Fall 2014

by Alix Kane

We lived in Brooklyn on Washington Avenue, directly opposite the entrance to the Botanical Gardens. The Garden was my magical world, my childhood playground. I was about eight. Every day after school I came home, collected my jar and net and asked a neighbor to cross me to the other side of Washington Avenue. I entered through the main gate, turned left and took the path to a large, muddy pond (much smaller when I returned as an adult.) I stretched out on its muddy banks and waited. There they were, thousands of tiny tadpoles swimming in the water, hiding in the mud; they filled the pond. I was fascinated by the world that existed there. I filled my jar with water, took my net, swooped it through the water and gently turned the net over into my jar and dropped the tadpoles inside. I have few strong memories of my childhood, but I recall this clearly a whole eco-world was captured in my jar.

After a while I returned home and poured the jar into a fish tank that had no fish, only other tadpoles. There were zillions of them, an accumulation of weeks of foraging in my pond.

* * *

I really wanted a dog. My mother did not. For years I tried to negotiate a cat, a bird – anything real, something of substance. Of course she wouldn’t hear of it. Who would walk it? Who would feed it? Who would clean up after it? I would have but nobody listened. So I turned to tadpoles. It was feasible and convenient. A fish tank was provided after months of pleading. Not only did I have a pet – I had thousands of them! Entire communities of tadpoles.

The first time I found the fish tank empty, I didn’t get it. Mom said the dirt killed them, and “Why don’t you begin again? There are lots more where those came from.” Dutifully I returned to my pond. And regularly I found the tank empty. I was young maybe eight or nine, but not stupid. One day I found her flushing the contents of the tank down the toilet. A bitch and a liar!

* * *

In 1963 I was married at nineteen to a young man of twenty-three. My family made the wedding as was proper for the girl’s parents to do back then. As a wedding gift Elliot’s family gave us a budget to furnish our apartment. They were well-off and very generous. In retrospect, it was a huge amount of money, probably as much as our lavish wedding cost. But at the time I had no understanding of the value of either the wedding or his family’s gift. They also told us – not suggested, but told – to use their interior decorator, Michael DeSantis. They didn’t want their contribution going to waste. Michael was well-known in the designer trade and so easy to work with. Whatever we told him we liked, he spun into something of good taste. We said avocado green and lemon yellow. He gave us breen (a combination of brown and green) and muted yellow — much softer and more sophisticated. The apartment was gorgeous. In the end I’m certain we went over budget, but as Michael’s bills went directly to my in-laws, I’ll never know.

When we had ordered all the furniture for our four-room apartment, it was time to think about accessories…the things that really represent the taste and personalities of the occupants: artwork for the walls, tables and shelves – even the floor. Ashtrays (we both smoked).  Stuff.

* * *

Michael and I were roaming through shops one afternoon, and I spotted a large toad, about 12” x 12, ” the colors of our apartment, green and yellow. I swooped it up and announced I wanted it… and more frogs.  “Frogs?” Michael asked. I could see the shock and plunged ahead. “Yes, lots of them. I LOVE frogs!” My past had caught up with me and I wouldn’t be deterred.

And that’s how my collection began. That was 1963, fifty-one years ago. At last count in 2001, when I moved in with my current husband, Bernd, there were about three hundred and fifty. As I unwrapped each one in Bernd’s apartment he was visibly upset. The collection was clearly that: an accumulation of all the frogs I had bought as serious art, received as gifts (when you collect, people bring presents from all over the world) and just cheap chotchke frogs that had caught my fancy in catalogues and store windows. You know, the kind holding an umbrella with a “ribit” sign on the stand.

I saw Bernd’s face. I knew many had to go. But I kept thinking of all the tadpoles that had been flushed away the minute they sprouted legs and began to appear as frogs, and I had a difficult time choosing. In the end I kept all the frogs of real value, as well as those of intrinsic value. Three of them had been at my second wedding under the Chuppah. At Bernd’s request, none had attended my third. Several had been gifts from my grandchildren (a bit tacky but meaningful.) Finally, sadly, I packed up the frogs that would go the way of the toilet and asked Bernd to get rid of them in a humanitarian way. I never asked how. I hope he gave them away to good homes but I doubt it. More likely, they were collected by the Sanitation Department. Hundreds of them.

I’m pleased to say I have survived, although I will never forget that my mother was a mass murderer.

Alix Kane has been writing essays and short stories since college. The IRP Memoir class has lately been the catalyst for the creation of short memoir pieces. Thank you Carmen and Leila!

by James Gould

Marin Vukovic left home early to walk to his shop before the cruise ships disgorged the tourists so he could pretend that things in Dubrovnik were as they used to be. He saw small trucks and pushcarts making deliveries, a couple of nuns and a few old-timers like him. He walked the stone streets between the stone buildings, looking up at the stone palaces and churches and the twenty foot stone walls. Aside from the red tile roofs, this was a city of stone which was good when the Serbs had fired their artillery.

His route looped by the fountain where a man in Renaissance Guard costume sat reading a newspaper and drinking coffee, his halberd spear at his feet. Soon enough he would be standing at attention for the tourist photos all day, with the only break the marching to the next gate every so often, passing the other guards. “Pretend soldiers who have no idea of war,” Marin thought. Not for the first time, he had the passing thought that the city of his birth, that had withstood centuries of would-be conquerors, was falling to the tourists, turning into a kind of movie location. But what saddened him the most was the declining number of children in the city, a result of foreigners buying apartments for vacation retreats, delayed marriage and young families’ preference for modern apartments. Even his son moved to a high rise.

Marin talked to himself, an indulgence of age. He pondered, “What is a city without children?” He answered, “A museum!” He especially missed the sounds of flocks of boys and girls running past his shop, their shoes slapping on the paving stones, their voices echoing off the stone walls. But it is not easy raising children in a movie set.

Marin shook his head. “Not my city any more. But why think of such bad things on this day? I have too few days remaining and should just enjoy them.” He continued his walk down the Stradun and looked up at the clock tower and its two statues with hammers that rang the bells to mark time. “Even they are not real, just fiberglass and epoxy,” he thought. But the originals were in the museum after years of restoration. “Maybe that’s what they should do with me; do a restoration and put me in a museum with a sign ‘One of the last two watchmakers in Dubrovnik.’”

The clock tower bells rang 7 A.M. as Marin turned back through the gate, past the palace and turned right before the cathedral into the open air market. At least this was real, with people bringing in honey and lavender from the Island of Hvar. When he heard the horn blow on the cruise ships in the harbor signaling the arrival of the shuttle boats, he knew it was time to retreat before the stampede. He bought a paper and walked down the street past the pizza place, the T-shirt shop, the wine tasting store and the souvenir store to his shop.

He looked up at his sign “Expert Watchmaker, All Makes Repaired.” “Some repairs nowadays,” he muttered to himself. With digital watches all he did was replace batteries and broken bands and crystals. And sometimes flush the saltwater out of supposedly waterproof watches tourists wore swimming. No wonder there were only two watchmakers left, the other one even older than Marin. They both would have retired by now had the city council not given them essentially free rent to keep at least some of the old crafts alive.

He unlocked the door and walked into his tiny shop. Three walls had floor to ceiling shelves with clocks and cabinets of drawers with parts and tools. The fourth had the door and his workbench in front of the window. Over the years, as he used his tools less and less, he had neglected to return things to their proper place, a cardinal sin for a watchmaker.

Marin sat at his bench, put on his glasses and started reading the paper. Hours later he was still there, dozing, no customers having disturbed him. He was reliving his student days when he was working on his final examination. To be certified a Master Watchmaker, it was necessary to make a watch from scratch. He remembered the happy hours making the gears and pivots and springs. He was up to the best part when his watch won the first place award when some loud tourists going by awakened him.

Marin stayed in half sleep for a while, holding onto the memory. Then he shook himself and said aloud, “Enough of this foolishness. No customers so no reason to delay lunch.” Lunch was Marin’s favorite meal of the day, the subject of much cogitation. As he was closing up with his mind full of mussels, a young boy of eight or nine came running up.

“Sir, do you fix watches?”

“Can’t you read the sign?” Marin said grumpily.

The boy studied the sign. “So you can fix mine, then.”

Marin thought of the mussels and started to tell the boy to come back after lunch. Then he stopped and looked closely. The boy was trying hard not to cry, knowing that Dubrovnian men were supposed to be strong. But the boy’s lip was quivering. Marin also saw the soccer shirt with the Croatian team colors and the skinned knee.

“What happened?”

“I was goalie in the soccer game and made a dive for a save. When I landed I heard a crunch and when I looked my watch had stopped. Please, can you fix it? My father is in the Merchant Marine and bought it for me when his ship stopped in America. It is my most special thing in the world and I wear it all the time, except for baths and swimming.” The boy said all this without pause on one breathless rush.

Marin smiled, remembering playing soccer himself as a boy.

“One question – did you make the save?”

“Yes. And we won the game.”

“For a gallant goalie, let’s see what we can do. Give me the watch.”

The boy took it off and handed it up. A Mickey Mouse watch.

“Great,” thought Marin. “Just the thing to remind me how far I have fallen.”

He was about to make a sarcastic remark, but was stopped by the boy’s face which was looking at him as a hero. For the first time in quite a while, Marin felt some professional pride. At least someone would appreciate his work.

“Come back after lunch,” Marin said.

“If it’s all right, I would like to stay and watch.” In truth the boy had no appetite with his watch broken.

“You can stay, but keep your hands off things.”

Marin cleared off a space on the cluttered workbench, laid down a piece of chamois, unscrewed the stem and then popped off the press fit back. He took out the broken crystal and replaced it, thinking that it should be called a plastic rather than a crystal. He tried a new battery. Nothing. He put on his magnifiers and looked closely at the electronic circuitry. The tiny printed circuit board had a crack. He could fix many things, but not that. It would have to be replaced.

“Now where did I put that Swatch I found in the street last month with a broken band?” He started opening drawers, then more drawers. With increasing frustration, he remembered the days when he knew the contents of every drawer. That knowledge was gone and the cryptic labels on the drawers did not help.

“My God! Is this what I’ve become? No self-respecting watchmaker would be this disorganized.”  The boy, unaware of this inner turmoil, just kept watching. Finally, Marin found the right drawer. He disassembled the Swatch and put the Swatch innards into the Mickey case. It fit, but loosely. “That will never do for a soccer player like you. You need it snug so it will not rattle around.”

Marin started opening more drawers, looking for the spacer rings that help the movements match the cases. He found the drawer and tried every one. One was close, but not perfect.

“Close is not good enough!” Marin said out loud. Lunch forgotten, he put the closest fitting ring in a tiny anvil and found his jeweler’s saw. He cut an opening in the too-small ring, cut a small section from another ring, and then clamped the cut ends together. Rummaging furiously in the clutter he found his jeweler’s torch and solder. Adjusting the flame to a fine point he soldered, filed and polished the ring. He put the movement in the ring, the ring in the case. Perfect. He fit in a new battery, attached that hands and Mickey face. He reattached the back, set the time and polished the assembled watch.

“Give me your hand.”

Marin fastened the watch on the small wrist as the boy saw the second hand moving. “You did it! You did it!”

Marin smiled, a real smile, the first real smile in a long time. He looked at the boy, then around at his shop and an idea came to him. “Yes, it’s fixed. Now about my payment.”

The boy was suddenly crestfallen. “I don’t have any money. Are you taking the watch back?”

“No. But I have a business proposition for you. You see my shop is a mess. I need someone’s help organizing it again. Someone with small hands. Someone like you. Help me do that and we’re even. Is it a deal?”

The boy’s face lit up. “Yes, it’s a deal. I’ll come by tomorrow after soccer.”

Marin and the boy solemnly shook hands, sealing the deal as men are supposed to do.

The boy went running down the street, as boys who play soccer never walk when they can run.

As Marin locked up he finally thought of his delayed lunch. But mainly he thought that for the first time in a long time he truly looked forward to tomorrow.

James Gould, since retiring after 34 years of patent litigation, has pursued non-legal writing in many genres, including travel, self help, short story and children’s stories. Present projects include a memoir and a screenplay. He also loves travel and City culture.

by Moya Duffy

I can’t remember what I did to make him so angry. All I can remember is his revenge.

It was early in our marriage and we were living in Hong Kong, traveling occasionally up The Pearl River to Guanzhou, the main city in Canton. By the late 1970’s life was getting better for most people in the cities of Mainland China. There was a whiff of capitalism in the air with many small shops reopening and even the odd foreigner turning up to do business.

Tom and I were two of those foreigners having started a toy import export business. Competition was fierce and our cash was dwindling, so I was pleasantly surprised at how agreeable he had been on this trip, almost solicitous, letting me wander the art shops while he finished up our business negotiations and arranged our last dinner.

“Are you sure your wife likes snake?” asked an anxious Mr. Zhu, who was originally from Shanghai and wasn’t too keen on eating reptiles. Snake is a delicacy only eaten in the South of China and often for nutritional reasons.

“Absolutely loves it,” smiled my duplicitous husband.

In my naivety I thought we had arrived at a pet shop. The front window was filled with curving boughs and leaves with possibly some movement in the upper branches. We went up the narrow stairs to a warm room filled with tables and chairs and some local people tucking into dinner.

We were in the most famous snake restaurant in Canton with possibly the best snake chef in China, and our fellow diners were delighted, as they knew the chef would demonstrate his extraordinary skills for honored foreign guests.

He arrived at our table carrying a basket, took off the lid and plunged his hand into a writhing mass, pulling out a black cobra. He held the lashing creature aloft, made a surgical slit and out popped the bile, which fell into the waiting glass of maotai, turning it green. This is the propitious drink that starts a meal of snake soup, followed by snake meat, civet cat and other delicacies developed to shore you up for a hard cold winter.  “Darling,” said the solicitous Tom. “We are honored guests and you are not drinking your maotai.”

Pale, furious, and feeling a little nauseous, I could only manage, “We’ll talk about gall when we get back to Hong Kong.”

Moya Duffy has recently observed that the more formal education she has acquired the duller the jobs. Modeled in London, a stewardess in NYC, a lay-about in Liberia and a university lecturer in Hong Kong.

by Eileen Brener

I started Tulane Law School with a few handicaps. At 40, the oldest in the class, and newly divorced, I viewed the world darkly. Having recently left a thirteen-year marriage with few assets—no real estate, no children—and just enough in savings to live on and pay tuition for three years, I felt like Joe Btfsplk, the Li’l Abner character with a perpetual black cloud over his head. My niece, a lawyer, encouraged me to apply. My favorite family member, she assured me I could do well; however, she was full of warnings: don’t raise a hand to volunteer an answer to a question, never assume any goodwill on the part of the professor for if I answered his first question correctly, he would skewer me with one question after another until he found the limits of my knowledge. He’ll never leave you feeling the least bit competent, she told me. This grim scene suited me. I relished the idea of three demanding years.

Most of my classmates were 22 to 24 and nonchalant about appearances. They dressed in tattered blue jeans or warm-ups, stained shirts and sneakers. There was one exception: Miss Lilly Labourgeois. Miss Labourgeois, as I thought of her then, wore outfits that highlighted her curvaceous figure: short skirts, tight-fitting blouses, and high-heeled shoes. I soon learned she was the youngest in our class—barely 20; she hailed from Lafayette, LA, a town in Cajun Country known for its Zydeco music. I heard that before law school Miss Labourgeois sang with a Zydeco band.

I wasn’t surprised to find that she had stage experience for she certainly had the presence. Her shoulder-length red hair, her spirited expressions and her confident swagger reminded me of Susan Sarandon in Thelma and Louise. I wondered how ready she was for the tedium. not to mention the challenges of law school.

All my professors that first semester worked at being abrasive if not abusive, but one, Professor Sternler, stood out from the rest. He taught Civil Procedure—court rules—and he imposed many rules on our class. For instance, at the moment class was to start—8 a.m.—he would lock the door so that anyone a fraction late would miss class. That first day when he was explaining his rules with emphasis on the penalty for being tardy, Miss Labourgeois appeared at the door about five minutes late. We could see her through the glass upper section of the door. (The class was in an amphitheater with the professor and door into the class on the lowest level.) As our professor repeated his warnings to her, Miss Labourgeois nodded and smiled beguilingly at him. He concluded by pointing to an empty seat on the top row of the classroom and saying, “Please, don’t let this happen again.” To our amazement, she took a curl of her red hair in her left hand and wound it around her finger and mounted the steps singing, “Do dee do, do dee do.” I was fascinated yet terrified for her; the prof watched her with his mouth open.

He said, “You are?”

“Lilly Labourgeois.” She paused and turned toward him.

“Perhaps, Miss Labourgeois, you’d be so kind as to give us the facts of Pennoyer v. Neff.”

“That’s an 1877 case where Neff was sued by a third party, but because Neff was not to be found, the third party won the lawsuit in a default judgment . . .” She continued giving the complications of the case while walking up the steps to her seat.

“Do you agree with the Supreme Court’s holding?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea. I studied to remember the facts for class. I expect you to tell me what it means.” Once again she wound a red curl about her finger, but she did not sing.

Professor Sternler’s face darkened and he turned to someone else for the next question.  The next day at 8 a.m. on the dot he made a wry face at the class and turned to lock the door. As soon as he turned the lock, we saw her through the glass pane in the door smiling at the professor.

“Well, I do believe it’s Miss Labourgeois gracing us with her presence today just in the nick of time.” He opened the door.

“Good morning, sir.” She climbed the stairs humming.

“Would you comment on the issue of foreseeability in the court’s decision in Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad, Miss Labourgeois?”

Without a moment’s hesitation she began: “A person is liable only for the consequences of an act that can be reasonably foreseen rather than every single consequence that could follow. It’s somewhat parallel to being 30 seconds late to class as opposed to 3 minutes.“

“Enough, Miss Labourgeois.” Professor Sternler had forgotten to lock the door after letting her enter and while he was questioning her, two hung-over-looking students had crept into the classroom trying not to attract notice.

About a week into classes, the forces-that-be declared that students would be seated alphabetically so that a secretary could take the role. As luck would have it, my surname—Lacrosse—placed me next to Lilly Labourgeois in two of my classes. She surprised me by being very friendly. I felt that I was invisible to most of my classmates who rarely spoke to me and certainly didn’t invite me to any of the many parties I overheard them discussing. Yet in spite of our age difference, Lilly and I became study-buddies and regularly had lunch together. One evening a week we worked on our course outlines together. I had the advantage of owning a computer at a time when few classmates did. Lilly was eager to learn to use it and caught on very quickly as she and I regularly updated our outlines. After our study sessions we drank red wine and complained about our heavy workloads.

Lilly’s extra-curricular activities– which she described to me in great detail—were impressive. She went out every night, had boyfriends from her hometown coming to see her and boyfriends from law school as well as admirers from among the professors. She laughed as she told me our contracts professor had invited her into his office to discuss a research project.

“He’s so old! He should be after you.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze to soften the blow.

I tried to smile, but the bitter lines in my face wouldn’t bend that way.

“Say, why don’t I fix you up with some men I know from Lafayette? I can think of two judges who are single.”

“Oh, maybe after exams, Lilly. I ought to focus on studying these next few weeks.”

I hadn’t had a date in fifteen years. The prospect was formidable. I wasn’t ready for a date. Lilly said we’d talk about it later.

There were no classes the week of Thanksgiving and I had no plans to do anything but study, because exams were the following week. A few days before our break, I was sitting in the cafeteria with Lilly discussing her Thanksgiving options. She told me that one of her hobbies is wing-walking, where she wears a harness attached to the top wing of a biplane and strolls along the lower wing or sits on the upper wing while the plane is in flight. The plane doesn’t go very high or very far, and it is all for a good cause, she assured me. She had plans to practice one day next week. I was amazed to learn that Lilly had soloed as a pilot at aged 16, and she now had a certificate to fly as a private pilot. Her father was a pilot for Delta; flying was a passion—one of many—with her.

This new aspect of Lilly was too much for me. I gave up on eating my lunch and just stared at her. Glowing with youth, beauty, and breath-taking confidence, she seemed my exact opposite. I felt like an unlucky Cinderella with no glass slippers while Lilly danced like a princess down an enchanted path. Breaking all my resolutions to study the entire week during the break, I told Lilly I wanted to see her wing-walk and that I would drive to Lafayette for the event.

Lilly called to arrange our meeting on the Friday after Thanksgiving at a small airfield outside of Lafayette. She mentioned that the pilot of the biplane was one of the judges that she intended to fix me up with. I began to whimper my excuses, but she shushed me by saying this meeting was all about wing-walking.

On Friday I arrived just as Lilly and Judge Allard drove up in his convertible. Lilly leaped out of the car wearing a yellow spandex jumpsuit. She walked me around to meet Judge Allan Allard, a pleasant looking, balding man who appeared to be about 50—the owner of the biplane and the pilot in this adventure.

As we walked toward the hanger, I saw the small plane being rolled out to the field. Lilly climbed into the front seat, put on goggles, secured her hair into a bun and buckled a harness around her. Allan piloted from the second seat. I knew I should be worrying about my young friend, but visions of Snoopy in goggles and scarf gave me the giggles. The plane took off and after it was in the air a few minutes, Lilly got out of the cockpit and walked to the end of the lower wing. She waved to me, turned around a few times and walked back to the cockpit. Then she raised herself so that she was sitting on the top wing over the cockpit. She lifted her arms and kicked her legs as though she were in a swing at a park.

After the plane flew a few more circles around the field, Lilly slowly lowered herself into the cockpit. The plane gained altitude and I lost sight of it. About thirty minutes later, I saw it return, land and roll to a stop. Lilly was not on board. I rushed out to meet Allan hardly daring to think what might have happened. When I saw his smile, I relaxed.

“Lilly had an idea,” he said. “She wanted to stop at Grand Coteau for coffee. I left her there and came back to get you. Would you like to fly over there? If you are nervous, we could drive.”

Of course, I would NOT like to fly over there. I’ve always kept a healthy distance from small planes. But I had been too damned cautious all my life and missed so much. . . . So I said, “Sure! Let’s fly!” trying to hold steady my trembling hands.

I climbed into the front seat and put on goggles and a helmet. Allan explained that we could hear each other during the flight, and I should tell him if I was nervous or felt sick. Otherwise I should stay buckled into my seat and enjoy the beautiful ride. It was mercifully short and uneventful. Grand Coteau is a rural village; I saw rolling green hills dotted with a few impressive homes and buildings.

We arrived and found Lilly at the coffee house in the center of a group of friends from her days performing with a band. She decided to get a ride back to Lafayette with them and told us we were on our own.

After coffee, Allan said, “Well, I guess you’re up for the return flight to the airfield in Lafayette.“ As though I had a choice.

“Sure!” I guessed the man thought that’s all I could say. The return trip was almost enjoyable; I was catching on to this Snoopy thing.

* * * * * *
After our last exam, Lilly and I met for lunch. We hadn’t seen each other since the day of her wing-walk. When I complimented her on her stunt skills, she asked me how I liked Allan and if I enjoyed flying in the biplane. I told her we had dinner together that evening and we were going out next weekend. Lilly smiled and predicted that before long I’d be wing-walking. She was right: Reader, I married him.

Eileen Brener has enjoyed studying writing–poetry and prose–at the IRP.

by Ivy Berchuck

I was told up front that my name would be Miss Fox. I was never to discuss my identity with clients or other counselors. First names were never to be used. It all seemed theatrical, like an undercover operation. I was sitting opposite Mrs. Birch of the Birch Employment Agency. I had gone there to answer a job listing for a research assistant at the University of Chicago. There I was, a recent bride, a recent college graduate, and we were in the middle of the recession of 1955. I had been pacing the icy Chicago streets convinced I’d find the job of my dreams. I had already captured the man of my dreams and had an inflated sense of what I could do.

After a few disappointing interviews on my own I approached what sounded like a high class agency. It turned out to be a bare room with two rows of desks where young women talked to jobseekers and chatted on the phones with prospective employers. The key to the work were small index cards that held descriptions of available job openings. It reminded me of bookies in old movies, except for the gender difference. After a short interview with a Miss Washburn, who informed me that the research assistant opening at the university was no longer available, I was turned over to the matronly, tightly curled head of Mrs. Birch.

She was all flattery, and thought what I should do was work for her placing other girls in jobs while collecting commissions for myself. The base salary was so minuscule I’ve conveniently forgotten what it was. The commissions were to make it worthwhile. Although the job description that brought me there was for a college graduate, the openings the agency usually filled were for file clerks or girls for the steno pool. Those waiting to be interviewed looked like a forlorn lot.

I don’t know why I took a chance on it. It had an aura of sleaze, but I was tired of the search and was beginning to sour, even about my new husband. No way did I want my marriage to start like this. “What about training?” I asked Mrs. Curlylocks. “Don’t worry,” our Miss Haskins will give you all the information you need. She brought me over to an empty desk and the next thing I knew I was introduced to Miss Haskins. She had a long, sallow face and spoke as if she had graduated magna cum laude in elocution. She explained that the success of the operation was cold calling Chicago companies to get job listings which were then shared by all of us. We were to interview a girl and send her out after calling the company to remind them that the outstanding applicant was a Birch Agency girl. Miss Haskins let me know she always placed the most applicants and if I worked hard, I too could earn lots of money.

Always the good girl, I plunged in. The personnel men liked my gentle banter and I copied Miss Haskins and flattered them wildly. “Oh, you sound so smart, Mr Jones. I just love working with you. And you know that a job applicant from Birch Agency will always be competent and attractive.” It was enough to turn your stomach, but I thought of it as an acting job and the role of Miss Fox was the only way to break into this theater.

Two things happened during the first week on the job. When I got a listing, I quickly delivered it to Mrs. Birch so it could be disseminated to all the counselors. By the time I wanted to send a girl over there, the personnel man would tell me that the job was already filled and by someone from Birch. It did not take a genius to figure out that Mrs. Birch had passed my listings on to her favorites. In order to place someone in a job I’d have to send my candidate out before I turned over the job description to be shared with others. It was an ugly, cutthroat and deceptive operation. I swallowed, and started to play the game. By the end of week two, I had a few commissions.

Although I thought that act had compromised my ethical standards, it was nothing compared to the next thing. It appeared by day three, when after the job description for a clean cut, modest file clerk, a Mr Smithers said to me, “ And remember, dear Miss Fox, only send a Nordic. Be sure that you mark that down on your description. I don’t want some kike walking into my office.” I could not believe what I was hearing. There was no legislation here to prevent blatant anti-Semitism. Mr. Smithers was not the only one, although the language was mostly more genteel. I was appalled, and my husband remarked that Chicago was like that. “Be glad that you’re not a negro,” he said. ”Can you imagine then what the prospects for a job would be? If you can’t take it, quit.”

I held on. I dreaded going to that office and could feel something developing akin to self- loathing. I thought of collaborators during the war, of French girls who had their hair cut off by their countrymen. Here I was, a Jewish girl helping to perpetrate this outrage by collaborating with an odious practice. But an exit strategy was going to appear. During the second month a cold call got me an unusual listing for an assistant at a service agency that lobbied for public education. “We would require a college graduate,” said the woman. “We’re a small group and we work closely together. I thought that the Birch Agency only supplied clerical help. With an adrenalin rush I assured her that I had a recent college grad who would really fit her needs and I could set up an interview for the next day. Then I gave the job listing to Mrs. Birch.

I called in sick and went for the interview. As soon as I entered that office I loved the atmosphere and they offered me the job at the end of our conversation. I reminded the woman to contact Miss Fox the following day at the agency to give her the news, and arranged to start in two weeks. That would be enough time for my commission to come through.

Before I left I had one last conversation with Mr. Smithers. He had started to like me so much that he called me directly when he needed a new file clerk. As usual, he reminded me to send only a Nordic and I responded, “Oh, Mr. Smithers, I would never send you a Jew like myself.” I hung up, emptied my desk, and told Mrs. Birch that I needed to quit immediately, because I was pregnant and not feeling well. Deception for me had become easy, but I felt this lie would be the truth before too long.

Ivy Berchuck writes memoirs to remember, reflect and learn more about herself. It is a joy to share the writing with colleagues and is an addiction that I highly recommend.

by James A. Avitabile

Miriam and I were classmates in the sixth grade at P.S. 45. She was petite in frame and delicate in mind, a serious girl and as fragile as a porcelain doll. She needed someone to watch over her. I took on that responsibility. Except for me, she stayed apart from most of our classmates.

She talked in whispers as if everything she said was a secret. Whenever she spoke, teeny bubbles dribbled out of her mouth with every word. Maybe no one else noticed but I did. Her skin was like white tissue paper. I could see tiny veins under her eyes and on her cheeks that looked like roadways on a map. They weren’t major highways, more like country roads.

She wore expensive clothes. She came from money, but money never got in our way. Miriam wasn’t sloppy and she wasn’t groomed to perfection either. She was neatly disheveled. Her dresses must have come from Garber Brothers or Lobel’s where people who had money didn’t have to wait for a sale to purchase anything like my mother had to.  But my mother never dressed me poorly. Every day I wore a freshly washed and neatly ironed shirt and carefully pressed pants. When it came to cleanliness and clothes my mother made sure I floated in a sea of Ivory soap.

My classmates and I were a fusion of all kinds of vegetables in a slow cooking stew. We were Irish, Poles, Italians, Jews and some blacks that blended together. If intolerance and bigotry existed, it stayed at home in a different pot.

Miriam and I sat next to each other at lunch. On Wednesdays, she could see a mood change in me. I became gloomy. On that day, lunch was like the Last Supper. I played with my food; I sagged and sulked. I wanted the day to stop right there, but that wasn’t going to be. Wednesday was released-time day. I would be shuttled by bus to Sacred Heart School and handed over to the nuns to learn about God’s love for us and what we had to do to attain His love. And if we didn’t get it they’d beat it into us with whatever they had in their hands. They tried to beat love into us when they didn’t know what love was. Miriam knew how I felt about Wednesday afternoons. As I gathered my books she would look at me and whisper, “I hope it goes fast for you today.” I hated the two hours I had to face those twisted sisters with their ugly warts. Time dragged on as if the hands of the clock had weights on them. Even when that Wednesday finally came to an end, the thought of next Wednesday loomed.

I was so happy when Thursday morning came and I returned to my delicious stew of public school. One morning, Miriam bubbled: “I’m making my bat mitzvah in two weeks. Would you like to come to the ceremony? It’ll be at Temple Emanuel on Post Avenue. After the ceremony, they’ll be a reception with all kinds of food. I’ve even invited some of our classmates.”

Miriam had come to my confirmation party in my backyard on a warm
and sunny Saturday in May. I had invited many of my classmates and most of them had come, even Mr. Dizard, my homeroom teacher, was there. Now it was Miriam’s turn to be confirmed and recognized as an adult by God. I told my mother about Miriam’s invitation, not because it was a question of whether I could go or not but because it was about a gift.

“What do you think you would like to get for Miriam?”

“A necklace, Mom, a necklace with little pink beads. That’s her favorite color. I saw a necklace in Sonia Pitt’s window that Miriam would like. It’s pink beads with little white pearls on a silver chain.”

“How much is it? Could you see the price tag?”

“Ten dollars, Mom. It’s not cheap but she gave me those silver cuff links and those weren’t cheap either. I think I should get it before someone else buys it.”

Sonia Pitt and her sister were spinsters. They lived down the block from us on Pelton Avenue. They had a shop at the corner of Davis, a block away from my father’s hat cleaning store. Many mornings I would see the neatly dressed pair—one tall, the other shorter by a foot— walk smilingly to their shop. The shop was really a hair salon, but as you entered there were showcases of jewelry. While customers waited for one of the beauticians to take them, they could browse the showcases. The sisters knew how to dress the window and lure you with pretty jewelry. They had quiet taste, like Miriam’s.  The taller Sonia had a natural talent for wrapping a gift in such an inviting way that I was certain that Miriam would want to open it first. I watched Miss Pitt as she selected a paper that hinted at what the color Miriam’s gift might be. She carefully dressed it as if it were a little girl.

The sun shone gloriously the day Miriam came of age as a Jew. She recited in Hebrew certain religious passages. I could barely hear her. The rabbi had a distinct British accent that seemed very strange to me. Couldn’t they have found an American? Many rabbis had come to my father’s shop to have their hats cleaned. This was the first time I heard a rabbi with a British accent.

Miriam glowed and bubbled. Her eyes showed how happy she was. Like the custom at an Italian wedding, she’d go around to each of the tables and accept the gifts offered to her and place them in a very large white silk purse. She received many envelopes. I was one of the few ‘gift’ givers. I kissed her on the cheek.

“Thank you James for coming and thank you for your gift. It’s so beautifully wrapped. I can’t wait to open it when I get home.”

The following Wednesday came too soon. The paddy wagon picked us up and off we were carted to have love beaten into us. As we settled into our assigned desks, Sister Judith with her deeply creased forehead and strands of silver gray hair escaping from beneath her wimple asked, “Did anyone do something special since last week?”

I raised my hand. “Yes, James, what special thing did you do?”

“I attended my friend Miriam’s bat mitzvah last Saturday at Temple Emanuel. They gave me a paper yarmulke to wear on my head.”

The deep crease on her forehead turned beet red; so did her whole face. Like an overheated pressure cooker she exploded. “You have committed a mortal sin! You have broken God’s first commandment, you heathen. ‘I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.’ Get out of my sight. Go tell the Monsignor that you worshipped the God of the Jews who is a false god.”

I hunched over and buried my head into my shoulders to convey a visual expression that I was truly sorry for worshipping a false idol. I wasn’t sorry at all. I felt I had done something good. I obeyed her and walked to the rectory where the Monsignor lived. I rang the bell. The housekeeper opened the door. I asked if I could see him. She told me he was at St. Vincent’s Hospital giving last rites to a dying parishioner. “Thank you, I’ll come back another time.”

I descended the three brick steps to the cement walkway. I couldn’t go back to class right away. I needed more time. I went to a nearby candy store that had an old fashioned soda fountain. “Egg Cream, please.” I sipped and slurped it for as long as I could. I wiped my mouth and drank some water to wash away any scent of sweet. I returned reluctantly to my designated cellblock and Sister Judith, feigning remorse. “What did Monsignor say to you?”

“He took me into his office and asked me to make a good confession
to him. I did.”

She couldn’t ask me too much more. Confession is a private thing. There’s no sharing. I could see in her sadistic eyes that she imagined the worst and that the Monsignor became so enraged that he might have punched or slapped me for worshipping a false god. When I went to public school the next day, Miriam greeted me with a beaming smile. She was wearing my necklace.

“I really love it James! Thank you so much.”

Thank you, Carmen for helping me stay focused in finding my voice and telling my story and feeling it. ‘Twisted Sister’ sends her regards.

by James A. Avitabile

Thank God ‘Mama Don’ was in my life. He knew what I was going through with my mother. It was so different for him. His parents were Irish immigrants who never talked to each other. Sheila stayed at home while Pat delivered the mail. They then sat silently in overstuffed club chairs in their Bronx living room and read for hours. Words came from a page and not from their mouths. Donald was a good student so they let him do what he wanted.

I was a good student too but I couldn’t do what I wanted. I was the son of Italian immigrants. My mother had a tough time conceiving me. She suffered five miscarriages before I was born on Father’s Day. She held onto me tightly. She didn’t want to lose me as she had with the others. My father was hard of hearing and couldn’t read. My mother had to yell to get through to him. He worked hard as a hat cleaner. Until I was eight, my mother raised two children: my father and me. I didn’t think he was any different than other fathers until I went to school.

That’s when I saw how fathers took an active part in their children’s education but my father couldn’t. I dreaded Father’s Night when students honored their fathers. My father never attended. How could he? The fathers would find him strange. I was ashamed of what my schoolmates would think about me if they met him. My mother couldn’t accompany him to be his interpreter. She had to stay at home to take care of my baby sister who was eight years younger than I. I felt like an orphan on Father’s Night. When I was in the third grade I began to realize that he would always be in the background of my life. He deferred any arguments I had to ‘our’ mother for resolution. He was soft. She knew it and used it against us both.

“Daddy, mommy won’t let me go to the movies with Johnny. Can’t I go? Please, daddy, please?”
“What does mommy say? If mommy says no, then no.”
I loved him and hated him. He was my mother’s puppet. He couldn’t talk and he couldn’t teach. I began to search for that someone who could.

I met Mama Don as Donald the first week I got to Cornell. When I first met him he was dictating a recipe for sweet and sour meat loaf to an eager and plump female graduate student. “You’ll love it Peggy. I guarantee it.” That was the first hint for me that he might be a member of the ‘committee’. It was the 60’s and he was more comfortable in being accepted as a straight man. He locked his gay secret in a closet that only came out in the dark anonymous rambles of Central Park. I was more comfortable with who I was. I used my closets for clothes not secrets.

At first sight he was just a Black Irishman’s face in the crowd. Over six feet tall, he rose above it. His eyes were chards of gleaming obsidian and his skin the color and feel of kneaded semolina dough. His black kinky hair was cropped short and looked glued to his head. He wore second hand tweed jackets that were broken in but not broken down. He could hand knot a bowtie with studied imperfection to make it look like a hasty afterthought. He shed his unacceptable Bronx accent and eased into a ‘Locust Valley Lockjaw’ with its ponderously slow cadence and mumbled elision of words. Mama Don had given me a ‘stage name’ too.

“They don’t want ‘Bronx Irish’ Ceil, they want Wasp. Mama will teach you.”

He was a good teacher who made it a fun game. We laughed along the way. Gradually, I became fluent in this new acceptable language where I could even pronounce both t’s in bottle. My jaw wasn’t as ‘locked’ as his.

It was never sexual between us. He led and I wanted to follow. He was a ‘grounded’ gay man with goals. He was my pattern maker and not my missing father. In Ithaca he introduced me to buying Brooks Brothers at thrift shops and twenty-five cent sumptuous, homemade Saturday night church suppers where members of depleting congregations were trying to rebuild their flock by tempting us with delicious bait.

“How about seconds of that brisket and maybe another piece of apple pie or the cherry cobbler or both?” Unfortunately for them, they filled my stomach but not my soul.

At Cornell, we lived well with little money and a lot of imagination and had a lot of fun along the way. Through Mama Don, I became part of a family of gay men who were focused on making something of themselves. And during that summer of ’67, I migrated with him to a rental cottage in East Hampton: a place I had once thought I could never belong. Mama Don was there to dare me to let go of my insecurities and to accept that I was a hat cleaner’s son.

“You’re like Mama, Ceil. We did it. We came from there and we’re here now. Let it go!”

I did.

He died at 46. The fable was that he ate contaminated salad greens that grew in human feces on the slopes beneath the Parthenon.

Thank you, Dr. ‘O’ for encouraging me to apply for admission to the IRP Program. I dedicate this piece to you and ‘Mama’.

by Bob Ashton

I wake from a deep and much needed sleep. A rocking motion reminds me that I’m sailing well out to sea. It’s light. I’d go back to sleep but my crew is on watch, has been for hours and I must replace him. I know his mood – sleepy, eager for relief. I know. I’ve been there. But I’ve a couple of minutes to reflect. The motion is delightful. I’m wedged in the “V” between the mattress and bulkhead, a position long perfected to minimize my body rolling. Eyes closed, I review the sounds. Primary is the rushing of water past my ear only inches away through the fiberglass hull. The boat is moving well, good. Then the chirp, chirp of the gears in ‘Harvey,’ the autopilot I named for the invisible rabbit of movie and Broadway fame. (He’s an electronic box, steers the boat most of the time – relieving us humans of that drudgery.) All is well. Have to get up. I’ll get a nap later.

I pull myself out of the bunk, put on shorts and a tee shirt. Don’t need shoes yet. I’ll get them if the motion or weather picks up. With two feet on the sole (floor) and one hand for balance, I reach for the coffee pot lashed each night on the stove and pour a mug full. Mug goes up on deck so I have two hands for the ladder as I climb to topsides. I’m first greeted with the early sun. Warming – not hot – yet. Next, the morning breeze, cool, bracing – so far.

I’m on a long distance sail between the Galapagos and Marquesas Islands, hundreds of miles from any land, just where I want to be. I’m roughly halfway across the longest open water leg of what I’m hoping will turn into a sail around the world, the dream of many sailors. Will I make it? Some challenges I’ve overcome—heavy weather, equipment failure— and I know there will be lots ahead. Always in the back of my mind. A quick look around reveals the light blue of the tropical sea set off by white caps. The sky and clouds compliment. It’s all that trade wind sailing should be. The trade winds blow East to West. So, since sailing with the wind is easier than against it, circumnavigators go the same way. It also happens to be an area of normally great weather.

After a brief chat, the crew (there are just two of us on this leg), eagerly awaiting my relief (rather than my companionship) dives below for a quick bite and bunk time. This is my favorite part of the day. I take a seat near the helm but no need to touch it. Harvey is doing a fine job. I can see most of the horizon and the instruments confirming speed and direction. Harvey’s control, a simple dial I can turn with two fingers, is an easy reach. The boat is moving well. No traffic on the horizon. The sounds of the water and wind speak of energy, the great horsepower that I can control so easily.

I don my safety harness and clip to the jack lines for my daily inspection around the deck. I find three flying fish bodies; they flew to escape a predator, only to find my vessel’s deck. Too bad they’re inedible. The jack lines have no evidence of chafe or wear. No problems.

I settle back in the cockpit and take in the scene. There is so much I find appealing. The sea has its own fascination. The white of the white caps seem the perfect contrast to the ocean blue. In these weather conditions, the fair weather cumulous clouds similarly compliment the sky. No human artist could improve it. For awhile I need no other entertainment.

My crew below and asleep, my company is birds. The kittiwake, booby, even a rare condor wander past. Evolution provides them with the tools to survive here, to navigate, find food. I need so much technology I feel embarrassed to be invading their property. I overcome it but muse on what awesome abilities they have we so little comprehend. During these moments I can understand the appeal for the single hander, this feeling of total control, self sufficiency. But the likelihood of bad weather, fatigue, injury or gear and safety problems dims the appeal for me. Besides, I like company.

I try to read. But nature seems to make concentration difficult. I’m drawn to the slightest change, noise. If the wind changes I may need to adjust a sail. If it increases, I may need to reef. I have to glance around the horizon every few minutes to watch for traffic. It’s not demanding but it is absorbing. I hear the gasp of a dolphin going past the cockpit on his way to the bow. I have to go up and attempt communication. Dolphins seem fascinated by the bow. Why? I’ve never heard an explanation.

The morning goes on. Eventually my crew reappears. A chat is now welcome. A vessel breaks the horizon. We track its angle from us. Its bearing changes in a few minutes. No collision likely, and soon it’s gone.

There are some chores. Each day someone sweeps the floor below. Sink is draining slowly, need to clean the trap. Light bulb burned out. (Amazing how many different bulbs a boat has and we have to have spares for all.)  Time for the “net” when boats on roughly the same path, within radio range, which is several hundred miles, agree to contact each other once each day. It’s the daily comfort that there are others ‘out there’ with advice or help if necessary. We go days without seeing anyone – the essence of solitude—yet today some forty voices respond sequentially. “Any emergencies?” Not today. Just brief chats on weather or current wherever the voice is located.

Evening arrives and dinner. My crew happens to be a great fisherman. He pulls some two to three foot morsel over the rail every few days. Fresh fish of many sorts decorate our table. Tonight there’s relatively manageable motion, and we decide to have a glass of wine. This is a no-no for some sailors; one glass won’t hurt us. We’re hungry, and though many parts of dinner came out of a can, it’s delicious.

Dinner often occurred about sundown. I had rigged a light in the cockpit which permitted eating after dark but had the effect of shutting out the world beyond the boat. We regularly watched for lights, of course. Dinner over, I was generally the washer. I had my way of using minimum fresh water. Now began the night watches. Whoever was ‘on’ the afternoon got the first watch off, to be roused later for the next.

Many have written of the thrill of night watches, the thrill of a clear sky so seldom observed by city dwellers; or punctuated by meteors has its reward. It’s easy to stare at the spectacle for some time. After ten or twenty or more, the night watch is little more than hard work. I’ll miss sailing but not the long night watches. With normal sleep cycles long destroyed, the dark of night still urges sleep. I’ve spent many an hour pinching, slapping, anything to keep awake ‘til relieved.

Tonight, I’m off watch after dinner so right to bed. About 10 p.m. I’m awakened with a shout, “Wind’s up, raining. Need to reef.” I have to get up and help. Routine, but now, reef in, it’s back to sleep. As I drop off I grin to myself of friends back home who would never understand why I’m doing this, why I really like it. And this is the easy part. On past legs there were torrential rains, calms, reefs to spot, islands to find or avoid. All this mixed with heavy weather made for scary moments or hours. There will be more such trials ahead, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Tonight I have the 3 a.m. watch. The impending pain of the time in the dark penetrates as crew shakes my shoulder. I struggle up, pour some coffee and take my place in the cockpit. Glancing around, all is in order, sailing well but nothing to do. Keep eyes open. Watch for lights, any wind changes. I make occasional adjustments to sail set or direction. Still little to do. Will dawn ever come? Seems eons away. Hang in there.

Finally! A hint of light in the East! There is an end. As the world gradually emerges from blackness my whole mood changes. Soon, some deep red color adds to the gray. Then more. It seems to be both agonizingly slow yet dramatically fast. Soon, deep reds go to pink. (In the Hollywood version will there be trombones?) Then white. (Trumpets?) An edge of the sun itself peaks over the horizon. Day has arrived. The agonies of the night watch are over, forgotten. The joy of the whole picture emerges, from watching the sea move by, to the excitement of approaching lands, to sharing with friends—all alleviate the trials.

I love this life – where I am. I couldn’t be happier.

Robert Ashton is trained as a Mechanical Engineer. On retirement, he purchased forty foot sailboat and sailed around the world. Resulting book actually sells. This piece attempts some emotional details – lacking in the book.

by Tom Ashley

“Hi, Tom, may I sit down?”

It was 1996 and Roy Gricar and I were back at our prep school, Gilmour Academy, for our 35th reunion. I had been diligent about returning to Gilmour every five years, and this particular year I had made the trip from London just for the event. The place meant a lot to me, having been a refuge and safe haven from my chaotic childhood home and abusive father. But Gricar had not had the same dedication; this was his first time back and the first time I saw him since we graduated.

I wasn’t close to him when we were classmates. Even in our small class of forty-nine there was a fundamental difference between day students and us boarders. Boarders lived under the same roof, took meals together, and gathered in the lounge in the evening. We were a tight group. Roy, a day student, wasn’t in the group and I had little interaction with him.

But now, decades later and in the place where we met, Roy and I had a few drinks and conversation became easy. He knew that I was in the television business and asked if I knew his college classmate, Don Novello, one of the comedic geniuses of the medium. I didn’t know him, but of course I knew about him. Roy and I discussed him for much of the evening.

Eventually we said goodnight and exchanged business cards. Roy said, “I see you now live in London,” and we went our separate ways.

A year later my phone rang. It was Roy. “Tom, I’m going to be in London in two weeks,” he said. “Can we get together?” We arranged that he and his wife Carol would come to the flat where I lived with my girlfriend and that we’d have dinner together there.

Roy and Carol arrived on time and we had a nice meal with several bottles of Bordeaux. At one point in the evening, Roy pulled me aside and asked if we could speak privately. He had seemed jumpy and slightly (or not so slightly) nervous. We stepped outside into the garden. He then told me his story.

“My job is Civilian Approval Expenditure Manager for Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio.” My eyes widened. We had all read stories about the continuing scandals of the military’s needless expenditures for $350 hammers and useless equipment, and overbilling and overpaying practices. I was primed for listening to a secret.

Gricar told me about an action he had recently taken regarding a contract for the maintenance of Air Force jet engine cargo planes. This new contract, which cost substantially less money than the previous one, actually provided very little necessary service. In the past, in order to check the bolts holding the engine in place, the service engineers had been required to remove the engine entirely and bring it down to floor level. There the engine and the bolts would be examined and tested. But the new contract made no such requirement. Now maintenance crews could simply take the service platform up to the engine and check the bolts from there. Roy felt that was an unsafe and incorrect procedure, and in the report he filed he said so and refused to sign off on the contract.

Not long afterward, Roy said, a cargo jet crashed, killing all crew members. He immediately went back to check his files on the plane maintenance orders and recommendations. But they, along with his computer, were gone. Roy went to tell the top commanding officer at the base, but not one of the officers would speak with him about the crash. He then stopped to think and decided it would be unsafe if he went higher up in the military or even to the local police. “Tom, I’m a wreck. What do you think I should do? I feel my life is in danger.”

I was stunned. Thinking of television journalists who do a thorough investigation if they decide to pursue a story I suggested he call two producers I knew—one at Public Broadcasting’s News Hour and the other at CBS’s 60 Minutes—and I gave him their names and offered to call them if he wished me to do so. He said he’d get back to me, thanked me and left with his wife. I never heard from Roy again.

A year after that dinner, one of my classmates, Bill Crookson, called to tell me that Roy Gricar was dead. It had been called a suicide. Apparently he had leapt from a bridge over the Greater Miami River near his home in Dayton. My thoughts ranged from shock and disbelief to shock and belief.

I called Roy’s wife to express my condolences. I wondered aloud about my conversation with him a few months earlier. “Tom, there was no truth to that,” she said. “Roy was bi-polar and hugely depressed. He lost his job and felt he couldn’t go on living. Our family wants peace now.” I respected that wish, but her attitude didn’t make sense. I remained an ocean away in London but continued to brood about what really might have happened and why Roy had told me his story.

Nine years later, in 2005, another classmate of mine, Charles Murray, called. He told me that Ray Gricar, Roy’s brother, who had also been at Gilmour and was the District Attorney of Centre County (home to Penn State University) had disappeared. I didn’t then make any connection to Roy, but it did have a disquieting effect on me.

On December 16, 2011, I was watching the Today Show on NBC, which had a segment promoting that evening’s telecast of Dateline.The story was about the Penn State scandal—Jerry Sandusky’s pedophile crimes. It included the report that former District Attorney Ray Gricar, by this time pronounced legally dead as no remains or whereabouts could be found, had had sufficient evidence to prosecute Sandusky many years back but had failed to do so. The Dateline reporter, Lester Holt, interviewed Roy’s son and Ray’s nephew, Tony Gricar. They discussed the strange similarities between the brothers’ fates but failed to make any connection even after it was noted that D.A. Gricar’s computer had also gone missing, when he did. His computer and hard drive had washed up on the shore of the Susquehanna River months later too badly damaged for information to be retrievable.

I figure that my classmate Roy Gricar must have told his brother about the Wright Patterson Base issue. I continue to have many unanswered questions about a connection between one brother’s death by “suicide” and the other’s by “disappearance.” Ray Gricar’s failure to prosecute Jerry Sandusky in 1998, when he seemingly had enough evidence, is deeply upsetting, too. Sandusky was not sent to prison until 2012, over fourteen years after an act of child molestation on his part was witnessed.

Just recently the Pennsylvania State Police Department has reopened the case of Ray Gricar’s disappearance. NBC will follow the story as well. I am in contact with the network and with Patrick James, a former cable executive who now runs a website and blog seeking truth and justice.

Will we ever know the truth? Some crimes are never solved. I am left with a feeling of uneasiness. Many lives have been changed forever. Why?

After a lifetime in broadcasting I felt the urge to write. I have my IRP coordinators and classmates to thank for guiding me down this stimulating path. I’m forever grateful.