The Fortnight before Christmas!

T'was two weeks before Christmas and all through the flat, not a tree was in it, not even a plastic piece of crap. Nicole went to the closet to correct the error, when I declared that this year would end the plastic era.

We headed upstate on the parkway for a while, until all one could see was trees for many a mile. At Hahn Farm we descended in hopes that our plastic problem could soon be amended.

With a bow saw in hand, and a Douglas Fir in sight, I darted across the land for a tree oh so right! With smell so fresh and a hue so green, I knew it was perfect for our Christmas Scene.

Nicole laughed at her husband as he cut with such excitement. The job is not done by the tree alone. "Remember," she said, "we need lights that are vibrant!"

As we gently placed the tree in our neat little hatchback, the locals used trucks that made our car look like a backpack.

When we brought the tree home, it made such a clatter. Our dear cat, Emerson, rushed to see what was the matter. A tall green thing, taller than me, stretched to the ceiling as far as his cat eyes could see.

With judgment so quick, and a need to hide, Emerson darted under his catbox and peaked from inside: While Nicole and Kevin adorned this thing with garland and lights, Emerson placed this intruder squarely within his sights.

Don't worry, thought Emerson as he plotted away. I'll jump in this bag, with my head in halfway!

Can you see the cat? I asked my wife. Of course not, she said, he's slyer than mice!"


 Leave it to Emma to save the night, and bask in the tree's warm glowing lights. Thank goodness, I thought, we have one cat that's right.

All of a sudden, Nicole said something, and my satisfaction was smitten. Kevin, she said, for Christmas this year I definitely want a kitten!

I was speechless--what could I say? I have to make everyone happy come Christmas Day. I tried to say something, but trying with all of my might, all I could think of was, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

Nice try, said Nicole. But I still want a kitten.

Oy Vey!

Is this the best restaurant in New York City?

There are some things in this world that we can never get enough off: Date night and affordable dining options in New York City.

Not gentrification, but integration: People of different backgrounds enjoy a night at the Mott Haven Bar and Grille.

Fortunately, the Mott Haven Bar and Grille is a solution for both.

Formerly named the Bruckner Bar and Grille, this South Bronx dining establishment is directly across the Harlem River and sits under the shadows of the 3rd Avenue Bridge.

"Isn't it amazing," said Nicole on our most recent visit, "that our hummus plate has pico de gallo?"

"It's amazing," I said, "but not all that surprising, given the clientele." Some restaurants offer the finest Italian food, others give you a taste of Thailand. But the Mott Haven Bar and Grille Menu is as diverse as the neighborhood that bears its name.

Mott Haven is emerging from the shadows of its 1970s stigma. It's neighborhood in something of sweet spot: not gentrifying, but integrating. The high concentration of Robert Moses-style high rise public housing projects has unfortunately burdened the area with a high concentration of people living in poverty. But a recent injection of investment and attention from many middle-class residents who are now priced out Manhattan, Brooklyn, and yes, even Queens, a new light to the nitty gritty South Bronx.

For Nicole and me, it's a marvelous date night: the quality of the food, the selection and the prices are unmatched, perhaps anywhere in all of New York City. The current clientele provides a great look and feel to the restaurant--no celebrities, no hipsters, just a nice mix of people from a nice neighborhood.

Yet I can't help but wonder what the future will bring: Will Mott Haven suddenly become the next Williamsburg, and price out virtually everyone along with it? Will it wither away, or maintain its current status as one of the last affordable areas right next to Manhattan island? Only time will tell.

Easily accessible via the 6 train--and right next to Manhattan.

Speaking of time, the Mott Haven Bar and Grille is only 15 minutes away from Grand Central on the 6 train. It's worth a trip--for now.

What the Buck?

Question: Where did it all go wrong?

Four games, four losses. This Baltimore Oriole team had stellar pitching, a few all-stars and dependable players at every position. How could they fail to even win so much as one game in the American League Championship Series?

Answer: Buck Showalter.

This summer I was fortunate enough to see Yankee legends like Don Larson, Yogi Berra, Reggie Jackson and others at the 68th annual Old Timer's Day at Yankee Stadium. The Yanks played the Orioles that day, and at the end of the role call, there was one more special announcement.

Whitey Ford, Reggie Jackson and Yogi Jackson are among Yankees in attendance at Old Timer's Day, 2014.

"We now direct your attention," said John Sterling, "to the visiting dugout. Please welcome former Yankee manager, Buck Showalter!" Many in the crowd applauded. I was not one of them.

Maybe I was rude, but I've got no love for Buck, and the Orioles should point to this year's abysmal ALCS and say the Buck stops here. Why? Because when it comes to managing ballplayers, Buck Showalter just doesn't get it. And when I say doesn't get it, I mean he makes monumentally bad decisions that cause championship caliber teams to go home early, while fans and players alike ponder what could have been.

I'll be the first to say, Buck Showalter blew it. And I know exactly how. I've seen this happen before. 19 years ago, I  was just a wee lad. Okay, I was 13. But I had a youthful naivete about baseball and what I considered to be Karmic justice.

In case you don't remember, here's a quick refresher: The Yankees had the best record in baseball at the time of the 1994 players' strike, but The Yankees had stumbled after a late season start. A court order had ruled the replacement players illegal, and the owners begrudgingly allowed the vastly more talented union ballplayers back to work (Thanks, Sonia Sotomayor!)

"She saved baseball," said David Cone of Sonia Sotomayor.

By mid-June, the Yankees had lost half of their starting rotation to season-ending injuries. Remember Jimmy Key? He was 17-4 before the player's strike. He made 5 starts in 1995 before tearing his rotator cuff. Melido Perez suffered a career-ending elbow injury. And pitching woes weren't all that hamstrung the Yankees: Second Basemen Pat Kelly struggled with a fractured wrist. Paul O'Neill literally had a pulled hamstring. Others, like Louis Polonia and Danny Tartabull, saw dramatic decreases in their offensive performance and were traded or released by midseason.

The hobbled Bronx Bombers, defending AL East champions, nearly bombed, posting 57 wins against 59 losses by the end of August. One month to go, and not even .500. Ouch.

Then came September, with the change in leaves came a change indeed. The mid-season acquisition of David Cone provided more than ample replacement for the disabled Jimmy Key. A call-up from the minors by the name of Andy Pettitte had proven himself a solid starting pitcher. And there was another new pitcher who had struggled briefly as a starter before making a change to the bullpen: Mariano Rivera.

Healthy and together, the Yankees rebounded with amazing resonance: First they took two out of three games against the Oakland Athletics. Then they took two out of three against the Seattle Mariners. Then they went on absolute tear: They swept the division Red Sox in four games, and then proceeded to win 80 percent of the remaining 20 games.

David Cone uses one of his unique grips for his stunning array of sliders, splitters,
and fastballs that helped the Yankees salvage what could have been a lost season.

That's right: The 1995 Yankees ended their season playing .800 baseball. Projected over an entire season, that would equal an astonishing 130 wins against only 32 losses.

And at the start of the ALDS, this team showed no signs of stopping: After winning a slugfest in game 1, the Yankees came out on top winners again in game 2. This was a game for the ages: Don Mattingly's last home run in Yankee stadium, followed by an extra-inning marathon that lasted until Jim Leryitz's walk off home run in bottom of the 15th inning. The whole game lasted 5 hours and 28 minutes.

Jim Leyritz celebrates what would become one of many dramatic postseason home runs
to end game 2 of the 1995 ALDS. He would celebrate in similar fashion in 1996 and 1999.

All the Yankees had to do was win one game. Let me rephrase: All Buck Showalter had to do was let his regular players do their job and wine one game. Against a Seattle Mariner team whose pithing rotation composed of Randy Johnson and four pitchers who belonged in AAA. Let's your the manager: You've got the 1994 AL Cy Young winner in David Cone, the 1993 Cy Young Winner in Jack McDowell, and an up-and-comer by the name of Andy Pettitte. And yet if you wanted the Yankees to win, watching these next three games would prove very, very painful.

Game Three. Randy Johnson is pitching against Jack McDowell. A pair of aces. Obviously, you want to go with your best hitters against one of the games best pitchers, right?

That's not how Buch saw it. Hall of Famer Wade Boggs? Benched. 1994 Batting champion Paul O'Neill? Benched. Veteran Dion James? Benched. Why? So that Randy Velerade could move from second base to left field. Why would you put your infielder in the outfield? I mean, why?

Wade Boggs sat out and Russ Davis sat in. Reserve outfielder Gerald Williams played right field instead of Paul O'Neill. How did these moves pay off?

Game 3: Showalter sits Boggs, and Boggs doesn't look to happy about it.

The remaining  regular starters playing at their regular positions combined to collect 6 hits in 18 at bats, a .333 batting average, and batted in four runs against one of the greatest left-handed pitchers off all time. The rest of the team combined to go 0-12 with 7 strikeouts.

Who needs Wade Boggs when you've got Russ Davis?

The final score was 7-4 Seattle, but even without one third of their regular starting lineup, this was still a winnable game for the Yankees. At least it was until the bottom of the sixth inning. The game was close. McDowell had almost matched Johnson, and the score was 2-1 Seattle. Buck Showalter turned to Steve Howe--an aging left-handed reliever and hero of the 1981 World Series who was well past his prime--to pitch to Tino Martinez. Why? Left lefty matchup of course!

Martinez hit an RBI Single, and Howe was pulled for Bob Wickman. Wouldn't it make more sense just to use your starting pitcher, your ace who one 15 games for you, the man who won the 1993 Cy Young award instead of the guy who posted a 4.96 ERA?

Whatever, Game 4. Paul O'Neill and Wade Boggs are back in the lineup and combine for four hits and three runs batted in. Good to have them back. And surely, Buck would have learned his lesson about obsessing over lefty-lefty pitching matchup.

Or not. Like a duck to water, Buck went straight to the bullpen in the bottom of this sixth inning, this time entrusting mediocre starter Sterling Hitchcock to matchup against Ken Griffey, Jr. With the score tied at 5, Griffey took a 1-0 fastball and deposited 500 feet from home plate into the centerfield stands. The mighty Kingdome roared with apporoval, its steel girders shaking with enthusiasm as 57,000 Mariner fans voiced their satisfaction at Buck's puzzling managerial skills.

The Yankees would get run back at the top of the eighth inning. Hey, all you have to do is keep the score tied and save your closer if you take the lead, right?

Tied at 6, in the bottom of the eight inning. It would not remain tied for long.

If that's your thinking, you're out of Buck. The myopic manager sent in John Wetteland with the score tied, under directions to pace himself. Out of his element, Wetteland promptly responded by loading the bases and surrendering a grand slam to Edgar Martinez. Final Score: Mariners 11, Yankees 8.

Game 5 would prove the most painful of them all. For Mariner's fans, it was a level of ecstasy that would be akin to actually wining the World Series. But if you were a Yankee fan, or even a fan of common sense, it was a  true heartbreaker.

I remember the excitement. David Cone shut down the mighty Mariner offense for 7 strong innings. Don Mattingly's sweet stroke smacked double down the first base line, providing the Yankees with a 4-2 lead going into the eight inning.

A moment that could have been immortalized: Don Mattingly runs to first base after punishing and Andy Benes fastball.
The ball screeched over the first base line and into the stands for a ground-rule double. It would be Mattingly's final hit.

Think: You've got Bob Wickman, Mariano River and John Wetteland in the bullpen. All you need is six outs and your team has a one-run lead. Wickman and Rivera have combined for a 0.00 Earned Run Average thus far. Do you use one them for the 8th, or go to directly your closer, who is bound to rebound after last night's debacle?

Sadly, after going to his bullpen to early in the previous two games, Showalter waited for Cone to struggle. A visibly fatigued Cone surrendered the lead. With the bases loaded and the score tied at four, Showalter reluctantly brought in Mariano Rivera.

River responded by responded by striking out Mike Blowers on three pitches. If only Rivera could have thrown a little harder, he could have surpassed the speed of light and traveled backwards through time in order to--okay, well that's just crazy talk. But you know what else is crazy? Taking Mariano River out of the game and bringing in Jack McDowell!

Yes. Jack was back to pitch in the 9th inning. To his credit, he didn't blow the game--yet. The score would remain tied until the Yankees added one run in the top of the 11th inning. Why only one? Because Buck Showalter insisted on taking Wade Boggs out of the game and brining in Jim Leyritz to face Randy Johnson. With runners on first and second, Leyritz struck out on four pitches. But hey, you've got your ace closer ready in the bullpen, right? The guy who just recored 31 saves in 37 opportunities, right? Unless you're closers is Byung-Young Kim, you always send him out the next night.

Nope. It was not to be. The culmination of events are crystal clear in my memory, and if you doubt me, you can watch this game in its entirety on YouTube.

With a one run lead, and just three outs to go, Showalter stuck with McDowell. A starter. Not a closer. After surrendering back to back singles to Joey Cora and Ken Griffey, Jr., Jack McDowell left a over the plate and belt high to Edgar Martinez. With swing, the ball catapulted to the left field wall. Cora scored easily.

The moment that lives on in Seattle folklore, a moment that Mariners fans forever refer to simply as "the double."

"No!" I said, in vain desperation. It happened so quickly, and yet I saw the event unfold in slow motion. The ball seemed to dance as if it were John Travolta on the dance floor. It darted and danced to its own whimsey, while a hapless Gerald Williams tried to get a hand on it.

It's just one run! My mother assured me. Meanwhile, Griffey ran like a gazelle. He sprinted around the basepaths with a jubilant grin, fully aware that a reserve outfielder had no clue in heaven how to navigate the astroturf of the mighty Kingdome. Griffey ran and ran, while the ball danced and danced.

"No!" I was really bawling now.

"He hasn't scored yet," My mother was trying to reassure me, but even she could see the train wreck that was unfolding. Tony Fernandez saw it too. He had his hands over his head. You could read his thoughts just watching him. "Throw me the ball now!," He is imploring. And Fernandez is right: Anything can happen. It ain't over till it's over. Griffey could trip. He could slip. He could get arrogant and break into a slow victory trot.

Finally, Gerald Williams did get a hand on the ball and threw it straight to Fernandez, who promptly wheeled around and delivered a bulls-eye perfect throw strike to catcher Jim Leyritz. There was only one problem: it was exactly one second to late.

The relay throw from Tony Fernandez is out of frame, and the Yankees are out of luck as Ken Griffey, Jr. slides into home plate, winning the game and the division series. Seattle fans credit this play as the moment that saved baseball for their city.

I broke. I went to room and couldn't control my tears. I just cried and cried. Pretty embarrassing for a 13 year-old to break down like that, but I had been rooting for the Yankees for as long as I could remember, and for most of that time, they were just awful. 95 losses in 1990. 91 losses in 1991. I remember I got excited when they "only" lost 86 games in 1992. I was incredulous when they actually posted a winning record in 1993. After the injustice of the cancelled World Series in 1994, watching my heroes lose, and lose in such dramatic fashion, was just too much.

Seeing her teenage son curled in a fetal position called for action and my Bronx-born and raised mother tried to reassure me. Then as now, she was knew when to be tough, when to be kind, and certainly knew a heck of a lot more about baseball than Buck Showalter.

"It's okay," she said reassuringly. "There's always next year." Without pause, I turned around and looked at her.

"Not for Mattingly," I blurted out between tears, and then resumed weeping. Even an expert mother's consolation wasn't enough for me. Don Mattingly had played through intense pain over the last 5 games, batted .417 with eight runs batted in. He had also indicated that he was going to rest his herniated disc in back, go home to Indiana, and forget about baseball for a while.

Of course, my mother was right: There was next year, the Yankees would win the World Series, and John Wetteland; the World Series MVP. It was the start of a new era in the Bronx, an era that saw Joe Torre manage the Yankees to 5 pennants and four World Championships. Joe Torre knew better than to obsess over lefty-lefty matchups and knew when to trust players. He knows when to intervene and when to sit back. Joe Torre is the kind of manager many of us would like to work for.

In with the new: 1996 made Tino Martinez a Yankee, Mariano Rivera a star, and Derek Jeter the best shortstop in history. And yes, having the right manager to make the right calls certainly provided a winning edge that was missing in  1995.

But Buck Showalter is still making the same mistakes 20 years later. Going to his closer too early in Game 1. Not using his closer in game 2. And for the love of God, why, why would you take out you're best hitter in Game 4, as he did with Nelson Cruz last night? Doesn't Buck Showalter know that a good right handed pitcher is better than a bad lefty? Doesn't he know that everyday players play every day for a reason? 

Apparently not. And sadly, this is a management view that extends beyond baseball. Workers, whether they are software engineers, construction workers, or public school teachers, are not simply automatons that can be made to work only at the whimsey of a superior officer. People work because they want to work, and when the workers are exceptional, and exceptional manager knows when to let the talent do the job.

What's the bottom line here? It guess it may be a while before we see October baseball in the Bronx again, but take consolation with this: It could be worse. Can you imagine having to work for Buck Showalter?

Hey you, go out there and win! Unless you're Wade Boggs.
In that case, I want you to sit this one out. Trust me.

Goodbye Summer!

So long, summer 2014. It's been a great couple of weeks, but it looks like now we will have to part ways. See you next year, or, given current atmospheric carbon dioxide levels, tomorrow. Whichever comes first.

When African Lions are Bronx-Born and Raised

It's much too hot--Being born in February was a bad choice!

Pep (top right) tries to entice Junior into a little playtime, but Junior isn't having any of it!

Seriously folks, take my advice, and head on down to the Bronx Zoo before these beautiful baby lions transform into surly, slacker teen-angst felines right before your very eyes. Just last Tuesday, Nicole and I went to see our friends that I had cheerfully nicknamed Pep, Junior, Felicity, and Sasha when we saw them in May. After seeing these big cats slumber in the dog days of August, I decided to rename them Sleepy, Lazy, Drowsy and Comatose.

In all seriousness, Pep definitely tried to stir up some action with his brother, Junior. As you can see, it didn't go well.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Birds

You know what they say: You never forget your first one. 

Nicole and I first got into the process of bird identification, or "birding" about three years ago. We were in Wickham Park in Manchester when I couldn't help but notice a very unusual blackbird. He had something different about him: Little striped accents adorned his coat by his shoulders when he perched. When he spread his wings to fly, the stripes revealed themselves to be red dots, akin to decorations on a World War II fighter plane.

"What is that?" I asked. 

"It's a red-winged blackbird," said Nicole casually. It was the first "exotic" bird that she had ever committed to memory, way back when she was in elementary school.

Since then, we've purchased a bird identification book. Along with our new SLR camera, we've really had some fun, and birding is a new hobby of ours. Often, the birds do not cooperate when they see Nicole or me with a camera. However, on a recent trip to Albany, one of our red-winged friends was kind enough to put on a show for me.

With his brilliant coloring on full display, aerodynamics that would make Lockheed-Martin jealous, and amazing grace that has fascinated mankind for centuries, I felt very lucky.

Goodbye!

"You're Making us nervous."

What can I say about Jones Beach on the ides of July? First of all, I haven't had this much fun in water since I was body surfing out in Waimea Bay. Nicole is not much of a fan getting tossed around by giant waves, so she documented some of my boyish behavior on camera while bird watching. After seeing her great wildlife shots, I would say she had just as much fun as I did--maybe more.

Who got the most out of the experience? I'll let you be the judge!

Nicole was very lucky to see these fantastic birds in flight. The Common Tern has a habitat that ranges from northern Canada in the summer to Southern Argentina in the Winter. Rarely are they seen anywhere in between. I saw one them fly about six inches over my head while I was splashing around in the surf.

I was wondering why, with the exception of the Common Terns flying over my head, I was in solitude. All of a sudden, the head lifeguard on duty drove by on his dune buggy and blew his whistle. It quickly got my attention, and I swam out of the water. "What's up?" I asked.

"You're swimming in the middle of a rip current," said the lifeguard. "We can see you clearly know what you're doing, but you're making us nervous out there."

Sorry! I offered my sincere apologies, and Nicole and I repositioned ourselves so that I could help the staff at Jones Beach breath a little easier.

Chillin' in the Bronx

Bronx youths escape the summer heat by any means possible in New York City's only freshwater river.

Take a break

From the summer sun:

The riverbank in the shade,

is a welcome respite for everyone.

The water is clear and cool

but this ain't no swimming pool.

If you must take a dip,

bear in mind this simple tip:

The water is toxic no longer,

but bacteria of all kinds still linger.

I don't wish to sound mean and dour,

but if you touch that water, take a shower!

68th Annual Old-Timer's Day--and my nephew's first day at Yankee Stadium!

June 22, 2014

Just missed! Willie Randolph, just two weeks away from his 60th birthday, braces himself after narrowly
missing a hard hit ground ball. Former teammate and baseball legend Reggie Jackson looks on.

Some dates are easy to remember. May 17, for example. Ron Guidry struck 18 California Angels, David Wells pitched a perfect game against the Minnesota Twins, and Bruce and Jeanne Donohue had their first date. All four of these great people were proudly in attendance at the 68th annual Old Timer's day at Yankee Stadium.

Tino Martinez catches a fly ball in Right Field after taking over for Paul O'Neill.
Today, the Yankees could have used O'Neill and Tino at any position!

June 22nd is also easy to remember. It's the day Ted Lilly became the first Yankee southpaw since Ron Guidry to emerge victorious in a 1-0 shutout and the day my nephew Anthony entered this world. In 2002, Ted Lilly outpitched Jake Peavy of the San Diego Padres and gave Mariano Rivera a much-needed day-off. Anthony also gave my sister a much-needed relief from being pregnant. It's fitting that today marked his first trip to Yankee stadium.

Still Mick the Quick after all these years: 65 year-old Mickey Rivers shows the speed and the glove as he races down a line drive and makes an over-the shoulder basket catch in Center Field.

The old-timers certainly played better than the new timers, as the current Yankees saw themselves at the losing end of an 8-0 shutout. Tanaka pitched well enough to win, but Brian McCan't made a compelling case for bringing John Flaherty out of retirement, and the Yankee bullpen staged an epic collapse that would have been unthinkable if Jeff Nelson and Graeme Lloyd were able to play.

As we walked back to the parking garage, I asked my Anthony what he thought about the game.
"I like Mick the Quick" he said. "But the new Yankees, they stunk today. They needed Babe Ruth and  Mickey Mantle!"

Well said. It's nice to know he takes after his uncle.

Happy Father's Day 2014!

A Story about Dad (aka Bruce Bear Miner, Jr.)

"Wow, that is so cool!"

Yes, just putting on an olive green jacket with my last name emblazoned on the front, I was the envy of the neighborhood boys on Highview Avenue. I wasn't just another 6-year-old kid. Nay, I was Army Man.

First Lieutenant Bruce Miner, shown here in Chu Lai, 1970.

Some men were just made to be fathers. Not just good fathers, but great fathers.

Some men are just 24, but take a look, and there is so much more.

How and why those drab olive green button-downs with the name MINER stiched into the fabric came to be is emblematic of the man who is my father. Walter Cronkite had already gone on national television and declared Vietnam a lost cause when Bruce Bear Miner of Cheshire, Connecticut received his draft letter. 

Dad didn't burn his draft card, flee the country, or exhaust every potential deferment imaginable (unlike some politicians we know). Dad knew how the system worked: The Army has picked somebody, and if it's not you, it's somebody else from your town with your birthday. That person might not have as much education, and therefore, not qualify for Officer Candidate School. Dad was one step ahead of the draft board on that one. He accepted the call, took the job, and earned his Lieutenant Bars before his eventual deployment.

Many years later, when I was in high school, some of the guys on the cross country team thought it would be a gas if we all wore one of those olive green jerseys on competition day. It's always something wild. Sometimes it's flourescent tacky Hawaiian Shirts, sometimes its 10-gallon straw hats, this time, the boys and I decided to go military. 

Dad wasn't exactly thrilled at first when he heard the news that I was sharing his memorobilia with the boys, but he had and Mom were in the process of raising three teenagers simultaneously. Compared to other rigors of parenting that he and Mom had triumphed over and over again, this was really child's play. In fact, he even showed up at the competition on his lunch break!

I was telling the story to the guys about life in the 328th Radio Research Company (at least what very little I knew about it) when all of a sudden, Dad showed up, unannounced, to lend some moral support to the team. Since these were his jerseys, he was the star of the show know.

"Is it true?" asked my friend and teammate Bill Savvis. "Kevin says you weren't anywhere near Charlie."

"Oh, well, I was no hero." Dad answered that question as he had about a million times before. 

On Golden Pond with Jeanne, Alison, Julia, little Adrianna, and a very enthusiastic Anthony!

But he was too modest. To someone else in Cheshire who could have received that draft letter, he was a hero. From the day he was able to reach up to the top shelf and get a jar of peanut butter for us kids, he was a hero. When were on the raft on Belgrade Lake and we heard thunder, and my pre-pubescent body couldn't get me out of the water in time, well, obviously, Dad was a hero.

As he always had been. Like I said, he was born for it.

And yes, this story does have an epilogue. In 2009, his grandson Anthony was late for school and didn't have his coat. By chance, I was in Wethersfield that day, and I was searching through every closet in the house, desperately trying to find any warm article of clothing in the house that would be suitable for a seven year old boy.

"What do you think of this one, Anthony?" I would say.

"Uh, no," he would respond. I couldn't blame him. I had to think of something.

Then, there it was. A standard-issue Korean War jacket that the pencil-pushers at the Pentagon had allocated to soldiers in Vietnam. Because you know, it gets cold in the jungle, right?

"What do you think of this one, Antony?"

"Uh . . . maybe." 

Success!

Antony put on the jacket. The bottom zipper was about six inches from his toes. But we had a winner! Just one example of many of the great victory laps that Dad is now enjoying as Grandpa.

With gratitude,

~Kev

Uptown Rainbows and Midtown Madness.

Let's name this photo "Reason Why the Bronx is better than Manhattan, Number 135."

The sky tells its own story: Storm clouds move away, white puffy clouds move in, and what is left of a passing summer thunder shower leaves its lovely imprint in the form of a rainbow across the expansive Bronx sky.

For contrast, here is a photo from 2nd Avenue and 68th street, taken just two days earlier:

I mean seriously, who pays for skywriting over the middle of Manhattan? Obviously, we will never know!

Gateway to Sanity

For native Algonquins who resided in what is now the Borough of the Bronx, the physical world around them was paradise. The fast flowing Bronx River provided ample fresh water--and fresh fish. The Algonquins used the inedible portions of their fish catches as fertilizer for tomato, corn, and other vegetable crops. They used ropey vines to construct snares for rabbit traps, and used bows and arrows for hunting larger game such as bear and deer. For the Algonquins, the Bronx was paradise.

The dam at Woodland Lake is ideal for bird watching.

Well, almost paradise. The crossing between the mainland Bronx and Long Island is treacherous, marked by thousands of rocks and swirling currents. The Algonquins believed that the Great Spirit had chased away the Evil One and cursed him to Long Island.

What can I say? Anyone who says Satan would make Long Island home will get no argument from me.

In all seriousness, the boroughs of New York City are a great paradox, holding true to the best and worst of its descriptions. So as much as Nicole and I enjoy living and working, here, it is nice to get away. And thanks to the work of conservationists and recreationists, "away" is always a short ride on a bicycle.





As spring exits and summer nears, Nicole and I were able to enjoy a nice 30 mile bike ride through the Old Putnam Trail, a converted rail bed that runs through Van Cortland Park and up into Westchester County. Nicole has become a pretty serious "birder," and the Putnam trail is ripe for bird-watching.

This guy got a little agitated when I didn't share my Clif Bar.

"What's that!" Inquired Nicole! We had stopped at Woodland Lake in Irvington. The lake is formed by a dam at the old Saw Mill River, which is home to all sorts Wood Thrushes, Barn and Tree Swallows, and Canada Geese. With Nicole's bird book, she was able to correctly identify every single Catbird and Grackle we saw. However, one large, grey egret sighting shall remain forever uncomfirmed on this voyage, as he did a good job concealing himself in the bushes and flying away while we fumbled to get a camera.

Of all the birds we saw, the Barn Swallow probably stole the show. This little guy flies 600 miles--every day!

All this, and our bike ride never took us past the 22 mile marker on the old Putnam Rail line. The ride felt great, that is, until a tiny piece of glass decided to leave its mark on our trip.

This headstone marks the end of the line for today's journey.

We were less than a mile away from home when I was struck with a flat tire. Clearly, this was the work of the Evil One. As I said, no Algonquin will ever get any disagreement from me!

Gear up and get out: a nice little trip away from the city.