(This is one of my favorites and I’m sharing it  again, hoping that it stirs fond memories for some of you. Stay warm, be strong. Merry Christmas.)

By Bob Gaydos

Trains! Trains! Trains!

     Long ago and far away, in a bustling, friendly North Jersey place called Bayonne, a young boy (about 5) clambered out of bed in what seemed like the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.

     He opened the bedroom door and entered a world of light and laughter and clinking glasses and aunts and uncles and … trains!  Trains! And tracks. And …!

       Oh! Oh! Oh!

    It was explained to the hyper-excited boy trying not to wet his pajamas that Santa had been there and brought the train set and set it up, but was coming back with more presents so the boy had to go quickly go the bathroom and then he could play with the trains for a few minutes and go back to bed and be quiet not to wake his baby sister sleeping in her crib.

       And so he did.

       He expanded on those trains and surrounding accessories for another dozen years with the aid of Santa, parents and aunts and uncles for many more Christmas Eve visits. The layout expanded to cover a side of the living room around a Christmas tree in another, larger, home until eventually, at the “request” of his mother, it moved to the basement.

        Then the boy went off to college and life.

       Those trains, the Lionel New York Central passenger line, are still in good shape, in storage now in a big box in the basement with all the rest, after the long run in Bayonne and a revival bringing joy for that boy’s own two sons some four-plus decades later in Middletown, N.Y.

        That Christmas Eve with Santa’s two-stop visit returned vividly to that young boy’s mind as he listened to the news last night, now some seven decades later. A reminder of a simpler time. 

        A time of family, community, innocence, hope and peace. A time worth remembering and, perhaps, removing from the boxes in the basement. 

rjgaydos@gmail.com

The following is an update of a column I wrote 12 years ago. I am re-posting it today on the 62nd anniversary of the assassination of president John F. Kennedy because of its significance in my life and because of the times we live in. Would things have been different if Kennedy had lived to continue serving? I have no way of knowing. I’d like to think the answer is yes. Joe Biden was the oldest elected president this country has ever had. Kennedy was the youngest. They shared the same dedication to protecting our democracy. I continue to celebrate Kennedy on the birth date I share with him and I also honor his memory on the anniversary of the day he was taken from us. A day history was altered forever.

By Bob Gaydos

John F. Kennedy

 The first editorial I wrote for the Times Herald-Record in Middletown, N.Y., appeared on the 20th anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. I wrote the headline, too: “The measure of the man.” 
      Trying to “measure” the meaning of the life of a man who was literally loved and idolized by millions of people is no easy task, especially for a rookie editorial writer’s debut effort. But that’s what newspapers do and, in truth, I took it as a good omen that remembering JFK was my first assignment. He was a hero to me as to many young men my age when he was elected president. It was a combination of things: his youth, his wit, his easy-going style, his intelligence, his words, his sense of justice. Plus, we shared the same birthdate: May 29.
     As fate would have it, JFK would come to be remembered, not on his birthday, but on the anniversary of his death. And not so much for what Americans received for having him as president for 1,000 days, but rather for what we lost by not having him much longer.
     That first editorial said, in essence, that it would take more than 20 years to measure the meaning of the man. It acknowledged the things we had learned about JFK in the years since the shooting in Dallas — the flaws that made him human — as well as what I felt were his positive contributions. Thirty years later, no longer a rookie editorial writer — indeed, retired after 23 years of writing editorials — with Nov. 22 approaching, I realized I had to write about JFK 50 years after his death (because that’s what old newspaper guys do). Before I started, I asked one of my reliable sounding boards, my son, Zack, what he knew about JFK. Zack was 19 at the time and better informed than a lot of young people his age, so I figured his answer would provide me with a fair sense of what our education system had been telling kids about Kennedy.

   “He was the first Catholic president,” Zack said. Correct. “He had an affair with Marilyn Monroe.” Uh, correct. ‘There’s still some theories that there was more than one shooter.” Right. “Do you think the Kevin Costner movie (“JFK,” directed by Oliver Stone) was true?” Well, the people portrayed were real. “The Bay of Pigs didn’t go too well.” No, it didn’t. I took the opportunity to point out that Cuba was the site, not only of Kennedy’s biggest failure in global affairs, but also his biggest success.

     I was 22 years  old when the world stood at the brink of a nuclear war over the presence of Soviet missile-launching sites in Cuba, aimed at the United States. I was a senior in college and knew full well, as did all my classmates, than no 2-S deferment was going to exempt me from what might happen if the Soviets did not — as Kennedy demanded — remove their missiles. Kennedy ordered the U.S. Navy to blockade Cuba to prevent the shipment of Soviet missiles and equipment. Nikita Khrushchev, Soviet president, who had initially denied the existence of the missile sites, sent a naval fleet to Cuba, loaded with supplies and armed for battle. As the world watched and waited and prayed, Kennedy and Khrushchev exchanged messages. Kennedy prevailed. The Soviet fleet stopped short of Cuba and turned around. I lived to write this remembrance. Kennedy was dead not long after.

     So here I am 62 years later, still looking to take the measure of the man and still wondering how that is possible. Kennedy had the gift of engagement. He appeared to be comfortable with whomever he was speaking. He had tremendous appeal to young people, being so different from the older, stodgier presidents who preceded him. He created the Peace Corps — a legacy that continues to this day with not enough fanfare. He made many Americans — and this is not a small thing — truly proud to be Americans. Not in an arrogant, flag-waving, we-know-better-than-you way. Just proud. And he cheated on his wife and kept his serious health problems a secret from us and sometimes needed to be prodded by his brother, Bobby (another tragic loss) to take the proper (courageous) stand on issues.

      So the question I still ask myself is, what might JFK have done, what might he have meant to America and the world, if he had lived longer? What did we lose at Dealey Plaza? Certainly, whatever innocence we still possessed. The wind was sucked from our sails as a nation and our domestic politics have slowly and steadily deteriorated into such partisanship that it is virtually impossible for any president to speak to the minds and hearts of a majority of Americans the way Kennedy did. Maybe it would have happened even if Kennedy had lived a longer life and gone on to be an ambassador to the world of what America stands for. Or maybe not.

     It dawns on me in writing this that it is an ultimately frustrating task to try to take the measure of another man or woman. I know what JFK meant to me personally. I know a lot of others feel similarly and others do not. I know what history has recorded (he was also the youngest man to be elected president) and what the tabloids have told us. I have a sense of what I would like to think Kennedy would ultimately have meant had he not died so young. But it’s only speculation.

     The only man I can truly take the measure of is myself. It is 62 years since that morning when I was waiting at home to go to Fort Dix, N.J., to begin six months of active duty training. How do I measure up today? That’s a question I still work on every day. It wasn’t always thus, but the years have a way of insisting on perspective. Maybe the answer will appear in some other writing. I have neither the space nor the inclination to do so here. I will say that, on balance, I’ll probably give myself a passing grade, but there’s still some stuff I’m learning. That’s a lesson in itself. For now, I’m through trying to take the measure of JFK, as man or president. Let the historians have at it. I’m going to try to take his advice and ask not what life can do for me, but what I can continue to contribute to life. And I’m also going to continue to celebrate him not on the date he died, but on the date we both were born. 

By Bob Gaydos

 It’s all about connecting the dots. That’s what I eventually figured out early in my 23 years of writing daily editorials for The Times Herald-Record in Middletown, N.Y. Six times a week with a break on Saturday. What’s the issue, who’s involved, how does it affect readers and what, if anything, can they do about it. After a while, it became second nature.

     Long retired and, unfortunately, writing about two Trump administrations on my own deadlines, connecting the dots has been challenging. It’s more like following the ball in a pinball machine. Haphazard, slambang, unpredictable, without the fun. All followed by more of the same.

     But I think I’m starting to see some dots.

     Let’s start with Laura Loomer, Trump’s favorite and most avid crackpot fan. Responding to Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s announcement that Qatar will be allowed to operate an Air Force Base in Idaho, Loomer said, “There isn’t a single Trump supporter who supports allowing Qatar to have a military base on U.S. soil. I don’t know who told President Trump this was a good idea, but it has made people not want to vote. … No foreign country should have a military base on US soil. Especially Islamic countries. … I don’t think I’ll be voting in 2026.” Loomer had previously disagreed with Trump’s accepting a $400 million airplane from Qatar as a gift.

       Next dot, Tucker Carlson. Trump’s favorite Fox News host, now an independent podcaster, took issue with comments made by Attorney General Pam Bondi following the killing of Charlie Kirk, a MAGA hero. In the aftermath of Kirk’s killing, there was a flurry of commentary about him, much favorable (from MAGAs), but also a considerable amount that was critical of him. Bondi threatened that the Justice Department would “target” the critical ones, describing it as “hate speech.”

     Carlson, probably recognizing that his entire career depends on freedom of speech, said, “You hope that a year from now, the turmoil we’re seeing in the aftermath of [Kirk’s] murder won’t be leveraged to bring hate speech laws to this country. And trust me, if it is, if that does happen, there is never a more justified moment for civil disobedience than that, ever. Because if they can tell you what to say, they’re telling you what to think … There is nothing they can’t do to you because they don’t consider you human.”

        Dot number three (and probably the most unexpected), Marjorie Taylor Greene. The Republican congresswoman, part of an outspoken group that has driven a couple of speakers out of their jobs in the House of Representatives for not being loyal enough to Trump, has taken sharp issue with Trump, Bondi and House Speaker Mike Johnson over their refusal to release the Jeffrey Epstein files to Congress. Greene has gone so far as to volunteer to read any list of perpetrators’ names provided by Epstein victims on the floor of the House, since the law protects members of Congress from legal action for any comments made on the floor of Congress during debate.

       Greene also has criticized Johnson for keeping the House in recess while the government is shut down and refusing to swear in a newly elected congresswoman from Arizona, who would be the deciding vote requiring release of the Epstein files to Congress. Discarding the Republican talking points that the shutdown is the fault of Democrats, Greene also points to the fact that the budget presented by Republicans will cause millions of Americans to lose their health insurance and sharply raise the insurance rates for millions of others, including, as she points out, her own children.

      More dots: Trump mysteriously went to the Walter Reed Medical Center for his “annual“ check up, even though he had one In April, but no detailed report on his health was released. Just the usual, he’s OK, while rumors persist that he’s not and his daily public utterances are a word salad of self-praise and misinformation and obvious declining mental acuity. Other Republicans in the House, hearing complaints from their districts about losing health insurance, are privately grumbling over Johnson’s refusal to negotiate with Democrats on a budget. And Johnson, going straight from the Republican playbook, has taken to describing the coming No Kings protest as a “hate America rally.”

    Fear, panic, over-reaching and ignoring your supporters just to feather your nest and protect your own hide. The Trump playbook, but very poorly done. It was not a good week for Trump or MAGA. What would make it even worse, dear readers, would be for the No Kings protest to be the biggest pro-America rally ever.

    Dots all for now.

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