among us might have a bad day and want to throw something after an infuriating wait to do something seemingly simple like pick up a package. The folks at Fedex and UPS I'm sure have seen these lines for themselves and figured out there was a buck to be had in making sure nobody had to suffer in this way.

It wasn't always like this and at one time working at the post office was a respectable middle class profession. Our mailman in Ridgewood lived in Midland Park and knew everyone on his route, including the kids. If you stepped out of line and you might find yourself on the receiving end of a stern warning to watch your step. He was a nice fellow who liked his job and did it well. The little bit of crowd control in the neighborhood I believe he did because he felt it important and something that civic minded people did as a matter of course.

The post office we had in Ridgewood, like it was in many towns, was not a place to be avoided. It produced wonder in many of us as to how they could possibly send so many packages and letters to so many different places in such a reasonable amount of time. If you recall it was 1963 that ZIP codes (Zone Improvement Plan) were introduced and that solved part of the mystery of the postal system's efficiency. Now we look up our Zip codes online and don't have to visit a post office to look through the huge book of zip codes.

In the 1960s ZIP codes were such a great step forward that the fact was advertised on TV.

I would be hard pressed to think of something today which touches all our lives in the same manner. To mention the Internet and all the new Social Networking applications would be a close second to Zip codes because in the old days you depended upon the US Mail. Today there are many people who still do and don't have a thing to do with the Internet. If something comes to mind I'll probably blog about it but I don't hold out much hope for something replacing Mr Zip in terms of importance in everybody's day to day lives.

So Many Unique Lives

We Ridgewood-ers (Ridgewoodians? Whatever) are spread far and wide. And we live very interesting lives. I recently discovered that one of my classmates is a boxing ring announcer. How cool is that?

The idea of a ring announcer got me to thinking. What other unique experiences have we seen? I'm not talking about skydiving, or running a marathon, or bumming around Europe. Those are special and exciting for sure, but they aren't really unusual. Lots of people do all of those things.

So, my question to you is this: What truly unique and unusual experiences have you enjoyed? Post in the comments, or send me an email (kflechtner*at*gmail*dot*com) and I will post your story to the blog. To get things started, here's mine:

I am an architect, and from the late 1990s until 2002, I helped design the Olympic Village for the 2002 Winter Games in Salt Lake City. We were all so excited to work on it, and it was thrilling to watch the athletes compete, knowing that they were living in an environment we had created for them.

What's your unique experience?

Andy Pettite

Andy Pettite is retiring.  Pettitte was 240-138 in 16 seasons in the majors.

I don't blame him as I lost my desire in 1989 for competition, too. Plus, I never contributed to the NYC Experience in the same way as Andy Pettite did. He also carried on longer than most athletes. Though I have to believe that his forthcoming courtroom scenes regarding his friendship with Roger "Rocket" Clemons helped send him into retirement. Once again, I have no qualms with his choice.

Andy Pettite will never make the Baseball Hall of Fame based on regular season statistics, even though his post-season statistics are off the charts. He admitted to using steroids so it will take a Veterans Committee in 10 or 20 years to let him into the Hall of Fame.

I wish Andy the best in his future endeavors as he belongs to the "Big Four" which Super Scout Gene Michael promoted, and who formed the core which won 4 World Series in 5 years.

Andy, enjoy this time with your children. You have five rings and may one day have a special day with your image placed in Monument Park in the New Yankee Stadium. You did all us Yankee fans proud in this past season when you played hurt. If you had come back our opponents would have bunted on you to no end. With a troubled groin this is not something you should attempt at the age of 38.

Carry the fact with you every day that you will be a Yankee legend for the rest of your life. This is a high honor and not something you ever have to prove again.

Internet Bullies

Bullies have been around as long as I can remember. When they are given their comeuppance it always gives one the opportunity to hide a sly smile.

Unfortunately, when children are bullied on the Internet it is quite a but different from the public shame the old time bullies felt when they were shown the error of their ways. This makes the comparison between now and when I was growing up that much more difficult. Truth be told it is harder now. Truth be told we as adults have to take more affirmative action, in order to prevent our alumni from thinking that a jump off the GW Bridge is their best recourse.

Let's resolve to be better every day. To acknowledge that people are different and that they are born a certain way and cannot help it. Let's take the argument away that people have a choice as to how they are born and how they feel during their adolescence and young adulthood. 


I offer this only as a New Year's resolution.

Peace

Mr C. Bertram Harmon--One of the 100 Best Teachers

This post was sent to me by Chris Stella, class of 1973. I haven't changed a word and completely share his sentiment.


"If you attended the George Washington Junior High in the late 1960's, you knew who Mr. C. Bertram Harmon was. He held one of the more difficult civilian jobs on the Eastern Seaboard. He was the only African-American teacher in the middle school which enrolled students from the Country Club side of the rather conservative, Protestant-Catholic-Republican town of Ridgewood, teaching music.
His classroom was a large, and well-lit place, with tall windows overlooking the rutted, caged ballfield. I believe there were some risers, towards the back. On one wall, was a framed, ornate, latinated ancient page of music. On the other side, was a piano, and during Eighth grade, a stereo phonograph in a walnut case appeared, of the sort that normally would belong in your grandmother's parlor.
He always dressed extremely well. He wore well tailored suits, with a perfectly knotted tie, and the cravat was backed by a gold pin, which served to emphasize his high, well-formed and prominent larynx, from which emanated the most interesting observations, in a distinctive, sonorous voice. His facial features were strong, and unambiguously African. He projected a ferocious, active and self-confident, yet fastidious "look".
* * * *
During my first year, Mr. Harmon was very adamant about his dislike for rock 'n roll music. He thought it was childish, and said so frequently, in theatrical tones of mock horror.
However, the next fall, he had a dramatic announcement to make. He said that over the summer he had considered the matter carefully. He decided that such music was a major cultural force, and that some of it, though not all, was of excellent quality and had a great deal to teach.
He informed his astounded audience of junior high school students, who were used to having their musical tastes derided by every authority figure in the universe, that he had decided that he was going to completely revamp a major part of his method of teaching music. We were going to study rock 'n roll music in a serious way. We were going to learn about where it came from. We were going to develop good rock 'n roll taste. Furthermore, as an assignment we would all have the opportunity to choose a song, play it for the class on the walnut-cased phonograph, and analyze its content and musicological qualities, for our teacher and peers.
Mr. Harmon showed us how our favorite songs were rooted in decades and centuries of jazz, blues, and yes, continental African rhythyms. Analyses of popular music now well accepted or even cliche, were heard in very early iteration, in Mr. Harmon's room.
But, my favorite day was the day he showed us that the familiar Beatles Penny Lane" trumpet solo, heard so frequently on the Cousin Brucie WABC top 40 music show, was less George Harrison and John Lennon, than George Handel, and Johann Bach. Mr. Harmon was able to prove that this piccolo trumpet "riff" had been lifted, more or less intact, from Johann and this other George, another Brit who had honed his craft in Hamburg, Germany, though in the 1700's. The proof-by-listening was made so convincingly, that fourty-two years on, I cannot hear any of these compositions without smiling and thinking of Mr. Harmon.
A wave of excitement passed over the class. Surely Mr. Harmon loved, and would have something provocative to say about the last song on the first side of the Magical Mystery Tour album by the Beatles. (This is the one where John Lennon sings about the "elementary Penguins singing Hare Krishna".) But, here, his love of precision and focus took over. We were disappointed:
"During the next class, we will study what is so terribly wrong about 'I am the Walrus'."
For my analytical presentation, I chose the Classics IV tune, "Traces." A sweet little song, but my presentation was disastrous. I was able to demonstrate to the world only my 45 RPM, Five and Dime store musical sensibility.
Others scored wonderful successes. My friend Bill Walstrum, picked "Thinking is the Best Way to Travel", a song by the early Moody Blues. This music was classically based, but also featured numerous interesting electronic effects, which was what you noticed first.
"So, William", Mr. Harmon said. "This music supports the psychedelic drug culture, does it not?" Bill became quite forceful. No, it is anti-drug. The song is saying that your own thoughts can be much more exciting than any substance.
The prominent larynx bobbed, and for once was silent. Mr. Harmon smiled. We had all learned something. Bill had the made the point with power, and succinct elegance.
C. Bertram Harmon's past, was a complete opacity, and he never spoke of it. There was one exception to this. This was the day when he told us, semi-conspiratorially, that in HIS day as a young high school student, when on the dance floor, he'd been known as THE jitterbug King. It was a highly plausible claim.
* * * * * * *
I do not have a complete sense of what the adult town thought of him. The more liberal tendencies of the people who lived in Ridgewood at the time were in part an abstraction, as there was precious little direct contact with people of ANY different color. At a minimum, I would think, at their core, parents of that time would feel a private need to be convinced. To his 1968 students, having an African-American man as your music teacher, was a cool and exotic thing.
However, I do have one 1971 grown-up data point. A friend's mother, a woman of conventional Ridgewood character, once whispered quietly to me that she felt that "the man is a saint, an absolute saint." By this she was not directing my attention to the fact that Mr. Harmon was able to gracefully bear the stress of being the only African-American teacher, or that he was able to master the loneliness which must have been present. Rather, she meant that it had become known that Mr. Harmon cared about his students as people, that his good influence went way beyond his effect on our musical sensibilities.
A boy, it was rumored, had stolen a car. I believe that this boy was a Caucasian. I do not think he could have been a musically-oriented boy. The word was, that Mr. Harmon had used his good agency, to see to it that although the proper penalty was paid, the boys' future prospects were not destroyed.
As for me, during ninth-grade, he taught a music theory course, extremely advanced in scope. It included the requirement that the students compose original music. I took this course, and displayed no talent or aptitude whatsoever. At the end of the year, Mr. Harmon signed my yearbook with a long, carefully written, unique paragraph, in which he hoped for, and had great EXPECTATIONS of, my future success and happiness. It seemed at once so formal, and yet so heartfelt, that I remember it  to this day.
* * * * * * *
The June, 1970 Assembly was memorable. The large chorus, of which I was not a member, performed for the departing students. Their final work, conducted by Harmon, was spectacularly intricate in its construction. In the manner of a baroque fugue, the various voices repeated and interwove, underlining, emphasizing, strengthening.
Mr. Harmon, had advised the student audience to listen carefully to the WORDS that had been set to the music.
"The words need to be listened to, as they will be quite relevant to the contemporary scene."
And, Bach-like, the words were not! In a glorious fugue-like style, each section of the chorus hurled family-type criticisms at a solitary, unseen adolescent. The refrain was:
"What do you have to say for yourself,? Speak up, speak up, SPEAK UP !!"
First the basses took the role of the father, leveling all the usual complaints about poor grades, back-talk, and rudeness. Then the altos played the role of the mother, SINGING the familiar words about neatness, sloppy and provocative dress, rooms not tidy, all sung in perfect fugue way, in gorgeous harmony and high style, directed tightly by Harmon. Finally the tenors and sopranos sang the stock role of the younger siblings harassing the unfortunate, solitary young person. Finally at the conclusion of the choral work the "Speak Up!" refrain was again re-presented in repetitive order, followed by sudden silence.
Then, one student hand-picked by Harmon, someone who fit the role quite precisely, someone who everyone knew was not doing very well, would weakly gulp in a perfect stage whisper just loud enough for the audience to hear, HELP! Everyone laughed.
There could not have been a more appropriate coda to my junior high school years, and so my career at George Washington ended.
* * * * * * *
If I could have only one Magical Mystery wish with Mr. Harmon, I would be quite selfish. Sure, the guy was a pioneer in several ways, do anything you want with that, retire all names starting with the letter "C.", if you want, I'll back you !
But with Mr. Harmon, I would want only one thing. I would want to sit in the back of his class, perhaps on one of the risers, and just listen to his wonderful voice, as he described the beautiful things that he loved, speaking of how they were constructed, how they worked.  I'd stay as long as they let me.
No doubt, after a while Mr. Cobb, or Mr. Egli would come by and tell me that I had to leave, as my presence had become a distraction. Who is that gray-haired Ridgewood man, sitting on the riser, perfectly still, in the back, they would have begun to ask. And, like the man in the song, I wouldn't give any answers!
But, inside, I would want to shake the kids forcefully. Don't you see?
C. Bertram Harmon, the man, with his knowledge, and devotion, and commanding stage presence, at a minimum he could have been a major success as a university-based musicologist.
However, there he was, by his choice, with us.
He had been been placed there by a town, some of whose residents might have denied how well they were doing by us. The Ridgewood adults had been wise in their placing him before us, some, maybe, without knowing the degree of their wisdom. He was a stabilizing aesthetic and personal presence. He is remembered standing, not sitting, in front, as our Junior High School worlds spun 'round, in varying states of control.