By Bob Gaydos

Front page of the special edition published by the Middletown, New York, Times Herald-Record on January 11, 2001.

Twenty-four years ago today, like millions of other Americans, I was preparing to go to work. The boys were off to school. It was a sky-blue September day. The news was on the TV, a practice of mine, in case there was something I needed to know about before I got to the paper.

There was.

The image on the TV screen froze me and shook the sleep out of my head. My God!

What was I seeing? They replayed it.

I quickly got myself together and headed off to work. But I stopped for a few moments in a nearby park to gather my thoughts and process what I had just witnessed. The radio news informed me that, in addition to the two planes flying into the Twin Towers in New York City, a plane had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania and another had hit the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

September 11.

After about an hour of processing reports on what had happened, a meeting was held and it was decided that The Times Herald-Record would publish a special edition that afternoon, the first one, I believe, in the Middletown, N.Y. morning newspaper’s history. My job was to write an editorial explaining what had happened. Or at least trying to explain it. About 500 words. “We need it in an hour.”

I don’t have a copy of that editorial and I’m sure it was mostly emotion. I do remember writing, “America was at war.” (Any colleagues who were in the newsroom on that day may feel free to corroborate or add any details you may remember in the comments section.)

The world changed that day. America changed. We the people had been attacked. We were one nation, under the spell of the dynamic leadership of New York’s mayor, Rudy Giuliani. America’s mayor. We grieved together, healed together and called for retribution together, against whoever it was who had attacked us.

So we started a war against, not the country where the terrorists responsible for the attacks came from (Saudi Arabia), but against a country (Iraq) that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks. We justified it by claiming Iraq had “weapons of mass destruction” that it could use against someone, maybe us. That was a lie our government told us. We found out later.

Then we went after the actual attackers in the mountains of Afghanistan. We actually found and killed their leader, then decided to stay in Afghanistan for some 20 years, trying to save it from itself.

In the ensuing years, Giuliani went from “America’s Mayor” to embarrassingly ridiculous mouthpiece for every lie put forth by Donald Trump, including the lie that he lost his re-election bid in 2020 to Joe Biden because the election was rife with vote fraud.

Also in the ensuing years, the Republican Party steadily turned itself from a party that espoused defense of all Americans into a party of an aggrieved white minority whose leaders in Congress legislate only in the interests of wealthy donors who contribute to their campaigns. Into a cult that believes and repeats Trump’s lies or repeats them for political gain or out of fear.

Whatever galvanized us into one people 24 years ago (a common enemy I suppose) started disintegrating as soon as we started demonizing any group of people different from us (Muslims) as the enemy. The enemy has since become any non-white, English-as-a-second-language-person working a low wage job. Also blacks and the homeless. And gays. At least to Trump and his followers.

The World Trade Center was eventually rebuilt, Trump exposed the fear and bigotry at the center of the Republican Party and gave free rein to the fissures long hiding within American society. It won him two terms as president.

A couple of years ago, the FBI said the greatest threat to America comes from domestic terrorism. Not Iraq. Or Afghanistan. From the white supremacist groups who organized the Jan. 6, 2021 assault on the U.S. Capitol and still threaten any who reject their cause.

In 1970, cartoonist Walt Kelly coined a phrase in his Pogo comic strip: “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

Indeed.

Today, the war to preserve American freedom and democracy is being fought every day right here at home. The FBI under Trump no longer worries about our nation’s enemies. It has become a weapon to go after his enemies. Federal agents roam the streets of our cities snatching up anyone who doesn’t look “American” while National Guard troops stand by as props. The invasion orders came from the White House. A meek Congress, under Republican control, watches as our constitution, our very history, is being shredded, bit by bit.

And yet, millions of Americans still stand on the side of what’s right. Still remember how we felt as a unified nation in the wake of the attacks 24 years ago. They are speaking out, demonstrating, resisting the attacks on our rights and freedom, the goons in masks, the lying sycophants in Trump’s administration. Federal judges of every stripe across the nation still honor the words and spirit of the Constitution, while the Supreme Court with a majority of Republican appointees, unfortunately seems intent on rewriting it.

Yes, America is at war. With itself. It’s a war that can and must be won to preserve the ideals of liberty and justice for all. Not for a chosen few. Not for the rich and heartless. Not for the white supremacists. It has become a daily battle, but not one without victories. Trump has surrounded himself in the second term with a cadre of new sycophants, but a stunningly inept cadre.

With constant daily pressure from the public and politicians willing to speak out, even some of the press has begun to remember its constitutionally protected duty as the Fourth Estate: To speak out strongly and repeatedly against the enemy when the United States of America is at war. Even, nay especially, when it wakes up at war with itself.

We need that editorial in an hour. Every hour.

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

Rupert Murdoch
… done with Trump?

Rupert is done with Donald.

The man who created the monster is out to kill it and he’s doing it with the weapon he knows best — the power of the press.

The most telling blows against Donald Trump in the ever-growing scandal over his failure to release the Jeffrey Epstein files, as repeatedly promised in Trump’s campaign for president, have come from a most unlikely source: The dignified jewel in the somewhat tacky Murdoch Empire.

First, the Journal ran a story about Trump’s highly suggestive (they share “secrets”) birthday card to Epstein on his 50th birthday. Then came the report that Trump’s Justice Department (Pam Bondi) had told him in May that his name was all over the Epstein files, which Bondi, of course, had subsequently said publicly did and then did not exist, creating the current furor about them.

This is the well-respected, conservative Wall Street Journal, not Fox-makes-it-up-and-we-love-you-Donald News, not the headline-happy New York Post, definitely not your typical Murdoch sensation-seeing tabloid. Trump even asked Murdoch not to run the story. Said it wasn’t true.

It ran. Trump, typically, sued the Journal claiming defamation. He wants $10 billion. Murdoch said bring it on.

What’s going on?

There are several schools of thought on this. One is that Murdoch, who made his fame and fortune by publishing often made-up stories about famous people in sensational tabloid papers, first in Australia and Britain before coming to the U.S., is looking for a last hurrah. The man is 94-years-old, his sons are taking over the business, but taking down a president could be quite a rush and addition to your obituary, even if the reports are actually true.

The willingness to take Trump on knowing a lawsuit is inevitable probably lies in the law itself. To prove defamation, Trump must not only demonstrate that the statement was false, defamatory, published to a third party, but also that the publisher acted with at least negligence or actual malice in publishing the information.

They knew it was false but ran it anyway. I don’t see the Wall Street Journal’s experienced lawyers allowing anything like that happening.

Which means the stories must be true and the Journal has proof, the best defense. The story is clearly also of public interest, as witness the reaction to them.

The irony, of course, is that, while other media empires — ABC, CBS, The Washington Post — have bowed to Trump threats to sue or to scuttle potential deals by paying him off and softening criticism of him — Murdoch, who, as mentioned, built a fortune on lies, thus becomes the unlikely defender of the free press in America.

My hero.

It has been noted that, unlike years ago when Murdoch was helping build Trump’s cult following by making stuff up on Fox News, Murdoch has no mega deals in the works at this time that Trump could threaten. That obviously only buttresses the courage to, well, what the heck, print the truth.

But why? Why not just focus on tariffs, the Fed and interest rates, the usual Journal fare?

I think Murdoch sees what every rational-thinking American sees: Trump is used goods. His parts are breaking down and even Artificial Intelligence won’t improve the incoherent message. Plus, the Epstein stuff might even be too slimy for the elder Murdoch at this time.

It’s time for a new model to protect the Murdoch family’s interest, if not the average American’s. That would lend credence to the report that, coincidentally, there was a meeting between Vice President JD Vance and the Murdoch clan around the time of the Journal articles. What could they possibly have to discuss?

The only problem I see in this right of succession scenario for Murdoch and Vance is that Vance is not Trump. That is, he is not the swaggering TV personality, making stuff up off the cuff, challenging the system and riling up the cult the way Trump always did until very recently.

Would a Vance threat or lie carry the same weight with MAGA as Trump’s have? Will they ignore the broken economic promises and focus on the hateful bigotry they share? Will Republicans automatically genuflect en masse at Vance’s feet worried about being primaried? Can Vance bullshit people the way Trump can? Is he the new chosen one?

Honestly, I don’t see it. But then, I never saw Rupert Murdoch as the savior of the free press.

*********

Full disclosure: For 23 years, I wrote editorials for The Times Herald-Record in Middletown, N.Y., which was a member of the Ottaway Newspaper Group, a locally owned operation that had been sold to Dow Jones and then subsequently acquired by Rupert Murdoch in the deal that also brought him the Wall Street Journal. As far as I know, he never messed with what went on in Middletown. He also subsequently sold the Ottaway newspaper chain for a profit.

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

  There are a couple of books strategically placed around the house that are challenging me to read them. Never mind read them, finish them. By strategically placed, I mean located so that they’re not staring me in the face, but can’t be ignored either. A perfect way to breed guilt. 

    For some unexplained reason, I just stopped reading books a couple years ago. Cold turkey. As a result, I think I’ve been going through a slow, somewhat irritable withdrawal. They say the first step is recognizing and admitting the problem. So here it is: When I’m reading — books, not news articles or research for columns — my life is simply more manageable. Less irritable. More enjoyable.

    That’s my New Year’s resolution — start reading again and start by finishing those two books.

     About those books — “The Paper … The Life and Death of the New York Herald Tribune” and “Satchel: The Life and Times of an American Legend.” They’re both in my wheelhouse (newspapers and sports) and, I noticed in writing this, both biographies. Coincidence? I think not.

      The Trib was my favorite newspaper from the time I started paying attention to them in my teens. It was The New York Times with personality. Lots. The book was written by Richard Kruger, who worked at The Wall Street Journal, the New York Post and was the last literary editor of the Herald Tribune.

    Also of note, the book was a gift from a good friend, now departed, Chris Farlekas. Chris was a legend in Middletown, N.Y., as a columnist for The Times Herald-Record, where we both worked, and as a producer and performer in scores of musical performances across the years. He also was a great gift-giver.

  This book actually got packed away in some box for one or another move from one place to another and didn’t reappear until a couple years ago. I sincerely apologize for that, Chris. And thanks again for everything.

      “Satchel” was lifted off the shelf of an open to perusal, old, private library, which shall remain anonymous. Basically, the books were there to be taken, so I took one. Actually a couple, but let’s stick to “Satchel.”

     It was written by author and former Boston Globe reporter, Larry Tye, a self-described avid baseball fan. It got terrific reviews and was a best-seller. Can’t wait to restart it.

   I’ll post something on the two books when I’m done. That will give me impetus to actually read them, never mind the fact I was actually enjoying both when I went cold turkey.

     In the meantime, I’m also reaching out for a little social media help. If you’ve got a favorite book, of any genre, you’d like to recommend, please do so in the comments section. New, old, classic, fiction, non-fiction, whatever. I’m eclectic. I’ve got a couple on a list, but I trust you guys. And I can use Kindle.

     And please don’t be shy. After all, you’ll be helping a codger regenerate some dormant brain cells he’s going to need to get through the next four years. Count it as your New Year’s resolution. Thanks in advance.

rjgaydos@gmail.com

By Bob Gaydos

The Washington Post’s ironic motto.

    The oligarchs are flexing their muscles. On the heels of stories that the owner of the Los Angeles Times killed an editorial supporting Kamala Harris for president, the Washington Post announced it would not be endorsing any candidate for president this year, or in the future.

      So much for the Fourth Estate. So much for a Free Press.

     These “non-endorsements“ are bought and paid for by the greed of super rich people, afraid of losing some money and influence if they say something that might, heaven forbid, offend someone.

      Something like maybe, “Don’t vote for the incompetent, felonious, lying fascist, but rather vote for the competent, sensible, intelligent candidate. The country’s future wel-being may hang in the balance.”

      In the most important presidential election of our lifetimes, the newspaper that drove Richard Nixon out of office is taking a pass because its owner, Jeff Bezos, is more afraid of what will happen to him if Donald Trump wins knowing that the Post endorsed Kamala Harris, than what will happen to everyone else in the country if Harris doesn’t win.

      You’re on your own folks. We don’t have an opinion. Except, the Post editorial board actually did have an opinion. Like the editorial board at the LA times, it was preparing to endorse Harris for president.

  Instead, Will Lewis, the Post’s chief executive, wrote, “The Washington Post will not be making an endorsement of a presidential candidate in this election. Nor in any future presidential election. We are returning to our roots of not endorsing presidential candidates.” Balderdash.

    The Post has been endorsing presidential candidates since 1976.

     This is where the politics of fear leads — newspapers, protected by the Constitution, become fearful of performing their duty. Of course, if the fascist wins, that fear will exist every day. That’s when greed and the desire to maintain power kick in. More silence. Look at today’s Republican Party.

     Editorial writers at the Post and the LA Times have resigned in protest, pointing out that this is not the time to remain silent. Indeed, maintaining a position of neutrality in this election falsely suggests that there’s no clear difference between the candidates, that they are pretty much alike, take your pick. We have an opinion on everything else, but this one’s up to you. No biggie.

   Patriotism apparently is not present in the Post’s roots.

                                    ***

    Full disclosure: In my 23-plus years writing editorials for The Times Herald-Record in Middletown, N.Y., we took a pass on one presidential election. It was the 2000 race between Al Gore and George W. Bush. There was no concern about fascism, criminal convictions, sexual assaults, fraud, lies, ignorance of government procedures, secret foreign alliances, threats of reprisal and obviously declining mental competence with either candidate. Just which one might be better for the country, Gore, the current vice president, or Bush, the son of a former president and a governor of Texas.

    I preferred Gore, the  Democrat. So did Mike Levine, the paper’s editor. Gore was in keeping with the newspaper’s liberal tradition editorially. However, Jim Moss, the publisher, preferred Bush, the Republican. Not entirely surprising since publishers tend to be more conservative.

      Levine told Moss that I was going to write an editorial endorsing Gore for president. Moss said he wanted Bush. We asked why. His reasons didn’t sway us. Our arguments for Gore had the same result on Moss.

      Moss insisted that the newspaper run an editorial endorsing Bush for president. I said I wouldn’t write it. Levine said he wouldn’t write it. That left it up to Moss. He decided to punt. Levine and I considered it a victory of sorts in that we avoided endorsing Bush and I wrote an editorial which, to this day, remains remarkably unimprinted on my brain. We had an opinion on the election, but no endorsement and I have no idea what I wrote.

      That was the hanging chads election in Florida which the Supreme Court gave to Bush. It was also the only time that Moss made any such demands on me editorially and even he compromised his position.

    Unfortunately, both Levine and Moss are no longer with us so I have no way to check my recollection of events, but I’m pretty sure I got it right. If any librarian reading this can find a copy, I’d love to see it.

        In any event, I’m glad The New York Times whose reporting on the campaign, has left much to be desired, still had the courage of its convictions this year to write a strong endorsement of Harris for president. I’m sure other newspapers around the country will do likewise. But the continuing growing control of newspapers in this country by a few rich, powerful entities is a threat to democracy that, I feel, too few Americans appreciate.

      Our founding fathers gave newspapers the protection of a free voice for a reason. If you don’t use it, you lose it.

rjgaydos@gmail.com  

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.