By Bob Gaydos

Tony Bennett
… made my list twice

They — whoever “they” are — say that once you hit a certain age all you do is talk about how great things used to be and how not as great they are now.

Guilty. Child of the ‘50s and in full faculties.

I’m thinking about this because a lot of my recent conversations with somewhat younger colleagues were of the “I just saw Freddy and the Hot Tones at Central Park and they were still great!” variety. “100,000 people!” Or, “Just saw The Undead do The Dead Tribute in the Grand Canyon! Killer!” Or, “Manny, Moe and Jack are coming back! Gotta make my list! Can’t believe they’re still alive!”

I blame Woodstock. This drive to be surrounded by thousands of others somewhere outdoors to hear someone they never heard of, or once heard, or sounding like someone they once heard to add to the list of wow, wasn’t that concert something!

It’s kind of a status thing, I think. A friend (younger) of mine said he once had to skip some event because he got to hear some famous aging singer perform at Bethel Woods, site of the original Woodstock gathering in upstate New York.

Feeling a little snarky, I replied that, once upon a time, I got to hear Tony Bennett sing in the Ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria. Not quite Woodstock, but nice. Heads nodded. Talking with another friend about this phenomena, I recalled that, once upon a time, I heard Ahmad Jamal play the piano at a club in Greenwich Village, saw Ray Charles at the keyboard in Carnegie Hall, caught the Moiseyev at Lincoln Center and had a couple of drinks with the Clancy Brothers at a hotel bar in Binghamton, N.Y. Oh yeah, I saw Harry Belafonte at The Concord in the Catskills.

Not sure what the point here is except maybe that those things just happened with no sense of urgency that they had to happen because, well, that’s the way it is. Or was.

While I’m at it, once upon a time it was more important in baseball to have a .300 hitter on the team than to have someone whose meaningless occasional singles got to the outfield faster than a speeding bullet. Or to have a starting pitcher last more than five innings or to actually get a runner to second base in scoring position rather than having one placed there automatically in extra innings to speed up the game and remove any drama.

Once upon a time, the box scores of those baseball games used to be printed in newspapers around the country along with comics pages and articles about what was going on in local communities, including political news, which I will avoid here so as not to spoil the nostalgia.

People in most decent-sized communities knew what was going on there because they actually had fully staffed newspapers and had the newspaper delivered to their door daily, sometimes by teenagers looking to make a few extra bucks so they could go to the movies Saturday. This was possible because the teenagers didn’t have to carry phones around with them feeling they would miss something important if they weren’t constantly looking at them. I may be somewhat prejudiced here, but I believe reading levels were higher all around, once upon a time, when the news was delivered in print on paper without worrying about the Internet being down.

But hey, what do I know? Old and full faculties. Well, I know that Tony Bennett was great at the Waldorf in the 1970s and also at the Paramount Theater in downtown Middletown, N.Y., about a decade later, where I heard him again. And I’d be willing to bet that one of the songs he sang was “Once Upon a Time.” Beautiful. Check it out on YouTube.

***

Full disclosure: I did attend the Woodstock 50th reunion concert at Bethel Woods along with a whole lot of others where I heard Santana and the Doobie Brothers. I also caught James Taylor and Carly Simon at the Naval Academy in Annapolis back in the ‘70s. Enjoyed all. Cross them off my list.

If you flatten it, you replace it. That oughta be the rule of the road.

By Bob Gaydos

I published this article a couple of years ago and quickly suspected that it’s probably a piece that will bear repeating because (1) there are (hopefully) new readers and new neighbors who will not have seen it and (2) I keep noticing things to add to it.

I was right. This is year three in a row. The need to repeat was prompted by what I see as a disturbingly increasing problem on narrow country roads: getting out of your own driveway. This should not be a hazardous duty mission. Unfortunately, it often is. It boils down to a lack of consideration or understanding. I’ll address the issue one more time in the column below.

***

By Bob Gaydos

For most of my life, I’ve lived in small cities (Bayonne, Binghamton, Annapolis, Middletown) and one large town (Wallkill), which is really a mall-dotted highway surrounded by housing complexes. Throw in a few years living on college campuses. Basically, it’s been city or community living.

When you live with a lot of other people close by and you want to be relatively content, you learn the rules of the road, the do’s and don’ts of getting along. Mostly, it’s mind your own business and don’t make a lot of noise.

A few years ago, I moved to the country, a bit of upstate New York between the Hudson River and the Catskills that is often protected from major weather issues by the imposing Shawangunk Ridge.

Country living means owls, woodpeckers, chickens, coyotes and starry skies, oh my.

It’s nice. Well, usually. It’s quiet. Usually. In any case, it most definitely has its own rules of the road. Things a transplanted city boy ought to know. Something I call country etiquette.

The notion (see how I used the word “notion“ instead of “idea“?) that there was such a thing as country etiquette grew out of a recent conversation about a not uncommon country experience.

A few years ago, our quiet summer evening at home was disrupted by a loud squealing of tires and a loud thud. Right in front of our house.

We rushed out to find a car sitting in a culvert in front of our house, a distraught young woman sitting behind the wheel and our mailbox on the ground, post and all. I don’t recall who called 911, but state police arrived quickly, talked with the driver (who was shaken but not hurt), someone called a tow truck, we went back in the house and eventually everything was back to normal, except for the mailbox. Its career was over.

In short order, we replaced the mailbox and occasionally wondered what happened to the young driver. I suspected alcohol may have been involved.

A couple of weeks later, the whole scene repeated itself. Nighttime. Squeal. Thud. Car. Culvert. Young woman driver. Unhurt. Mailbox kaput.

Deja vu all over again, as Yogi Berra once said. Same follow up. Police. Tow truck. Mailbox flattened.

Again, we replaced it and the new one has survived ever since, although it’s leaning. But here’s the thing. Neither driver offered to pay to replace the mailbox (they both got out of their cars and talked to us) or to have it repaired. Now, it seems to me that a basic rule of country etiquette ought to be that if you wipe out someone’s mailbox (and get caught at it), the decent thing to do is to make it right again. Pay for a new one.

And that’s what got me thinking about other rules of country etiquette. What are some things to help someone new get along with neighbors who may not live right next door? Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:

— Having a handy supply of eggs is nice, but keep your chickens in your own yard as much as possible. Free range doesn’t mean the whole neighborhood, or, especially, the busy road. And chickens don’t move that fast.

— Don’t shovel your driveway snow into the road. It’s only extra work for the highway crews and it’s dangerous.

— When driving, wave at people walking along country roads. It’s downright neighborly.

— Walkers, please wear reflective clothing at night. It’s awfully dark out there sometimes and the roads are often winding and have no shoulder. We’d like to get to know you.

— Don’t let your dog walk on the road side. Preferably, don’t walk your dog on the road at all. Some drivers are less attentive than others. (See reference to mailboxes above.) And yes, clean up after Snoopy.

— Slow down and maybe swing wide for people at their mailbox. (A personal peeve of mine.) You can even wave.

— In fact, slow down in general. Posted speed limits are not merely suggestions and police will ticket.

— In special fact (and this is the issue that needs to be readdressed, which I mentioned at the top ), if you see someone backing out of their driveway or road to get on the typical narrow, no-shoulder, two-lane road in the country and you are a good quarter mile away, slow the heck down. Please. Let them get out in peace in one piece. It’s hard enough to back into a narrow country road with trees often blocking your vision without worrying whether that driver whizzing down the road is texting or talking on the phone or so totally engrossed in something on the radio that they don’t see you, even though you see them.

— In further fact, if you’re not going to back up a lot of traffic, just be nice and let people back out of their driveways even if they haven’t gotten their rear end out yet. It’s common courtesy. Yelling through your closed window at the person backing out is not. Being foreign to the area and in oh such a hurry to get to the state highway 5 miles away is not an excuse either. I suspect this may at least partially be the result of more city folk moving to the area, in which case this column should be all the more valuable to them. If you know someone who fits the bill, share it with them.

— Be patient with a farm tractor on the road. He’ll be out of your way shortly, or he’ll pull over as soon as he can. He’s working. Wave.

— Be honest at roadside food honor stands. Act like there are cameras in the trees.

— Free stuff at the foot of a driveway is really free. Don’t be embarrassed. If you want it, take it. Someone always does.

That’s what I came up with so far. If you have other suggestions, please leave them in the comment section.

While I’m at it, I figure I might as well add another feature of country living — a potpourri of handmade road signs. Here are a few I noticed:

— Corn maze, hay ride, pumpkins, pickles, sweet corn

— Beef sale

— Fresh garlic

— Sunflower patch, mums

— Hay

— Honey

— Farm fresh eggs

— U pick pumpkins

— Horse crossing

— Fresh key lime pie,

— We buy ATVs dead or alive

Like I said, nice.

‘Til next time at pet-friendly, open-carry Tractor Supply.

By Bob Gaydos

Rachel Robinson, throwing out a first pitch somewhere. She’s 103 years old today.

(An occasional public service for people who have jobs. Read to the end.)

7/19/2025 Today’s top newsmakers:

Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein.

Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein.

Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey, Epstein, Jeffrey, Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein,.

Rachel Robinson, widow of legendary Major League Baseball Hall of Famer Jackie Robinson, is celebrating her 103rd birthday.

I have never met Mrs. Robinson and never got to see her husband play in person since my father was a New York Giants fan who hated the Brooklyn Dodgers.

But I did get to meet her husband. As sports editor for The Sun-Bulletin in Binghamton, N.Y., I was covering some kind of weekend sports conference. Different sports, different athletes. Not especially interesting.

But in the middle of a talk on some subject I can’t recall, I noticed a handsome man leaning against a sidewall. It only took a second for me to recognize him — the man who broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball.

After a quick, wow, is that really him? I put down my pad and pen and walked over. He smiled that famous smile. I said, “An honor to meet you, Mr. Robinson.” He said, “Thank you.” We shook hands. Biggest thrill of my brief career as a sports editor. It was 1972. He died not long after and I moved on to another job.

Rachel Robinson, a former professor and registered nurse, founded the Jackie Robinson Foundation in 1973, a year following her husband’s death. The foundation provides college scholarships to minority youth.

Happy 103rd Birthday, Mrs. Robinson.

OK, break’s over.

… Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein, Jeffrey Epstein.

30

By Bob Gaydos

A blast from the past.

I got a surprise birthday present  three weeks ago from my cousin, Tom Nalesnik. It was a surprise because a) It wasn’t my birthday b) I didn’t think Tom knew my birthday was coming up c) The gift itself was a memory of an ever-more distant past d) How he came by it was perhaps more surprising than the gift itself.

Yes, that’s me dancing in the Go Go cage with Crickett in the photo accompanying this column. The photo  is the gift. It’s a framed copy of a story I wrote about 60 years ago for The Sun-Bulletin in Binghamton, N.Y. There’s no date on the article, but I started working in Binghamton in 1965 and I clearly wasn’t covering the political beat yet when I wrote this. Disco was just coming to the Triple Cities area.

I also was quite svelte and better dressed than I am today.

Wow.

Tom said he got the article from my mom, who never said a word to me about my newspaper career. Never. Not even when I got fired. But that’s a story for another birthday.

This one is about time flying. Some call it progress. We’ve gone from Disco to TikTok in a virtual heartbeat. Typewriters, like the one I used to write about Crickett and her partner, Gena, are now museum exhibits. Soon, artificial intelligence will be plagiarizing this article to write a history of dancing to recorded music in bars and of pieces of folded paper called newspapers.

But not yet.

Crickett and me.

I don’t know if Crickett (Karen Levine) ever realized her dreams of publishing a big music hit or breeding racehorses. Or if her partner, Gena Maloney, ever did anything with her love of photography. (See, I did  interview the ladies.)

As far as I can remember, the bright idea to put the skinny reporter in the cage with the go-go dancers came from the photographer, Renee Myrae, an institution in New York newspaper photography. Make for a better photo, she said. That’s why there’s an annual award named after her for the best photography in the state. At least there used to be, when there were newspapers.

Anyway, I “danced” for about 10 minutes, there was applause and, as I noted, no one offered to buy me a drink.

The article wound up in The Sun-Bulletin, somehow made its way to my uncommunicative mom in Bayonne, N.J., who shared it with my cousin, Tom, in Linden, so he could tell me 60 years later that I inspired him to pursue a career in journalism and communication.

Some things are worth waiting for.

***

(Tom Nalesnik’s video commentary, “Whims of Resistance,” can be seen on substack.com, Instagram and Facebook.)

By Bob Gaydos

Anne Sokol Gaydos

I generally didn’t post something on Facebook on Mothers Day because my mom has been gone a while now and I always have trouble finding old photos. But as I read posts a few years ago, and looked at photos of other mothers, I started thinking about what Anne Sokol Gaydos, a typical, post-war, stay-at-home mom in Bayonne, N.J., gave me that had a significant influence on my life.

As I scrolled, nothing unusual came to mind until, suddenly, there it was, staring me in the face and sitting in a neat pile on the end chair of the kitchen table back in Bayonne. Each and every morning: The Bayonne Times, The Jersey Journal, The Newark Star-Ledger, The Daily News, The Mirror. The routine morning reading.

As I got older, I added to the pile: The Herald Tribune, The New York Post, The Journal-American.

With this constant immersion in the news of the day, I naturally went to college to study electrical engineering. For one semester. Then mom’s influence came into play.

A wise counselor suggested that I major in English. At another college. Something about grades and attendance.

Long story short, I did. I went to Adelphi College (now a university) and majored in English. Specifically, writing. After college, I got a job at The Bayonne Facts, a weekly, then worked as a journalist for daily newspapers in Binghamton, Annapolis and Middletown for more than 50 years. Obviously, I still write and I still identify as a journalist.

So, in brief, that’s it. Basically, that stay-at-home mom who taught me how to play 500 rummy also gave me my entire career, which I have thoroughly enjoyed and still do.

Thanks, Mom, happy Mothers Day and happy birthday coming up May 17.

Love, Bob

By Bob Gaydos

One of the perks of being a journalist is the possibility of encountering history anytime you’re on the job. The recent White House confusion over whether or not to recognize Black History Month (the defense secretary says no, Trump says yes) prompted me to look back at my 40-plus years with daily newspapers to see if I had had the good fortune to personally bump into any of it.

I had. Several times.

    As a young reporter covering government and politics for The Sun-Bulletin in Binghamton, N.Y., in the late 1960’s early ‘70’s, I had the pleasure of seeing and hearing a young crusader for civil rights argue his case on the steps of the Brooke County courthouse. Julian Bond was eloquent and forceful as ever.

    The Southern Poverty Law Center, headquartered in Montgomery, Ala., was founded in 1971 with Bond as its first president. Its purpose, as its web site declares: “To ensure that the promise of the Civil Rights movement became a reality for everyone.” It is still waging that battle.

   I also was fortunate enough to be assigned to cover one of the many civil rights marches in Washington, D.C, at the time, riding on one of the buses from Binghamton.

     My next encounter with Black History was brief and totally unexpected and one for which I am forever grateful. Still in Binghamton, I was filling in as a sports writer covering some kind of special event whose details escape me. Except for one.

    Half listening to a speech from the podium, my eyes wandered around the crowd and suddenly stopped on a figure leaning casually against a sidewall. Couldn’t be. But …

    Another thing about working as a journalist — you learn to not worry about asking “embarrassing” questions. In this case, no need to be embarrassed. I was right.

    I got up, walked right over, stuck out my hand and said, “A privilege to meet you, Mr. Robinson.”

    “Thank you. Nice to meet you.” Soft-spoken as always.

     Then I went back to my seat, having shook the hand of Jackie Robinson, the man who broke the color barrier in Major League Baseball. He was signed by Branch Rickey and started at first base for the Brooklyn Dodgers on April 15, 1947, ending racial segregation in professional baseball, which had relegated black players to the Negro leagues since the 1880s.

   Robinson enjoyed a sometimes tumultuous but  successful 10-year Hall of Fame career with the Dodgers, whom I hated as a lifelong Yankees fan. To honor his memory, on April 15 each year, all players in the major leagues wear Robinson’s number 42, which has been retired for all of baseball.

     My next brush with Black History came more than a decade later, in Charleston, S.C., where I was attending a conference of editorial writers.

     Jesse Jackson was one of the speakers. The outspoken minister/politician began his seven-decades long career as a civil rights leader as a protege of Martin Luther King Jr., eventually seeking the Democratic Party presidential nomination twice and serving seven years as the District of Columbia’s shadow senator in Congress. He was always a force to be reckoned with.

   Again: “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jackson” and a handshake with history.

                                 ***

    I had one other connection with Black History, which was less celebratory and more personal. Jimmy Lee Bruce died in the back of a patrol car near Middletown, N.Y., on Dec. 13, 1986. He was 20 years old. He and a group of friends from Ellenville, N.Y., had gone to a movie theater in a mall outside Middletown. The group became rowdy. There was drinking involved. Off-duty Middletown police officers acting as security guards, escorted the group out of the theater, where a scuffle ensued. An officer applied the choke hold to Bruce and tossed him in the back of a police car, which had brought two on-duty Town of Wallkill police officers to the scene.

    The police then drove around for 7 ½ minutes looking for Bruce’s friends. When they returned to the theater, a state trooper, who had also arrived on the scene, shined a flashlight in the back of the patrol car and noticed the young man was not responding to the light. Police rushed him to a nearby hospital, but attempts to revive him failed. 

     Bruce was black, the officers white. A grand jury refused to indict the police for the death because they had never been trained in the use of the hold, which was actually banned. No one’s fault.

   I wrote an editorial on the incident for the Middletown Times Herald-Record at the time criticizing police for not properly training officers to handle such situations. It concluded: “For relatives and friends of Jimmy Lee Bruce there can be only frustration and anger. But then, put yourself in their place and read a grand jury report that says your son is dead because no one knew what they were doing, but no one is responsible. Then tell them the system worked.
    Maude Bruce, Jimmy Lee’s mother, was president of the nearby Ellenville NAACP at the time of his death. She still is. Last year, she was awarded the Ulster County School Boards Association Distinguished Friend of Education Award. The annual award recognizes residents from the county’s school districts and Ulster BOCES for their dedication and commitment to students and schools.

Maude Bruce

  The announcement read:  “As president of the Ellenville NAACP, Bruce initiated a school supply distribution event that ensures all students begin the year with the tools they need. She is a constant and welcome presence on campus, inspiring voter registration and civic engagement, hosting Black History Month assemblies, and presenting student awards. Bruce also sponsors the annual Jimmy Lee Bruce, Jr. Memorial Award, named for her son, which is given to a senior who has distinguished themselves as an advocate for equality, social justice and community service.”

     Yes, Black History Month needs to be recognized. 

                                   ***

(Note: Congressman Matthew F. McHugh, a Democrat from Ithaca, who represented the Middletown area in Congress in the 1980’s, was gracious enough to read my editorial on Jimmy Lee Bruce on the floor of the House of Representatives on March 25, 1987. That entered it into the Congressional Record and makes it part of black history.) 

By Bob Gaydos

Donald Trump speaks behind bulletproof glass during a campaign rally at Arnold Palmer Regional Airport in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. (AFP via Getty Images)

  (Deep sigh.)

     My fellow Americans, the Trump era in politics began with Stormy Daniels, a porn star, talking about the size of then-presidential candidate Donald Trump’s putter. (He’s an avid golfer, as you know.). Eight years later, the candidate himself, Trump, is talking about the size of the golfing legend Arnold Palmer’s driver.

     No, you’re right, this has nothing to do with golf. 

     And before I go any further, I want to extend my sincere apologies to David Bernstein, my first editor (and publisher) at the Binghamton (N.Y.) Sun-Bulletin, and Donald Koster, my journalism professor at Adelphi College in Garden City (N.Y.), for resorting to such snarky symbolism to refer to male genitalia. You taught me better. But unfortunately, that’s where we are today in journalism and in life in general. There are no apparent rules. F bombs abound. Besides, the topic never came up about what to do when a political candidate started talking about someone’s penis at a public political rally.

     Yes, that’s where we are, people, courtesy of the aforementioned Donald Trump, convicted of 34 felonies in trying to stop Ms. Daniels from telling the world about his extramarital golf game and awaiting sentencing on the convictions. Trump was also found liable, in a civil trial, for sexually assaulting a woman in a dressing room at a Manhattan department store. He was ordered to pay her $85 million for the assault and defaming her when she accused him. Plus there’s the matter of attempting a coup when he lost his bid for reelection in 2020.

       Back to golf. Trump was talking about Palmer because the rally was in Latrobe, Pa., the late golfer’s hometown. What better reason to muse about the size of Palmer’s penis. What better way to make your supporters feel good about themselves, laugh and pat you on the back when you come in from recess? Yes, they laughed and for good measure also tossed the word s—t out at Trump’s opponent, Kamala Harris. At his urging of course.

      This coarse intersection of the presidential campaign highlights again the absolute depths to which the Republican Party has sunk, with no leader willing or able to step forward and point out that, not only does their leader and presidential candidate have no morals, he is also losing his mind. What Trump did in Latrobe and continues to do everywhere he appears, wandering off into a verbal mishmash fantasyland, accentuated by lies and threats, is not the behavior of a competent adult, never mind someone who is capable of leading the most powerful country in the world.

        What will it take for someone, some family member or party leader to step up to say Trump must step aside for the good of the party and the country? So far, only Liz Cheney has shown those kind of, yes, cajones.

         A day after Trump (apparently no longer interested in talking about tariffs, immigration or abortion) reminisced about Arnold Palmer’s manly presence in the clubhouse shower, the Republican speaker of the House of Representatives was interviewed on CNN by Jake Tapper.

        The speaker dismissed questions about Trump’s violent rhetoric about “the enemy within” and threats to use the military against his political opponents, specifically naming Nancy Pelosi and Adam Schaffer. Then Tapper asked, “Is this really the closing message you want voters to hear from Donald Trump, stories about Arnold Palmer’s penis?”

        Avoidance.

        Tapper persisted. “I’m sure that you think that a policy debate would be better than a personality debate. But if President Biden had gone on stage and spoke about the size of a pro golfer’s penis, I think you would be on this show right now saying you were shocked and appalled and you would suggest it was evidence of his cognitive decline.”

        The speaker, agitated: “Don’t say it again!”

        “We don’t have to say it. I get it.” Flustered: “There’s lines in a rally – when president Trump is at a rally, sometimes you’ll speak for two straight hours. You’re questioning his stamina, his mental acuity. Joe Biden couldn’t do that for five minutes. That’s how you started this segment. You said, what if Biden was in a rally like that? He couldn’t fill the room, Donald Trump does.”

         That’s how the Speaker of the House, second in line to the presidency and supposedly a leader of the Republican Party, responded to questions about his party’s presidential candidate riffing at a campaign rally about the size of Arnold Palmer’s … you know … don’t say it.

          I hesitate to point out, but, what the heck, the embarrassed speaker is a conservative Evangelical Christian from Louisiana with the unfortunate last name “Johnson.”

          (Sigh.) Sorry, David. Sorry, Professor Koster.

          God bless America. Vote for Kamala Harris.

                                        ***

(David Bernstein, before owning The Sun-Bulletin in Binghamton, established the Middletown Daily Record, the first offset daily in the country, in 1956. It later became the Times Herald-Record in Middletown, N.Y. I worked there for 29 years, including 23 as editorial page editor. Donald Koster was a member of the Adelphi College English Department in the 1960s. I squeaked through as an English major. Adelphi became a university in 1964, the year after I graduated.)

If you flatten it, you replace it. That oughta be the rule of the road.

If you knock it down, you replace it ought to be the rule.

(I published this article a couple of years ago and I have since realized that it’s probably a piece that will bear repeating because (1) there are (hopefully) new readers and new neighbors who will not have seen it and (2) I keep noticing things to add to it.)

***

By Bob Gaydos

For most of my life, I’ve lived in small cities (Bayonne, Binghamton, Annapolis, Middletown) and one large town (Wallkill), which is really a mall-dotted highway surrounded by housing complexes. Throw in a few years living on college campuses. Basically, it’s been city or community living.

When you live with a lot of other people close by and you want to be relatively content, you learn the rules of the road, the do’s and don’ts of getting along. Mostly, it’s mind your own business and don’t make a lot of noise.

A few years ago, I moved to the country, a bit of upstate New York between the Hudson River and the Catskills that is often protected from major weather issues by the imposing Shawangunk Ridge.

Country living means owls, woodpeckers, coyotes and starry skies, oh my.

It’s nice. Well, usually. It’s quiet. Usually. In any case, it most definitely has its own rules of the road. Things a transplanted city boy ought to know. Something I call country etiquette.

The notion (see how I used the word “notion“ instead of “idea“?) that there was such a thing as country etiquette grew out of a recent conversation about a not uncommon country experience.

A couple of years ago, our quiet summer evening at home was disrupted by a loud squealing of tires and a loud thud. Right in front of our house.

We rushed out to find a car sitting in a culvert in front of our house, a distraught young woman sitting behind the wheel and our mailbox on the ground, post and all. I don’t recall who called 911, but state police arrived quickly, talked with the driver (who was shaken but not hurt), someone called a tow truck, we went back in the house and eventually everything was back to normal, except for the mailbox. Its career was over.

In short order, we replaced the mailbox and occasionally wondered what happened to the young driver. I suspected alcohol may have been involved.

A couple of weeks later, the whole scene repeated itself. Nighttime. Squeal. Thud. Car. Culvert. Young woman driver. Unhurt. Mailbox kaput.

Deja vu all over again, as Yogi Berra once said. Same follow up. Police. Tow truck. Mailbox flattened.

Again, we replaced it and the new one has survived ever since. But here’s the thing. Neither driver offered to pay to replace the mailbox (they both got out of their cars and talked to us) or to have it repaired. Now, it seems to me that a basic rule of country etiquette ought to be that if you wipe out someone’s mailbox (and get caught at it), the decent thing to do is to make it right again. Pay for a new one.

And that’s what got me thinking about other rules of country etiquette. What are some things to help someone new get along with neighbors who may not live right next door? Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:

— Having a handy supply of eggs is nice, but keep your chickens in your own yard as much as possible. Free range doesn’t mean the whole neighborhood, or, especially, the busy road.

— Don’t shovel your driveway snow into the road. It’s only extra work for the highway crews and it’s dangerous.

— When driving, wave at people walking along country roads. It’s neighborly.

— Walkers, please wear reflective clothing at night. It’s awfully dark out there sometimes and the roads are often winding and have no shoulder. We’d like to get to know you.

— Don’t let your dog walk on the road side. Preferably, don’t walk your dog on the road at all. Some drivers are less attentive than others. (See reference to mailboxes above.) And yes, clean up.

— Slow down for people at their mailbox. (A personal peeve of mine.) You can even wave.

— In fact, slow down in general. Posted speed limits are not merely suggestions.

— In special fact (and this is a new one added from personal experience), if you see someone backing out of their driveway or road to get on the typical two-lane road in the country and you are a good quarter mile away, slow the heck down. Let them get out in peace in one piece. It’s hard enough to back into a narrow country road with trees often blocking your vision without worrying whether that driver whizzing down the road is texting or talking on the phone or so totally engrossed in something on the radio that they don’t see you, even though you see them.

— In further fact, if you’re not going to back up a lot of traffic, just be nice and let people back out of their driveways even if they haven’t gotten their rear end out yet.

— Be patient with a farm tractor on the road. He’ll be out of your way shortly, or he’ll pull over as soon as he can. He’s working.

— Be honest at roadside honor stands. Act like there are cameras in the trees.

— Free stuff at the foot of a driveway is really free. If you want it, take it. Someone always does.

That’s what I came up with so far. If you have other suggestions, please leave them in the comment section.

While I’m at it, I figure I might as well add another feature of country living — a potpourri of handmade road signs. Here are a few I noticed:

— Corn maze, hay ride, pumpkins, pickles, sweet corn

— Beef sale

— Fresh garlic

— Sunflower patch, mums, hay for sale

— Farm fresh eggs

— U pick pumpkins

— Fresh key lime pie

— Baby Fox

— We buy ATVs dead or alive

Like I said, nice.

‘Til next time at pet-friendly Tractor Supply.

By BOB GAYDOS

The mail. RJ Photography

You can tell a lot about people by the contents of their mailboxes. In fact, if you pay attention, you can even learn a bit about yourself.

      For example, a recent day’s delivery to my box included ACLU Magazine, a letter from Planned Parenthood, one from the Southern Poverty Law Center and a note from Marlo Thomas for St. Jude’s Children Research Hospital.

     Now, anyone who is familiar with my columns would hardly be surprised by this mix. Since my days of reading David Bernstein’s daily editorials in The Sun-Bulletin in Binghamton, N.Y. (1965-1973), I’ve been a dyed-in-the-wool liberal. Before that I was just a kid out of college who liked JFK. Since then, I’m lefty and proud and public.

     And I guess that’s the point here. Public and proud. I’ve been writing and commenting on the news and life in general for more than 50 years, but it has never seemed more important to me to be clear and forceful and consistent in expressing my opinions, however repetitive some may find them. Especially about politics and the state of the nation today.

     One of the two major political parties has, for all intents and purposes, abandoned the principle of compromise in governing for the good of the country. The Republican Party, as a willing and aggressive tool of Donald Trump, is a clear and present danger to our democracy. The past eight years testify to that.

     That’s my opinion and the opinion of many others. But still, there are millions of Americans who are buying the snake oil and gold sneakers to keep the Trump lies alive.

      And so, when I get my mail these days, I notice a certain urgency and consistency to it. These are people who feel the same as I do and are doing all they can to preserve and protect what was established in Philadelphia 248 years ago. Our democracy is at stake. This is our reality.

       I try to spread their messages so that those who have not yet recognized the true threat of the MAGA Party might one day hear it and realize what it means to them, to their freedom.

     This may sound a bit high-minded and exaggerated to some. But, again, I go back to my mailbox.

     The SPLC tells me about the spread of hate groups and its efforts to fight the threat of violent white nationalism and racism that has “gone mainstream’’ and is spreading  through our politics, media and schools and the constant racist rhetoric of Trump and a segment of the Republican Party. 

    The ACLU tells me about its legal efforts to protect voting rights from efforts, again, by Republicans, to restrict them for certain groups of people rather than promote ideas and programs those people might approve of and vote accordingly.

    The ACLU also tells me about its efforts to protect pregnant workers and  abortion rights and free speech.

    And Planned Parenthood tells me about its ongoing and increased efforts to educate the public about the threats to abortion access and to advocate for policies that protect sexual and reproductive health care for all.

     Freedom. It’s all about freedom. Many of you probably have similar messages in your mailboxes. 

   Again, that’s the point. Read them. They are there for a reason and I noticed them on this particular day for a reason.

    Our much-celebrated way of life is under attack and too many people still don’t recognize it. I would much rather write about the great work of the St. Jude’s Children Research Hospital that also comes in my mail, but if the MAGAs prevail, that will surely suffer also. Bigotry and hatred become pervasive.

      So I pay attention to my mail. I read it and I write about it. Because I still can. Because defense of freedom is not junk mail.

rjgaydos@gmail.com

By Bob Gaydos

If you flatten it, you replace it. That oughta be the rule of the road.

 For most of my life, I’ve lived in small cities (Bayonne, Binghamton, Annapolis, Middletown) and one large town (Wallkill), which is really a mall-dotted highway surrounded by housing complexes. Throw in a few years living on college campuses. Basically, it’s been city or community living.

    When you live with a lot of other people close by and you want to be relatively content, you learn the rules of the road, the do’s and don’ts of getting along. Mostly, it’s mind your own business and don’t make a lot of noise.

     A few years ago, I moved to the country, a bit of upstate New York between the Hudson River and the Catskills that is often protected from major weather issues by the imposing Shawangunk Ridge.

     Country living means owls, woodpeckers, coyotes and starry skies, oh my.

     It’s nice. Well, usually. It’s quiet. Usually. In any case, it most definitely has its own rules of the road. Things a transplanted city boy ought to know. Something I call country etiquette.

     The notion (see how I used the word “notion“ instead of “idea“?) that there was such a thing as country etiquette grew out of a recent conversation about a not uncommon country experience.

     A couple of years ago, our quiet summer evening at home was disrupted by a loud squealing of tires and a loud thud. Right in front of our house.

     We rushed out to find a car sitting in a culvert in front of our house, a distraught young woman sitting behind the wheel and our mailbox on the ground, post and all. I don’t recall who called 911, but state police arrived quickly, talked with the driver (who was shaken but not hurt), someone called a tow truck, we went back in the house and eventually everything was back to normal, except for the mailbox. Its career was over.

      In short order, we replaced the mailbox and occasionally wondered what happened to the young driver. I suspected alcohol may have been involved.

     A couple of weeks later, the whole scene repeated itself. Nighttime. Squeal. Thud. Car. Culvert. Young woman driver. Unhurt. Mailbox kaput.

     Deja vu all over again, as Yogi Berra once said. Same follow up. Police. Tow truck. Mailbox flattened.

      Again, we replaced it and the new one has survived ever since. But here’s the thing. Neither driver offered to pay to replace the mailbox (they both got out of their cars and talked to us) or to have it repaired. Now, it seems to me that a basic rule of country etiquette ought to be that if you wipe out someone’s mailbox (and get caught at it), the decent thing to do is to make it right again. Pay for a new one.

      And that’s what got me thinking about other rules of country etiquette. What are some things to help someone new get along with neighbors who may not live right next door? Here’s what I’ve come up with so far:

— Having a handy supply of eggs is nice, but keep your chickens in your own yard as much as possible. Free range doesn’t mean the whole neighborhood, or, especially, the busy road.

— Don’t shovel your driveway snow into the road. It’s only extra work for the highway crews and it’s dangerous.

— When driving, wave at people walking along country roads. It’s neighborly.

— Walkers, please wear reflective clothing at night. It’s awfully dark out there sometimes and the roads are often winding and have no shoulder. We’d like to get to know you.

— Don’t let your dog walk on the road side. Preferably, don’t walk your dog on the road at all. Some drivers are less attentive than others. (See reference to mailboxes above.) And yes, clean up.

— Slow down for people at their mailbox. (A personal peeve of mine.) You can even wave.

— In fact, slow down in general. Posted speed limits are not merely suggestions.

— Be patient with a farm tractor on the road. He’ll be out of your way shortly, or he’ll pull over as soon as he can. He’s working.

— Be honest at roadside honor stands. Act like there are cameras in the trees.

— Free stuff at the foot of a driveway is really free. If you want it, take it. Someone always does.

— If you’re not going to back up a lot of traffic, be nice and let people back out of their driveways. It can be tricky sometimes.

    That’s what I came up with so far. If you have other suggestions, please leave them in the comment section.

    While I’m at it, I figure I might as well add another feature of country living — a potpourri of handmade road signs. Here are a few I noticed this past year:

— Corn maze, hay ride, pumpkins, pickles, sweet corn

— Beef sale

— Fresh garlic

— Sunflower patch, mums, hay for sale

— Farm fresh eggs

— U pick pumpkins

— Fresh key lime pie, 

— We buy ATVs dead or alive

     Like I said, nice.

     ‘Til next time at pet-friendly Tractor Supply.

rjgaydos@gmail.com