Just a Kid from Hell's Kitchen - In Remembrance of TC Murray

Just a Kid from Hell’s Kitchen 

Memoir of an Activist 

by 

T. C. Murray 

Copyright 2005 by Thomas C. Murray All rights reserved

JUST A KID FROM HELL’S KITCHEN: MEMOIR OF AN ACTIVIST 

(A Trilogy) 

Author: T.C. Murray 

Copyright 2005 by Thomas C. Murray 

All rights reserved

This book is dedicated to the memory of Delia Murray. Thank you Mom, for your love 

and the countless sacrifices that you made on my behalf. 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS (to be added) 

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JUST A KID FROM HELL’S KITCHEN 

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Chapter 1 – DELIA’S SECRET 

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

1. 1933 

2. Depression Baby and Holy Innocent 

3. St. Thomas Who? 

4. PCQ’s – Memory Lane Questions 

5. Bridget Delia Murray 

6. Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor… 

7. The New Jersey Side of the Murray Clan 

8. My Cousin, the Lawyer 

9. Family Pub Masters 

10. Delia’s Secret 

11. “Saved” – A Hypothetical Scenario 

12. Downtown, Uptown 

13. All Around the Town 

14. One Bedroom, Icebox Included 

15. The War of the Roaches 

16. The Residents of 363 – A True Mosaic 

17. Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves 

18. West 57 th Street 

19. From One Paulist Parish to Another 

20. Nursery Days, School Days 

21. War Clouds Gather 

Chapter 2 – KILROY WAS THERE AND SO WAS I 

1. Let’s Remember Pearl Harbor 

2. Kilroy Was Here – Tommy Remembers 

3. Over Here 

4. Take That, You Rats! 

5. How Does Your Garden Grow? 

6. The Banner in the Window 

7. Rosie the Riviter 

8. “Semper Fidelis” 

9. “Semper Paratus” 

10. Hollywood Goes to War as the USO Travels the World 

11. Sing Out America and the Big Band Era 

12. “New York’s Picture Newspaper” 

13. The Funnies 

14. Meeting Flash Gordon 

15. There’s Glad News Tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen 

16. The Great Dark Way 

17. The “P” Word 

18. The “German Woman” 

19. The Turning of the Tide 

20. Victory Is Ours 

21. The Day the War Ended 

22. VJ Day in Time’s Square and I Was There 

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Chapter 3 – GROWING UP IN THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE 

1. Location! Location! Location! 

2. Cacaphony City 

3. The “Latch Key” Kid 

4. A Cinephile Is Born 

5. Saturday Matinee at the Town Theatre 

6. Drinking Pepsi on a Hot Summer’s Day 

7. It’s Off to School I Go 

8. The Nuns – or Are They Sisters? 

9. “Ma, Ma, Where’s My Pa?” 

10. Faith of Our Fathers 

11. Aunt Betty Ties the Knot 

12. Playmates 

13. Charging Up San Juan Hill 

14. Signs of the Seasons 

15. The Comic Book Kid or Here Come Bruce and Dick 

16. All Roads Lead to Home 

17. Coney Island, the Poor Man’s Riviera 

18. Radio Ramblings 

Chapter 4 – POSTWAR RHYTHM AND BLUES 

1. The Longest Celebration 

2. Reality Sets In 

3. Give ‘Em Hell Harry 

4. Apt. 3D – The Irish Quarter 

5. Aunt Betty Moves to 363 

6. They Called Me “Master” 

7. Confirmation Name? Patrick, of Course 

8. Grade School, the Home Stretch 

9. Central Park – An Oasis for the Masses 

10. The Blizzard of ‘47 

11. Tommy’s Juvenile Arrest Records, Unsealed 

12. The United Nations Moves Next Door 

13. My First Vacation: Provincetown on Cape Cod 

14. Homesick Camper 

15. Soap Serials, Cereal Serials and Other Radio Gems 

16. Having Fun While Coming of Age 

17. The Day the President Stopped the Parade 

18. Casting All Kids 

19. Graduation Day at Last Is Here 

20. A Tale of Two Camps 

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Chapter 5 – ACADEMY DAYS AT POWER MEMORIAL 

1. Welcome to the Academy 

2. The Irish Inquisition 

3. Dress Code – What Dress Code? 

4. The Lowest of the Low 

5. “Amo, amas, amat” 

6. The Boys in the Band 

7. Neither Rain, Nor Snow, Nor Douglas MacArthur 

8. The Halloween Hop – A Bevy of Gay Couples 

9. Misbehavin’ 

10. Religious Life and Fundraising at Power 

11. The 69 th Crusade for Purity 

12. Power Panthers – Powerhouse in Basketball 

13. “Venite Adoremus” 

14. “Mad Jack” 

15. A Summer in Hell 

16. Jim Farley Honored 

17. Senior Year 

18. I Loved Current Events, and Still Do 

19. Thomas P. Kostka, Brother Extraordinaire 

20. Our One and Only Prom 

21. Our One and Only School Trip 

22. It’s a Dangerous World Out There, Men of Power 

23. Pomp and Circumstance Time 

Chapter 6 – A TYPICAL TEENAGER OF THE FABULOUS FIFTIES 

1. Growing Pains and the Age of Invention 

2. Puppy Love 

3. Discovering Gotham 

4. Sidewalk Superintendent 

5. The Stoop, the Spaulding and the “Panthers” 

6. Get a Job! 

7. That’s Entertainment 

8. Camp Adrian C.I.T. 

9. Mom and “Moondog” 

10. Eating Out 

11. The Giants of the Henry Hudson Hotel 

12. Sunday Night at the Garden 

13. Beyond Gotham 

14. Reaching a Majority 

15. I Like Ike 

16. Get a Real Job! 

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Chapter 7 – GROWING UP CATHOLIC IN HELL’S KITCHEN 

1. Conservative Me 

2. From Altar Boy to Altar Server 

3. Cardinal Spellman and Me Make the Centerfold 

4. Herb Becker, Role Model 

5. Was I a Sexton or Sacristan? 

6. The Hecker Club, St. Paul’s Own C.Y.O. 

7. BINGO 

8. I’m Off to Join the Legion 

9. From the Legion of Mary to the Legion of Decency 

10. I Confess 

11. In the Box with Father Devery 

12. Those Forty Days of Lent – Ouch! 

13. Collared Etiquette 

14. The Mass 

15. Delia’s Secret Shatters an Irish Mother’s Dream 

16. Sins of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Church 

Chapter 8 – THE BONNIES, IONA, AND THE CORPS 

1. Where’s Olean? 

2. The Arrival 

3. My Roomies 

4. Basic Courses 

5. Beer and Burton Burgers 

6. Basketball and the Bonnies 

7. You Made Me Cry, Johnnie Ray, Johnnie Ray! 

8. Springtime in the Mountains 

9. Letters from Mom 

10. In Between Colleges 

11. A Mixed Up College Kid 

12. Brother, Can You Spare Some Time? 

13. Iona, “Alma Mater” 

14. The Mighty Gaels 

15. Struggling Student 

16. Mom Feels the Financial Pinch 

17. Drinking Beer and Playing the Juxebox at the Beechmont 

18. Finished College, Now What? 

19. Meeting Thomas Aquinas 

20. “Semper Fi” 

21. Cap, Gown and Hood 

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Chapter 9 – HOPPING AT THE HARVARD CLUB 

1. Through These Doors 

2. Front, Boy! 

3. Transient Workers 

4. A Wonderful Human Being 

5. Walking the Great White Way in the Late Night 

6. No Tipping Policy 

7. Rising Through the Ranks 

8. The Steadies 

9. Brooks Atkinson’s “Broadway Scrapbook” 

10. Harvard Hall 

11. Brain Trust 

12. From Left to Right and Everything In-Between 

13. The Club’s Conservative Circle 

14. From Club to Campus 

15. Joseph N. Welch Fells the Most Powerful Man in America 

16. And From the Left 

17. Author’s Corner 

18. Shenanigans 

19. The Signing of My Yearbook – A Who’s Who 

20. Club Members Who Influenced My Life 

21. My Harvard Club Education 

Chapter 10 THE BELLHOP AND THE DIPLOMAT 

1. The Lebanese Diplomat, A Harvard Club Regular 

2. Charles Habib Malik, A United Nations Pioneer 

3. The Lebanese Crisis of 1958 

4. June 6, 1958 – the “D-Day” of my Life 

5. Inadequate UN Action 

6. The Eisenhower Doctrine is Invoked 

7. Diplomacy Prevails 

8. My Friend, My Mentor…the President of the United Nations 

9. The Iona College Controversy with Murray in the Middle 

10. Two Weekends in a Row with the UN President 

11. Back to Education for Dr. Malik 

12. His Legacy Lives 

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Chapter 11 - THE MAINSTREAM FIFTIES, OR WERE THEY? 

1. Ike and Mamie – The Nation’s First Couple 

2. Point of Order, Mr. Chairman 

3. Life Goes on at 363 

4. Friendly Saugerties 

5. Fading Radio Waves 

6. Bubbling Boob Tubes and Family Values 

7. Chrome, Sparkling Chrome 

8. A Blue Collar Patron of the Arts 

9. Hanging Out at the “Greasy Spoon” 

10. Bowling with a Bud 

11. Fun-times in the City 

12. Where Have All The Orange Roofs Gone? 

13. My Love Affair with the Movies 

14. Christopher Lee, A Night of the Living Dead 

15. Rockaway Beach – “Irishtown, USA” 

16. There Goes the Neighborhood 

17. It’s Discrimination – Period! 

18. Swimming Upstream with an Eddy Here and There 

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BEYOND THE CLASSROOM DOOR: A MEMOIR OF A 

CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL LAY TEACHER 

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Chapter 12 – GOOD MORNING, MR. MURRAY 

1. Getting Started 

2. The Arrival 

3. Our Lady of Mutual Benefit 

4. Into the Class – That First Day 

5. My Colleagues, Brothers and Lay 

6. The Wild Colonial Boy 

7. Have Strap, Will Teach 

8. That First Year 

9. A School Field Trip to Meet Dr. Malik – and Eleanor Too 

10. More Playing the Juxebox and Bowling with a Bud 

11. The Mama and the Papas 

12. Study Hall Blues 

13. The Home Stretch 

14. Playland Time 

15. V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N 

Chapter 13 – WHO SEZ I WOULDN’T MAKE A GOOD TEACHER? 

1. Farwell to Hell’s Kitchen 

2. Moving to the ‘Burbs 

3. Forsaking Mass Transit 

4. A Growing Faculty in an Ever-growing School 

5. No Proselytizing in the Classroom, Please 

6. Not that I Love English Less, But I Love History More 

7. Prepping for the Provincials 

8. November 9, 1965 – The Day the Lights Went Out 

9. The D’Ascoli Family – Special Friends, Special Parents 

10. A Teacher Grows in an Ever-growing School 

11. A Principal for All Seasons 

12. Public Relations Director 

13. Fading “Glory Days” at Essex Catholic High School 

Chapter 14– BOTH SIDES OF THE HUDSON 

1. Our Town, New Jersey 

2. South of the Border – Kearny, New Jersey 

3. New Jersey and Me, Perfect Together 

4. Keeping the Faith 

5. Suburban Oasis 

6. Going Colored During the Golden Age of Television 

7. Breaking Up That Old Gang of Mine 

8. My West Side Story 

9. Crusin’ at the Casa 

10. Bitten by the Travel Bug 

11. No More Putting Down New Jersey 

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Chapter 15 – HISTORY CAN BE FUN 

1. The Social Science Federation 

2. Project 300 

3. Newark 300 

4. The Jerseymen 

5. The New Jersey Historical Society’s Advisory Council 

6. An Undertaker, A Publisher, and the Kearny Junior Museum 

7. Visiting Our Neighbor to the North, Eh? 

8. You’re On the Air 

9. Sing Out America 

10. Tea Party 

11. No Need To Be Irish 

12. Field Trips and other Things To Do 

Chapter 16 MR. MURRAY GOES TO WASHINGTON 

1. Look Out Washington, Here We Come! 

2. An Eagleton Fellow, Really! 

3. Inside the Beltway 

4. Washington, Too, Is a Helluva of a Town 

5. Bean Soup Heaven 

6. The Briefing 

7. Washington’s Hidden City 

8. The Beginning of the Long, Hot Summer of ‘64 

9. Those Letters Keep Coming 

10. Porking the Folks Back Home 

11. No Smoking, Please! 

12. And the Race Is On 

13. A Hearing Here and a Briefing There 

14. A Visit to the Executive Mansion 

15. A Congressman’s Lot Is Not An Easy One 

16. Thank God, It’s Big Bonner Time 

17. Congressman Osmers, New Jersey’s Falling Star 

18. The Rising Star of Congressman Peter W. Rodino Jr. 

19. Watergate: His Finest Hour…and One of Mine 

20. “Uncle Pete” Rodino and the Shadow of Watergate 

21. My Return to Washington for the Model OAS 

22. The Georgetown Experience and the Void 

23. Congressman Joe Crowley Vacates the Void 

24. Washington is Still a Helluva Town 

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Chapter 17 – DELIA AND CAMP ADRIAN –THE SUN SETS 

1. Hello Dolly! 

2. Angel of Mercy 

3. At Long Last, Director of Camp Adrain 

4. Camp Adrian, Our Summer Estate 

5. My Friends Up the Road Apiece 

6. The Realm of Rip Van Winkle 

7. Rip’s Man Friday 

8. Thanksgiving Time in the Mountains 

9. Camp Adrian Reopens, 1968 

10. The Question of U.S. Citizenship 

11. A Glorious Sunset for Delia 

12. Delia’s Secret, A Secret No Longer 

13. Goodbye Dolly! 

14. At My Father’s House 

15. The “War of the Fathers’” 

16. A World Without Delia 

17. A Glorious Sunset for Camp Adrian, Too – The Summer of ‘69 

18. Breakup of the Cowhey Empire 

19. Camp Adrian Today 

Chapter 18 – DOWN THE SHORE –LIVING, TEACHING AND LOVING IT 

1. No Stranger to Mater Dei High School 

1. By the Sea, By the Beautiful Sea 

2. On Becoming “T.C.” 

3. Blouses Off 

4. A Casual. Country Club Setting 

5. Seraphs Area Powerhouse! 

6. Mater Dei Teachers Unionize 

7. The Summer of ’77 Down the Shore 

8. And Yet Another Year 

9. Who Stole My Wallet? 

10. Snowbound in the Blizzard of ‘78 

11. Exit, Mr. Lonergan; Enter, the Major 

12. Back to the New Jersey Shore 

13. T.C.’s Rod Club 

14. Moving to Hip Town, New Jersey 

15. Suburbia: SUVs, Silver Spooners and Soccer Moms 

16. A Union Activist Is Reborn 

17. The Lost Souls’ Club 

18. Retiring from Teaching 

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Chapter 19 - THE SEVEN WONDERS QUEST 

1. It All Started with the Sea Wall 

2. Nominating and Voting for the 7+7 Wonders 

3. The Envelope Please 

4. Wonder-Mania Sweeps the State 

5. My First Book 

6. An Alumnus Returns to Power Memorial as Teacher 

7. Back to Hell’s Kitchen and the Wild, Wild Westies 

8. The Office 

9. Hugh O’Lunney and the Advisory Council 

10. The “Op Search” Student Leadership Team 

11. And We’re Off 

12. Deferred Dreams 

13. The 7 X 7 Manmade Wonders of New York City 

14. Phase II of “Op Search” 

15. And the Winners Are 

16. A Book of Wonder-filled Wonders 

17. Twenty-five years Later 

Chapter 20 – SIGHTS, SOUNDS AND STIMULATING SIMULATIONS 

1. Education and Recreation, Perfect Together 

2. THIMUN – A World Class Model United Nations Program 

3. Last Days of the Jerseymen 

4. The Jersey Devil Raises Hell 

5. The City Comes to Suburbia 

6. Mort “In Your Face” Downey Comes to Mater Dei High School 

7. So, On with the Shows 

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Chapter 21 – THE STORMY SIXTIES AND THE SPIRIT OF ‘69 

1. November 22, 1963 – The Day That Shook the World 

1. LBJ’s War Puts Dick Into the White House 

2. The War We All Did Learn to Hate 

3. Rebels with a Cause and Some Without 

4. The Waning Power of the Catholic Church in America 

5. The Newark Riots of ’67 – A Student Perspective 

6. Those Deadly Prime Source Documents 

7. That’s Dynamite, Handle With Care! 

8. A Divided City 

9. “Defender of the School” 

10. Stopped at the Border Along Canada’s Way 

11. We Have No Money and the Library’s Gotta Go 

12. Rootin’ for the Underdog – Let’s Go Mets! 

13. From Gay Power to Flower Power 

14. The Spirit of ‘69 

Chapter 22 – LEADING AMERICA’S FIRST MAJOR CATHOLIC SCHOOL 

STRIKE 

1. The Way It Was 

2. Lay Teacher, Second Class Citizen 

3. A Clear Dichotomy – Separate and Unequal 

4. Paternalism Prevails 

5. The Birth of Essex Catholic High School’s Lay Faculty Organization, 1960 

6. NATO Is Formed 

7. Contract Misinterpreted 

8. Informative Picketing on the Archbishop’s Doorstep 

9. Rallying the Troops 

10. A Walkout and the Historic Strike Vote 

11. Electing The Strike Leader 

12. The Weekend Before “S” Day 

13. Out of the Classroom and Into the Streets – the First Strike 

14. Playing Hardball 

15. Dealing with Scabs, the Lowest of the Low! 

16. Comic Relief 

17. Back to the Table Again 

18. Welcome Back, Mr. Murray 

19. Strike Reflections 

20. Moving Up the Union Ladder 

21. Over the Boardwalk in Atlantic City 

22. The First Professional Conference for All Catholic School Teachers 

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Chapter 23 – TAKING ON GOLIATH – A LANDMARK COURT CASE 

1. Getting to the Top 

2. The President of the Lay Faculty Association 

3. The Ploy 

4. Rally ‘Round the Cause, Colleagues 

5. The S.O.S. Meeting of Feb. 4, 1971 

6. Caucusing and Carousing in the Office 

7. Let the Union Busting Begin 

8. Local 1776, A.F.T. – the Philadelphia Connection 

9. Much Ado About the Other Murray 

10. Filing Suit Against Our Holy Mother, the Church 

11. Daly’s Dictum 

12. Hello Daly! 

13. Taking on Goliath 

14. Our Legal Team and Their Strategies 

15. The Crux of the Case 

16. It’s Off to Court I Go 

17. Court Orders Representation Election 

18. I Told You So 

19. The Election 

20. An Election Won, An Election Lost 

21. A Landmark Case 

22. Union Busting in Catholic Schools – Alive and Well, Then and Now 

23. We’ve Come a Long Way, Baby 

Chapter 24 - BICENTENNIAL FEVER 

1. USA – 200, an Exercise in Democracy 

2. Back to the White House 

3. The Appointment 

4. Dinner with Dick 

5. T.C. Testifies in Trenton 

6. Bicentennial Bug Bites Newark 

7. Sacred Heart Cathedral: State Landmark 

8. A Commission Is Created 

9. Never Burn Bridges 

10. Working with George and My Fellow-Commissioners 

11. Back to Essex Catholic High School Again 

12. The Glorious Fourth, 1976 

13. Taking Over as Executive Director 

14. If I Were Only Mayor 

15. The Freedom Train Chugs Into Newark 

16. Oh Yes, You Can Fight City Hall! 

17. Role Playing as Thomas Paine, How Appropriate 

18. Bye, Bye, Bicentennial 

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Chapter 25 – ON AND OFF THE BARSTOOL 

1. It All Started with Slurping Suds and Sucking Cherries 

2. Relaxing on a Barstool 

3. Delia’s Curse, and Mine Too 

4. Mother Forgive Me, For I Knew Not What I Did 

5. Harbingers 

6. Abuse of All Kinds 

7. The “S” Word 

8. The Night Before and the Morning After 

9. The Irish Road Show 

10. The Russians Are Coming 

11. A Bar in Every Port 

12. The Spirits of ‘76 

13. Flying High 

14. Who Sez I Have a Drinking Problem? 

15. A Plea for Help in the Georgetown Chapel 

16. The Century House of Red Bank 

17. God Protects Babies and Alcoholics 

18. Leaving Century House 

19. Natural Highs Are the Greatest 

20. Lessons Remembered 

21. The Commitment 

Chapter 26 – DOUBTING THOMAS SWINGES TO THE LEFT 

1. 1969 – Catalyst for Change 

2. My Wild Irish Roots 

3. Delia’s Secret: The Search 

4. The Decline and Free-fall of the Roman Catholic Church 

5. Phebophiles’ Paradise 

6. And the Walls Came Tumbling Down 

7. Salem Lives! 

8. The People’s House and the People in It 

9. “Uncle Pete” Rodino Comes Home to New Jersey 

10. Capital Improvements 

11. The Yeas, the Nays and the Grays 

12. Card-carrying Member of the A.C.L.U. 

13. The Church, “Dogma,” and Censorship 

14. No Bleeding Heart Liberal 

15. Thirty-five Years Later 

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Chapter 27 – GAY AM I BY THE GOD THAT MADE ME 

1. And God Created Gays 

2. What Did I Know and When Did I Know It? 

3. Me Gay? No Way! 

4. In and Out – of the Classroom, That Is 

5. Coming Out Is Hard to Do 

6. Teaching – an Inviolate Trust 

7. Stonewall, 1969 – the Gay Rights Revolution Begins 

8. The Continental Baths, a Homosexual Haven, and Heaven Too 

9. Melba Moore, Bathhouse Bombshell 

10. The 23-37 Connection – My First Close Encounter 

11. Looking For Love in All the Wrong Places 

12. “Uncle Charlie’s” Taxi Driver 

13. Boys of the Night 

14. Bobby, My Friend, I Love You 

15. The Church and the Homosexual 

16. Anita Bryant Sucks! – Oranges, That Is 

17. The Lavender Screen and Beyond 

18. We’re Here! We’re Queer! We’re All Around the Sphere! 

19. My “Gay American” Governor of New Jersey, Jim McGreevey 

20. Leading the Way: Gay Activists and Their Groups 

21. Gay Activist Me? Not really! 

23. Gays Are God’s Children Too 

Chapter 28– TWILIGHT TIME POET AND PLAYWRIGHT 

1. Bobby, My Muse, Inspire Me 

2. Enter, the “Beats” 

3. “I Can Live Within” 

4. My Life as a Poet 

5. “The Spirit of 69”: An Eclectic Anthology 

6. Celebrating My 69 th 

7. “Spirit” Production 

8. Poetry Books Don’t Sell; Poetry Readings Don’t Draw 

9. “Late Night Catechism” for John, Mike and Me 

10. A Playwright Is Born 

11. T.C. Murray’s “Oh Brother!” – The Production 

12. Brother Christopher’s Question Box 

13. “Oh Brother!” – The Premiere 

14. Performing in P-town 

15. On the Road with Brother Christopher 

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Chapter 29 – SENIORITIS SETS IN – A WORK IN PROGRESS 

1. Senioritis Sets In 

2. Living Alone and Preparing for “D-Day” 

3. Hopping “Hip Town” 

4. Mooing Along with My Aortic Bovine Valve Implant 

5. Bobby, My Son, I Miss You 

6. A Night Behind Bars 

7. 9/11, another Day That Will Live in Infamy 

8. Rediscovering the “City That Loves You Back” 

9. Newsletters From Their Former Teacher 

10. Jockbusters 

11. The Word’s Prostate, Not Prostrate 

12. Senior Pastimes 

13. Cinephile Still, but Those Damn Commercials 

14. Reading for Pleasure, A Belated Discovery 

15. Life Is a Puzzle 

16. Archives, Artifacts and Other Memorable Memorabilia 

17. This Former Bellhop Returns to the Harvard Club as Keynote Speaker 

18. Delia’s Secret and My Irish Passport 

19. The Return of Power 

20. Back to Hell’s Kitchen 

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JUST A KID FROM HELL’S KITCHEN

Chapter 1 - DELIA’S SECRET 

1933 

1933 ushered in the “year of the cock” in the Chinese calendar. I’m sure that Mott Street 

was alive with festivities as firecrackers greeted the dragon as it made its way down Mott 

Street. However, for most people, there was little to celebrate as we were in the middle of 

the Great Depression. “Hoovervilles” and soup kitchens abounded in the financial capital 

of the world. Wall Street tycoons were jobless and, in some cases, panhandling: Brother 

Could You Spare a Dime? 

Franklin Delano Roosevelt was in his first year as President of the United States. Here in 

America, we were trying to combat the worst depression in our country’s history and the 

president’s antidote was his homemade “alphabet soup” of relief, recovery and reform. 

John Nance Garner was the Vice President, but who cares about the number two man 

anyway? Was it Garner who said that the vice presidency isn’t worth a bucket of warm 

spit? 

The submarine races had started in earnest in 1933 when the first drive-in opened in 

Camden, New Jersey. The two popular cola drinks were only five cents and a hair cut 

twenty cents. Shaves at the local barber, replete with a hot towel finale, were very 

popular back then, and for only twenty-five cents, the man of the house got a close shave. 

One could go to the cinema and, for a dime or so and could wipe away those depression 

blues – at least for a couple of hours. Ruby Keeler was hoofing her way through 42 nd 

Street, considered to be the first of the great movie musicals. Claude Rains, nearly a 

decade before Casablanca, was starring in The Invisible Man, while Fay Wray was doing 

her thing with King Kong high atop the “Empire State Building.” 

Art deco had quickly taken hold in the greatest city in the world after its introduction a 

few years earlier in a Paris exposition. The Empire State Building was now the tallest 

building in the world and second only to the Chrysler Building in terms of deco elegance. 

Interiors of buildings from lobbies to elevator doors heralded this distinctive architecture. 

Deco numbers, deco letters, deco jewelry, deco furniture – it was to be found everywhere. 

In December of 1933, New Yorkers and people across the nation were looking forward to 

Christmas, even though for many, there were few reasons to celebrate. Indeed, it was the 

birthday of the Christ-child, the prime reason for this most festive Christian holiday. Like 

the couple in O. Henry’s, The Gift of the Magi, families had each other. What more could 

one ask for?

On December 5, 1933, the 18 th amendment was repealed. Happy days were here again! It 

was long overdue. Why the so-called Prohibition Amendment was ever passed remains a 

mystery to me. Perhaps it was passed because of the efforts of the “religious right” as part 

of a “noble experiment,” or a conservation movement on behalf of the Great War. 

Perhaps it was a combination thereof. It must have had an adverse effect on the 

speakeasies that were so popular in the city and elsewhere. No longer could you have the 

“thrill” of knocking three times on a door of a seemingly respectable establishment and 

say to the bouncer who answered the door: Joe sent me! Organized crime ruled – at least 

for a while. Blue-collar workers could now have their beer after work if they were 

fortunate enough to have a job. A corporate executive could now have his martini with 

his secretary sitting on his lap. Watch that toothpick! 

It was in the midst of the Great Depression that the author of this memoir came into this 

world of ours. 

DEPRESSION BABY AND HOLY INNOCENT 

Thomas C. Murray was born on December 28, 1933 in New York Hospital to Bridget 

Delia Murray and Thomas A. Murray. Thomas Christopher would be called “Tommy,” 

then “Tom,” and later in his life, “TC.” He was one of several “Depression Babies” born 

that Thursday in the City of New York. In the calendar of the Catholic Church, this was 

the feast of the Holy Innocents, commemorating the slaughter of innocent babies by King 

Herod who heard a newborn would rise to a position of power and prominence. Herod 

took proactive measures to prevent this from happening. History records tell us that he 

was unsuccessful in his attempt. When I tell friends and associates that I was born on the 

feast of the Holy Innocents, they take one look at me and say: You, T. C., …what a laugh! 

ST. THOMAS WHO ??? 

Franklin Delano Roosevelt was in office one year and working hard to pull the country 

out of its worst depression when I was baptized Thomas Christopher Murray at St. 

Vincent de Paul Church on West 23 rd Street on Jan. 23, 1934. My sponsors and 

godparents were a family friend, John Mc Sweeney and my aunt, Mary Waldron.

To this day, I do not know which “Thomas” is my patron saint. I don’t think that my 

parents or godparents knew either, back on the day that I was baptized. There are so 

many Thomas’s in the Catholic Church’s directory of canonized saints. We can start with 

Thomas the Apostle, “doubting Thomas”, and work our way through the centuries 

encountering the brilliant Dominican theologian, Thomas Aquinas, a.k.a. the “dumb ox”, 

and, of course, the two British Thomas’s – a Becket and More. I’m sure that there are 

many more Thomas’s but these are the one’s that I’m familiar with. I’d like to think that 

I’m a blend of the best of each – a man for all seasons. And, why not? 

Original Sin had been cleansed from my immortal soul and I was now a full-fledged 

member of the holy, Roman Catholic and apostolic Church and more sacraments awaited 

me as my life went on. My Mom, Delia, reared me in the faith – a faith that was so much 

a part of the Irish tradition. My childhood years was an infusion of Catholicism with 

signs of the faith everywhere in my home from the crucifix over my bed to the holy water 

bottle atop my mother’s dresser in the living room. She gave me a liberal dousing after 

saying our prayers and retiring for the evening. In addition, she threw some holy water on 

the door to our apartment to ward off demons and burglars. You’d think that she had a 

water-soaker gun in her hand with the effective and combative way she performed her 

own personal “Asperges.” Later in life, she used the sancta aqua for other noteworthy 

events as going off to school, camp or wherever. 

PCQ’s - MEMORY LANE QUESTIONS 

Interspersed throughout this memoir you will find “PCQ’s” – as in Pop Culture Quiz. 

Perhaps it is the teacher within me that impelled me to include some “PCQ’s” in this 

work. The question, usually on a pop culture topic, will be in italics. If you consider these 

too “high schoolish,” I’m sorry, but try your best anyway. If worse comes to worse, the 

answers are to be found where answers are usually found. Are you ready for your first 

question? 

PCQ1: Who assumed the office of the Mayor of the City of New York on January 1, 

1934? (Unlike St. Theresa, he was no “Little Flower.”)

BRIDGET DELIA MURRAY 

My mother, Bridget Delia Murray, was born in Strokestown, County Roscommon, 

Ireland in the 1890’s. She was the daughter of John and Nora (Bodkin) Murray and one 

of eight children. More often than not, Mom was called Delia, and sometimes “Dolly” or 

“Doll.” I will refer to mom as Delia oftentimes in this work. All but two of the Murray 

children would immigrate to America. Daughters Josephine and Teresa would remain 

behind on Erin’s green shore. Josephine would marry Bill Gallagher from nearby County 

Mayo, while Teresa would remain a spinster all her life. The rest of the children decided 

that life on the farm was not for them and came to America. 

“GIVE ME TIRED, YOUR POOR …” 

Of peasant stock and the daughter of a farmer, my mom, Delia, and four of her seven 

siblings crossed the Atlantic Ocean for the first time in the 1920’s. In the case of my 

mother, it was her only crossing. She chose never to return to Ireland and adopted the 

United States as “her” country. Mom and her two sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, decided 

not to cross the Hudson to New Jersey but rather to remain in fortress New York where 

employment opportunities, among other things, were greater. A strong bond was formed 

among the three New York sisters and it would remain throughout their respective 

lifetimes. 

THE NEW JERSEY SIDE OF THE MURRAY CLAN 

Delia’s three brothers decided to migrate to less crowded, New Jersey. Uncle Michael, 

the youngest of the brothers, would die of natural causes in his youthful twenties. Uncle 

Paddy, like so many Irishmen in America, would join the police force in a New Jersey 

town and would rise through the ranks. Uncle Joe would open a successful bar and liquor 

store in East Orange, New Jersey. Both Joe and Patrick would marry, and in the case of 

Uncle Paddy, raise a family. 

MY COUSIN, THE LAWYER 

A cousin, Thomas A. Murray was born in East Orange, New Jersey, where he lived most 

of his life. T. A. put himself through New York Law School and maintained a practice at 

225 Broadway (the Woolworth Building). Like myself, he was a first generation Irish- 

American. He was the son of one of my grandfather’s brother’s and I referred to him as 

“Uncle Tom”

T. A. was married to Sarah Bradley. They unsuccessfully tried to raise a family. Their 

one and only child, Andrew, died in his infancy as was so often the case in pre-War days 

“Uncle Tom” and his wife, Sarah, were both very close to my Aunt Mary and Uncle 

Buddy. Actually, he was my Aunt Mary’s first cousin – and Delia’s too. Often times the 

Waldron’s and the Murray’s of East Orange would go on vacations together and would 

visit each other at their respective residence’s in Rockaway or New Jersey. Delia, for 

obvious reasons, was not part of their social circuit. 

T. A. was a musically gifted individual, playing the piano and singing in the New York 

chapter of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick Glee Club. So too, was his brother, Charlie, 

who was a society bandleader who played at the Stork Club in NYC and the Versailles in 

Miami Beach. Charlie, who was single, died in 1943 while on leave from the Coast 

Guard. 

“Uncle Tom” had three other brothers, James, a former assistant District Attorney for 

New York County (Manhattan), as well as Frank and John. Tom’s sister, Catherine, 

married, a Brooklyn doctor and lived in the upscale Grand Army Plaza section of that 

“outer borough.” 

FAMILY PUBMASTERS 

Uncle Joe Murray, opened a bar at 336 Main Street in East Orange where it thrived for 

many years during the post-Prohibition era. In 1938, when East Orange celebrated its 75 th 

anniversary, Uncle Joe wrote a pamphlet, When Grove Street was Whisky Lane, as his 

contribution to the gala. After all, Pub master Joe Murray billed his emporium as A Place 

That Is Different. Later in life he ran a liquor store near the Lackawanna Railroad Station. 

T.A.’s brother, Frank, operated “Murray’s,” a restaurant and bar also on Main Street in 

East Orange for many years. Located near Our Lady Help of Christians Roman Catholic 

Church, it was once a setting for the many parishioners who did not take the pledge. 

Today, it is the site of “Mr. C’s,” once reputed to be a gay bar. 

There were other notable pub masters in our family. The elegant Murray’s “Roman 

Gardens,” graced 42 nd Street near Broadway from 1908-1918. At the time, it was one of 

New York City’s finest restaurants. It was a kind of place that the likes of Dolly Levi 

would frequent. A mini-hotel of some twenty-four rooms was on the upper floors of the 

restaurant. For some, it could have been an evening of wine, women and…Like so many 

restaurants of the time, when Prohibition came, it folded.

DELIA’S SECRET 

I am Delia’s secret. 

Fact: I was born out of wedlock. Today, being born out of wedlock is a commonplace 

event. Today, it is more accepted and less stigmatized by institutional religion, society, 

friends and family, than in was in the 1930’s. However, back then, it carried penalties. To 

be an heir, a son or daughter had to be born in lawful matrimony. To enter into Holy 

Orders of the Roman Catholic Church, a prospective seminarian had to be legitimate. 

With the tenor of the times in mind, my birth and whereabouts was kept a family secret, 

known only to God and the three Murray sisters of New York. To be sure, Aunt Mary’s 

husband and my father knew about me, but to my uncles and aunts on the New Jersey 

side of the Hudson River and those on the Ireland side of the Atlantic Ocean, Thomas 

Christopher Murray did not exist. I was a non-person. 

T.A. Murray, Esq., was the only exception. “Uncle Tom,” too, kept the vow of secrecy, 

not letting on to his wife, Sarah, or anyone else in New Jersey, that Delia had a bastard 

son. 

I grew up being told by Delia that my father “separated” from us and went his own way. 

She said he lived in Des Moines, a location somewhere out there. Later I found out that a 

cousin, the Reverend John McGuiness, was a priest of that diocese. However, I doubted 

that a man of the cloth who took solemn vows could have been my father, although 

today, I realize that priestly vows means very little in some cases. Really! I took the word 

of my mother on “faith” and realized that I would probably never know the identity of my 

paternal parent. 

“SAVED” – A HYPOTHETICAL SCENARIO 

With the release of docudrama, The Magdalene Sisters, in 2003, I saw the plight of young 

Irish girls of questionable character and ill repute sent to convent asylums – prisons 

without bars. There, they would work like indentured servants in a sweatshop-like 

atmosphere, doing laundry and other manual chores. These girls, thousands of them over 

the years, would be “saved” by their taskmaster nuns. I couldn’t help but think of a 

hypothetical scenario involving my mom, if my birth, under similar circumstances, were 

to happen in early twentieth century Ireland. After conceiving Thomas out of wedlock, 

infant me would be put up for adoption and my wayward mom sent to a convent cum 

asylum. Christian charity, Catholic style, would prevail.

DOWNTOWN/UPTOWN 

The first residence of my life here on planet earth was a brownstone located at 232 West 

21 St. in the Chelsea section in NYC. Here I lived with my mom for nearly three years. 

Because of my infancy, I do not recall life in my Chelsea home. However, it is safe to 

assume that it was in this apartment that I did the usual amount of crying, took my first 

baby steps, and uttered my first word – mama, or whatever! 

At some point in time, probably in 1937, mom and I moved in with Aunt Mary and Uncle 

Buddy at their 4861 Broadway residence, the Hawthorne Gardens, in the Inwood section 

of upper Manhattan. Aunt Mary was one of my mother’s two older sisters living in New 

York. Inwood was a bastion of the Irish. 

Aunt Mary had the good life. She was married to Michael Waldron, an attaché in New 

York City’s municipal court’s system. Michael Waldron, known affectionately as “Uncle 

Buddy,” was a jolly man who kept his wife wanting for nothing. Theirs was a childless 

marriage, so some attention, albeit minimal, was relished upon me. By virtue of her 

seniority, Aunt Mary seemed to be the uncontested “matriarch” of the three sisters 

residing in America. 

Mary Agnes Waldron had become a U.S. citizen shortly upon her arrival from Ireland 

and would get involved in the political process as soon as she was naturalized. Like so 

many Irish immigrants, she became a United States citizen. Soon she activated herself in 

the ladies auxiliary of the Inwood Democrat Club. She was a staunch Al Smith supporter 

in the late 1920’s and would jump on the FDR bandwagon in 1932. It seemed to Aunt 

Mary and the millions of Americans who voted to elect Roosevelt to the presidency, that 

indeed, happy days were here again. However, FDR’s “New Deal” proved to be too 

“new” for many of his supporters. Like many Democrats who were disillusioned with the 

socialist-leaning alphabet soup programs of FDR, Aunt Mary broke ranks with the 

Democrats and rallied behind the party of Wall Street. Like a good Republican, she 

invested in Wall Street, and would reap dividends later on. 

In 1933, Adolph Hitler became Chancellor of Germany and thus began his reckless 

ascendancy to power. On May 10, 1933, the city of Berlin was the scene of the first book 

burning. Simultaneously, his storm troopers swept across virtually every university town 

in Germany to oversee that “inappropriate” books be burned – bonfires of the most sordid 

order. Ironically, it was the year 1933 that the ban on James Joyce’s, Ulysses, was lifted 

here in the United States. At the beginning of the new millennium in 2001, Ulysses was 

acclaimed as the greatest novel of the twentieth century. We do make mistakes, don’t we 

– all in the name of the cross, swastika, or whatever.

As the storm troopers of the Third Reich were marching through Europe during the late 

30’s and the early 40’s, Mary Waldron would maintain an isolationist, “America First,” 

mentality. To her, Hitler was Jesus Christ reincarnated. Later in life, and after many 

heated arguments between Aunt Mary and myself on the merits of this “great man”, she 

gave me her copy of “Mein Kampf”. Soon, she became the “Pearl Mesta of Inwood”, 

hosting dinner parties for friends including Mr. and Mrs. George Sylvester Viereck 

(parents of Harvard English professor and Pulitzer poet, Peter Viereck), Judge and Mrs. J. 

B. McNally, Dr. Froelich (Jack Dempsey’s friend and golfing partner) and others of their 

ilk. I’m sure that some of her guests were Nazi sympathizers. 

Question lingers in my mind during the two-year period that my mom and I were 

residents of the Hawthorne Gardens. Was I visible during these parties? If so, how was 

my mother introduced? Delia “the domestic”? 

~ 

So many of us have had an “Aunt Betty” in our early lives. Perhaps, her name was 

different but an aunt who was caring, compassionate, jovial, and all the other good things 

one would expect from a “favorite aunt.” 

My “favorite aunt,” Mom’s middle sister, Elizabeth Veronica Murray (“Aunt Betty”), 

worked as a chambermaid in the Wyndham Hotel and lived the principles of St. Francis 

of Assisi in her daily life. She was not that interested in worldly pleasures and loved the 

simple things of life. Like her contemporary, Dorothy Day, she believed in social justice 

and did not hesitate to join the picket line when her union local struck the hotel. Her 

influence on me would bear fruits many years later. Unmarried at the time and living in a 

nearby rooming house, Aunt Betty spent many of her leisure hours with me, taking me 

places that I would not have gone otherwise. The New York Aquarium, on the site of the 

old Castle Garden in Battery Park, was one of my earliest excursions with Aunt Betty. 

Like “Auntie Mame”, Aunt Betty was a wonderful free-spirited individual who lavished 

her affections upon her favorite nephew. Nothing was too good or any destination too far 

for Tommy. 

Some memories of the time spent in Inwood are vivid; others, somewhat vague. Back 

then, and to a lesser degree today, Inwood was an Irish neighborhood, replete with the 

Irish taverns, butcher shops where one could get a taste of the motherland, and, of course, 

O’Connor’s Funeral Parlor (home wakes were going the way of the “Model-T”). Inwood 

Park and the historic Dykman House were nearby. Good Shepherd parish, conducted by 

the Paulist Fathers – a Yankee Doodle congregation of priests, was a short two blocks 

away. The parish was all-important in the lives of immigrants coming from Erin’s green 

shores, as well as first and second generation Irish Catholics living in America. It was 

not, “Where are you from?” but rather, “What parish are you from?” (Years later 

poet/musician, Jim Carroll would grow up in the same area and was a member of the 

Good Shepherd CYO basketball team. I wonder how the author of The Basketball Diaries 

is coping with life in the fast lane today?).

ALL AROUND THE TOWN 

To my mom, it seemed that 4861 Broadway was getting ever too small for an evergrowing 

Tommy. We needed our own space – and distance - away from Aunt Mary and 

Uncle Buddy. A situation arose whereby Uncle Buddy was relocated to the Municipal 

Court in Far Rockaway. The net result was that Aunt Mary and Uncle Buddy moved into 

a one- bedroom apartment on Beach 115 Street in Rockaway Park. This move was a 

diplomatic solution to our problem. Now we could move too, and without any hurt 

feelings. 

Mom, too, followed in the footsteps of Aunt Betty and found a job as a chambermaid in 

the fashionable Hampshire House on Central Park South. The upscale hotel of postcard 

fame was dedicated to yesterday’s charm and tomorrow’s convenience. 

So the search was on to find a low rent apartment in midtown Manhattan. With a little bit 

of luck, mom found a one-bedroom apartment in a late, nineteenth-century, four story 

walkup at the northeast corner of 57 th Street and 9 th Avenue. We would move into 363 

West 57 th Street, our new home for two, in October of 1938 and would remain in 

residence in Apartment 3D until October of 1959. Now mom could walk to work while I 

was in the capable hands of the Dominican nuns at the nearby St. Joseph Day Nursery on 

west 57 th Street. 

ONE BEDROOM, ICEBOX INCLUDED 

Our third floor walkup was a two-room apartment. Upon entering, a fifteen-foot hallway 

would lead you into the kitchen, dining and living area. This rectangular room measured 

about 15’ by 7’. This area would be occupied by my mother and would be furnished 

rather sparsely with second hand furniture including a small dining table replete with an 

oilcloth cover, two chairs, a studio couch and a dresser. The floor covering was linoleum 

and the purchase of a throw rug was in order to place between the couch and the dresser. 

A window at the end of the room fronted an alley that separated 363 from a similar type 

four story building on 58 th Street. Between the foot of the couch and a closet was the 

entrance to the bedroom. Although not commodious, it was big enough, measuring about 

12’ by 10’ with one window leading onto a fire escape facing noisy Ninth Avenue. A few 

sticks of furniture from a local used- furniture dealer made this a bedroom fit for a king 

and my domain for some twenty-one years.

There was no washer or dryer in this third floor walkup apartment (I don’t have either 

appliance in my present apartment in Red Bank at the beginning of the new millennium.). 

The bathroom, located next to the door and off the hallway, was rather small but served 

its purpose. The clawed-foot bathtub was the spa of the upper lower class. It didn’t have a 

shower, so we improvised with a hose attachment. The weekly Saturday night bath was a 

ritual at our house and a cleansing metaphor for church the next morning. To the right of 

the tub was a washbasin and medicine cabinet, and to the left was a rather ancient toilet 

replete with a pull chain that released water from an overhead box. Initially, I was pottytrained, 

having a chamber pot, alternately known as a “poe” or “pisspot” under my bed. 

The next step was proper toilet training. Mom always said: Make sure you pull the chain, 

Tommy (perhaps that’s where the expression “pulling your chain” originated. Personally, 

I couldn’t think of a better place). Fortunately for circulation purposes, there was a 

window that opened out into the dark air-shaft just above the toilet. I may sound a bit like 

Andy Rooney but I always wondered about whether or not an air-shaft was really an airshaft. 

The top of my air-shaft, located on the roof, was covered by a thick glass- framed 

canopy that prevented any air from getting into the shaft. Stale air abounded. Would the 

EPA allow this today? 

Mom used the kitchen sink to wash smaller, and more personal, items. These were hung 

on a wooden rack in the bathroom to dry. Larger items such as sheets were sent to the 

Wong’s Chinese hand laundry. In nicer weather, we washed our own sheets and would 

hang them, along with some of the less personal items, on the roof to dry. We aired our 

blankets out the window. Nothing like the scent of freshly aired sheets and blankets. I can 

smell them now! 

A gas stove and icebox was provided by the management. Not bad, since the rent mom 

was paying for this walkup apartment was very low (I might venture to guess, less than 

$24.00 a month). The gas stove was great, except when you had to clean it. It served as 

an auxiliary heater on frigid days. The icebox, on the other hand, like a puppy, had to be 

serviced daily. The “box” contained two sections, the upper section being the ice 

depository. Italian-born, Nick Proscia, the local iceman, parked his horse drawn ice 

wagon only a half a block from our apartment building. Nick would haul up a ten or 

fifteen-cent piece of ice on his burlap-covered shoulder to our third floor apartment and 

think nothing of it. On Saturday’s he’d haul up a twenty-five cent piece of ice in a 

wooden butter tub that would last for the weekend. In the upper “box” you would keep 

your meat, milk, and other perishables. The lower box was used for less-perishable items. 

Beneath the icebox was an ice pan that had to be emptied twice daily, the first thing in the 

morning and the last thing at night. On occasion, mom or I might forget our chore and 

behold – like the untrained puppy, you found a flooded floor. 

Needless to say, we did not have a telephone, and would not have a phone until I was in 

high school, simply because mom could not afford this luxury.

THE WAR OF THE ROACHES 

Cockroaches have remained the bane of New York City residents. The Flit gun was an 

indispensable part of a home’s arsenal. In the days before canned aerosol roach repellent, 

one had to buy a can of liquid repellent, unscrew the cap of the flit gun, and pour in the 

liquid “bullets.” Another “ordnance” included J-O roach paste liberally spread on slices 

of raw potatoes. I have no idea what “J-O” stands for. 

Roaches are creatures of the night. They come out of their cracks and crevices looking for 

food to feed themselves and their young when the lights are out. So armed with my 

loaded flit gun, I signaled to mom telling her of my advance foray into the kitchen area. 

Once in the area of orts and morsels, I quickly turned on the lights. What a sight! 

Thousands (not really) of cockroaches, scurrying every which way! I promptly opened 

fire, and the “assault” began. 

During the war, I often got carried away, pretending that I was soldier and saying in a 

Cagney-like voice: Take that you (ethnic) rats. 

They dropped like flies, rather like roaches. By the end of the battle, many roaches lay 

dead or wounded. The smell of victory (cough, cough) was great as mom yelled: Tommy, 

open the window, put out the lights, and go back to bed . Critters of the night abounded in 

this nineteenth century structure. Cockroaches are part and parcel of city living. Period! 

No building in New York City, no matter how swank, can boast: We’re cockroach free! 

Yes, one can contain them by periodic pest control procedures, and by sealing the cracks 

and maintaining sanitary conditions in your apartment, but you cannot totally eliminate 

this scourge of the city. Besides, they have been around longer than man and their 

survival skills prove it. 

Mice, too, were a problem, as one heard them doing their thing in the dark of night. 

Mousetraps, with some ort firmly secured to them, were set each night before going to 

bed. As is had a mean spring action, we watched our fingers while setting the trap. At 

some ungodly hour – a loud clap – and one less mouse on the Murray premises. The 

worst part came the next morning, when, in ritualistic fashion, you gingerly loosened the 

mouse from the trap over the toilet and let the lifeless carcass fall into the water below. 

Flush! Voila! No mouse! 

Then there were reddish-brown critters called bedbugs. They sucked your blood as you 

lay sleeping. A fully-grown bedbug can weigh up to three times its body weight. A 

kerosene rubdown of the gray, stripped mattress was in order on a monthly basis. Then 

again, a bedbug could be dispatched to “bedbug heaven” by a quick squeeze between the 

thumb and forefinger. Squash! Gush! Disgusting!

THE RESIDENTS – A TRUE MOSAIC 

I would live with my mom, Delia, 21 years in Apt. 3D and, over the years, found that 363 

was a melting pot if there ever was one. The four-story walkup with its entrance at the 

northeast corner of 57 Street and Ninth Avenue, housed some sixteen apartments, four on 

each floor. On the street level where the merchants purveyed their wares stood Sam 

Becker, the Jewish tailor’s dry cleaning establishment; a candy store where one could 

wager a two dollar bet while munching on a two-cents Hooten chocolate bar; and, of 

course, the local watering hole – the Corner Bar. 

The first floor hosted Dr. Greenwald, a Jewish dentist and Mr. and Mrs. Miller, the 

Superintendents of the building, who were German-Lutheran. It was rumored that a lady 

of the evening occupied one of the other first floor apartments. She seemed to be a “true, 

blue American.” On the second floor was a German-born masseuse, Louise Kurz, who 

could be heard playing her ornate upright piano. Next to Frau Kurz were the local 

drunks, presumably of Irish heritage, Bill and Julia Butler (they were Corner Bar patrons 

and were fighting more often than not). Our next-door neighbor was a single Jewish 

lady, Lillian Kramer, who lived the good neighbor policy. Another third-floor apt. was 

occupied by a inter-racial couple (some of the other neighbors had things to say about 

that relationship). On the fourth floor lived the Bill and Elsa Bergen. Bill was a doorman 

in a swanky apartment building on Central Park South where Fred Waring, less his 

Pennsylvanians, resided. Bill’s Finnish-born wife was a domestic worker. Bill and Elsa 

Bergen would become one of our closest neighbors and would remain in residence in 363 

until the 1960’s. Swiss-born Fred Muller, a gourmet chef of the Far Hills Restaurant in 

Newark, and his wife, lived next to the Bergen’s. And of course, there was the Irish lady 

with her son, Tommy, in Apt.3D. Interesting mix, indeed. 

GYPSIES, TRAMPS AND THIEVES 

363 had a wide assortment of peoples, both in and out of the building. We will discuss 

the residents, both tenants and shopkeepers, later on. However, there were those whose 

moral turpitude left much to be desired. 

Gypsies often occupied one of the stores on the ground level of 363. Invariably, they 

would hang a few dark curtains from a makeshift rope and display a “fortune teller” sign 

in the window. I never had my fortune told by one of the local gypsies nor did I ever find 

out what was behind those curtains.

Tramps of all varieties used the vestibule of 363 to loiter, sleep and a myriad of other 

purposes. The vestibule’s front door was always unlocked and opened into a small 

mailbox area where the tenants’ name and the bell for one’s respective apartment was 

located A second door led to the front set of stairs that led one to Dr. Greenwald’s Dental 

Office and the three first floor apartments. It could be accessed only by key or buzzer. 

Being next to the Corner Bar didn’t help either, as drunk’s often slept if off in the 

vestibule. Problems were multifold: snoring, muttering of unintelligible sounds, body 

odor and the stench of urination. It was very annoying while trying to straddle the 

intoxicated individual in the narrow vestibule while trying to open the locked door on the 

interior side of the building’s entrance. Mrs. Miller, the hefty super, often gave these sots 

the old heave-ho. 

Thieves were not as common but break-ins did exist. It was easy for anyone to gain 

access to the building. Just press a tenant’s button, and when he buzzed you in, simply 

hold the unlocked door for a while, go up the staircase and do your dastardly deed. Once 

a crook gained entrance to one’s apartment, he could gain access to others by using the 

fire escape. Fortunately, no break-ins or robberies of our apartment took place in our 

twenty-two years of residence at 363. Security and vigilance were the watchwords of the 

tenants living in 363. We looked out for each other. 

WEST 57 TH STREET 

West 57 th Street was a two-way, heavily trafficked, cross-town street. The brownstones in 

mid-block would soon be replaced by the upscale, eight story, Westmore Apts, replete 

with their parquet floors and sunken living rooms. Adjacent to 363 stood the imposing 

twenty-four story, Henry Hudson Hotel, at the time a Woman’s Club. Prior to it’s 

erection in 1932, the developers of the hotel had made a failed attempt to buy 363 and 

another building at the corner of 58 th Street and 9 th Avenue for the purpose of razing 

them, therefore allowing hotel frontage on 9 th Avenue. Across the street from the 

Westmore, were the older and larger Parc Vendome apartments – the grand dame of west 

57 th Street. She reigns supreme on West 57th Street today.

FROM ONE PAULIST PARISH TO ANOTHER 

Our new parish was St. Paul the Apostle. It was founded in 1858 by Isaac Hecker and 

four other pioneer, American missionaries. Hecker was a convert from Judaism and his 

family was in the flour business (they’re still in business and so too is St. Paul’s Parish). 

In 1882, they would set about building their mother church. Located between 59 th and 

60 th streets and fronting on Columbus Avenue (at 59 th street, numbered avenues change 

to proper names ie. 9 th Ave becomes Columbus Ave., 10 th Ave. becomes Amsterdam 

Ave., and so on), the church of St. Paul the Apostle was a Gothic-style church, second in 

size only to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The main altar was designed by Stanford White. 

Augustus Saint- Gaudens and other masters contributed their respective talents to 

enhance the beauty of the Paulist Fathers church. Adjacent to “Fort Deshon” (named after 

a founding Paulist and West Point graduate who contributed to the design of the structure 

in its later stages) was the rectory located at 415 West 59 th Street and the Paulist Press at 

411. Being a Paulist parishioner was being a member of one of the most famous parishes 

in the United States. It was home of the renowned Paulist Choristers led by Fr.William 

Finn; the Catholic World, America’s oldest Catholic monthly magazine under editor, Fr. 

James Gillis; and, WLWL, the Paulist radio station. 

NURSERY DAYS TO SCHOOL DAYS 

Leaving young Tommy under the care of the Dominican sisters at St. Joseph Day 

Nursery must have been somewhat unnerving to him. How much more so, was the 

beginning of my formal education in September of 1939 as I entered St. Paul the Apostle 

School, our parish grammar (elementary) school. St. Paul’s was located at 124 West 60 th 

Street adjacent to the Paulist mother church. The Sisters of the Holy Cross, yes more 

nuns, had been teaching at St. Paul’s for many years. Dedicated women lay teachers 

complemented the Holy Cross faculty. Here I would grow in every way. Here I would 

spend the next nine years of my life saying, Good morning, sister, as the opening school 

bell rang each day. 

WAR CLOUDS GATHER 

The Munich Pact of 1938, signed by Germany, Great Britain and France guaranteed 

peace in our time. I’m sure that this promise, coupled with appeasement by our allies in 

Europe, prompted Robert Moses and other New York powerbrokers, to lay the 

groundwork for an international exposition to open in Flushing, Queens, in the spring of 

the following year. This was the New York World’s Fair of 1939-40.

True to form, Aunt Betty took her favorite nephew to the Fair in 1939. I remember this 

awesome experience – beholding the sphere and trilon in Flushing Meadows Park. I 

remember being walked through the Fair, hand in hand with my aunt, as the trams’ horn 

signaled in melodic tones to clear the way for this people mover. Unfortunately, I do not 

remember visiting the General Motors Pavilion or some of the other world of tomorrow 

exhibits. Anyway, as a young kid of six, I’m sure that I enjoyed the day. 

In 1940, the Ninth Avenue Elevated Line, the “el”, was torn town. Aunt Betty, sensing 

that her seven-year old nephew would like to become part of an historical local event, 

arranged to take me on the last ride of the Ninth Avenue on June 12, 1940. And boy, was 

that an event and a half. We boarded the jam-packed train at the 59 th Street Station and 

we chugged our way down to the last stop – South Ferry (Battery Park). It was fun to 

watch the crowd climbing out the windows, grabbing “South Ferry” signs, and having 

one good time. Now I would no longer have to hear the noisy train beneath my window. 

In the summertime, in the days before AC, it was necessary to leave your windows open 

and the noise could be somewhat bothersome. Actually, it was part of the scene and I 

missed it. I remember waking up on Christmas morning 1940, only to find there was noel. 

Oh yes, we sold the scrap iron to Japan on a “cash and carry” basis. Japan would return it 

to us a year later in the form of bombs and bullets, December 7, 1941 to be precise. 

In the meantime, young Tommy was preparing to deal with the challenges that lay ahead, 

the greatest of which was Delia’s Secret.

CHAPTER 2 – KILROY WAS HERE AND SO WAS I 

LET’S REMEMBER PEARL HARBOR 

Many people my age remember exactly where they were that Sunday of December 7, 

1941. Some were at the New York Giants football game when the announcement was 

made that the Japanese attacked the United States naval base and other military 

installations in Pearl Harbor. Others were at home relaxing after church services and 

preparing for an early dinner. Historians still debate the readiness of our country for war 

and F.D.R. ’s flawed intelligence network. Sound familiar? That’s now, but on December 

8, 1941, the third term president went before a joint session of Congress and asked that a 

state of war be declared between the U. S. and Japan. The Congress stood solidly behind 

him (with the exception of one House member) and on December 8 declared war on 

Japan. Germany and Italy, allies of Japan, immediately declared war on the United States. 

Congress would reciprocate three days later when it declared war on Germany and Italy. 

Indeed, December 7, 1941, is a date of historic proportions that will “live in infamy.” 

KILROY WAS HERE – TOMMY REMEMBERS 

Who was Kilroy? To many Americans who lived through the war years, Kilroy was just 

as real as Uncle Sam. Kilroy, like Uncle Sam (Wilson), was based on a real live person. 

However, unlike Uncle Sam, Kilroy was an enigmatic caricature. His image of head and 

hands under which appeared the mantra, “Kilroy was here”, appeared scrawled on 

sidewalks, bookmarks, above urinal walls, and wherever else there was room. These 

precursors of present day graffiti artists inscribed their craft anyplace, anytime and 

anywhere they could. No place was sacred. Even I could not resist the temptation and, 

with chalk in hand, drew my first “Kilroy” on the sidewalks of New York. 

OVER HERE 

The United States and the other Allied Powers had their work cut out for them. As the 

war began the Allies were in a defensive position against the Axis Powers of Germany, 

Italy and Japan. Converting from peacetime to wartime economy was the first order of 

business. In a short period of time we would be producing bullets by the billions and by 

1943, the tide would begin turning – at least in the Pacific theater of war.

FDR created more alphabet soup agencies to address the problems of the war. The Office 

of Price Administration, the OPA, is perhaps the one that most Americans my age 

remember. Conservation of supplies needed for the war effort was the major objective of 

the OPA. Rationing of these essential war materials, therefore, became nonessentials for 

those of us over here. It seemed to me at the time that almost everything was rationed – 

everything from soup to nuts. Yes canned goods, including Campbell’s soup and 

Planter’s peanuts, were limited. The local butcher had limited supplies of meat. I heard 

reports that horsemeat was substituted for beef in some steak houses, and rumors 

abounded that cat was served in select Asian restaurants. Ugh! Ladies had to forget about 

nylons. Parachutes took priority. Both mom and Aunt Betty smoked cigarettes and were 

only too happy to roll their own in support of the war effort (for less than a dollar one 

could purchase a Bugler, do-it-yourself cigarette maker kit, replete with a rolling 

machine, a package of tobacco and the paper). Nothing like, rolling your own. The OPA 

issued tokens and ration books containing stamps for items that would help us win the 

war. Like Prohibition, the “black market” flourished. You could get nylons and other 

scarce commodities at the right place (if you knew where to look) and at an inflated price. 

Caveat: Violations of OPA regulations could result in a $10,000.00 fine and 

imprisonment. If mom ran short of OPA stamps, Max Ciffer, our grocer; Al the butcher; 

or Marty, the shoe-store owner on 9 th Avenue and 52 nd Street, would be more than happy 

to “help out” a fine Irish lady. We survived the Great Depression with our “meatless” and 

“wheatless” days. Sacrifice was called for, and most assuredly, we were up to the task. 

The bottom line for wars, like almost everything else, is money. We learned this during 

our Revolution and from the wars that followed. The United States had to finance the 

largest war in history. Financing the war was done to a large degree by the selling of war 

bonds. Like the Liberty Loan drives of World War I, bond drives were held throughout 

the war and brought in considerable revenue. As an elementary school student, I 

remember buying a twenty-five cent war stamp each week and pasting it into a bond 

booklet. Some months later, my fellow students and myself, achieved our goal of filling 

the booklet with seventy-five stamps – enough to convert the booklet into a war bond at 

the 60 th Street Post Office. We did our part and felt good about it. Major bond drives 

were held many times during the war in New York City. Times Square was one of the 

focal points for these drives. Movie stars entertained and for purchasing a twenty-five 

dollar bond you might get an autograph from Betty Gable. Why, for a hundred dollar 

bond, you could wind up with a kiss from the G. I.’ s favorite pinup girl. Battery Park 

was another favorite spot for bond drives. The purchase of a bond would get you a ride in 

New York Harbor on a L. S. T. (amphibious troop transport) – quite a high indeed!

TAKE THAT YOU RATS 

Conserve! Conserve! Conserve! Conservation was the order of the day, each day, every 

day, until the war ended. Fat from rationed meat was placed in cans and brought to the 

local butcher where it was collected and processed into soap. A scrap metal box was 

placed in front of the Henry Hudson Hotel where spirited citizens could drop in their tin 

cans and other metal items. About the age of ten I was given a little red scooter as a 

present from my mom. I loved this scooter and wore out my shoe leather paddling up and 

down West 57 th Street. Some months later my scooter broke and I was devastated – well, 

not really. With scooter in tow, I took it to the scrap box and in a very ceremonious 

fashion, raised my arms, and while throwing it into the hereafter, said, Take that you rats! 

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW 

I was a young zealot when it came to patriotism. My next contribution to the war effort 

was to plant a Victory Garden. So my first step was to get a wooden box from our grocer, 

Max Ciffer. The box measured approximately two feet long, a foot and a half wide, and a 

depth of six inches. Central Park was only two blocks away and the perfect place to 

purloin some soil. After a couple of trips to the park, I now had enough dirt to move 

forward with the next step – sowing of the seed. I purchased a package of seed (I forget 

what kind) from the F. W. Woolworth store on Eight Avenue between 57 th and 58 th 

Streets. With a tablespoon, I dug the holes, planted the seed, and placed my new Victory 

Garden on my fire escape. Despite TLC, and sunlight, I waited and waited and waited. 

Nothing! It was obvious that I did not have a “green thumb” but I tried. 

YOU’RE IN THE ARMY NOW 

Raising an armed force to combat the greatest aggressor army that world had ever known 

up to that point in time was a task of Herculean proportions. We were up to the task. The 

creation of the Selective Service System provided the mechanism necessary for 

conscription purposes – the “draft”. The “Dear John” letters would follow shortly. 

Recruitment centers would be set up all across America. Such a center was located, and 

still is, on a traffic island in Times Square. Enlistees sometimes waited in long lines to 

sign up in the service of their country. Able-bodied men between the ages of 18 thru 45 

were expected to serve in the military. Most did and were classified 1A.

Because of physical or mental disabilities, some were classified as 4F, and were not 

drafted. Were there draft dodgers during the war? Very few to my knowledge, for 

virtually all Americans supported the war. Still there was some resentment against “4 

F’er’s” who outwardly appeared in top physical condition. Such was the case of teen idol, 

Frank Sinatra. The venue was ironic. Across the street from the Recruitment Center on 

Broadway was the Paramount Theatre where Sinatra was appearing in a just released 

1944 movie. The crooner was classified as “4F”much to the chagrin of many servicemen. 

One day a group of rambunctious sailors pelted with tomatoes the larger than life image 

of Sinatra that was affixed in the center of the theatre’s marquis. “Take that, Frankie, you 

draft dodger”. However, Sinatra would redeem himself by traveling with the USO 

toward the end of the war. 

Nearly 15 million men served in the U. S. Army (and Army Air Corps), Navy, Marines, 

Coast Guard, and Merchant Marine during the War. Women, too, were allowed to enter 

the services in non-combatant roles i.e. the WACS (Army), WAVES (Navy), BAMS 

(Marines) and the SPARS (Coast Guard). Juvenile humor was at its best in grammar 

school when a classmate would ask you, What is the difference between a WAVE and a 

WAC? A wave is this, as he would wave his hand and a wac (whack) is this, as he would 

slap you in the face. What does a ship do when it pulls into port? Ties up! and you would 

pull your classmate’s tie up from his sweater. How corny!

In 1941, my next-door neighbor, the American Woman’s Association Clubhouse that was 

built in 1929, filed for bankruptcy. This 24 story, 1,200 room, 57 th Street behemoth was 

converted into a hotel and named after the Dutch explorer, Henry Hudson. Replete with a 

swimming pool, ballroom, gymnasium, and meeting rooms, this hotel was the perfect 

answer for housing military personnel during the war. And so it was, that I saw enlisted 

men and officers galore passing up and down the street, day in and day out, and couldn’t 

help but feel as sense of patriotism. I always said hello or gave them a salute for these 

were the men – and women – who would lead us to victory. 

THE BANNER IN THE WINDOW 

If a family member was in service, a banner was placed in the window of most 

prominence in your home. The red-bordered banner, measuring about 9” by 7”, featured a 

blue star that was placed in the middle of a white field. If two family members were 

“over there”, a two star banner would be in order, and so on, such as the five “fighting 

Sullivan’s”. Many, like the Sullivan brothers, never came home. Those who made the 

ultimate sacrifice were awarded the gold star and their survivors were called “gold star 

mothers,” “gold star wives,” or whatever. 

For those who did not have a family member serving in the Armed Services, a “V” 

banner was placed in the window in lieu of a star one. Prime Minister of Great Britain, 

Winston Churchill, early in the war gestured emphatically with his index and middle 

fingers facing outward forming the letter “V”. His was the most famous gesture of the 

war and millions of Allies on both sides of the Atlantic would gesticulate in similar 

fashion. “V for Victory!” signs and banners appeared everywhere. The Murray family of 

mom and myself had a “V” banner hanging from my bedroom window overlooking 

Ninth Avenue. I was an American kid who proudly displayed my “V” banner – “V” for 

Victory! 

ROSIE THE RIVITER 

For the first time in United States history, women played a major role in helping to win a 

war. Millions worked in the defense industry. They worked in munitions and aircraft 

factories, shipyards, and wherever else they were required. They worked in shifts, around 

the clock and side by side with their male counterparts, something unheard of up to this 

time. These women ordnance workers were personified by “Rosie the Riviter”, made 

famous by Norman Rockwell on the cover of the “Saturday Evening Post”. Rosie 

competed with Uncle Sam and Kilroy for poster space. It was quite a common site to see 

women leaving area apartment houses early in the morning, heading for the nearby 

subway station on their way to the Brooklyn Navy Yard, or wherever, with their black 

aluminum lunch box in tow. The war never could have been won without these stalwart 

women, and it gave them “ammunition” for the women’s equal rights movement in later 

years.

SEMPER FIDELIS 

“Semper Fidelis” – “Always Faithful”, is the motto of the U. S. Marine Corps. It was a 

hot summer July 7 day in 1943. As I was playing on West 57 th Street, I heard the strains 

of the “Marine’s Hymn” blaring forth from the amplifiers atop a Marine Corps 

recruitment station wagon. The auto was parked directly across the street from the Henry 

Hudson Hotel. “From the halls of Montezuma, to the shores of Tripoli…” The music was 

magnetic and I had to get closer. Carefully I crossed the heavily trafficked two-way, busy 

Manhattan street. I had reached Nirvana and experienced my first “high”. It was great! 

After the station wagon pulled away, I went to cross the street. Perhaps the high was too 

much, but in the process of crossing I was struck by a car and blacked out. I awoke in 

Roosevelt Hospital, a block away from my house. Fortunately, my mother was home at 

the time and was alerted to my misfortune by, Charlie, an Italian-born taxi driver. Charlie 

was parked at the Henry Hudson Hotel’s hack stand and I had known him for a while. He 

often allowed me to ride on the running board of his cab as it moved up the hack queue. 

To a young kid of ten that was quite a thrill. Upon hearing the news from Charlie, mom 

was understandably upset and preceded to the hospital. I had suffered a mild concussion 

of the brain and still have my forehead bump as a scar of war. I had a hospital stay of 

only three days and was visited by “Uncle” Tom. He gave me a toy piano that I cherished 

and banged away to my heart’s content. 1, 2, 3, 4, I love the Marine Corps. “Semper Fi!” 

SEMPER PARATUS 

“Always prepared” had to be the watchwords of both the military and civilian population 

if we were to survive the war. While we did not suffer the devastating effects of the 

blitzkrieg as England had endured, nonetheless, we realized that “the price of liberty is 

eternal vigilance”. A number of measures were taken to prepare us for such an 

eventuality. The FBI thwarted espionage activities. The Coast Guard patrolled our shores 

as u-boats lurked in nearby Atlantic waters. Civilian volunteers were trained as spotters. 

Sabotage remained a constant threat.

Sabotage was all the talk on February 9 th and 10 th , 1942. Looking out of my window the 

February 9 th afternoon, I remember seeing clouds of dark smoke billowing from the 

southwest. This nine-year old was curious and believed that “ where there is smoke, there 

is fire”. As I zigzagged my way through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, cutting through De 

Witt Clinton Park at 11 th Avenue and 54 th Street, it became all too apparent that the 

smoke was coming from the Hudson River. All of New York’s Bravest must have been at 

the pier where the French liner, Normandie, was afire. Despite the valiant efforts of the 

firemen, this titan of the seas was fighting a loosing battle for her life. Queen of the 

transatlantic ocean liners in the 1930’s, the Normandie was 1,029 feet in length and as 

high as an eighteen story building. Her exterior was sleek and her interior was a gem of 

art deco design. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, she, along with the two British queens and 

other ocean liners, was pressed into the service of the Allied Powers, the United States in 

particular. They were to be converted into troop ships, each holding more than 10,000 

soldiers. The U. S. Navy now owned the former French liner, and to promote Franco- 

American relations, renamed her the “U.S.S. Lafayette”. It was during the conversion 

process that the fatal fire took place. No, it was not an act of sabotage as many thought. 

Rather it was a spark from an acetylene torch used by a careless U.S. Navy seaman that 

ignited a bale of mattresses located in a storage area of the great ship. I returned to the 

site the next day for the wake of the queen, only to see her lying prostrate on her side. 

Civilian volunteers complemented New York’s Finest as Air Raid Wardens. Anyone who 

grew up in the City during the war years will remember the important role of Air Raid 

Wardens in executing Air Raid Drills. Sirens were placed in pivotal locations throughout 

the City including police precinct headquarters and firehouses. When the wailing sirens 

went off, the City was brought to a complete standstill. If you were in a motor vehicle 

you were required to get out and follow the instructions of the warden – perhaps to go 

down into the subway station. If you were in your home or office, you were required to 

take shelter in your basement (highly unfeasible and unenforceable in an apartment or 

office building). School children also were schooled in the art of survival techniques. The 

scene was a most eerie one, something out of a science fiction movie. Cooperation was 

the norm and most citizens were only too happy to follow the instructions of the warden. 

The drill usually lasted about 15 minutes and then the sirens would signal “ all clear” and 

the return to normalcy. 

Night air raid drills were called blackouts (no relation to the alcoholic kind). Here, again, 

the warden did his duty hollering, “Lights out!” to an apartment resident slow to respond 

to the first wail of the siren. Black electric tape covered the upper half of the headlights of 

every motor vehicle so that they would be more difficult to be spotted from the air by an 

enemy plane. It was awful that the real “city of lights” had to be subjected to such 

humiliation but war is war, and “all is fair in love and war.”

HOLLYWOOD GOES TO WAR AND THE USO’S RIGHT BEHIND 

At the age of nine, I was old enough to go to the movies on a Saturday afternoon with 

some of my pals. It was on the silver screen that I was introduced to some of my favorite 

wartime actors. At the time, motion pictures were reviewed, and in many cases censored, 

by Hollywood’s Production Code Administration and the Roman Catholic Church’s, 

Legion of Decency. Now Hollywood had to work in concert with the government’s 

Censorship Agency and the War Department. The “Hollywood Commandos” produced 

short recruiting and training films and enlisted Hollywood’s finest to star in them. 

“Tinseltown’s” liaison, General “Hap” Arnold, gave USAF commissions to Jack Warner, 

John Houston, Frank Capra and thousands more in the entertainment industry to produce 

the needed film footage. 

In spite of cutting room and censorial measures, many wartime classics were 

produced…and I probably saw them all. One of the earliest war films was Flying Tigers, 

a screenplay about a group of fliers in World War II China. Plenty of action and 

dogfights galore contributed to the success of this “gung ho”(not a character in the film) 

movie. The film’s star was John Wayne who immediately became my screen idol. I saw 

him in The Fighting Seabees and Back to Bataan and would become a lifelong fan of the 

“Duke”. I cried as I saw Thomas Mitchell and Anne Baxter portray the parents of The 

Fighting Sullivan’s. I remember seeing Crash Dive with Tyrone Power and Thirty 

Seconds Over Tokyo with Spencer Tracy. Of all the wartime movies produced, 

Casablanca has to be my favorite. Revised, again and again, as the movie was being shot, 

it featured Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and a host of Hollywood’s greatest stars. 

It was shown in my United States History classes during my latter years as a teacher and 

remains my all-time favorite movie. “Play it (again), Sam”. 

Complementing a good war movie was the newsreel. This was the closest one could get 

to the war fronts, thanks to the cameramen who risked their lives to film the action on the 

spot. RKO Pathe and Movietone News were among the major newsreel producers. With 

the strains of a Sousa march playing as a lead in to a news piece, Lowell Thomas, Dan 

Herilhy, and other celluloid commentators with sonorous male voices, would bring 

history to the silver screen. Being a frequent moviegoer, I followed the progress of the 

war through the lens of newsreel cameras. A major military setback would find a somber 

theatre audience and the images of any of the Axis leaders would prompt an obligatory 

“boo”. Attendees, especially the younger matinee kids, like myself, would yell, applaud 

wildly, and throw candy or popcorn at the announcement of an Allied victory. Of course, 

the newsreels covered items of interest over here as well.

President Roosevelt’s attendance at special events and the humanitarian endeavors of his 

wife, Eleanor, were among cameramen’s favorite White House news corps. Lorena 

Hickok, a correspondent, was Eleanor’s live-in confidante. FDR’s dog, Falla, often 

caught the camera’s eye. Having been crippled by infantile paralysis, FDR opened the 

March of Dimes drive each year alongside a poster boy who also suffered from this 

crippling disease. Marty King, a neighborhood kid who lived on 58 th Street, was the first 

March of Dimes poster boy. We were so proud that “one of our own” had made the 

national spotlight. Newsreel cameras captured everything from the Miss America beauty 

pageant each year in Atlantic City to the major seasonal sports events. If there was news 

out there, you could bet you’d see a news crew to capture the event in film and bring it to 

theatres across America. Some theatres in the City, such as the Guild in Rockefeller 

Center and the Embassy on Broadway, were devoted to the exclusive showing of 

newsreels. 

Musicals such as This is the Army featured a future president of the United States, Ronald 

Reagan. Star Spangled Rhythm saw the “road” warriors Bob, Dorothy and “Der Bingle” 

together again. Popular, too, were the “canteen” movies, and Four Jills in a Jeep. Each 

showed the giving spirit of the entertainment industry. 

Some members of the entertainment industry chose to enlist in the service of Uncle Sam. 

Bandleader, Glenn Miller, was killed in a plane accident in Europe while he was on his 

way to entertain the troops. Jimmy Stewart, who would later play the title role in The 

Glenn Miller Story, was among many Hollywood enlistees to serve their country. 

~ 

New York City was the embarkation point for hundreds of thousands of G. I. ‘s during 

the war years. Sometimes they would stop and ask me for directions. I could recognize 

from their voices that they were not from the City. Whether they came from the plains of 

middle-America or the heart of the south land, I tried, always, to be courteous and 

helpful. Of infinitely greater help to the soldiers and sailors was the United Service 

Organization – the USO.

It must have been an awesome experience for a country boy arriving in Gotham for the 

first time. The canyons of skyscrapers, the cacophony of sounds, and the rapid beating 

pulse of its people must have been overwhelming. Having finished their basic training at 

Camp Kilmer or Fort Dix in nearby New Jersey, the PFC’s would spend a couple of days 

“on leave” in the City before they would embark on troop ships for the European theater 

of war. Whether they arrived at Grand Central, Penn Station, or at one of the two major 

Greyhound bus terminals, a USO Welcome Wagon was there to greet them with donuts 

and coffee. More importantly, was the smiling face of a USO volunteer. If hotel 

reservations were not prearranged, the USO rep would tend to this. Tickets for baseball 

games (less some key players like Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio who were in the 

service) or Broadway plays, tours, church and synagogue locations and service times, 

eateries – all arranged by the USO “concierge”. USO canteens were a haven for so many 

of our troops where they could relax with fellow servicemen and women, have a smoke 

and a beer, sing, dance, and be entertained by entertainment’s brightest lights. Tomorrow 

they will ship out. 

In 1987, while a social studies teacher at Mater Dei High School, New Monmouth, N. J., 

my history class honored the local veterans of World War II by staging a USO Show. The 

students did a great job depicting the work of the USO, as well as portraying entertainers 

such as the Andrew Sisters, Bob Hope, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I invited Celeste 

Holm, a New Jersey resident, to the show. The original “Ado Annie” of Oklahoma when 

it opened in 1943, Miss Holm phoned me that she would be unable to attend and wished 

the Mater Dei High School class production every success. A moment that I will never 

forget was the scene of the last night at the USO canteen in New York City. My cast, 

dressed as servicemen and women, were having their last dance. The old 78 record was 

playing “Now is the Hour” as sung by Gracie Fields. The student emcee invited the vets 

and their wives to join the cast as they danced on the floor level. The lyrics: Now is the 

hour when we must say goodbye. Soon you’ll be sailing far across the sea… brought tears 

to the eyes of several of the vets who were in their ‘60’s at the time. Their wives hugged 

them, for some of them were war brides. Then “generation x” cut in and danced 

with the older folks. It was interactive theatre at its best. That moment, when my students 

recaptured history, has left an indelible impression on my mind. 

The USO would follow the boys into both theaters of war. The greatest names in 

Broadway and Hollywood volunteered their time and talent helping the boost the morale 

of our troops abroad. The tradition continued in the Korean and Vietnam wars with “Mr. 

USO” himself, Bob Hope, leading the way.

“NEW YORK’S PICTURE NEWSPAPER” 

During the war, a New Yorker could choose from among seven or so daily newspapers. 

There were morning editions, afternoon editions, Wall Street editions, night editions 

(which were first editions of the next morning’s newspaper). “Extra” editions were 

published if the situation warranted. Many times during the war, extra editions were 

published. Yes, just like in the movies, the paperboy yelled “Extra, Extra, Read all about 

it. “Allies launch invasion of Europe”. The poor paperboy was besieged on all sides from 

the news-hungry public. But he remained true to Horatio Alger Jr. form, as he maintained 

decorum and an impish grin. As the tabloids cost only two cents at the time, many 

generous souls gave the kid a nickel and said, “Keep the change”. How generous! 

Like a great majority of New Yorkers, Delia read the New York Daily News. Billing 

itself for many years as New York’s Picture Newspaper, it contained a centerfold with 

images from the warfront. Some photos depicted the death and desolation of war. These 

were tough to take at times, but we saw worse in the local crime scenes as caught on film 

by Weegee and other police-beat photographers. The Daily News photo of the Allied 

bombing of the ancient monastery of Monte Casino, still is as fresh in my memory as the 

1944 day it first appeared in that newspaper. I grew up on the Daily News and its photos 

gave this eleven-year-old, lessons in history that no textbook could give. They were 

worth all of a thousand words. 

During the Christmas holidays, I looked forward to the Sunday “Coloroto” section of the 

Sunday News that, on the Sunday before Christmas, featured a colored centerfold of 

Clement Moore’s “ a visit from St. Nick” and the Sunday before New Year’s, featured a 

bright yellow calendar of the new year ahead. Then, too, were the ads featuring toys that I 

knew that I liked but Mom couldn’t afford. 

Political cartoons, too, were part of my newspaper education. I didn’t limit myself to C. 

D. Batchelor of the Daily News but admired the competitive, creative talents of Bill 

Mauldin and Herb Block as well. Later, as a high school social studies teacher, I would 

sponsor political cartoon contests in my classes. I was amazed at the creativity and 

originality of some of my students. Will the real Thomas Nast please stand up!

THE “FUNNIES” AND THE COMICS 

Fiorello La Guardia, was elected Mayor of New York City in 1933 as a fusion candidate. 

For many young children of the war area, like myself, the reading of the Sunday 

“funnies” over WNYC, the city’s municipal radio station, by the “Little Flower” had 

become a weekly Sunday morning ritual – next to Mass, of course. Many of us originally 

were introduced to the “funnies” by this reform minded mayor. New York City’s 

municipal airport was named in honor of his honor (La Guardia, himself, was an aviator). 

During the war years, many of the characters in both the “funnies” and the comics were 

fighters of the “evil empire”. Superheroes abounded – Captain America, Captain Marvel, 

Submariner, and, yes, even Wonder Woman – all fighting for the principles of the 

American way. 

PCQ2: What dominant color was used by superheroes “Hornet,” “Lantern” and 

“Arrow?” 

MEETING FLASH GORDON 

One of the super hero’s that I had the pleasure of meeting was Flash Gordon. At the age 

of ten, I took the number 9 bus to Macy’s on 34 th Street. Billing itself as the “largest 

department store in the world”, this site served as the headquarters of Flash Gordon (at 

least on a temporary and promotional basis). Happy was I when I took the escalator to the 

fifth floor toy department to meet Flash Gordon (It was the same fifth floor venue that 

Aunt Betty had taken me a few years earlier to meet Santa Claus). The thrill of meeting a 

super hero in the flesh was awesome. As a memento of the visit, each visitor was given a 

very special Flash Gordon world battle front map. In the lower portion of the handout 

were the images of Flash and Gail holding an opened copy of the map. Boys and girls – 

these are the maps we use in planning our commando raids, captioned Flash. Gail 

continued: and if you use them to follow the path of America’s march to victory you will 

find your geography lessons will be a lot easier for you next week. Wow!

THERE’S GLAD NEWS TONIGHT LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 

The impact of the radio during the war cannot be underestimated. H. V. Kaltenborn, 

Lowell Thomas, Edward R. Murrow and Robert Trout led the list of baritone- voiced 

commentators. Gabriel Heatter, whose program was aired by WOR each weekday 

evening at 9PM, was my favorite. They brought the war to you in cool, calm and 

collected fashion. Each commentator had his own distinct style so that you were inclined 

to pick one over the other. The broadcasts were usually aired in the evening when 

everyone was at home. This was most certainly true in my case as mom worked all day. 

As the tide of the war began to turn in our favor, you could notice the upbeat inflection in 

the diction of the commentators. Early in the war Gabriel Heater opened his program by 

so often saying: Oh yes, ladies and gentlemen, there’s sad news tonight. Later “sad” 

would be replaced by “glad”. 

FDR, more than any president in United States history, used the radio to his maximum 

advantage. His “Fireside Chats” brought the nation together as one family. Whenever a 

“Chat” was to be aired, millions of people across America gathered around the radio, 

pricked up their ears, and listened, with undivided attention, to the words of our 

president. Like his war ally, Winston Churchill, FDR’s gift of elocution was a rare one, 

indeed. Both were born leaders and used the medium of radio to reinforce their 

leadership. 

The radio was used as a war propaganda tool by our enemies. In impeccable English, 

“Axis Sally” and “Tokyo Rose” bombarded our troops with sweet talk about life back 

home, while urging them to give up their futile fight against the Axis. I always wondered 

whether we had an “Allied Alice” or a “Liberty Belle” beaming their message across 

enemy lines. 

THE GREAT DARK WAY 

Living only two blocks from Broadway, I was within walking distance of the theatre 

district. Usually, on Monday night’s, the district theatres are “dark”. This is a well - 

deserved night off for the theatre company. War or no war, the show must go on. And so 

it did. However, the exterior theatre lights, including the marquis’, were darkened for the 

entire length of the war. Many a times, in the latter war years, I walked the great Dark 

Way. Hey, I was eleven or twelve at the time, and was a pretty streetwise kid, at that. 

The Astor Hotel, the grand dame of Times Square hotels, stood majestically between 43 rd 

and 44 th streets. This beaux-arts building was meant to be admired, and not entered, at 

least from the viewpoint of a shabbily dressed kid who was being observed by a stern 

looking doorman. Anyway, I would not have wanted to be pinched in the Astor bar.

However, and without apprehension, I loved watching the huge billboard with G. I. Joe 

(Camel) blowing smoke rings onto Broadway. Periodically, the billboard’s image was 

changed to reflect each of the various branches of service. Advertising had to be an equal 

opportunity employer. I enjoyed reading the latest war news flashing across the zipper of 

the “New York Times” building on 43 rd and Broadway. People-watching has been a 

favorite pastime of mine, especially at the “crossroads of the world”. 

Answering his country’s call once more, Irving Berlin, wrote the sparkling, star spangled 

musical, This is the Army. Berlin reprised “Oh How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning” for 

his new show. It opened at the Broadway Theatre in June of ’43 and the proceeds of the 

long running hit went directly to the Army Emergency Relief Fund. 

Some of Broadway’s greatest musicals were produced during the war years including 

Oklahoma and Carousel. They were harbingers of the “Golden Age” of musicals yet to 

come. And for $4.40 an orchestra seat, prices weren’t bad. 

PCQ3: Who played the original role of “Ado Annie” in Oklahoma? 

And yes, there was an actual “Stage Door Canteen.” Thanks to the efforts and generosity 

of the Shubert family, the canteen opened its doors to our servicemen and women in 

March 1942. Under the 44 th Street Theatre, the canteen offered food, drink, dancing, and 

entertainment from Broadway’s best – all free of charge. By the end of the war, a total of 

nine canteens operated in our country’s major cities and always threw out the welcome 

mat for, several millions of our service men and women. 

SING OUT AMERICA AND THE BIG BAND ERA 

No sooner had the war started than songs of American patriotism rolled from the presses 

into the recording artists’ studios and onto the airwaves. The first song that I remember 

was entitled appropriately, “Let’s Remember Pearl Harbor.” Let’s remember Pearl 

Harbor as we go to meet the foe. Let’s remember Pearl Harbor as we did the Alamo were 

the opening lines (not a bad memory, eh?). Others soon followed. “There’s a Star 

Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere”, “A Wing and a Prayer”, “Praise the Lord and 

Pass the Ammunition”, “The Bugle Boy of Company B”, “Bell Bottom Trousers” and 

other war songs were coming out faster than bullets produced in a munitions factory. 

Sentimental favorites included “The White Cliffs of Dover” and “Now is the Hour”. 

Gracie Fields, Vera Lynn, Jerry Colona and the Andrews sisters, were now household 

names. 

~

The pre-War years saw the advent of the Big Band Era and the bands would become a 

staple of the War years – the Dorsey brothers, Benny Goodman and Paul Whitman. Fred 

Waring has his New York apartment at 230 Central Park South, where my neighbor, Bill 

Bergen, was the doorman. His Pennsylvanians did not share the apartment with him. And 

then there was Glenn Miller with his very unique ensemble of saxophone and clarinet 

sounds, who rallied the American people with his “Tuxedo Junction,” “ American 

Patrol,” “ In the Mood,” and so many more classics. Like so many entertainers, Glenn 

Miller joined the Armed Forces to do his bit for the War effort. US Army Air Force 

Captain, Glenn Miller’s plane went down on a flight over Europe later in the War and 

was not found. 

PCQ4: What was the name of a Glenn Miller song, named after the telephone number 

of a famous hotel ? 

One could tune in his radio and listen to the “Kay Kyser Kollege of Musical Knowledge” 

and get some music lessons from the old professor of swing. 

Music, whether it be “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” or “A-Train,” was to be 

found everywhere. Music lifted the espirit de corps of millions of Americans during the 

War years. 

THE “P” WORD 

When I was a lad of ten or eleven, I heard the “p” word mentioned for the first time. 

Propaganda, I now realize, was a necessary ingredient to win the war. Today, the use of 

propaganda is quite common whether it be in the issuance of a papal bull or the use of a 

political spin. But, back then, young Tommy equated one-sided information with lying. 

Why? I’ll never know. 

Billboards, magazine ads, movie shorts, comic book superheroes, radio serials, cereal 

boxes - all were catalysts for propaganda. 

My knowledge of both the Allies and Axis war machines primarily came from small 

cards placed in cereal boxes or cutouts from the same. “Spitfires”, “Mustangs”, “Flying 

Tigers”, “Black Widows”, “Flying Fortresses” were all part of my airplane lexicon and 

my ever-growing card collection. 

Seeing a real P-38 fighter on display in the open space of Columbus Circle was a real 

thrill. I wanted to jump into the cockpit and take to the air to pursue the aviators of the 

axis powers. Come and get it, you Fokkers. 

Movie propaganda pieces, usually lasting about five minutes or less, were produced by 

Hollywood and sponsored by the War Department. They intrigued me the most. Filled 

with sinister overtones and music to match, one could not help feel a little paranoid. Was 

the “German woman” who lived in my building really a spy for the Third Reich?

THE “GERMAN WOMAN” 

Louise Kurz, a German lady, lived in Apartment 2B of my 363 apartment building on 

West 57 th Street. She was a pre-war tenant who lived alone. By virtue of her national 

origin, there was an undertone of anti-German sentiment toward her. Nothing overt but 

rather cautious, softly whispered comments as one neighbor talked to another in the 

foyer. Not condemning but suspicious, neighbors might have said “I wonder if the 

‘German woman’ is really who she claims to be. I hear that she has a book on her 

bookshelf with a swastika on its cover. Hmm!” Yes, Frau Kurz had a book with a 

swastika on its cover in her home. Guilty by suspicion! I’m sure that her life was one of 

apprehension especially during the early war years. Perhaps she thought: 

Will German-Americans, like myself, be rounded up and put into internment camps? The 

government did it with the Japanese-born, as well as the first generation Japanese- 

Americans living on the west coast. Maybe a similar fate awaits the Germans and 

German-Americans here on the east coast? 

I got to know Miss Kurz over the war years and was invited into her home many times. 

Never, but never, did she try to influence this youngster’s thinking. I met her friends, 

oftentimes entertaining them, and me, as she played her beautiful upright piano. I had 

never seen a more beautifully crafted upright. Her love of music, reading, and the finer 

things of life were apparent. 

Such was the case in 1944 when Miss Kurz bought a new Steinway console piano. She 

asked my mother would she be interested in accepting the old upright as a gift to Tommy. 

Needless to say, mom said “yes” and on the day of the Steinway’s arrival in Apt. 2B, the 

piano movers lugged the upright up one flight of stairs to Apt. 3D. Wow! The piano 

looked so good in my bedroom. Shortly thereafter, I began my musical life. As I lived 

only two blocks from Carnegie Hall, the neighborhood abounded with world-class piano 

instructors. After making preliminary inquiries, mom found that she could not afford a 

world-class piano instructor for Tommy. Instead, I wound up taking lessons once a week 

for four years from Sister Magella at St. Paul’s, my grammar school. I never became a 

pianist, world class or otherwise, but to this very day, this dilettante enjoys tickling the 

keys. For this, I have the “German woman” to thank. 

THE TURNING OF THE TIDE 

We held the line against Japan with the battles of the Coral Sea and Midway in 1942. 

From then on, it was be a matter of island hopping until victory was achieved. Invariably, 

my Marines were “first in, first out”. Iwo Jima and Okinawa, islands taken at a 

tremendous cost in lives on both sides, are names that will live on forever. Who can ever 

forget the raising of the flag on Iwo Jima?

By the spring of 1944, Allied troops were working their way up the boot of Italy and on 

June 4 th , Rome was liberated – and so was MussoliniOn June 6, 1944, “Operation 

Overlord,” commonly known as “D-Day,” was launched. Led by the Allied Command 

under General Dwight D. Eisenhower, it was the largest amphibian assault that the world 

had ever known. In a few short months, “Patton’s Panzers” would be driving through 

Germany and heading for Berlin. The battle of the Bulge was now history. It was only a 

matter of time that the Third Reich would fall – and so too, Adolph Hitler. 

As Allied troops marched into Germany in 1945, they discovered the remnants of man’s 

inhumanity toward man. Hitler’s “final solution” was there for the world to see. It is 

estimated that some six millions “Star of David” Jews were systematically eliminated 

during the Holocaust. Let us never forget that. Let us never forget, too, that six million 

“others” met a similar fate, Czechs, Poles, Slovaks, and many innocent priests and nuns 

who dared to speak out against this genocide. Nearly a hundred thousand “pink triangle” 

homosexuals perished in the Holocaust. I finally fulfilled a promise that I made to myself 

and visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington on August 4, 2003. The free world 

must NEVER allow such a travesty to happen again! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER! 

As a baptized Catholic, I often wondered why the Roman Catholic Church, in general, 

and Pope Pius XII, in particular, did so very little to address this deplorable situation. 

While it is one thing to see the Church not condemning the totalitarian dictatorships of 

Hitler and Mussolini, it is quite another to understand why it stood by silently on the 

question of genocide. The eighteenth century British parliamentarian, Edmund Burke 

once stated, that the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do 

nothing– or almost nothing! 

Let us always be vigilant but let us never become vigilantes. 

~ 

Sensing the impending victory to the Allied Powers, the American electorate put FDR 

back in the White House for yet another term, his fourth. The only thing different was his 

Vice President. Harry S. Truman, a Senator form Missouri, had replaced Henry Wallace. 

Upon the death of FDR on April 12, 1945, Harry Truman too, would have a “rendezvous 

with destiny”. Mom, like millions of Americans, was saddened by FDR’s death. I was 

only eleven and was not impacted by his passing. Life went on and so too did the war. 

Sadly, FDR did not live to see VE Day. On Tuesday, May 8 th , 1945, the banner headline 

of the Daily News proclaimed: “It’s over in Europe.” A day earlier the German high 

command gave its unconditional surrender to the Allied Powers. The morning of the 9 th , 

our new president, Harry Truman, took to the airwaves and announced the good news.

Prior to taking over the reins of the presidency, HST was not privy to some classified war 

information including “Project Manhattan”. When the brass from the newly built 

Pentagon informed the novice president and commander-in-chief of this awesome 

weapon-in-testing, Truman must have been overwhelmed. This former Missouri 

merchant with a minimal formal education now had to make the most important decision 

of his lifetime – to drop or not to drop the bomb? After the detonation of the first atomic 

bomb over the sands of New Mexico on July 16, 1945, and the eerie mushroom cloud 

that followed, mankind had entered the nuclear age. After much soul searching and input 

from his advisors, HST flew to Potsdam and conferred with the Allied leaders. A decision 

was made to issue an ultimatum to Japan – nothing short of “unconditional surrender” 

would be acceptable. Being a proud people, the Japanese refused to accede to the 

demands. Hiroshima, August 6 th ! Nagasaki, August 9 th . Over 200,000 killed. 

Capitulation, August 10 th . Formal announcement of Japanese surrender, August 14th. The 

formal signing of instrument of surrender was aboard U.S.S. Missouri with General 

Douglas Mac Arthur presiding, Sept. 2, 1945. 

VICTORY IS OURS 

The long awaited announcement by President Truman came at 7pm on the evening of 

Tuesday, August 14, 1945. However premature, celebrations were held earlier as word 

leaked out of the impending surrender of Japan. By 6pm, a crowd of nearly a quarter of a 

million people had already gathered at Times Square . 

As millions across America listened to their radio at 7pm on August 14th, President 

Truman addressed the nation proclaiming Japan’s unconditional surrender and the end of 

the hostilities between the Allied Powers and Japan. 

Part of the “deal” was that Emperor Hirohito was to publicly renounce his divinity but 

continue as nominal emperor of the “land of the rising sun”. The real power fell to 

General Douglas Mac Arthur. Mac would sign the formal surrender on behalf of the 

Allied Powers on September 2 nd aboard the “Big Mo”, oversee the rebuilding of this war 

torn country, help forge a solid alliance between our two countries, and do all the other 

things that were expected of a Supreme Allied Commander. Destiny, divinity – hand in 

hand! 

Everyone was “wild about Harry” as he proclaimed a two-day legal holiday on the 

Wednesday and Thursday of that week. The people of New York could now have time to 

recuperate from one the worst hangovers in the city’s history.

THE DAY THE WAR ENDED 

The war is over! The war is over! people shouted loudly in the streets. Taxi and car 

horns honked; church bells peeled; boat horns in both the Hudson and East River’s loudly 

blared; any thing that served as a noisemaker was utilized; yelling, crying – each 

contributing to the wonderful cacophony of sound on that memorable Tuesday evening. 

Shredded newspaper served as confetti and was thrown from windows by the tons. 

Euphoria prevailed! 

Concurrent with the presidential announcement at 7PM, the New York Time’s Building 

zipper flashed the good news across its world-famous zipper. The crowds were jubilant. 

On 42 nd street and on streets all over the nation, there was an outpouring of revelers. 

Similar spontaneous celebrations were held in London, Paris, and other cities of the 

victors. 

Churches swelled with thankful worshipers. The carillon of my parish church, St. Paul 

the Apostle, filled the air with joyous hymns. A Victory Mass was held in St. Patrick’s 

Cathedral at 8PM that evening. Unfortunately, Francis Cardinal Spellman, the archbishop 

of New York as well as Military Vicar, was with the boys somewhere in the Pacific. Our 

country had a lot for which to be thankful. While the casualties of war were high, 

nonetheless, the continental United States remained unscathed during the war years. Not 

one battle; not one skirmish; not one major act of sabotage desecrated our soil. For this, 

we should praise the Lord and give thanks. Catholics are quick to note that the war began 

on December 7 th , the eve of the feast of the Immaculate Conception (December 8 th in 

Japan). This is the title given to Mary, the mother of Jesus, as patroness of the United 

States. Equally interesting was the fact that the war ended on August 14 th , the eve of the 

Assumption of Mary (August 15 th in Japan). 

VJ DAY IN TIME’S SQUARE AND I WAS THERE 

It was still early evening when this eleven year old went downstairs to Apt. 2A and rang 

the bell. Nancy Sweet, who was about my age, lived with her older brother and mother in 

this larger apartment next to Frau Kurz. With a sense of bravado, I asked Nancy if she 

would like to go to Times Square for the festivities. She gladly accepted her escort’s offer 

and away we went, cutting across 57 th Street and making a right onto Broadway. No 

sooner than we headed south on the world’s longest street (thank you, Mr. Ripley), we 

encountered a buildup of crowds. The further south, the denser the crowds. Being of 

diminutive stature, we both were able to navigate our way through the crowds.

Working our way towards Times Square, it was a most unusual sight to witness the 

congeniality of normally cold New Yorkers. Everyone wore a happy smile. Displays of 

affection by girls toward servicemen, many of whom they didn’t know, was at an all time 

high that evening. (I think of that the famous Life photo of the sailor kissing the girl was 

shot earlier that day.) Yes, Nancy and I made it all the way to Times Square and safely 

back home again. I don’t think that either of us realized that we, and nearly two million 

other people, were part of such an historic celebration. Historic celebrations would 

become part of my life in later years. As for Nancy, she and her family moved to 

California. 

It was so good to see the “lights go on again all over the world,” especially on the Great 

White Way. The next step in our country’s saga was about to begin.

Chapter 3 – GROWING UP IN THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE 

LOCATION! LOCATION! LOCATION! 

Location! Location! Location! Located on West 57 th Street at the northeast corner of 

Ninth Avenue, my 363 home, be it ever so humble, was in the heart of Manhattan, within 

the confines of “Hell’s Kitchen.” – an area that stretches from 23 rd Street, north to 59 th 

Street and from 8 th Avenue west to the Hudson River. 363 West 57 th Street was, and is 

today, in an ideal location and within walking distance of just about everything 

Manhattan has to offer. New York is a city that never sleeps; never skips a beat. New 

Yorker’s pulsate to that never ending beat. Feel it? Midtown Manhattan, the heart of the 

greatest city in the world! Pulsating! Pulsating! Pulsating! 

I can’t help but think of Steinberg’s cartoon on the cover of The New Yorker in which he 

places Manhattan as the focal point from which the rest of the United States and the 

world is somewhere out there. I would like to take that one step further and put mid-town 

Manhattan as the focal point with uptown, downtown, and the outer boroughs being 

somewhere out there too. People from the outer boroughs of Brooklyn, the Bronx, and 

Queens, when traveling into Manhattan, say that they are “going into the City.” Staten 

Island is an entity unto itself and seems more geographically aligned with New Jersey. 

Two blocks east of 363 was Carnegie Hall. Ever since the end of the nineteenth century it 

has been a shrine for classical musicians. Today it has a wider appeal. It’s sad to say that 

many New Yorker’s take their landmarks for granted, myself included. During my 

twenty-two year residency on West 57 th Street, I passed this music hall Mecca so many 

times. Alas, I dared not venture through its hallowed doors to attend a concert in the 

acoustically perfect venue. The first Carnegie Hall concert that I attended was in my adult 

years, and as a resident of New Jersey. The same may be said of my first visit to the 

Statue of Liberty. Shame on me!!! Shame on today’s New Yorker’s who take the 

wonders of their city for granted! On a redemptive note, may I point out that I was always 

helpful to visitors when they asked me the perennial question, “How do I get to Carnegie 

Hall?” In all instances, I was happy to point them in the right direction. And, no, I didn’t 

give a wiseguy response, Practice! Practice! Practice!

CACAPHONY CITY 

Noises on! 

363 is located at the junction of 57 th Street and 9 th Avenue. My bedroom window faced a 

busy, noisy, two-way thoroughfare - 9 th Avenue. And was it ever noisy, especially in the 

pre-air conditioning days of summer, when, of necessity, my large bedroom window had 

to be left open. Unlike today, exterior noise can be diminished considerably with closed 

windows and an “ultra quiet” air conditioner. So prick up your ears and listen to the 

sounds of the city. 

One of the noisiest sounds came from the 9 th Avenue el, which ran right under my 

window. Clank! Chug! Rattle! Thankfully, it went the way of the 6 th and 3 rd Avenue els. 

Residing less that a block from Roosevelt Hospital, the siren of one of the two 

ambulances pierced the air as it rushed a severely ill patient into the emergency pavilion. 

Sometimes a police/radio car accompanied the ambulance, which added to ear 

discomfort. The multiple-noised fire engines had enough power to wake the dead. The 

overuse of horns by taxicab drivers, combined with their yelling of profanities to other 

drivers, contributed to the melange of sounds. The dissonance of decibels prevailed. 

Perhaps, the most annoying sound was the periodic delivery of coal. The manhole that 

lifted out over the basement’s coal bin was located directly underneath my window. The 

truck backed up, tilted its chassis upward, and emptied its load onto a chute that was 

connected to the open manhole. At least five minutes of low pitched, grinding sounds 

awaited me with the arrival of the coal truck. I usually stayed away from the cellar after 

my initial experience of descending the long flight of stairs that led from the first floor 

down to the basement. Upon looking across the long expanse of the dimly lit basement, I 

saw what I thought was an ogre at the far end – a fire-eyed monster waiting to devour me. 

“Shiny-eyes” was down there in his inferno. Later, I discovered it was the furnace door, 

with openings in its cast iron façade that gave a naïve kid like myself the illusion that it 

was a monster from the bowels of the cellar. Dr. No lives! 

During the war, the shrill sound of the air raid sirens pierced the air, a sensation that 

remains with me today. 

Late fall, winter, and early spring was a little bit better in terms of noise containment. The 

clanking noise in my radiator in late October announced the arrival of our first taste – and 

smell, of steam heat. Did it feel good! The winds of winter could be cruel, piercing right 

through my bedroom’s two large windowpanes. The high winds rattled the bedroom 

window with such ferocity that I often wondered why the panes didn’t fall out.

With a bar located in our building, it was natural for some over-indulgent patron to make 

the vestibule his home away from home, especially during the cold winter months. Loud 

snores, talking or yelling to one’s self, were common problems. An occasional fight 

would spill out from the bar to the street. Expletives emanating from the mouths of the 

combatants could be heard from my open third floor window. 

Speaking of ossification, it seemed that our neighbors in Apartment 2B spent more time 

in the corner bar than in their own apartment. When they came home, day or night, a fight 

was sure to ensue. The slamming of their door, the throwing of objects at each other 

within their apartment, the screaming of profanities and expletives that would make even 

a seasoned sailor blush, all were elements of excitement within our hallowed apartment 

building. 

Yet, there were more pleasant sounds. The St. Paul the Apostle Fife and Drum Corps 

called the “Paulettes,” occasionally would parade southward on 9 th Avenue beneath my 

window. It was great having a box seat in the comfort of my bedroom, while listening to 

the strains of the marching band below. The “tintinnabulation of the bells” (carillon) of 

the Church of St. Paul the Apostle, less than two blocks distance, was ethereal music to 

my ears. 

Does one acclimate one’s self to the cacophony of New York City? The answer is “yes!” 

I’m sure that my neighbors tolerated young Tommy practicing on his upright piano. At 

least, mom didn’t receive any complaints from the neighbors. 

I wonder that if I moved back to New York today, would this septuagenarian be as noise 

tolerant? Last year I complained to the management in my garden apartment development 

here in Red Bank that my younger neighbors were playing their stereo too loudly and that 

the bass level should be lowered. Boom, boom! Boom, boom! I complained! They 

complied! 

Noises off!!! 

THE “LATCH KEY” KID 

In today’s terms, I would have been called a “latch key” kid. And you might as well 

throw in the fact that I lived in a dysfunctional (one-parent) family setting. Mom was 

working in the Hampshire House, doing her job as a chambermaid. Her job must have 

been very tiring, walking from room to room and from floor to floor. With more than 

twenty rooms a day, it was no wonder that mom’s feet suffered the worse for wear, 

developing corns and bunions with the passing of years. Mom could not afford a 

podiatrist, so Dr. Scholl’s and his over-the-counter remedies had to suffice. A safety razor 

was the surgical instrument of Mom’s choice to remove the dead skin; the Daily News 

served as a waste depository.

Sometimes my Aunt Betty was there when I came home from school; other times, she 

was not. In any case, I survived, and mom was usually arrived home by 5 o’clock. I loved 

hearing her footsteps as she ascended the three flights of stairs. Sometimes she was 

lugging a bag of groceries under her arms. The stairs were challenging, even for the most 

able of men – or women! Then, Delia had to prepare dinner for two, and, occasionally 

Aunt Betty joined us. Sometimes, mom would ring the mailbox bell in the vestibule and 

I would go running downstairs to help her carry the provisions. Mom was a firm believer 

of “you are what you eat.” As poor as we were, we ate relatively well. Let’s not forget 

that the Irish subsisted on potatoes for years. No wise cracks about “six-packs,” please! 

Wheatena, Hot Ralston, Cream of Farina, oatmeal, and other hot, nutritious cereals were 

served by mom during the winter months. She had a thing about whole grain wheat. 

Dugan’s was the baker of mom’s choice. The Irish believe in basics when it comes to 

eating – sometimes meat, always potatoes. On occasion, she would treat us to pig’s head 

and cabbage, or parts of the porcine anatomy. How gross! The older she grew, the better 

the cook she became. Her pot roast, made in a cast-iron Dutch oven with simmering 

vegetables, was a gourmet’s delight. I can taste it now. 

I was a healthy kid, which reaffirms “you are what you eat.” We didn’t have vitamin 

supplements back then; however, mom was generous with her dosage of mineral and cod 

liver oil. Occasionally castor oil, like a lethal injection, was administered. Ugh! I 

suffered from the usual childhood diseases of the 1940's, mumps and ringworm. My bout 

with ringworm caused me to miss quite a bit of school and was subsequently “left 

behind” one grade in 1942. Those were the pre-Prozac, pre-Ritalin days, the days when a 

mom was doctor, psychiatrist, and all other things to her child. 

Besides getting hit by a car in 1943 and spending three days in the hospital, I had only 

one mishap, or should I stay misstep. For whatever reason, I fell down the flight of stairs 

from the first floor to the street level. I was unhurt and rebounded back upstairs singing, 

Jack fell down and broke his crown… 

Young Tommy was clothed appropriately for all seasons. It was a mackinaw and knickers 

with long woolen stockings in the winter, and shorts and polo shirts in the summer. I 

must have really looked preppy, dressed in the former attire. 

Tommy’s mom made sure that her son was not wanting for his basic needs, sometimes at 

a sacrifice to herself. Growing up during the Depression and the World War II era in a 

one parent, limited-income household, made me realize the importance of the work ethic 

at an early age and how one can survive with dignity, even in the worst of times. We 

were family, dysfunctional or not, and we made it.

A CINEPHILE IS BORN 

From day one, I have been an avid movie fan. I really don’t remember the first movie I 

ever watched but chances are it was one of two early Disney classics, Snow White and the 

Seven Dwarfs or Pinocchio. I remember vividly Snow White planting a kiss on Bashful’s 

forehead and the septet singing: Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go… I remember 

Pinocchio’s nose growing with each fib that he told. 

Movies attracted me and I saw most of them at one time or another. Judy Garland became 

an instant favorite of mine after I had seen her in Meet Me in St. Louis. The Trolley Song 

still clangs in my mind. I watched The Wizard of Oz after its original release, and ever 

since then, I have been a loyal friend of Dorothy. 

Who could beat Tarzan for adventure? Indiana Jones, maybe. I still remember Jane 

(Maureen O’Sullivan) singing the Eli’s Boola Boola in Tarzan’s Great Adventure and 

Tarzan (Johnny Weissmuller) diving off the Brooklyn Bridge in Tarzan’s New York 

Adventure. Johnny Weissmuller was to Tarzan what Sean Connery would become to 

James Bond. I always wondered what the word ungawa meant? 

The “road” shows with Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Dorothy Lamour brought many 

laughs to youngsters like myself. The Road to Morocco was my favorite road show. Do 

you remember Bob saying “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle” and, presto, he changed into 

a chimp. 

I was first introduced to Rosiland Russell in My Sister Eileen, and still remember scenes 

from the 1942 picture, like the Village basement apartment in which the two sisters 

resided. She would become a personal favorite over the years. My favorite Cary Grant 

film was Arsenic and Old Lace, although I liked him in many of his postwar films. 

The strains of Stormy Weather as sung by Lena Horne in the 1943 picture of the same 

name remain with me today. Its cast included some of the all-time black music greats like 

Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, the Cab Calloway Band, Fats Waller, and Dooley Wilson. 

PCQ5: What movie classic of 1942 gained fame for Dooley Wilson?

The horror genre frightened young Tommy and that’s what the films were supposed to 

do. I remember seeing The Mummy’s Tomb at the Loews Lincoln Square and had trouble 

sleeping that night. I did muster up enough courage to see the “big three” of horror 

classics when they were re-released in the early 1940’s. How can you beat Frankenstein 

with Boris Karloff, Dracula with Bela Lugosi, or The Wolfman with Lon Chaney Jr.? 

At the time, I was not familiar with stop motion cinematography and wondered how 

Larry Talbot morphed into the Wolfman. 

Roy Rogers and Trigger, Dale Evans, Gabby Hayes, and the Sons of the Pioneers made 

for a great western combo. And those teary-eyed cowboy songs, I loved them. William 

“Hopalong Cassiday” Boyd was in many of my favorite oaters. 

Comedy teams, slapstick and all, tickled my funnybone back then (not so today). My 

favorites were the Three Stooges, the Bowery Boys, Abbott and Costello, Laurel and 

Hardy, and the almost forgotten, absolutely zany comic team of Ole Olsen and Chic 

Johnson. Remember Hellzapoppin and Crazy House? 

SATURDAY MATINEE AT THE TOWN THEATRE 

Basically, I had four cinema choices: the RKO Colonial on Broadway and 62 nd Street and 

the Loews Lincoln Square on Broadway and 66 th Street. Both were run by major studios 

and were perfect examples of vertical consolidation. Both had some of the major releases. 

The other two choices were the Tivoli Theatre on 8 th avenue and 50 th Street (a male porno 

house in the 1970’s) and the Town Theatre on 9 th Avenue between 55 th and 56 th Streets. 

Both were independently run and the price of admission was less than the studio-run 

theatres. My favorite was the Town and for twelve cents, that’s right twelve cents, you 

gained admission to the Saturday matinee. The low price included two feature films, 

cartoons, a newsreel, sometimes a five minute War Dept. promo, a sing-a-long in which 

we followed the bouncing ball above the lyrics, coming attractions trailer, AND, a 

cliffhanger serial. Nearly five hours of entertainment and fun! Not bad for twelve cents, 

eh? 

For a nickel, I fortified myself with a box of candy, usually “Dots” or “Spearmint 

Leaves.” Have you checked out the price of a bar or box of candy at your local movie 

house lately? Today, a jar of Spearmint Leaves sits on my living room end table. Yum! 

Yum! At times, pieces of the candy served as missiles that were thrown across the aisle to 

some unsuspecting peer. Once finished, the empty box served as a weapon. A matron, 

flashlight in hand, patrolled the aisles to help preserve a semblance of order in the wild, 

wild aisles of the Town Theatre. The cleanup crew must have had to work overtime after 

the Saturday matinee.

The Town Theatre and the Tivoli Theatre were the best one’s for serials. A typical serial 

was divided into 15 chapters and played at the respective movie theatre over a period of 

fifteen Saturday’s. Each chapter lasted about 20 minutes or so; and each moved toward 

its finale with a buildup of suspense, crescendo, and climaxed with a cliffhanger. 

Sometimes the cheers from the young audience were deafening. Like so many 

youngsters, I couldn’t wait until the following week to see whether or not my superhero 

had survived the fall into the abyss. High on my list of favorites were Batman and Robin 

and The Phantom. Perhaps my very favorite was Zorro’s Black Whip, a solitary rider on a 

white horse, dressed in black. Like so many serial heroes, masking of the face was a 

must. In this case, our lone vigilante’s lower face was covered with a black bandana. 

Instead of winning the west with a gun, this superhero used a black whip. In this case, 

his, oops, rather her character, was female and was played by Linda Sterling. For a 

change, it was good seeing a woman whipping the pants off the bad guys. 

DRINKING PEPSI ON A HOT SUMMER’S DAY 

Pepsi cola hits the spot 

twelve full ounces, that’s a lot, 

twice as much for a nickel too 

Pepsi cola is the drink for you. 

And so went the Pepsi-Cola jingle of the 1940’s. One of the most refreshing experiences I 

had on a hot summer’s day was going to the candy store in my building and drinking an 

ice cold Pepsi-cola. It was literally taken by hand from a red rectangular cooler that was 

filled with ice and cold water, and usually bore the logo of the other cola drink. You had 

other choices too, including cream, root beer, lemon-lime, and the other cola. Once I paid 

my nickel, I opened the soda with a bottle opener that was built into the red icebox. I 

then retired to the newsstand in front of the store where I pushed the papers aside, sat 

atop the wooden structure, relaxed and enjoyed my soda. Periodically, I emptied the soda 

cap depository and used the bottle caps for a game of “skelzies.” “Kick the Can” had to 

wait until the post-War years as metal was a precious wartime commodity. 

The proprietor of the candy store was Mr. Briscoe, an aging gent and the father of the 

three sisters – Helen, Florence and Alice. Helen was married to Artie Costello, while Flo 

and Alice were maidens. Janie, the daughter of Helen and Art, was about my age and I 

got to know her casually. She didn’t go to the parochial school that I attended, but rather 

went to P. S. 141 on 58 th Street. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t get to know her that well. 

The candy store itself was very small and cramped. It was rumored that it fronted as a 

bookie joint. There were periodic police raids. However, they did sell candy – Hooten 

bars and all.

IT’S OFF TO SCHOOL I GO 

It was the first step in the ladder of my formal education. Entering through the portals of 

St. Paul the Apostle Grammar (Elementary) School for the first time in September 1940 

must have been a soul-quieting experience for me. Like most six-year olds, I’m sure that 

I was somewhat apprehensive about the initial experience. 

Staffed by the Sisters of the Holy Cross and a couple of maiden lay teachers, the school 

was located at 124 West 60 th Street. The building housed grades K – 8 and a yard in the 

rear of the building, facing 59 th St., was used for the younger tykes where they played 

after lunch. The lunchroom was a cavernous auditorium below the Paulist mother church; 

the lunch, not bad at all – soup, sandwich, a small container of milk, and a piece of fresh 

fruit. After lunch, the older children were allowed to recreate on 60 th Street, which was 

closed to traffic and used as a play street during lunchtime. In inclement weather, we 

stayed in the auditorium and could access the school from a labyrinth of passages that 

were under this huge structure. 

OH THOSE NUNS – OR ARE THEY SISTERS? 

Sister Germanus was my first grade teacher. She told my mother that Tommy had great 

potential. Maybe she told all mothers that. I don’t remember the names of my teachers in 

the second and third grades, so Sr. Germanus must have been a standout. Sister James 

Bernard was my fourth grade teacher, and a very kindly nun, at that. The fifth grade saw 

me under the tutelage of a stricter nun, Sister Helen Deneyse. Sr. H. D. was also the co- 

moderator of the Altar Boys and would invite me to join the ranks of the “elect”. Sister 

Benjamin, a Virginia lady, was the school principal, and Father Joe Carvil, CSP, a 

brusque man from Newport News, VA, was the school director. 

Some readers of this work may have been taught by nuns and I’m sure can identify with 

nun sense. Some readers may have been the recipients of a hair pulling or face slapping, 

by a ruler-wielding, clicker-cracking, starch-collared, sadistic nun. My sympathy! The 

Holy Cross nuns of St. Paul’s were strict, but in a benevolent way. I was never the 

recipient of corporal punishment. The mere presence of the nuns commanded respect. 

And, yes, fear on occasions. 

We all read about Dick and Jane in the first grade and, of course, their dog, Spot. We all 

learned our ABC’s and how to do basic math (arithmetic). And we learned the Ten 

Commandments too. In the fifth grade we were introduced to the multiplication tables by 

way of flash cards, and response time counted, just like on “Jeopardy”.

Lay teachers supplemented the religious staff and while not taking vows, their dedication 

and commitment to education was on a par with the nuns. Without exception, lay teachers 

were women – women without habits and veils, and usually without husbands, as well. 

Miss Clancy must have been at St. Paul’s since its founding, or at least so it seemed from 

the eyes of a seven or eight year old. Miss Lester was our dancing instructor where she 

taught us our steps on the mini-stage of the school auditorium. Each May, the students of 

Miss Lester put on a dance exhibition in the Palm Gardens on 52 nd Street, next to the Post 

Office. I must have forgotten everything Miss Lester taught me for I cannot dance a step 

today. Perhaps I should have gone to see my Uncle Arthur, Arthur Murray, that is. Only 

kidding! 

Penmanship, the art of writing, was an important part of elementary education. Those 

were the pre-ball point pen days. So armed with a bottle of blue-black ink and a 

Waterman’s fountain pen, the good sister taught us the Palmer method. Practice those 

strokes: up and down, up and down, up and down. Practice those loops (circles): round 

and round, round and round, round and round. Oops, I just knocked over the bottle of ink. 

We in St Paul’s had our own, resident “singing nun”. Sister Magella was a competent 

musician who taught me everything I ever wanted to know about playing the piano – the 

scales, the chromatics (sounds like a doo-wop group), and all the other basics of the 

keyboard. Each lesson lasted a half and hour and her fee was minimal. 

Sister was in charge of the music room located in a smaller building interconnecting the 

school. Here she met with the various grades, usually on a weekly basis. We used our 

hard covered songbooks to learn: Down on a log sat Skippy the frog and other juvenile 

songs, as well as singing the anthems of the various branches of the service. That espirit 

d’ corps during the war was so very important to maintain. At one session, a group of 

rambunctious fifth graders rendered their own parody of a song from Snow White and the 

Seven Dwarfs: 

Whistle while you work, 

Hitler is a jerk, 

Mussolini is a meany, 

But the Japs are worse. 

Another favorite activity was musical chairs. We marched around the music room as 

Sister Magellan played an upbeat song on the piano including a St. Paul’s School parody 

of the Notre Dame Victory Song. Then, she would stop playing – a rush to the chairs. By 

the time I reached the eighth grade, we were marching around the room singing 

Romberg’s operetta piece, Give me some men who are stouthearted men… It was great 

fun and sure beat Skippy the Frog.

Once a month we had hymn practice in the Church. Back then, St. Paul’s seated nearly 

2,000 congregants and is the second largest Catholic Church in the city. Sister Magella, 

noted for her vocal prowess, led the hymn-fest singing: Oh Mary, we crown thee with 

blossoms today/ Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May…We were given hymn cards for 

the sing-a-long. Herb Becker, the organist, played the three-manual instrument, as the 

“singing nun” traversed the aisles, singing the proscribed hymns and keeping the beat 

with a hymn card waving in her hand. 

My eight grammar school years under the watchful eye of the Holy Cross Sisters were a 

lot of fun. And, oh, those darn clickers! 

“MA, MA, WHERE’S MY PA?” 

During my grammar school years, the effect of “Delia’s Secret” began to manifest itself. 

Most boys and girls had two parents. I, and perhaps a few others, had only one parent. 

Sometimes, that was embarrassing. I felt that I was somehow different, unlike most of the 

other boys and girls. Now I know how children reared by gay parents must feel today – 

different, and there’s nothing wrong with that. 

So I made the best of the “separation” argument – my father left my mother at an early 

age and hasn’t been heard from since. And I firmly believed that was the case. Needless 

to say, I could not use the word “divorce” as it would have been less than correct and 

could have complicated my good standing in St. Paul’s School. 

FAITH OF OUR FATHERS 

The mission of parochial schools, like yeshivas, is to instill the faith in the minds and 

souls of the attending students. St. Paul the Apostle School had the inherent duty of 

inculcating the doctrine of the Roman Catholic faith into the young minds of the boys and 

girls of the St. Paul’s Parish. Many of my classmates, like myself, were first generation 

Americans whose parents came from Ireland, Italy, Spain, or wherever. To my mom, and 

other parents of foreign heritage, sending their children to a Catholic school was a must – 

no ands, ifs, or buts about it! Evangelization was done in many ways. 

First and foremost, was the catechism class, the cornerstone of every Catholic grammar 

school in the nation. A byproduct of the Synod of Bishops in Baltimore (1884) was the 

publication of the famed Baltimore Catechism. It was the source, the Perian Spring of the 

Catholic faith. The Holy Bible ran a poor second behind it. The Baltimore Catechism was 

published in two editions; one for the lower grades, and a more detailed version for the 

upper grades.

The book was formatted in a question and answer style. For example, questions posed in 

the genesis of the book asked: 

Q. Who made the world? 

A. God made the world. 

Q. Why did God make us? 

A. God made us to know, love, and serve Him in this world and be happy with Him in the 

next. 

By the fifth grade we were able to go on to the more advanced version, which featured 

more “advanced” topics. Virtues: “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sins: “No! No! No!” “Hell No!” 

I couldn’t help but remember the imprimatur-approved answers some sixty years later. 

Drill! Drill! Drill! 

The religious highlight of my early grammar school years was my first Holy 

Communion. I still have a photo of myself in my brand new suit, prayer book in hand, 

standing in front of St. Paul’s School. My buckteeth detracted from my angelic look. 

While a student in the fifth grade, Sister Helen Deneyse must have spotted that angelic 

look. She invited classmate, John Kelly, myself, and a couple of other kids to join the 

Altar Boys. I accepted the call. Instead of drilling in English, I was now drilling in Latin, 

the official language of the ROMAN Catholic Church. Given a Mass server’s card, I was 

rattling off A Deum que latificat… in no time at all. Learning the “Confiteor” in Latin 

was more challenging. After some practice, I was able to mumble through it like a “pro”. 

Then came the practice sessions on one of the Church’s side altar’s. Before too long, I 

donned my cassock and surplice, and was ready to serve my first mass – on one of the 

church’s many side altars. Eventually, I would be serving Mass in the sanctuary, kneeling 

on the steps of the main altar, designed by Stamford White (probably about the same time 

he was swinging with Evelyn Nesbitt in his Village apartment). I would remain an altar 

boy for many years, sometimes serving as many as four masses in one day. John Kelly 

and I vied for “best” altar boy honors and often thought that John was a perfect candidate 

for the priesthood. Actually, I thought that I’d make a pretty good priest, too. 

Hollywood contributed to reinforcing the image of the Catholic Church when it produced 

The Song of Bernadette in 1943. Needless to say, I was elated to learn that our class was 

going on a fieldtrip to the Rivoli Theatre, on Broadway and 50th Street, to see this highly 

acclaimed movie. It was an inspirational story, based on a novel by Franz Werfel. Young 

Jennifer Jones won the “best actress” Oscar for her title role in film.

Each Sunday, the boys and girls of St. Paul’s School attended the 9 o’clock Children’s 

Mass. A large section of this huge church was reserved for the kids, where each sat 

within a subdivided section according to his grade. Naturally, attendance was taken and 

recorded on your report card. Like the adult worshippers, we too, were given envelopes 

in which we put our Sunday offering. Ours was a smaller size envelope with a smaller 

size tithe – real small – to be enclosed. Sr. Magellan presided over the hymn renditions. 

Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) Sunday in October was when one of my favorite 

hymns was rendered – the CYO anthem: 

An army of youth, flying the standards of truth 

we’re fighting for Christ the King, 

heads lifted high, Catholic action our cry 

and the cross our only sword. 

On earth’s battlefield, never a vantage we’ll yield 

as dauntlessly on we swing. 

Comrades true, dare and do, 

‘neath the Queen’s white and blue, 

For our Faith! For our Flag! For Christ the King! 

Nothing like a militant marching song for the Church militant! 

AUNT BETTY TIES THE KNOT 

As the organ played “Here Come the Bride”, Aunt Betty walked down the aisle of St. 

Paul’s Church on a memorable Saturday afternoon in 1944 to exchange vows with 

Michael Moriarty. No longer would Aunt Betty be able to give her heart totally to young 

Tommy, or so it seemed. My new uncle, Michael Moriarty from County Kerry, Ireland, 

had a brogue so thick you could cut it with a knife. Uncle Mike worked as an elevator 

operator at a nut house. Through his generosity, I received my first introduction to the 

taste of nuts – all kinds – pistachio, almonds and whatever. 

The newlyweds found an apartment at 944 Eighth Avenue, between 55 th and 56 th Streets. 

Their new residence was only a short walk to 363 and just around the corner from 

Patsy’s, a recently opened Italian restaurant. That proximity prospect kept me happy, 

knowing that my favorite aunt would not be too far away. 

The wedding party did not include me, for obvious reasons. Aunt “Matriarch Mary” 

Waldron saw to it that. Delia’s “secret” was to be kept at all costs. So, without ceremony, 

I was sent off to a double feature movie at the Loews Lincoln Square. However, I had a 

great time at the movies. I even remember the movies I saw: Action in Arabia, a suspense 

film with George Sanders; and Higher and Higher, a musical in which Frank Sinatra 

debuted. I wish that I could say that I had a great time at the wedding that I didn’t attend. 

Didn’t they go on a guilt trip for “closeting” Delia’s son?

PLAYMATES 

57 th Street is a wide cross-town street with many upscale apartment buildings and very 

few downscale tenements, like 363. I think that this accounts for the fact that I didn’t 

have too many children my age with whom to play. Families, especially first and second 

generations, lived in railroad flats on the one-way streets. However, there was a major 

exception – the Wong family. 

Jeannie, King Chow, and Rosie, were the three children of the Wong family. Their 

parents operated a Chinese hand laundry on the ground level of a four-story brownstone 

abutting the elegant Westmore apartment building at 333 West 57 th Street. Like myself, 

the three Wong kids were first generation Americans. Unlike myself, they were different 

in many ways: they were bilingual, speaking English on the street and a dialect of 

Chinese in their home; they were of a different race and culture; they were non-Catholics; 

and they attended public school. Although Jeannie was closer to my age, I preferred 

playing with King Chow who was a year or so younger than me. King Chow and I had a 

fun-filled time playing cowboys and bad guys, using the doorways of businesses as 

shootout sites and ambush points. 

I got to know the family well and was invited into their home, the backroom of the 

laundry, many times. Many a time, I spent on the swing in their backyard away from the 

noise and clamor of the city. The father was very strict and would not hesitate to use the 

strap on any of his children, and at times would swipe them with his bare knuckles. When 

in the privacy of their home, they spoke a Chinese dialect. I did pick up a word or two – 

probably expletives, from King Chow. Every time I visited them, they were eating rice, 

rice and more rice – with chopsticks, of course. 

Shortly after the war, the Wong’s moved to Texas…and I missed them. They gave me 

my first lesson in tolerance. At an early age, I found out that it was okay to be “different”. 

CHARGING UP SAN JUAN HILL 

The bedrock base that is Manhattan Island is truly a geologic wonder. The island is not 

completely level as some people think, but varies in elevation. Perhaps, Murray Hill and 

Washington Heights are the most noted of these elevations, but San Juan Hill in midtown 

west is more pronounced. Starting in the lower ‘50’s, it ascends its way northward on 10 th 

Avenue until it reaches its crest at 57 th Street.

When we think of San Juan Hill, we conjure up Teddy Roosevelt (and Col. Leonard 

Wood) leading the Rough Rider’s famous charge in Cuba during the Spanish-American 

War. It’s nice to know that we have a hill of the same name in New York City. 

Odds are, there have been many charges both up and down Hells Kitchen’s San Juan Hill 

over the years: bar room brawls spilling out onto the street; cops and robbers; lover’s 

feuds; Prohibition action; the “Westies,” and any other scenario that your imagination 

might fancy. 

My charge up San Juan Hill was of a different kind. Our closest public library was 

located at the base of the hill on 10 th Avenue and 51 st Street. In my earlier grade school 

years, I attended Saturday readings of children’s stories at this site. Before too long, I 

would have my own library-card and would be taking out books – on occasion, that is. I 

definitely was not a bookworm. On warmer days, upon leaving the library, I would make 

haste up the hill, passing Twentieth Century Fox on 55 th Street, and made a bee line for 

the candy store/soda fountain that was located on 10 th Avenue between 56 th and 57 th 

Streets near the top of the hill. There I would have a Mellow Roll (a roll of ice cream that 

fit precisely into a specially configured wafer cone). Other enticing soda fountain treats 

were lemon-lime sodas, and a New York style egg cream that was out of this world. I 

might add that an egg cream contains neither egg nor cream but rather chocolate syrup, 

seltzer, and a dash of milk. 

SIGNS OF THE SEASONS 

New Year’s Day usually was a sleep-late morning. The term “sleep-in” was still in “la-la 

land.” We rang in the New Year the night before by banging our pots and pans out the 

window and hollering “Happy New Year” at the stroke of the bewitching hour. We didn’t 

sleep too late for it was a holy day of obligation - the feast of the Circumcision of the 

Christ Child. I’m sure that I had no idea what “circumcision” meant back then; later, I 

found out that I, like Jesus, was circumcised. So Jesus and I have two “c” things in 

common; we’re both circumcised and we’re both Capricorn’s. Only recently has the 

Church had seen fit to change the name of the January 1 st holy day to one honoring the 

Virgin Mary. Baked Virginia ham with sweet potatoes was the usual fare for dinner. One 

made New Year’s resolutions. By New Year’s Day, the Christmas tree that looked and 

smelled so fresh when mom bought it a week or so earlier, was now dry, shedding its 

needles, and was a possible fire hazard. So out it went. Bonfires were made with 

discarded trees, usually on the side streets, and much to the chagrin of the Fire 

Department. Some families opted to keep their tree up until the feast of the Three Kings 

(Little Christmas) on January 6 th . Oops! I broke my first New Year’s resolution already.

The next big event was the beginning of Lent – Ash Wednesday – a time of penance in 

the Catholic Church. What are you giving up for Lent? was the most commonly asked 

question. “Sweets” was the most common answer. Many older Irish Catholics “took the 

pledge” and swore off alcoholic beverages. The thinking was not what you are going to 

do, but rather, what you are not going to do. So much for the power of positive thinking! 

For the next forty days, penitential purple was the color of the liturgical vestments, and 

even the altar boys switched from wearing red cassocks to purple ones. Cushman’s, one 

store of many in a bakery chain, was located next to Max Ciffer’s grocery store on the 

corner of 58 th Street. The smell of fresh hot cross buns caused many a penitent to 

succumb to the temptation. Sweets, glorious sweets! 

March 17 th , the feast of St. Patrick, always was a very special day in the Murray 

household. Weeks preceding the big day, Ruppert, Schaeffer, Rheingold, and other 

brewers had their usual ad campaigns, for the Irish had a large share of their market. 

When I was old enough, I walked cross-town to Fifth Avenue to watch the “parade of 

parades”. The marching bands of the “fighting ‘69 th ”, as well as the many colleges and 

high schools, made me wish that I were in their place. Later in life, that wish would 

become a reality. And no, we didn’t have corned beef and cabbage for dinner; well, at 

least, not the corned beef. The “real” Irish dish is ham, cabbage and boiled potatoes – all 

cooked in one large pot. Sounds bad but tastes great, greasy great! Just before war’s end, 

mom purchased a second hand, hand cranked, console Victrola turntable. So, after dinner, 

on went Judy Garland’s It’s a Great Day for the Irish, Bing Crosby singing Mc Namara’s 

Band and several other 78rpm Irish records that we bought for this turntable premiere. 

Many times St Patrick’s Day fell during the middle of Lent. On that day the 

rationalization process began for many Irishmen, as well as Irishmen for the day, who 

had “taken the pledge” for this most solemn of seasons. After all, they said, St Patrick is 

the patron on the Archdiocese of New York and why shouldn’t we celebrate in a fitting 

way? 

New York was the center of attention for its annual Easter Parade on Fifth Avenue. Even 

Irving Berlin wrote a song about the girl I’m taking to the Easter Parade. I was dressed 

impeccably for Sunday Mass, and so was mom. The vibes I felt in the church were 

upbeat, for we were celebrating the risen Christ. After Mass, we had our eggs and bacon, 

toast and tea. Mom gave me an Easter basket filled with a chocolate bunny rabbit and 

jellybeans galore, which I devoured within a couple of days. Hey, Lent was over! Roast 

leg of lamb, mint jelly, roasted potatoes, and a veggie was our annual Easter meal. 

Mom’s cooking was getting better and better.

The closing of school in June was an event to remember. Prior to the final exams, we had 

a picnic in the park, the cost of which was underwritten by the Heide (candy) family. It 

was always a lot of fun – food, games, and peer camaraderie. Operation Cleanup: taking 

off your book covers and stripping the book of any papers before returning it to be stored 

in the cupboard for next year’s class; cleaning out your desk, not forgetting to remove the 

ink bottle. Sister gave her farewell address admonishing us to be good boys and girls over 

the summer. We, then, said, Good afternoon, sister and were off to begin our summer 

vacation. 

No more pencils, no more books 

No more teachers dirty looks. 

~ 

During the war years, summer in the city was uneventful. Mom bought me a brand new 

pair of roller skates when I was in the fifth grade, and did I roll up a storm on West 57 th 

Street. As I grew older, my skating skills improved. However, I was not that adept when 

it came to ice-skating. Used roller skates were used to make your own scooter back then. 

All you had to do was to nail skate wheels to both ends of a two by four, and nail that 

piece to a fruit crate and voila – you had yourself a transporter. Then, too, there was “tar 

beach”. Many a summer’s day mom and I spent up on the roof getting a suntan and a bit 

of a breeze while sipping on a glass of Cool Aid. Mom applied olive oil to her skin and 

the net result was the woman of bronze. I took pride in my own, private “beach” and 

spared no efforts to make sure the roof was always clean. 

School bells ringing, children singing, 

It’s back to Robert Hall again. 

When I heard the Robert Hall clothing store jingle on the radio in August, I knew that the 

opening of school couldn’t be too far off. And so it was, that year after year, I returned to 

St. Paul’s School to rekindle friendships with my old classmates, meet new ones and be 

welcomed by my new teacher. Good morning, Sister! 

Fall in New York is really beautiful, especially on a tree-lined street or in Central Park. 

There’s more that meets the eye than the “asphalt jungle.” Soon it would be steam heat 

time. Soon it would be Halloween. Cushman’s would have much of its bakery window 

filled with orange cup cakes and “Spin the Witch” layer cakes. The best pumpkin pies 

that I’ve ever tasted, were baked by Cushman’s (without apologies to Delicious Orchards 

here in Monmouth County).

Costumes for trick and treating were available for a reasonable cost at F. W. Woolworth’s 

on 8 th Avenue between 57 th and 58 th Streets. More often than not, I improvised rather 

than spend the money I didn’t have. Back in those days, when you asked (or harassed) a 

potential patron on the street: Anything for Halloween? He would respond by giving you 

some loose change – real small- denomination loose change. Cheapskate! Sometimes we 

got aggressive and gave a non-compliant, younger “victim” a sock – a shot of a stocking 

filled with flour, then ran away like a common mugger. Tsk! Tsk! 

In less than a month, I would again be dressing up and going “trick or treating” on West 

57 th Street. Only in New York was Thanksgiving a day for such mundane activities. In 

this case, my costume was “dragged”, if you’ll pardon the expression, from mom’s 

closet. With a makeshift wig and a rouged face, I plied the pavement of West 57 th Street. 

Hoping that my patrons-to-be were in a mood to give thanks and give generously, I 

asked, “Anything for Thanksgiving?” Alas, small change again. Cheapskates, all of them! 

One of the two redeeming features of the day was the annual Macy’s Parade and my 

mom’s turkey. Living only two blocks from Columbus Circle and Central Park West, I 

picked out some great spots from which to view the giant balloons and colorful floats. 

The last float in the parade featured Macy’s Santa Claus and marked the official opening 

of the Christmas season in New York. After the parade, it was home to don my gay attire 

and do my thing – band-begging. Spending a few hours outdoors whetted my appetite for 

a sumptuous turkey dinner prepared by mom. We had a lot for which to give thanks, in 

the name of the Lord. Amen! 

We’re doing our Christmas shopping at Robert Hall this year filled the airwaves from 

Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve. The day after Thanksgiving, the “Daily News” would 

begin it shopping day’s countdown. F. W. Woolworth would gaily decorate its front 

window and store with Christmas motifs; most notable was a large figure of Santa Claus 

drinking a bottle of the “other” cola. Horn and Hardart’s “Automat” was next to the five 

and ten, and they put up a beautiful tree in its two story, art deco space. Santa Claus is 

Coming to Town would be played on radio programs. O Come, O Come Emmanuel would 

be sung in St. Paul’s, now bedecked with an Advent Wreath. The lighting of the 

Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center was always quite an event. It was the most famous 

Christmas tree in the universe and only a short twenty- minute walk from my house. With 

those harbingers, we knew that Christmas was only a short time away. 

Speaking of trees, we usually bought a fresh Christmas tree from Sidney, the fruit and 

produce man, located at the corner of 58 th Street and 9 th Avenue. Of course, it was a 

much, much smaller version of the Rockefeller Center tree. Nothing like the scent of 

fresh pine or balsam fir Christmas trees on a cold winter’s day in NYC! Our tree was 

placed at the window end of my mother’s room, the living room/kitchen combo. 

Midnight Mass with the Paulist Choir was a beautiful experience for both the soul and 

ear.

Christmas Day was usually low-keyed. We exchanged our presents in the morning. 

Nothing too grand, but rather, modest gifts, usually clothes. I had always wanted to see a 

Lionel train ensemble smoking and tooting under the tree but it was not to be. An Erector 

Set was another toy on Santa’s list, but it too was not to be, for both items exceeded what 

mom could afford. Mom cooked a roast and Aunt Betty and Uncle Mike came over. We 

put on some Bing Crosby Christmas records and had a relaxing evening. Miss Kramer, 

the Jewish lady from next door, as well as Bill and Elsa Bergen from the top floor usually 

dropped in to wish us seasons greetings. At the end of the evening, after everybody had 

gone, mom and I looked down at the manger below the Christmas tree and thanked the 

newborn Christ Child for making His birthday such a special day. Like in O. Henry’s, 

The Gift of the Magi, mom and I had the most precious gift – the gift of each other. 

THE COMIC BOOK KID or HERE COMES BRUCE AND DICK 

If you headed south on 9 th Avenue you would find a used comic book store, two doors 

down from the A & P food store between 54 th and 55 th Streets. This was one of my more 

frequented haunts during my grammar school years. One could buy, sell, or trade at this 

comic book and paperback emporium. 

Cartoon funny books tickled my fancy. Bugs Bunny was my favorite. His misadventures 

brought me many laughs. Sniffles, from “Sniffles and Mary Jane,” was my favorite 

mouse. Elmer Fudd was a lot of fun too. For whatever reason, I preferred the Looney 

Tunes cartoons over those of Walt Disney. “Eh, What’s up doc?” 

As I grew older, the super heroes in Action Comics were, by and large, my favorites. As 

you might guess Batman and Robin led the list - Gothic in Gotham! The fiendish villains: 

the Joker, the Penguin, and their other antagonists were ever so colorful. Second was 

Captain America and Bucky. I often wondered why so many superheroes had young boys 

as their partners in the pursuit of truth, justice, and the American way. Dick Grayson 

lived with Bruce Wayne. However, I’m sure that Alfred chaperoned their activities, and 

made sure that there was no drinking, smoking or whatever. I don’t remember whether or 

not Bucky lived with his American captain. The Green Lantern and Kato intrigued me. 

I’m surprised that Clark Kent didn’t live with Jimmy Olsen, although I really enjoyed the 

Herculean feats of the man from Krypton. Thank God for Wonder Woman!

PCQ6: What superhero did young Billy Batson morph into upon saying the word 

“Shazam?” 

Do you remember who pitched Daisy B-B Guns and the “98 pound weakling” ads on the 

back cover of comic books? 

PCQ7: Who was the “98 pound weakling” featured on the end cover of many comic 

books? 

ALL ROADS LEAD TO HOME 

My home at 363 was located near the transportation hub of the City. 

Across the street on Ninth Avenue, one could board a # 11 bus that would take you 

downtown via 9 th Avenue to Greenwich Village or uptown to Morningside Heights. The 

#9 bus would take riders via Broadway to Times Square, home of the theatre district, and 

Herald Square. 

PCQ8: What two Herald Square department stores vied for customers in the movie, 

Miracle on Thirty-fourth Street? 

It was not a usual sight to see kids hitching a ride, firmly clinging to the configuration on 

the back of the bus. Many an observant bus driver made sure it was a short ride, a 

blessing in disguise for the youngsters. 

Double-decker buses, both opened and closed top, ran up and down Fifth Avenue, as well 

as Riverside Drive. Riding on a Riverside Drive open top bus on a warm day as it 

paralleled the Hudson River along Riverside Drive, was both a refreshing and scenic 

delight. A city landmark’s tour could be had from atop a double-decker Fifth Avenue bus 

as it moved down the “grand dame” of avenues, passing the Pierre and Sherry- 

Netherlands hotels, Tiffany’s, St. Thomas the Apostle Episcopal Church, St. Patrick’s 

Cathedral, Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, and other architectural 

wonders. Do you remember the names of the two lions at the entrance to the 42 nd Street 

library?

Trolleys (trams) followed the route of the #9 bus, taking you down the Great White Way 

to the Chelsea area of the city. The 59 th Street cross-town trolley could be boarded by St. 

Paul’s Church and provided a scenic trip with Central Park on your left side and the New 

York A. C., the Essex House, the Hampshire House, the Plaza, and other famous 

structures on your right. With its bells clanging all the way, you were at Lexington 

Avenue in a matter of 15 minutes and on your way to do some shopping at 

Bloomingdale’s, or “Bloomies” as the trendy set call it today. Nick Proscia, the iceman’s 

son, tripped onto the tracks on an oncoming trolley and suffered the loss of his fingers on 

one hand. It could have been much worse. 

All three major subway lines were within short walking distances from 363. A block 

away was the Eight Avenue IND line; two blocks away at Columbus Circle was the IRT 

line; and three blocks away at 57 th and Seventh Avenue was the BMT line. 

Whether it was by the subway, bus, or trolley, the fare was only a nickel. That’s right, 

five cents! 

CONEY ISLAND – THE POOR MAN’S RIVIERA 

For a nickel, I took the BMT subway from 57 th Street and 7 th Avenue and headed for 

Coney Island. The train ride took about an hour. It headed downtown, went over the 

Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, and then on to the end of the line. The long ride wasn’t 

overly scenic, so to kill time, I went up to the first car where I stood next to the 

engineer’s cab and, looking out the front window, pretended to be the engineer. We do a 

lot of pretending when we’re younger. We still do! As the throngs alit from the train at 

Stillwell Avenue, you knew that you had arrived at “Sodom by the Sea”. 

In my earlier years, Aunt Betty usually took me to the poor man’s Riviera. By the time 

we arrived, we were hungry and stopped for a hot dog at Nathan’s, or bought an ear of 

fresh corn or a knish from one of the many vendor’s along Surf Avenue. Stomach full, it 

was off to the beach. On the hot summer weekends, the crowds would swell to over a 

million people. Finding a place to squat and mark out your territory could be most 

difficult. Sometimes, it took 15 or 20 minutes to find a place. Then, splash, into the 

cooling waters. The Coney Island waves were not the most challenging, but were a lot of 

fun, nonetheless – especially since I was not a swimmer.

Trying to find Aunt Betty after coming out of the water amid a sea of people was a feat 

unto itself. On a 90-degree plus day, the blistering sand could present an additional 

obstacle. One had to tread quickly to the safety of his “home blanket” lest he burn his 

“tootsies”. “Oops, sorry for kicking sand in your face.” Perhaps that was the scenario 

when I couldn’t find Aunt Betty, after returning from a quick dip to what I thought was 

our blanket. I panicked! Nervous and crying, I looked all over the beach, but no sign of 

Aunt Betty. There was an auxiliary police station on the beach to where I was taken by a 

caring citizen. Poor Aunt Betty must have been at her wit’s end. However, she too, 

wound up there, and breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing her favorite nephew in the lost 

and found department. As an offering to the gods, and to myself, Aunt Betty bought me a 

frozen custard. When I saw The Little Fugitive, one of the first great independent films, 

released in 1953, I couldn’t help but identify with the seven year old little kid in the 

picture. The DVD edition in is my classic collection today. 

On the boardwalk, one could buy anything from frozen custard to salt water taffy. There 

was a “Sodamat”, a penny arcade, spill the bottles, and lots of other interesting “comeon’s”. 

If a thunderstorm descended upon us, we ran for cover and took shelter under the 

dank, damp boardwalk. On the western end of the boardwalk was Steeplechase, and 

beyond that, the Half Moon Hotel. 

After basking in the sun, and getting the obligatory sunburn, it was off to the 

amusements. Luna Park and Steeplechase Park were the “big two” of Coney Island. The 

former was New York’s answer to Copenhagen’s Tivoli Gardens. Luna Park was 

dazzling, especially at night when it was all light up. It boasted of things that the latter 

park didn’t have: Dragon’s Gorge, a roller coaster, and my favorite, a water-slide. Fire 

consumed it in 1943 and I was saddened. The Tilyou family of Brooklyn opened 

“Steeplechase – the Funny Place” in 1897 and it remained in family hands until its 

closing in 1964. One price entitled you to admission into the park and all that 

Steeplechase had to offer, including a ride on the mechanical horses that ran on a track 

around the perimeter of the amusement park. A maze, a barrel of fun, and a huge slide 

were among the other attractions featured in the indoor pavilion. After an hour or so, 

you’d leave with a broad grin on your face, just like the “Steeplechase Man”. My favorite 

ride was the bumper cars. There were several independent bumper car operators along 

Stillwell Avenue, but I found a place, where for a nickel, you could take a brief ride (you 

pay for what you get) and have a heck of a time banging the fender off those who 

threatened you. 

“Freak” shows along the avenue seemed like a reincarnation of P.T. Barnum’s circus. 

There were the usual entertainers: the bearded lady, the alligator man, the Siamese twins, 

and an assortment of “others”, the likes of which you might find in your supermarket 

tabloid. One of the attractions that I remember was Boris Karloff appearing as the 

Frankenstein monster. The effects were eerie, creating ever-increasing suspense as the 

monster moved toward the audience. It was a shame that the star of the 1930’s horror 

films had to demean himself by working in a Coney Island “freak” show.

We finished off the day with dinner, usually at Paddy Shea’s Restaurant on Surf Avenue. 

On one occasion we splurged and had a wonderful turkey dinner in the restaurant of the 

Half Moon Hotel. 

Then it was time to take the subway back to Manhattan. Two tired souls trudged their 

way across 57 th Street to 363 after a great day at the beach. 

As I grew older, Aunt Betty would no longer accompany me to Coney Island. I was 

growing up and wanted to be in the company of my peers for such all day excursions. 

Now I had graduated to more challenging rides such as the Cyclone wooden roller coaster 

with its eighty foot plunge and the swinging gondolas of the Wonder Wheel. The 

parachute jump, relocated from the New York World’s Fair to Coney Island, was the only 

challenge that I did not accept. Chicken!!! 

RADIO’S RAMBLINGS 

On September 11, 2000, I learned that the management of WOR Radio was not going to 

renew the contract of John R. Gambling. While I hadn’t listened to “Rambling with 

Gambling” for many years because I had opted for an all-news radio station, I was, 

however, saddened to learn of his demise. Thus ended a radio dynasty of 75 years and 

three generations. 

Like so many New Yorker’s, I was weaned on WOR ‘s Gambling radio program. The 

eldest Gambling, John B., founded the longest running radio show in history in 1925. I 

remember his live band, with Rastus and ensemble, opening the 7:15 AM show with “Oh 

How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning”. Being of British heritage, John B. often included 

“Country Gardens” on the program. Like FDR, John B’s family, including wife Sally, 

always played a prominent role in the program, especially around the holidays. John B’s 

son, John A. Gambling, was about my age, and I continued listening to the show when 

the younger Gambling came on board in 1955. Some twenty years later, a couple of my 

students and myself, would meet John A. one morning after he finished his show. He was 

very receptive and gave us an inside look at his studio. My associate and host, Carolyn 

Bennett, was secretary to the president of RKO General (which owned WOR at the time), 

and it was she who introduced us to “JR” and other WOR luminaries including Howard 

Cosell and John Wingate. 

Mom, as well as Aunt Betty and Uncle Michael, faithfully listened to Jim Hayden and 

Terry Long every Sunday evening as they hosted their respective Irish radio programs. At 

times, they turned up the volume, proclaiming to the residents of 363 our Irish heritage.

My favorite radio program was “Uncle Don” which came on at 5PM on WOR. It was a 

quick fifteen-minute children’s show. The kids my age loved it. “Uncle Don” often 

played the piano on his show. He would end his show by playing the piano and singing 

his signature song. It went something like this, (and please pardon the spelling): 

Hippity gits hot star rainbow ree 

Subonyah skippity hollow dee, 

Oddie oak oak with an ala kah zan, 

Sing a song with your Uncle Don. 

Then, he would end the song with a flourish on the piano and say, Goodnight little boys 

and girls. See you all tomorrow. 

One day, upon ending the program in the usual fashion, the engineer forgot to turn off the 

mike. After saying, Goodnight little boys and girls. See you all tomorrow, Uncle Don was 

heard across the airwaves to have said on the open mike, Well that will hold the little 

bastards for a while. Needless to say, he met the same fate as “JR”, only “Uncle Don’s” 

was immediate. 

After hearing the “b” word for the first time, I turned to my mom and said, Mommy, 

what’s a bastard? Silence.

Chapter 4 – POSTWAR RHYTHM AND BLUES 

THE LONGEST CELEBRATION 

The effusion of euphoria that began on V-J Day continued well into the end of 1945. 

The GI’s were now returning home, many of them maimed or with shrapnel in their 

bodies. Many of them received their Purple Heart’s and Distinguished Service Cross’s. 

Many more are still waiting to receive their long-overdue testimonials. Whatever the 

case, a homecoming party awaited them, the likes of which has never been seen before in 

our country’s history. 

In towns, cities and hamlets across America, the red carpet was rolled out to welcome the 

troops back from the war. Parades prevailed as Johnny came marching home. 

Block parties were held across the City. I attended the one on 56 th Street. Food, music, 

entertainment, dancing, kegs of good old American brew, hugging, kissing – each 

contributing to the gaiety of the occasion. The revelry went on into the wee hours of the 

morning. Uniformed service men and women enjoyed their long awaited tribute. 

Formal thanksgiving services were held in houses of worship throughout the City. 

Shortly after his return from being with the boys in the Pacific, His Eminence, Francis 

Cardinal Spellman, pontificated over a Mass of Thanksgiving at the Cathedral. 

Motorcades honoring the war leaders were many and not all were on lower Broadway. 

Some routes went through Central Park. Two motorcades that I remember witnessing, 

honored General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the supreme commander of the Allied Powers in 

Europe and General Charles “Le Bec” De Gaulle, commander of the French forces. Both 

men would lead their respective countries as president during the postwar years. 

Many U. S. Navy ships were docked in the midtown piers for public visitation. I visited 

two of these floating powerhouses. The first was the U. S. S. Missouri, the dreadnought 

where the formal surrender of Japan had taken place on September 2, 1945. Walking up 

the gangplank of the “Mighty Mo” was quite a unique experience for this twelve-year old 

boy. Seeing and touching its big sixteen-inch guns was quite a thrill, indeed. The second 

stop on my itinerary was a visit to the aircraft carrier, the U. S. S. Enterprise. I marveled 

at how an airplane could take off and land on such a relatively short deck. Cramped 

quarters, I learned, were the norm on most Navy ships.

It was about that time in my life that I began my first hobby, photography. Right after 

the war, mom gave me a present of a camera. This first camera of mine was a nonexpensive 

basic box camera. So when the fleet dropped anchor in town, I was ready. 

Camera in hand, I proceeded down to the Hudson to take my first set of photos. They 

turned out fine and are pasted into my first photo album as a reminder of the longest 

celebration. 

I was happy to see, that finally, in June of 2004, a monument was dedicated in 

Washington, D.C. to those who gave their lives, as well as those who served, in World 

War II. 

REALITY SETS IN 

Then came the hangover. Then came the return to the real world. Some fifteen million 

servicemen and women were now returning from the war. These staggering numbers 

presented problems here in America. 

Housing was crucial for the veterans. Apartments were at a premium in the city. While 

some opted to return home to the nest, others, including many vets who had taken war 

brides, sought alternate accommodations. The net result was a phenomenal growth of 

suburbia. Thanks to the Veterans Administration and the Federal Housing 

Administration, veterans were able to purchase homes at very low interest rates. In 

nearby Long Island, the first Levittown would be built. Now the vet and his new bride 

could raise a family of “baby boomers” in the quiet of suburbia. Federally- financed 

developments or “projects”, such as the “Amsterdam Houses” in my neighborhood, were 

built for diehard New Yorkers. 

The post-war growth of suburbia and the ever-expanding birth rate of “baby boomers” 

saw the advent of a new America. Robert Moses was there with his master plans for 

roads and highways to accommodate the “two cars in every garage.” More so than ever, 

we were becoming a nation on wheels. 

The G. I. Bill of Rights helped the returning vets secure technical and vocational training, 

as well as a college education for those who desired to further themselves. My alma 

mater, Iona College in New Rochelle, N.Y., was founded in 1940 and flourished during 

the post WWII years. 

A faltering economy, removal of price controls, inflation, shortage of consumer goods, 

and labor unrest, were among some of the immediate postwar problems besetting the 

country. By the turn of the decade we would have addressed these problems and would 

be well on our way to becoming the world’s number one industrial power.

GIVE ‘EM HELL HARRY 

The man from Independence, Missouri, was now firmly entrenched in the White House. 

Harry S Truman was not a man to shy away from the problems of postwar America. On 

the contrary, he lived his adage: “If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.” 

Not only did Truman have domestic issues to address; he had to deal with our allyturned-adversary, 

Joseph Stalin and the Soviet Union. A new war, a “Cold War”, had 

now begun. It was now us, as in the U.S., versus them – the Communists – all those guys 

behind the “Iron Curtain”, and then some. To contain the threat of Communism, the 

president issued the Truman Doctrine. It helped offset the Berlin Blockade with the 

Berlin Airlift, and poured millions of dollars into the rebuilding of war-torn Europe. 

The president was a frequent visitor to New York, staying at the Stanhope Hotel, across 

the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue. Invariably, HST was 

besieged by a small army of reporters as he left the hotel for his brisk constitutional (how 

befitting a president). He never minced words and occasionally used expletives in 

answering the out-of-breath reporters who were trying to catch up to him. While it is true 

that Harry Truman loved to play the piano, it is not true that he often went over to the 

nearby Carlyle Hotel to teach young Bobby Short how to tickle – that’s “tickle,” not 

“tinkle” the keys. 

Thomas E. Dewey was in the governor’s mansion in Albany planning for a thruway that 

would bear his name and probably thinking about making another run for the White 

House in 1948. After all, it seemed that the current occupant didn’t have a remote chance 

of winning the presidency in his own rite, what with all the problems besetting America, 

both foreign and domestic. 

In 1945, Fiorello LaGuardia chose not to run for another term as mayor. He was 

succeeded by Irish-born, Bill O’Dwyer. Up Mayo! 

APARTMENT 3D – THE IRISH QUARTER 

It was in Apt. 3D, that I learned many of my Irish folkways, some of which remain with 

me today. As a first generation Irish-American, my Irish-born mom wanted to inculcate 

in me the roots of my heritage for which I would always be proud. 

Growing up with my Irish mom, Delia, and my doting Aunt Betty, I was bound to learn a 

little bit about the land of my heritage – and I cared.

My Irish-born mom, Delia, gave me “first-hand” lessons in Irish history. 

I knew of the Easter Rebellion that took place a few years earlier in 1916 and the heroes 

of the “rising.” Names like Eamon DeValera , James Connolly, and Michael Collins, 

were implanted permanently in my memory bank. Collins believed that “a half of loaf is 

better than none,” and settled for the creation of two Irelands – six counties from within 

Ulster Province, and predominantly Protestant, would be under the control of Great 

Britain and, in effect, part of the United Kingdom; and twenty-eight counties, 

predominantly Roman Catholic, in the newly created Republic of Ireland. DeValera 

believed in a united Ireland and was not happy with the “half loaf” and “Dev” became a 

household name in Apt. 3D. 

This and other internal dissents were brought out in the insightful 1996 movie, Michael 

Collins, with Liam Neeson portraying the rebel leader and title character. 

The British later executed some of the leaders of Sinn Fein and the Irish Republican 

Army; Michael Collins was executed from within. This partition of the Emerald Isle 

annoyed me from my youngest years. I wanted a free, united Ireland extending to its 

natural island boundaries. 

I learned of the British conquest of Celtic Ireland centuries earlier and the replacement of 

the Irish language with English; the attempt to Anglicize Ireland and destroy the Faith 

that St. Patrick had brought to the island; the cruel usurpation of power by the British 

crown; the merciless exploits of Oliver Cromwell and William of Orange; the plantation 

system; the Great Famine of the late 1840’s; the unsuccessful rebellions of the Irish 

people prior to the Easter Rising; and the attempts of Britain’s elite force, the Black and 

Tans, to further suppress the Irish people in the early 1920’s. 

Besides being an occupied country for seven centuries, I later learned that Jansenism, a 

Puritanical form of Catholicism, was imported to Ireland from France in the seventeenth 

century. As a result, “fire and brimstone” sermons were the order of the day; clerical 

authoritarianism prevailed; and an ultra-conservative Roman Catholic Church dominated 

the religious scene and beyond. It is my contention that many Irishmen took refuge in the 

bottle in order to escape the Puritan-driven Roman Catholic Church. The “Irish Virus” 

was infecting many, many Irishmen and would last longer than the Great Plaque – 

centuries longer. 

Growing up in an Irish household, albeit of one 

parent, I learned to be proud of the land of my ancestry and that I should never deny my 

heritage. Many of my grammar and high school classmates were first generation, like 

myself. So too in college. I was not alone in this respect. 

~

As I grew older, my breakfast was accompanied by tea, by loose Irish-style tea with such 

popular names as “Shamrock” and “Pride of Kildare.” It was a strong morning beverage 

that I doused with sugar and milk. Today, I still take my tea in the morning – black! Mom 

made Irish soda bread and Irish pan bread over the course of the year. I loved dipping the 

bread in bacon fat and the yokes of my once-over-lightly eggs. On rare occasions, I had a 

treat of imported Irish black pudding, still a favorite of mine. Delia had her favorite 

dishes, too – usually of a porcine variety. Ugh! 

Right after the war, we picked up a used console Victrola and an accompanying 

collection of Irish 78 rpm records began.. The vintage record-machine had to be handwound 

and the needles changed frequently for optimum sound. The records, some 

scratchy from needle slips, had to be handled with care, and many a platter I lost through 

breakage. Bing Crosby crooned my Irish favorites, songs like Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral, 

It’s the Same Old Shillelagh, and MacNamara’s Band. Often Jewish musican, Ernest 

Ball, would collaborate with lyricist, Chauncey Alcott, to compose songs like When Irish 

Eyes are Smiling. And then came my friend “Dorothy,” Judy Garland, belting out It’s a 

Great Day for the Irish.

It wouldn’t be too long before I would be walking to Mattie Haskins Irish Emporium on 

the upper East Side, an Irish and German enclave at the time, to purchase records and 

sheet music for more militant songs like Kevin Barry, A Nation Once Again, The Boys 

from Wexford, and Ireland’s own national anthem, Soldiers of Erin. Whenever I played 

these pieces on my upright, it was always pianoforte, sometimes double, or even, triple 

forte. Some of my 78’s included “tearjerkers” such as A Mother’s Love is a Blessing and 

Eileen McMahon. They, too, were played with the volume up. My poor neighbors! 

I marched proudly in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, be it playing the tuba with the Power 

Memorial Academy Band or with the Iona College Gaelic Society. I read the Irish Echo, 

listened to Jim Hayden and Terry Long on the radio on a Sunday evening, and enjoyed 

the ethnic enclave of Rockaway Beach. 

There is no city in the world that celebrates St. Patrick’s Day like New York. I would 

start the day with a liturgy, hoping to serve Mass at St. Patrick’s altar in St. Paul’s 

Church. It seemed that on that day everything was green – hats, hair, cupcakes and layer 

cakes, ties, dresses, “Kiss me, I’m Irish” pins and so much more. As I headed east on 

West 57 Street, I could hear the bands in the background as I neared Fifth Avenue. From 

a vantage point, I watched the oldest parade in the world pass by – high school bands, 

piper bands, municipal bands – bands of every shape and kind. Then came the counties, 

all thirty-two of them, from the north and from the south. Most of the counties carried 

their own distinctive huge banner emblazoned with the picture of Saint Columba, 

Collumcille, Bridget or Brigid or whomever. And St. Patrick was in there somewhere. 

Cries of Up Cork! Up Mayo! or for that matter, Up Down! were yelled out by fellow- 

Irishmen as their favorite county passed by. For the most part, the marchers were smartly 

dressed, did their eyes right at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and their eyes left at the Sixty-fifth 

Street reviewing stand where the politicos had assembled. At the parade’s end at Eightysixth 

and Lexington Ave., the marched disassembled and headed for a local watering 

hole. My advice: Don’t try to be a once a year Irishman and try to gain entry into an Irish 

pub or restaurant on St. Patrick’s Day. Go to a good Jewish deli for the best corned-beef 

and cabbage or take the subway downtown to the Village for a nice pasta dinner instead. 

In any instance, enjoy the feast of St. Patrick, for indeed, it’s a great day for the Irish. 

AUNT BETTY MOVES TO 363 

One of my happiest postwar moments came when Apartment 2D in 363 was vacated. 

Mom suggested that Aunt Betty and Uncle Mike act immediately. They did and within a 

week my new neighbors moved into the apartment below ours. Now there were two Irish 

quarters in 363.

This was great. We could communicate to each other by way of the airshaft, presuming 

that the windows were open. I would eventually buy a two-way speaker system that made 

communications between the two apartments a little easier. Now I would not have to 

worry about getting complaints from Apartment 2D telling me that I was playing the 

piano or record player too loudly. Of course, there was always my neighbor above in 

Apartment 4D. 

THEY CALLED ME “MASTER” 

“Master Thomas C. Murray” was affixed to the bank envelope that Aunt Mary gave me at 

Christmas and other special occasions during her several yearly visits to see me, and her 

sister, Delia. You older guys will remember the day that you were addressed as “master” 

by your elders. It was a way of acknowledging the later years of our childhood. It was 

working our way to “mister.” 

Like so many of us, Aunt Mary loved shopping in the city. Gimbels was her first choice. 

As she lived In Rockaway Park, the proximity of the Long Island Railroad (LIRR) station 

to Herald Square was most advantageous to her. However, she was known to go uptown 

to Bloomingdale’s and then take the cross-town bus to visit my home on her return. I 

couldn’t wait to hear the apartment buzzer sounding the arrival of a visit from Aunt 

Mary. I made a mad dash down the three flights of stairs to personally welcome her to my 

humble abode. Usually Aunt Mary enclosed a crisp, new one-dollar bill in my “Master 

Thomas” envelope. I still have a “silver certificate” as a keepsake. As I grew older, she 

increased the “ante” to two dollars. Don’t forget that a dollar went a long way back then. 

Uncle Tom from East Orange, New Jersey, visited us less often, perhaps once or twice a 

year. I often wondered why he didn’t come up to visit us more, as his law office was 

downtown in the Wall Street area. However, he shared his musical talents with us 

whenever he visited. He was a baritone for the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick’s Glee Club 

and had a wonderful voice, using a little falsetto for some of the higher notes. He had a 

nice touch on our upright piano, although I’m sure that the tonal quality didn’t compare 

to the Steinway baby grand that he told me he had in his own home. 

He regaled us singing Macuschla or On the Road to Mandalay, while quaffing a straight 

shot of whiskey. As both of us grew older, I noticed that his right hand trembled as he put 

the glass up to his lips. Unlike Aunt Mary, the “Master Thomas” envelopes from Uncle 

Tom were few and far between.

CONFIRMATION NAME? PATRICK, OF COURSE 

“Patrick” was the name I chose to be given for my Confirmation. Like the Jewish boy 

who is admitted to adult community at his Bar Mitzvah, I, at the age of 13, was admitted 

as a soldier in the army of Christ on a spring day in 1947. Auxiliary Bishop McIntyre 

performed the ceremony at St. Paul’s Church. As I approached His Excellency, I held a 

slip of paper in my hand on which was written the name “Patrick”. He took the paper 

from my folded lands, anointed me with holy chrism and while pronouncing my new 

name, invoked the Holy Ghost to descend upon me and remain with me forever. He then 

gave me the traditional slap in the face, and sent me on my way. As I descended the altar 

steps on my way back to the front row pews, I smiled confidently to my classmates for I 

was now Thomas Christopher Patrick Murray. 

HAVING FUN WHILE COMING OF AGE 

And did I have fun! 

I was beginning to take an interest in major league baseball. By the time I was in the 

eight grade, I was attending Giant games at the Polo Grounds, cheering on the Dodgers at 

Ebbets Field, and the yelling my head off for theYankees in the “house that Ruth built.” 

The New York Yankees became my favorite major league team and I saw some of their 

“greats” in action. Everyone’s favorite was the “Yankee Clipper”, Joe Di Maggio. 

Tommy Henrich, and newcomers Phil Rizzuto and Yogi Berra thrilled their loyal fans. 

There was nothing like a day in the bleachers, watching your favorite team in action, 

while eating a hot dog. Burp! 

PCQ9: What team was sometimes called “Dem Bums?” 

Street sports were a lot of fun too. I used to play flyers up from the stoop of the building 

in which one of my classmate’s resided. Joe Rodriguez, like myself, was an only child 

and lived with his parents in a railroad flat on the top floor of 15 West 60 th Street. Joe’s 

parents, Ramon and Irene, were from Spain and were always gracious hosts whenever I 

visited their home. The friendship between Joe and me would grow over the years. The 

stoop of his building was the site where many of my peers came to “hang out” as well as 

to play “flyers up.” Stickball was another favorite street sport. Darn, that Spaulding was 

hard to hit! Roller hockey and two-hand, touch football were popular street sports with 

many of my classmates, but not with me.

A fifteen-minute walk would take me to an amusement center, or penny arcade, located 

on Broadway and 51 st Street. Here, for some small change, one could have a lot of fun. 

There was skee ball with prizes to be won if you collected enough high-score coupons. 

There was a penny pitcher machine that would buzz if you hit a contact point with the 

penny that you were throwing. Prizes to be won here too. There was the mechanical, old 

gypsy fortune-teller, who for a nickel, would punch out a fortune cookie-type card, telling 

you exactly what you wanted to hear or read, as the case may be. And to give you the 

needed energy to continue playing the games, you munched on a jelly apple. 

On the same block was the Colony Record and Music Shop. Here, for less than fifty 

cents, I purchased some of the latest hits, both in terms of records and sheet music. 

Among those that survived the years and remain in my collection today are: Four Leaf 

Clover with the Three Suns, and Civilization. Bongo, bongo, bongo, I don’t want to leave 

the ??? 

The Museum of Natural History always fascinated me and was less than a half-hours 

walk from 363. Here I saw the story of mankind and the animal kingdom unfurling before 

my eyes. The skeletal remains of T-Rex and his buddies both frightened and amazed me. 

I’d hate to run into an unfriendly brontosaurus late at night, or a raging raptor, for that 

matter. 

Adjacent to the Teddy R’s museum was the Hayden Planetarium. It was there that I took 

my first glimpse of our huge universe through the magical special effects that were 

presented at this unique “dark show”. The “Star of Christmas” was a popular alternate 

attraction to Radio City’s Christmas show. 

Then there were the dances for young people held in St. Paul’s Auditorium. While I 

didn’t really dance, I enjoyed the company of my peers while listening to Guy Lombardo 

playing Managua, Nicaragua, Vaughn Monroe singing Ballerina and ending the evening 

with the obligatory Bunny Hop. 

Then it was on to Broker’s, the local ice cream parlor, next door to St. Paul’s. It was a 

great place to hang out while sipping on an ice cream soda or sundae. Broker’s was a real 

old fashioned, German-owned, emporium. The soda fountain with the water and seltzer 

dispensers was out of a Norman Rockwell drawing. Marble-topped tables contributed to 

the ambiance while the bobbysoxers played their favorite tunes on the jukebox. “Ma 

Broker’s” ice cream was home made. Dollops of pure whipped cream were liberally 

served over your favorite sundae. And if you wanted to make a pig of yourself, you could 

pick up a half pound of homemade candies afterwards. Yummie!

Even though I could not swim, I always had a splashing good time at the Department of 

Parks Swimming Pool. Located on 59 th Street between 10 th and 11 th Avenues, it was 

called the “60 th Street Pool” by locals because the length of the pool extended to 60 th 

Street. The depth of the pool was four feet in all spots. Now that I was growing taller, this 

did not present a problem for me. On real hot days, it was wall-to-wall pool bathers; 

nonetheless, it was most refreshing. 

It was in the eight-grade that I first started to take an interest in girls, well, in a way. One 

bright spring day I suggested to classmates, Kathleen and Maureen Kivlehan that we take 

a hike across the George Washington Bridge. They agreed, and we made the trek across 

the “GW.” An unparalleled vista of the New York skyline unfolded as the three of us 

made our way across the bridge on the pedestrian footpath. As we headed toward the 

New Jersey side we saw in the backdrop one of the natural wonders of New Jersey – the 

Palisades. At the time their beauty was not despoiled by development. Acrophobia 

prevailed, so I chose not to look down nor get too close to the railing of the manmade 

wonder. Upon reaching the Jersey side, we took a break and retraced our footsteps back 

to the Manhattan side of the bridge. Simple pleasures made for an exciting, educational 

day and a wonderful time for all. 

Two postwar movies that I remember vividly are the spy thriller, The House on 92 nd 

Street with Lloyd Nolan and Signe Hasso, as well as the noir classic, Naked City. Barry 

Fitzgerald was the sleuthing protagonist in the latter. Parts of both movies were shot onlocation 

in Manhattan, and there, in the opening minutes of Naked City, was a brief clip 

of 363 as the ambulance was leaving Roosevelt Hospital. 

Life for this thirteen-year old kid from Hell’s Kitchen was FUN. 

GRADE SCHOOL – THE HOME STRETCH 

Alas, it was time to enter the sixth grade at St. Paul’s. With my luck, I was assigned to 

Miss Clara Keenan’s class. She was known as a strict schoolmarm as I had the “pleasure” 

of finding that out the first week of September 1945. I didn’t know quite what to expect 

from a lay teacher. Her classroom was on the first floor adjacent to the school office. The 

location was a blessing in disguise.

It was from this room that school Secretary, Miss McArdle, sought messengers to deliver 

carbon-typed information bulletins to the classrooms of the second, third and fourth 

floors. Invariably, Miss McArdle would knock at the door, and raise her fingers 

indicating the required number of messengers required. The boy’s sitting in the desks 

nearest the door got the “plumb” assignment. Hey, ten minutes out of Miss Keenan’s 

class was ten minutes less in purgatory, or should I say hell. She was armed with a ruler 

and considered dangerous, especially if you did not respond correctly to the arithmetic 

flash cards. During one class, Frankie De Gregorio, the class agitator, gave Miss Keenan 

some flack. Usually her justice was swift and painful. “Fearless Frank” resisted, and in 

the ensuing fracas, Miss Keenan’s wig fell off. Embarrassing, but we did learn our 

timetables. 

A summer school was held during the summer of ’46. Father McCormack of the Paulist 

Fathers coordinated the program and used the annex building next to the school as the 

site for the activities. Arts and crafts were taught, and I “majored” in carpentry. I had a 

justifiable sense of pride when I made a pair of wooden clogs. Walking in them was quite 

another thing. Finger painting, I found, was rather gooey. A camaraderie developed 

between Father McCormack and the day campers. He taught us many songs including 

The Deacon Went Down to the Cellar to Pray. He was a great one for adages and among 

his favorites was: M.Y.O.B. –“ Mind your own business” and “Actions speak louder than 

words.” 

In the seventh grade it was back to the nun’s again. I had a Virginia belle, Sister Beniti. 

She was a charmer of the first order and I did well in her class. On March 18, 1947, I 

wrote my first prayer. Using the reverse side of a holy card, I wrote: My dear Jesus help 

me at my work in school. Lord please help me in Arithmetic and English the most. Was 

this act a harbinger of a religious vocation? Only time would tell. 

I had one unfortunate run-in with Sister Beniti and that involved a “shooting”. As my 

class was lining up after lunch in the play street, Donald Padden took out his water gun 

and squirted me with it. Don was in very close proximity to Sister, so I had to be careful 

with my aim. With instant retaliation being the order of the day, I pulled the trigger of my 

water gun hoping to get off a few rounds before Sister Beniti realized what was going on. 

Don quickly ducked to escape the aim of the squirting water and, much to my chagrin, I 

hit Sister on the side of her face. Fortunately, her calm, southern disposition prevailed as 

she gave me a reprimand and confiscated my water pistol. Embarrassing, but I did learn 

to be more careful in similar situations.

As my entry into the eight-grade quickly approached, I wondered whether or not I would 

be in a mixed class of boys and girls taught by the very popular Sister Marie Antoinette, 

or whether I would be in an all-boys class, taught by the “Scourge of St. Paul’s”, the 

sinister, Sister Mary Modesta. Yep, you guessed it; I wound up with Sister Modesta as 

my eighth grade teacher. I was very apprehensive that first day of school in the fall of 

’47. She could be defined in historic terms as a “benevolent despot”, ruling the class with 

an iron hand but loving those in her charge. Paying attention in class was a must. 

Daydreamers and other inattentive sorts were not tolerated. Violators would be required 

to write “attention” one hundred times for the next class if they failed to respond 

correctly to a question. If Sister called upon you a second time, then you were required to 

go up to her desk and write in another cipher next to your name in her roll book. One 

thousand “attentions” caused writers cramp and helped cure “drifting syndrome”. As the 

year progressed, however, I began to realize that the “Mighty Mo” was a great teacher – 

the very best St. Paul the Apostle School had to offer. We kept in contact over the years 

since my grammar school graduation. All told, Sister Modesta spent 36 years at St, 

Paul’s, longer than any teacher in its long history. As I was typing this paragraph, my 

eyes swelled with tears. In a prayerful pause, I said, Thank you, Sister. 

The ’47 – ’48 academic year went by very quickly. The current events magazine that we 

received laid the groundwork for my interest in the social studies. Treasure Chest, put out 

by a Catholic publishing house, was entertaining and informative. 

The eighth graders were the leaders of the pack. Some were Patrol Boys assigned to 

traffic duty. John Kelly still served Mass as one of the premier altar boys. Lou Gomes 

and Joe Rodriguez were still hitting the books. Others frolicked on the play-street during 

the lunch break. 

A fellow eighth grader’s father, Anthony Errico, had a small store diagonally across the 

street from the school. It was reached by ascending a small flight of steps. An open area 

outside the store proved to be the perfect vantage - point from which the eighth graders 

could watch out over the street below. This was their turf and non-eighth graders, as well 

as girls, were not welcome. From their eerie in the sky, some boys lit up a cigarette for a 

clandestine smoke. It was here that I first was shown a pack a playing cards with images 

that were most shocking and varied. God forbid, if the nun’s ever caught us, it might 

mean expulsion. I’m sure that I told this sin of viewing lewd materials in the 

confessional, for I did not want to burn in hell for all eternity.

CENTRAL PARK – “AN OASIS FOR THE MASSES” 

Central Park was less than three blocks away from 363. I entered the park via Columbus 

Circle. The south end of the Circle contained a smaller building that housed Regal Shoes 

and in back of that was the huge General Motor’s Building. On top of the G. M. building 

was a zipper promoting its cars and Delco products. Several stores dotted the western 

perimeter of the Circle. At the corner of 59 th Street stood a Child’s Restaurant. West 59 th 

Street, between the Circle and 9 th Avenue, was a thru street back then, and was referred to 

as the “colored block” because of the large number of African-American residents. The 

24 story Manufacturer’s Trust Company building stood on the opposite corner. Not only 

did MTC serve the banking needs of the community, but it housed the office of the 

landlord of my building, as well. Many an elevator ride I took to an upper floor of this 

building to pay the rent. The focal point of the Columbus Circle entrance to the park was 

a statue and fountain dedicated to the memory of those who perished when the U. S. S. 

Maine was blown up in Havana Harbor in 1898. It was through this entrance that I 

entered Calvert Vaux and Frederick Law Olmsted’s greensward, so many times over so 

many years. 

During my younger years, I played cowboys and bad guys in “them thar hills” of Central 

Park. The hills were a group of rocks that lay between the softball fields and the 

playground located in the lower park. I got to know every nook, crevice, and vantage 

point of the location. Often did King Chow, as well as some of my other boyhood chums 

and myself, have our “shootouts” there. The adjacent playground had a wading pool 

where we could cool off after romping in the grass and other strenuous horseplay. And 

we did our usual things on the monkey bars, the see saw’s, and the swing’s. A baroque 

water fountain, located just outside the playground, quenched our thirst after a hot day of 

play. 

Winter was just as much fun in the park. A good snowball fight was as exhilarating as 

“cowboys and bad guys”. While I didn’t ice skate, those who did used the lower pond and 

the rowboat lake in pre-Woolman (ice skating rink) days. However, I loved sledding. 

With the first snowfall, I took out my “Flexible Flyer” which hung in the airshaft and it 

was off to Central Park. My favorite hill lay adjacent to the bridge over the equestrian 

path; it was the first hill that could be seen as one entered the park from Columbus Circle. 

I put my sledding prowess to good use. It was down and up, down and up, down and up. 

My favorite position was sitting with your feet controlling the rudder of the sled. 

Unnerved at times, I did a running “belly wop” where you lay prone, facedown, atop the 

sled with your hands controlling the rudder. On occasions, me and my trusty “Flexible 

Flyer” traversed the park to meet the challenge of Pilgrim Hill. One of the most beautiful 

sights of the city was Central Park after a snowfall; there was a serene stillness in the air.

The carousel was not too far away from the playground and there, for a nickel, you could 

ride your crafted wooden horse to the tunes of the barrel organ music. Those saddled on 

the outer horses had a chance to grab a brass ring as they passed by the “magic” location. 

If you pulled the golden-colored brass ring, you got a free ride. I always seemed to be 

pulling the silver-colored rings, but I had a good time anyway. 

The sailboat pond, not too far from Pilgrim Hill, was where old salts and young plebes 

“sailed” their prized craft’s. It was a lot of fun just watching the sailboats being launched 

by their owners, guiding pole in hand, and sailing into the prevailing wind. Some of these 

models must have cost at least a hundred dollars. Mom could not afford such luxuries for 

young Tommy. I had a great time just watching. 

For real life excitement, there was a lake just past the mall where one could rent a row- 

boat for a nominal sum. With the lake in the background, the prospective oarsman 

descended the fabled steps of Central Park only to behold the famed “Bethesda 

Fountain”. While a teacher at Essex Catholic High School in Newark, New Jersey, I 

brought a group of students on a field trip to New York City. We spent several hours in 

Central Park including renting rowboats for an hour of fun. There were about five boats 

in my flotilla. About a half an hour later and midway in the lake, I witnessed the other 

four boats converging on my flagship. With a little oar action and splashing, I let it be 

known that my motto was, Don’t give up the ship. I didn’t and “Commodore” Murray 

prevailed. 

No trip to Central Park was complete without a visit to the world famous zoo. Back in the 

‘40’s it was a real zoo, not the habitat that exists today. There was a bird house, a monkey 

house, a cat house, an elephant and hippo domain, an outdoor bear cage and the everpopular 

seal pool (the only leftover from the old zoo that exists today). In the pre- 

Delacorte (I love that beautiful clock the family installed) days of the zoo, most of the 

buildings had two-compartment cages for the animals, one on the inside of the building 

where there was warmth for the cold winter months and the other on the outside. The 

noise and odors that greeted the visitor upon entering the inside quarters were quite 

noticeable. 

I shall never forget two zoo-related incidents and I would like to share them with you. 

The first involved the exterior elephant menagerie. I had bought a bag of peanuts to feed 

the elephants and had taken out one of my nuts to place at the end of the elephant’s trunk. 

Do you know what that pachyderm did? Instead of contenting himself with the one nut, 

he grabbed my entire bag of nuts. I didn’t have much choice in the matter and 

submissively relinquished my nuts. The second incident occurred in the ape house. A 

crowd of out-of-town visitors had gathered in front of the indoor chimpanzee cage. The 

chimp was on a bar near the top of the cage when our rude guests started taunting it and 

throwing peanuts in an aggressive way at “Cheetah”. Having had enough of their insults, 

the chimp swung down from his perch, landed on the floor of the cage, picked up his hard 

marble-shaped feces and started throwing them at the awe-struck crowd. The humans 

scattered in every which direction. Bravo! Who says animals are dumb???

THE BLIZZARD OF ’47 

‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the City, the snow flakes kept falling, and 

falling and falling. By the time mother-nature ended her Christmas week storm, she had 

dumped 25.8 inches of snow on New York City. Meteorologists classified it as a blizzard 

because of the accompanying high winds. 

The city was at a standstill, brought to its knees by a power greater than its own. Stalled 

buses, trucks and cars were left in the middle of the avenues and streets. Drifts were 

higher than my eye level. Most of the stores were closed the weekend of the 26, 27, and 

28. It would not be until the following Monday that New York would return to some 

semblance of normalcy. 

But for us kids the blizzard was a setting for lots of fun. I built a fort between the 

entrance to the Henry Hudson Hotel and 363 and from that vantage point discharged 

snowballs at passing vehicles. A slippery mound of icy snow was created just outside the 

door of 363 and as I stood inside the doorway, I watched and chuckled as many unwary 

pedestrians fell on their backside. Ouch!!! 

Central Park became the destination of skaters and sled riders alike on Christmas week. 

Besides all the kids were home from school and what better place than the park to romp 

in the snow and have a good, old-fashioned snowball fight. 

The big thaw arrived just in time for New Years Day. Mom, Aunt Betty, Uncle Mike, and 

I ate out in a cafeteria-style restaurant on west 57 th Street. 

TOMMY’S JUVENILLE ARREST RECORDS UNSEALED 

It was on the southern perimeter of Central Park’s Sheep Meadow that I first learned how 

to ride a two-wheel bicycle. When I was in the seventh grade, one of my classmates, 

Richie Gallagher, took his bicycle over to this vast flat grassland where he gave me my 

first lesson. Equilibrium is a major factor is learning the skills of bike riding. Richie held 

the back of the bicycle seat while I endeavored to peddle without falling. I tried this 

procedure a few times. Then, unbeknownst to me, he let go of the bicycle seat and voila – 

I was riding solo. No sooner that I had conquered my fear of bicycle riding, a policeman 

ordered me to stop. Falling off the bike in the process of stopping, I was admonished by 

the policeman for riding on the grass. Richie, too, was reprimanded for teaching me to 

ride on the grass. He must have been a member of the Emerald Society, for after he asked 

us our names, he pointed us to the bike path and let us go. I would ride that bike path 

quite often with my rented Columbia Sports Tourister. I still bicycle today, as I did a 

several years ago in Holland – the land of bikes and dikes.

My second “arrest” came after playing at DeWitt Clinton Park one hot summer’s day in 

1947. Heading north on 11 th Avenue, I cut right onto 57 th Street. Sheffield Farms, a dairy 

producer. It was located on the site that is currently home to CBS studios. I spotted a 

water fountain on the loading dock. I was thirsty, real thirsty. So I went up the steps of 

the loading dock to quench my thirst. While drinking the water, I was nabbed by a 

security officer. 

“But officer, I didn’t steal any milk. Honestly! I only wanted to get a drink of water.” 

Was this to be a replay of Les Miserables? He believed me, let me go, and I proceeded 

across 57 th Street to my welcome and ever so secure home at 363. 

THE UNITED NATIONS MOVES NEXT-DOOR 

With the war over, came the demilitarization of my next-door neighbor, the Henry 

Hudson Hotel. It was once again open to the public albeit the thousand-plus rooms were 

not exactly commodious. 

Enter the United Nations. Born at the end of the war in the City of San Francisco, the 

delegates of some fifty member-nations affixed their signatures to the United Nations 

Charter. Without a permanent home until 1952, the new international body met in 

temporary locations within the greater New York area. Lake Success on Long Island and 

the Henry Hudson Hotel were among the temporary meeting locations. In 1946, the “big 

five” and other members of the Security Council met in the hotel’s large ballroom and 

caucused in several of the smaller meeting rooms. While waiting for their permanent 

mission’s to be built, many delegate’s staff members took up residence in the hotel. 

Several times I meandered into the hotel lobby. It had become a tower of Babel while the 

new light-blue flag of the U. N. flew over the hotel’s entrance. 

I did get to know “Red”, the Irish-American day doorman. I met the new general 

manager, John Paul Stack, who took a fancy to collecting antique automobiles. Anna 

O’Neill, a permanent hotel resident, took a fancy to me. 

THE HAMPSHIRE HOUSE, A CENTRL PARK SOUTH LANDMARK 

Mom had worked at the landmark Hampshire House, 150 Central Park South, for many 

years. Often it is seen in the background to so many on-location movies.

Among Delia’s “regulars” were Baron Joseph Van Der Elst from Belgium, a Mr. 

Fitzgibbon, a nouveau riche Irish-American, and Eva Clendenin, an artist. All three 

treated my mother with admiration and respect. Prior to the Nazi invasion of Belgium, the 

Baron had brought over to the United States some art works of the Flemish masters for 

safekeeping. He gave mom a beautiful art book that he had written and inscribed it for 

her (Unfortunately, I gave it away, for it would have made a great coffee table book). Mr. 

Fitzgibbon, a member of the New York Metropolitan Club, was also very generous. For 

several years he gave us a Thanksgiving turkey, roasted at the Club, replete with all the 

trimmings. One year he had his chauffeur meet me at the Club where I picked up the foul 

and was given my first ride in a Cadillac limousine. I felt real proud alighting from the 

limo, bird in box, in front of 363. Darn it, none of the neighbors saw me. 

MY FIRST VACATION – PROVINCETOWN ON CAPE COD 

In 1946, Miss Clendenin rented a house on Mechanic Street in Provincetown and invited 

my mom and I up to the Cape to spend a week with her. This was my mom’s first 

vacation outside of New York City since she came to America. It was my first vacation. 

Provincetown was, and is today, a bohemian quarter located on the tip of Cape Cod. The 

focal point of the quaint town is the 252 feet high Pilgrim Memorial Monument honoring 

the Pilgrim’s first landfall in 1620. 

Provincetown, from as far back as I can remember, has always been a welcoming town. It 

was then, and is now, a haven for artists, writers, poets, playwrights and all members of 

the creative community. Working side by side with the large Portuguese population, a 

steadfast alliance has been forged between the two communities. 

P-town as it referred to by the locals, piqued my interest in history from day one. Back 

then, a town crier, bell in hand, read the local news. An open bus transported visitors and 

locals alike, east and west along Commercial Street. The story of the Pilgrim Fathers was 

inscribed on a bronze plaque located at the base of the monument. It was read several 

times by me during my stay. 

Eva Clendenin, an aspiring artist rented a two-bedroom saltbox house in P-town’s west 

end. Many times I saw her, brush in hand, painting a local scene on the canvas of her 

easel. She was a very kind lady opening her home to mom and myself. Mom pitched in 

whenever she could. On one occasion I went blueberry picking in the dunes. The net 

result of this new experience for this city boy was two blueberry pies baked by mom.

One experience that I shall never forget was my first deep-sea fishing trip. Miss 

Clendenin had arranged with one of her Portuguese fisherman friends to take me out 

deep-sea fishing. He picked me up at 4AM the next morning where we drove to his 

fishing dragger. In a matter of minutes we were heading out into the Atlantic Ocean. 

There seemed to be whitecaps everywhere and my stomach was feeling the effects. To 

make matters worse, the good captain invited me down to the galley for some breakfast. I 

took one look at the watery scrambled eggs, excused myself, scurried up to the deck, and 

puked my head off all day. Seasickness – what a miserable feeling! Seeing the fish being 

pulled up by the huge nets and then bouncing around the deck didn’t help my sickness 

any. “When are we heading back to port?” I asked myself. By now it was early afternoon 

and the long – it seemed like years – moment had arrived. We headed back to 

Provincetown with the catch of the day. Happy was I, when like the Pilgrim Fathers, I 

saw landfall and spotted the imposing monument that bears their name. All of a sudden 

the seasickness was gone. I felt like kissing the ground when I disembarked from the 

boat. I vowed that I would never go deep-sea fishing again. Never say never! The captain 

returned me to Miss Clendenin and I courteously thanked him for this unique experience. 

Miss Clendenin asked, Tommy, would you like some fresh fish for dinner? 

Mom and I retraced our route home. It was good to be back home again in 363. We had a 

great time on the Cape. I behaved myself so well that Miss Clendenin invited us back in 

1947. Again, we accepted her kind invitation and returned to P-town the following 

summer. We tried an alternate route, taking the overnight train to Boston and then the 

boat to the Cape the next morning. The three-hour cruise was a lot of fun and featured 

entertainment and games of chance. It seemed that I got my sea legs for I didn’t get 

seasick. It was during this vacation that I chose to climb to the top of the Pilgrim’s 

Monument, all 252 feet of the monolith. It’s surprising the things you can do when you’re 

young. Again, mom and I had a great time. And, no, I didn’t go deep-sea fishing. 

It would be nearly fifty years later that I would again set foot in Provincetown. I have 

returned to P-town many times since 1996 for brief vacations. While it has lost the town 

crier, it hasn’t lost any of its gaiety and charm. 

HOMESICK CAMPER 

In 1945, Camp Adrian was founded by Marguerite Cowhey. This was the third camp 

founded by as many sisters. The Cowhey sisters, Anna, Josephine, and Marguerite 

migrated from Philadelphia to New York City. After the Great War, their mother and Nan 

Cowhey purchased property overlooking High Falls, near Palenville in the Catskill 

Mountains. In 1920, Nan and her mother opened an exclusive Catholic camp for boys and 

called it Camp Rip Van Winkle. It was an immediate success and prompted her sister, 

Josephine, to purchase additional acreage about a mile away from Rip and to open Camp 

Ontiora (mountain in the sky) shortly thereafter. Ontiora was a camp for good Catholic 

girls with well-heeled parents.

The two camps thrived and withstood the Great Depression. It’s a matter of fact, Nan 

Cowhey bought up surrounding property on which the banks had foreclosed. By the 

1940’s, Nan and Josephine owned over 2,000 acres in the Catskill’s and had a spacious 

three- bedroom, three-bath apartment at 790 Riverside Drive in New York City. It was on 

the Drive that the three Cowhey sisters lived during the winter months. They worshiped 

in the Church of Our Lady of Esperanza less than a half a block away from their 

imposing residence, the “Riviera.” 

Marguerite was a lay teacher at St. Paul’s School long before I went there and was a close 

friend of Father James Martin Gillis of the Paulist Fathers. In 1945, after the end of the 

War, she and Nan filed papers with the State of New York that would allow to her open 

Camp Adrian the following year. It was named in honor of another priest, Father Adrian 

Bussion, an Assumptionist priest who was pastor of their parish in the city, the Church of 

Our Lady of Esperanza. 

In the spring of 1946, Marguerite, through Father Gillis and Father Maurice McMahon, 

the moderator of the altar boys, invited the Paulist parish to send “deserving” boys to 

Camp Adrian - boys whose father’s did not have a big a wallet as the boys attending 

Camp Rip Van Winkle. And so, during the summer of’46, Camp Adrian opened its doors, 

inviting St. Paul’s altar boys, as well as other deserving boys, to come up to the country 

for a two-week stay. There would be three groups, arranged by age (8-10, 10-12, 12-14) 

who would attend the Catskill Mountain camp. In 1950, the invitation was extended to 

the boys from Marguerite’s own parish, Our Lady of Esperanza in NYC. 

Camp Adrian, which was owned by Nan Cowhey, was nearly a mile south of Camp Rip 

on the Ulster County side of the borderline of Ulster and Greene counties. The main 

building, built in 1878, was a Victorian farmhouse of some fifteen rooms. It was on the 

first floor of this house that the dining hall and chapel was located. The second floor 

consisted of two master bedrooms, one of which was occupied by Marguerite Cowhey. 

Four smaller bedrooms and a dormitory also were on the second floor. The campers and 

counselors were housed in six small wooden cabins that varied in size and could 

accommodate anywhere between five to eleven people. A seventh, called the 

“washhouse” served the more personal needs of the campers. A pre-Civil war barn was 

used for rainy day activities and the Kaaterskill Creek, which flowed through the camp 

property, was dammed up at the beginning of each summer so that the campers would 

have a place to swim. 

The first group of campers that went to Camp Adrian from my parish in the summer of 

1946 returned home with glowing reports. Father McMahon invited me to go up to the 

camp but declined, perhaps because I was not yet ready to leave home. Besides, I had my 

first vacation that year in Provincetown, and that seemed to suffice. My classmate and 

fellow-altar boy, John Kelly, really loved it and he said the food was great. That gave me 

food for thought for 1947.

Come the summer of ’47, I was thirteen and coming of age. With encouragement from 

mom, I said yes to the idea of going to Camp Adrian. Soon I found myself leaving on a 

chartered bus that departed the second week in August from St. Paul’s School. We made 

a pickup of campers at Our Lady of Esperanza on 156 th Street and, in moments, we were 

crossing the “pre-Martha” George Washington Bridge. It was also pre-New York State 

Thruway days so the trip took about three hours via routes 17 and 9W and included a rest 

stop at the Orseck Boys, or was it the Red Apple? Pulling into the driveway of Camp 

Adrian for the first time, we were welcomed by counselors, Tom Clavin and Joe 

Rindaldi. Miss Cowhey stood on the porch her Victorian manse overseeing the arrival of 

the new campers. 

The new campers met around the flagpole on the front lawn and then were ushered into 

the dining room where we had a hot meal awaiting us. There we were introduced to two 

African-American ladies, Miss Elizabeth, the cook, and Miss Belle, the server. Both staff 

members had come up from the Carolina’s to work at the camp for the summer. After 

dessert, Miss Cowhey welcomed us to Camp Adrian, gave us its brief history, and stated 

its goals. Tom Clavin then assigned us cabins and we went straight away to our home 

away from home. 

Miss Cowhey made sure that we sent out a one-cent postal card to our parents on the day 

of our arrival advising them that we were happy campers. I saved my Camp Adrian 

memorabilia. The first postal card is dated August 8, 1947 and reads: Dear Mother, I 

arrived safely. I am having a nice time. Good eats. Give regards to all. Tommy A later 

card dated August 13 stated: Dear Ma, I went into town today. I am having a nice time. 

Your loving son, Tommy. Nothing like keeping it brief and simple! 

A typical day at Camp Adrian went something like this. Charlie Loomis, the camp bugler 

and classmate, sounded Reveille at 7:30 a.m. After a trip to the washhouse, we gathered 

around the flagpole for the raising of our forty-eight star flag. Breakfast consisted of cold 

juice, cold cereal, French toast or pancakes, and milk. On Sunday, it was eggs and bacon. 

After a hearty breakfast, we went to our respective cabins, made the bed, swept, and did 

our assigned policing duties. About 9:30 each cabin was inspected as well as the policing 

duties assigned to the cabin. Points were given and a prize was awarded each week to the 

winning cabin. Four teams were chosen and given Indian names. Two games were played 

simultaneously and each team played the other three several times during the two-week 

stay. Sometimes it was “shirts” versus “skins”. 

Softball, soccer, volleyball and basketball were the major sports played, and the team that 

finished in first place at the end of each week was given a prize. I preferred the sports 

with the larger balls: soccer, basketball, and volleyball. My athletic prowess left much to 

be desired. On Saturday’s, we had a “track and field” day with potato sack and egg and 

spoon races, as well as tug of war. A team could rack up points in this weekly event in 

these fun events.

Hiking was non-competitive (darn!) and my very favorite camp activity. Our hikes 

included trips to nearby Kiskatom and Palenville. I’m still a great walker more than a half 

a century later and leave my former students and younger friends in the dust. 

We had swimming in both the morning and afternoon. I did not swim and had to stay in 

the restricted area. The flowing water of the Kaaterskill Creek was colder than a witch’s 

broomstick, so I waded into the water inch by inch. 

Our main meal, dinner, was at 1PM, as Charlie Loomis sounded the, “Come and Get 

Your Beans Boys” theme into his bugle. The meals at Camp Adrian were great. Sunday 

usually featured roast leg of lamb or roast beef, mashed potatoes, and a veggie. Miss 

Elizabeth was an excellent cook. 

After a hearty, nutritious meal, it was back to our cabin for a rest period. If it was a hot 

day we would take our jellyroll (blanket) and sit out in the sun, after all, Miss Cowhey 

did not want us to return home as pale as the day we arrived at camp. 

We had our afternoon sporting activity, followed by a swim, and supper. After supper we 

had free play followed by an evening activity. Charlie sounded taps about 10PM and thus 

ended another day at Camp Adrian. 

No sooner than I had written my first postal card, I started to feel homesick. Despite the 

excellence of everything in the camp, my homesickness prevailed throughout the entire 

two weeks. I couldn’t wait until the bus would arrive to take my fellow camper’s and 

myself back home. Gee mom I want to go, gosh mom I want to go, gee mom I want to go 

HOME. 

SOAP SERIALS, CEREAL SERIALS, AND OTHER RADIO GEMS 

The forties were the golden days of radio. 

Mom and I still listened to “Musical Clock” with John B. Gambling at 7:15 every 

weekday morning. If mom or I were off from work or school we might listen to 

“Dorothy (Killgallen) and Dick (Kollmar)” and Dora and Alfred McCann. Mom loved 

her soaps in the mid-afternoon and tuned in whenever her work schedule permitted. 

“Stella Dallas”, “Young Widder Brown” and when she heard the intro music of 

“Finicula” she knew it was time for “Lorenzo Jones” and his wife Belle. The sponsors of 

these afternoon shows were Ivory, Oxydol, Rinso, and other “soap” companies.

Me, well I liked my 15 minute serials in late afternoon that were sponsored by, you 

guessed it, cereals. I started off at 5PM with “Terry and the Pirates”, sponsored by 

Quaker Puffed Rice and Puffed Wheat. At 5:15 when you heard the announcer say: Look! 

Up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane!… you knew it was time for “Superman”, 

sponsored by Kellogg’s Pep. “Dick Tracy” was on at the same time but I preferred the 

“man of steel”. Then came “Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy”, sponsored by 

Wheaties. Later on, “Captain Midnight”, sponsored by Ovaltine, came into this time slot. 

Finally, at 5:45, we heard a cowboy singing: Start the morning with hot Ralston, it surely 

can’t be beat… and we knew it was time for the greatest cowboy of then all – Tom Mix. 

Besides the “cereal hour”, there was “The Lone Ranger” which aired every Monday, 

Wednesday, and Friday evenings at 7:30PM over WJZ (now WABC). It, too, was 

sponsored by a cereal, Cheerioats (now called Cheerios). When one hears the “William 

Tell Overture” on his CD player today, he cannot help but think of the “masked rider of 

the plains who led the fight for law and order in the early days of the west,” or think of 

the “Green Hornet” with “The Flight of the Bumble Bee.” Association! 

There was “Bulldog Drummond”, “Inner Sanctum”, Roger Eliott’s “House of Mystery”, 

and many more programs that whetted your imagination. And I loved them all. 

Madison Avenue was working overtime on the basic principle of “purchase by 

association.” If your favorite superhero’s program was sponsored by “X” brand, you the 

hero worshiper cum consumer, hopefully would rush off to the store and buy the 

sponsor’s product. After all, wouldn’t you like to be like him??? 

Gimmickry also was planned by the sponsors and their marketing agencies. A box top or 

label, along with twenty-five cents or less, would get you the latest decoder ring. Without 

this you couldn’t decode the transmissions that were sent out over the airwaves every 

other day. Without this decoder ring you could not engage in conversation with your 

peers about the previous program’s secret message. You did not want to be the only kid 

on the block without it. 

Imagination was the most important ingredient in any radio serial, especially the cereal 

serials. 

We listened to Lyle Van and his news program over WOR at 6PM. His sponsor was the 

Studebaker Auto Company and its slogan was First by far with a post-war car. He was 

followed by Fulton Lewis Jr, a conservative commentator. So between the newscaster 

and the commentator, I was given current events via the airwaves, thus reinforcing the 

same in my class. WOR remains a relatively conservative radio station to this very day.

Besides the radio, I still read the Daily News. It lost none of its sensationalism in the postwar 

era. The front-page banner with an accompanying photo told a story in a nutshell. 

The front page of March 21, 1947 featured photos of the disarrayed home of the Collyer 

brothers, two packrats who led a reclusive life. 

THE DAY THE PRESIDENT STOPPED THE PARADE 

Back in 1948, the convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross was located on West 61 st 

Street between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues. On the east end of the street was an 

armory, on the west end was Power Memorial Academy. A former maternity hospital, the 

site was converted into a high school in 1938. Noted for their discipline, the Christian 

Brothers of Ireland conducted the secondary school. Each week a different boy from 

Sister Modesta’s eight class was required to stay after school, help the good sister close 

down for the day, and then with her heavy school bag in hand, accompany her to the 

convent. 

The week of St. Patrick’s feastday was the week I was the designated bag carrier. It was 

March 15 and we were all in a festive mood – after all, it was a day off from school. 

President Truman would be in town to grace the occasion and review the parade. The 

senior class of Power Memorial Academy was practicing their steps for the upcoming 

parade in the nearby armory, as the school’s marching band struck up Albert Cassiday’s 

Parade with the Irish. It was the end of the school day for the rest of the student body as 

many raced down west 61 Street, passing the Armory en-route to the subway. 

Shortly before I left St. Paul’s with Sister Modesta, we heard the sounds of police car 

sirens coming from every which direction. The blare of the sirens indicated an emergency 

situation. Perhaps, there was a shootout, I thought. As I made my way toward Columbus 

Avenue with Sister Modesta, it became apparently clear that the focal point was nearby. 

And so it was. The corner of West 61 st Street by the 12th Regiment Armory looked like a 

battle zone with the large number of ambulances and police cars in the area. At the corner 

lay a body covered with a Roosevelt Hospital blanket. Medics were rushing in and out of 

The Armory served as a makeshift trauma-triage center. Medics were rushing in and out 

indicating that there were others victims involved in this crime scene. 

What happened was that a deranged man, Marko Markovich, fired, at almost point blank 

range into the unsuspecting students coming home from school One young man, Tom 

Brady, was killed in the hail of bullets and four other students wounded. A group of 

concerned citizens chased the fleeing gunman to the area of the YMCA on 63 rd Street, at 

which time the police had arrived and apprehended the suspect. This was a sad day for 

Power Memorial Academy. All of New York City grieved the tragic loss of Tom Brady, 

cut down by a killer’s bullet at such an early age. It was Power Memorial Academy’s 

darkest, most tragic day, in its history.

The parade went on as scheduled. President Truman, Governor Dewey and Mayor 

O’Dwyer watched the parade from the reviewing stand on 66 th Street and 5 th Avenue. The 

Power band marched up the avenue, not playing the traditional Irish airs, but rather to the 

sound of muffled drums. The senior class, marching behind the band, walked up the 

avenue with solemn dignity. As the Power contingent passed the reviewing stand, 

President Truman ordered that the parade be halted. At that point, Brother William 

Hennessey, principal of the high school, was ushered to the reviewing stand where the 

President extended to him the sympathy of the nation on the tragedy that had befallen 

Power Memorial Academy. 

The parade continued. 

CASTING CALL KIDS 

During the spring of 1948, the casting director for A Letter to Three Wives (1949) 

approached Sister Benjamin, the principal of St. Paul the Apostle Grammar School, for 

extras to be used in the movie. They would be used for an outing scene in the movie and 

would receive a stipend for their endeavors. The powers that be decided that select 

students from the incoming eighth grade class were to be the chosen ones. I was a 

member of the outgoing eighth grade class having just graduated from St. Paul’s. My 

services would not be required. 

I felt badly, not about being able to receive a generous stipend, but about missing the 

opportunity to meet the “three wives” – Linda Darnell, Jeannie Crain and Ann Southern. 

GRADUATION DAY AT LAST IS HERE 

The countdown had now begun. It was the month of May and we just had the procession 

honoring the Blessed Virgin Mary. Marge Bender from 58 th Street had the honor of 

placing the crown on the head of the statue of Our Lady while we sang “Bring Flowers of 

the Rarest”. Marge looked absolutely radiant in her royal regalia and tiara. The May 

procession signaled that there was only one more month left of school. Yeah!!! 

The big question in May of 1948 was: “Where would I go to high school?”

I had several choices, all of them public high schools. Haaren High on 10 th Avenue 

between 58 th and 59 th Streets was only five minutes from my house. Another possibility 

was Commerce High on 66 th Street. The school that I selected and to which I was 

admitted was Machine and Metal Trades High School on the east side. However, I really 

did not want to go to a public high school. My real choice was Power Memorial 

Academy. Because of her limited income as a chambermaid, Mom could not afford to 

send me to the high school of my choice where John Kelly, Joe Rodriguez and other of 

my friends would be going in the fall. 

In late May, Father Thomas G. McMahon,C.S.P., the pastor of the Church of St. Paul the 

Apostle, approached Delia with a proposal that the parish would pay half of the tuition if 

she elected to send me to Power. This generous offer was based on the fact that Tommy 

had by now become one of St. Paul’s best altar boys. This was an offer neither mom nor I 

could refuse and accepted it without hesitation. In September I would be starting my 

freshman year at Power under the Irish Christian Brothers. 

I heard a lot of stories about how strict the brothers were. Names like “Big Ed” Hickey 

and “Mad Jack” Sloan sent chills up my spine. I heard, too, that the brothers applied 

corporal punishment without hesitation. I was a little apprehensive in this regard. But I 

was a good boy, an altar boy, so what did I have to worry about? 

Speaking of Power, a most unusual thing happened in the high school building. Prior to 

registration, I had never set foot in Power. During the summer of ’48, I was asked to 

deliver a can of hosts (altar breads) to Power. St. Paul’s Church supplied the brothers, not 

only with altar breads but with the school chaplain, Father Mc Gough of the Paulist 

Fathers. I was instructed to take the elevator to the sixth floor and leave the tin of hosts 

on a table outside the chapel doors. 

As I was about to enter the Power elevator on the ground floor, two of my female 

classmates were making their exit. I thought that rather strange. Were they there for the 

ride? What was their connection with Power? It was a boy’s school after all. 

One of the girls asked: What are you doing here, Tommy? 

Bringing altar breads to the brothers, I replied. 

Do you mind if we ride up with you? 

Come on along, I said. 

As the elevator slowly made its way to the sixth floor, one of the girls displayed her 

bosom to me and very casually said, Do you want a feel?

I declined her generous offer, and the two girls let me go about my business on the sixth 

floor. They decided to descend on the waiting elevator as I was putting the altar breads on 

the chapel table. I made a quick visit to the chapel and thanked my guardian angel for 

preserving my purity and helping me to overcome my first coming of age challenge. I 

rose to the occasion as a good, Catholic, coming-of-age teen. I was proud of myself. 

~ 

The autograph books had arrived in the middle of June. They took the place of year- 

books and a signing ritual began as soon as they were distributed to the anxious eighthgraders. 

A sampling from my book included: 

God bless you dear son on this time of graduation and may the future be a real success. 

From mom with love and kisses. 

There were many inscriptions of the greeting card variety. My pal Joe Rodriguez wrote: 

Graduation Day at last is here, best of luck and best of cheer. 

Louis, another classmate, wrote: Always quick to do a thing, always in a hurry, that’s my 

friend, Tommy Murray. 

The nuns filled the book with God bless you. Thank you, and God bless you, too, sisters. 

~ 

The next challenge was preparation for the final exams that included a Regents section. 

Sister Modesta was an experienced drillmaster and prepared her troops well. Having 

passed the exams with less than flying colors, I was now ready for Graduation Day. 

A Mass for the soon-to-be-graduates was celebrated the morning before graduation. We 

met in Room 33 of St. Paul’s where we would proceed as a group to the church. I was 

given the duty of guarding the water fountain. Being pre-Vatican II, those who received 

the Holy Eucharist had to fast from food or liquids from the preceding midnight, and that 

included the intake of water. I did my job and made sure that no student drank from the 

water fountain as they left the classroom to go over to the church. Not thinking, I took a 

quick drink of water from the fountain, then hurried to catch up with my classmates. I did 

receive the sacrament of the Eucharist, along with the rest of my class. Obviously full 

consent of the will was not a factor for this thirsty, soon-to-be, former eight grader. 

The graduation ceremony was held in St. Paul the Apostle Church on the Sixth Sunday 

after Pentecost, June 27, 1948. A total of 101 boys and girls walked down the aisle that 

Sunday afternoon. The pastor of St. Paul the Apostle Parish, Father Thomas G. 

McMahon, delivered the graduation address. The diplomas were distributed and special 

awards presented. John Kelly won the Christian Doctrine medal. Benediction concluded 

this eventful day. I had now completed the first step of my formal education. Amen!

Mom threw a small party for me, replete with a two-tier Cushman’s cake. She presented 

me with a 10k gold ring, engraved with my initials. It must have cost her a week’s salary, 

but to Delia, nothing was too good for her son, Tommy (Today, I wear that ring on 

special occasions). In attendance were Aunt Betty and Uncle Mike, neighbors Bill and 

Elsa Bergen, Lillian Kramer and Louise Kurz. One of my younger pals, Russell Stevens 

from 315 West 57 th Street also joined in the festivities. We played the piano and had a 

grand old time. Oh what I wouldn’t give to relive those halcyon days at St. Paul’s. 

A TALE OF TWO CAMPS 

It was now the summer of ’48 and I had come of age. 

For whatever reasons, I thought I would give camp another try. Perhaps I was cured of 

my homesickness. At the time the Herald Tribune was sponsoring their Fresh Air Fund 

program that subsidized their summer camp program. I applied for the program and off I 

went to Shepherd Knapp Farm in Litchfield, Connecticut, during the first two weeks of 

July. 

Shepherd Knapp had more diversity than Camp Adrian but its food could not compare to 

the quality of the Cowhey camp. It had a much larger complement of campers, coming 

from far more diverse social, ethnic and religious backgrounds. Its activities were more 

numerous than those of Camp Adrian. 

It was at Shepherd Knapp that I learned how to swim. The lake in which we swam was so 

much warmer than the frigid mountain waters of the Kaaterskill Creek. Brrr! You can 

imagine my feelings when I did my first strokes and found that I had buoyancy after all. 

I’m swimming, mom, I wrote home. 

We had a great Fourth of July as the fireballs from Roman candles lit up the night air. 

Firecrackers went off all through the day and night. The camp was in a celebratory mood. 

There were a couple of things that I did not appreciate as a novice camper. The first 

involved some of my fellow campers putting a firecracker in a frog’s mouth and blowing 

the amphibian to bits. The second involved stoning a pregnant snake to death and then 

cutting the snake open with a knife to see the ova it carried inside its body. How 

repulsive! How inhumane! 

I did not get homesick and it was almost time to go home. The night before departure we 

had our farewell ceremony at which campers were given certificates of merit. Dated 

7/12/48, I was cited for outstanding performance in overnight hiking, farming, swimming, 

arts & crafts, newspaper reporter and nature study. They sent me home a happy camper 

from Shepherd Knapp Farm.

No sooner than I arrived back in the hot, teaming city, it was off to camp again. A few 

days later I boarded the bus at St. Paul’s and it was off to Camp Adrian for my second 

year. However, this year I looked forward to returning. I would begin a love affair with 

Camp Adrian, a love affair that would go on for years. 

Miss Marguerite Cowhey was there to greet us as the bus pulled into the driveway. 

And there too, was the new camp director, Thomas J. Lovely, a history teacher from 

Jamaica High School. Brothers Damase, Jules, and William, all AA (Assumptionist) 

brothers, would act as counselors. We did the usual opening day routine and I, along with 

three other boys, was assigned to Cabin 2, the Director’s cabin. 

Miss Elizabeth returned to camp to cook those great meals; Miss Belle returned to serve 

them. They would return to camp for many years to come. 

Brother William, an ARC instructor, was in charge of the waterfront. I passed the 

swimming test that he administered and was now allowed to leave the crib. No longer 

would I have to worry about those darn little fishes nibbling at my peach-fuzzed legs. 

Now I could swim across the Kaaterskill Creek and back again. Brrr! 

We lived as one big happy family at Camp Adrian. Yes, a fight did break out 

occasionally, but the staff encouraged the boys to save their emotions, as well as their 

energy, for boxing night. Team points were awarded and if your team consisted of a 

bunch of Hells Kitchen sluggers, then you could end the night by leaving with your team 

in first place. 

Mr. Lovely wrote an alma mater song for the camp. At the end of each evening, we 

gathered with interlocked arms and sung his parody to the tune of America the Beautiful: 

Camp Adrian, Camp Adrian, to thee we all will hail 

Your name will stand high in the sky, how proud we are of thee 

Oh Adrian, Oh Adrian, our thoughts will turn to thee 

And even though to men we’ll grow, we’ll ever loyal be. 

Camp Adrian, Camp Adrian, a nestling in the hills 

Your colors bright, the blue and white, will always wave on high 

Oh Adrian, Oh Adrian, we’ll always think of thee 

And even though to men we grow, we’ll ever loyal be.

Not to be outdone, camper Roger Noury wrote a parody to the Notre Dame Victory Song. 

It was a great song for hikers, like myself. Sing along with me now: 

Come on Camp Adrian, we’re off today 

Hiking to hilltops far, far away 

With our colors flying high 

We’ll reach the summit bye and bye 

Whether the trails be hard or long 

You’ll always hear us singing a song 

Ever loyal to Camp Adrian 

Hiking to victory. 

Mr. Lovely was a demanding but fair Camp Director. His cabin inspection was thorough 

and he wanted the beds made to perfection. The blankets were to be army-tight so that a 

quarter piece would bounce off them. Long before No Time for Sergeants, I volunteered 

to clean the washhouse singing “When you begin to clean the latrine.” 

Brother Damase was a kindly figure who endeared himself to the hearts of the campers. 

He refereed the soccer matches and because of him I took a liking to soccer. 

Our softball field was diagonally across the road from the main house. It lay right on the 

borderline between Greene and Ulster counties. Home plate was on the Greene County 

side of the border while the outfield lay in Ulster County. Even though I was no all-star in 

softball, one day while up at bat, I did hit a home run into the outfield. I was proud of my 

accomplishment. In a letter to mom I wrote: I hit a home run from one county to another. 

At the closing night’s ceremony, I did not receive the Honor Boy Award but I did receive 

the “most improved camper” award. What a feel good moment. As I was about to get on 

the bus the next morning to return to the city, Miss Cowhey invited me to stay at Camp 

Adrian for another two weeks. I was only too happy to agree. Not having a phone, I asked 

one of the returning campers who lived on 56 th Street to tell my mother about my 

extended stay at camp. Apparently he didn’t and my mother was extremely worried when 

she saw no sign of Tommy. She phoned the priest at the rectory, who, in turn, phoned 

Miss Cowhey. All was well again when mom received a telegram from Miss Cowhey 

telling her of my extended stay. 

Yes, I did have a good time at Shepherd Knapp Farm and yes I learned to swim there. 

However, something was missing at the “Fresh Air Fund” camp, something that Camp 

Adrian had – the oneness of family and an abundance of love.

Chapter 5 – ACADEMY DAYS AT POWER MEMORIAL 

WELCOME TO THE ACADEMY 

It was Monday, September 13 th , 1948, when I attended the orientation session for 

incoming freshmen at Power Memorial Academy. Rather than calling it “the Academy”, 

most people, including myself, called it “Power”. The site, a former maternity hospital, 

was named in honor of Monsignor James Power, pastor of All Saints Parish, who invited 

the Irish Christian Brothers to open a school in 1931. 

The ten-story building housed the 26 classrooms that accommodated well over 1,000 

students. Overcrowding was everywhere, with some classes attended by fifty or more 

students. The one working elevator went as high as the sixth floor and could be used by 

students who carried an elevator pass signifying their disability. Students, grouped 

homogeneously in their assigned homeroom, sat in wrought-iron framed desks and 

remained sequestered in that room for the duration of the school day. The teachers came 

to you. In my case, it was to Room 302, a class of “B” level students. Or maybe that was 

a “C” level class? 

The one thing that Power lacked was a gymnasium. Brother Sam Ryan started the Gold 

Star Gym drive while I was a sophomore. An official “kickoff” took place in one of the 

NBC studios at Rockefeller Center where an array of celebrities performed, including 

Ray Bolger. Dollar chance books were then distributed to the students back at the school. 

As in the past, athletes would use the facilities of Commerce High School, the 61 Street 

Armory, the YMCA, and other local facilities. The gym was to be built in the yard area 

fronting 61 st Street by Kelly and Gruzen, the architectural firm that built the U.S. Mission 

to the United Nations and other New York City landmarks. Sam Ryan’s dream was not 

realized until I had long graduated from Power. 

Power, at the time, was mostly a first and second generation Euro-ethnic, lower middle 

class, Catholic high school. Over one thousand students from the city and beyond made 

their daily trek to Power by subway, bus or foot. The “foot” students came from some of 

the local parishes. St. Paul the Apostle, a block away from Power, and Sacred Heart, a 

brother’s school on West 51 st St. St. Paul’s was the largest sending school to Power and I 

felt secure in knowing that so many of my former classmates from St. Paul’s, including 

Joe Rodriguez, John Kelly, Carl Stopher and others would be reunited with me at Power. 

However, my friends were assigned to one of the higher academic classes. Oh well!

Brother William A. Hennessey, F.S.C.H. or the Irish Christian Brothers, was principal of 

the high school. As we assembled in the small second-floor auditorium, Brother 

Hennessey, attired in his black habit, welcomed the class of 1952 to the Academy. His 

brogue belied his Irish heritage. I sat attentively as brother laid down the law. Failure to 

follow the rules would result in dismissal from the academy! Failure to do the proscribed 

two and a half hours homework every night would result in dismissal from the academy! 

Failure to act in a proper and Catholic manner would result in dismissal from the 

academy! 

You come to this academy as boys; you will leave as men –good, pure, holy, upstanding, 

pure Catholic men. The brothers would help the students achieve this goal. What kind of 

good Catholic men??? 

Before we left the auditorium, we were given a book list and a handout containing the 

rules and regulations of Power Memorial Academy. Brother admonished us to read the 

latter closely. 

These were pre-state aid days, so we had to purchase all of our required books from the 

school bookstore. Many of the major publishing houses had Catholic editions of their 

standard texts: the John Carroll edition in United States History; the Cardinal Newman 

edition in literature. Our religion text was The Way, the Truth and the Life. 

THE IRISH INQUISITION 

Like the Spartan soldiers of old, discipline was one of the most important aspects of life 

at Power. The parents were sending their children to Power and not to public school 

because of the discipline, and, of course, a Catholic education. 

Many brothers kept a Mason jar on their desk. The purpose of this jar was to collect for 

the missions during homeroom class each day. In addition, students who committed 

minor infractions, such as the chewing gum in class, were required to contribute to the 

jar. The contents of the jar grew heavier by the day. 

Lateness, incomplete or no homework, and talking in class –– was punished by an hour in 

detention after school. Like the Catholic Church, Catholic schools have their own 

glossary of terms. What is “detention” called in Catholic high schools? That’s right –JUG 

– Justice under God!

For more serious offenses, such as missing more than one homework assignment, back 

talk to a brother, disturbing the atmosphere, daydreaming in class, and so on, you were 

given the pleasure of meeting the brother’s equalizer. It was a pleasure only if you took 

pleasure in pain. Most brothers carried a strap in their book bag; others, on their person, 

like a hit man carries a rod. Sometimes, one could see a brother’s strap bulging through 

his habit. It was usually a piece of rubber purchased at Califano’s, the local shoemaker, 

and measured about twelve by two inches. Some brothers even had names for their little 

things such as “Excalibur” and “Betsy.” Others called it a “leather.” Why they didn’t call 

it for what it really was, a “rubber,” I’ll never know. The strap was quite a flexible 

weapon of justice with much spring to it. The student committing the infraction was 

asked to bend over, touch his toes, and wham! Groans of “oooh” and “ouch” emanated 

from the student as he hugged his painful posterior. Please, brother, no more! Some 

brothers administered justice on one or both of the hands of the offender. What a sting! I 

know, for I was the recipient of their “cruel and unjust punishment” many times. It left 

tiny cat’s paw impressions on your hand and, if it was your writing hand that was hit, you 

were out of action for the day, or the night for that matter. Still others, gave the student a 

choice of the hand or the rear on which to receive the blows of justice, something like 

capital punishment today. Do you want to die by lethal injection or the gas chamber? 

DRESS CODE – WHAT DRESS CODE? 

Only kidding! Yes, the boy’s academy on West 61 st Street did have a dress code but 

rather relaxed. Unlike Regis or some of the other elite Catholic high schools, jackets or 

blazers were not required at Power. Being a “blue working class” rather than a “blue 

nose” school, the economy issue was a factor that led the brothers to adopt this realistic 

policy. The wearing of pastel shirts and tie, as well as shoes and socks, were required. It 

was a common sight to see students wearing a flannel shirt over their dress shirt, 

especially in the winter. 

Could you picture me, as a Power freshman, dressed in electric-blue pegged pants and a 

pair of blue suede and simulated alligator-tipped shoes? That airplane glue that I used to 

build models must have gotten to me. And, no, I didn’t inhale! 

Long hair and Elvis-style sideburns had not yet come into vogue, so the lads of Power 

had either short “manly” haircuts or crewcuts. “Brylcream” and “Vitalis” were to be 

found on every male teenager’s bathroom shelf, along with acne medication. The 

Roosevelt Barbershop located on 9 th Avenue between 56 th and 57 th Streets was where I 

went for my haircut. Jerry’s tonsorial skills made me look like a new person every six 

weeks or so and the cut conformed to the criteria set by Power.

THE LOWEST OF THE LOW 

Many upperclassmen considered freshmen the “lowest of the low.” Perhaps this is why 

the freshmen were on the third floor of the building and the seniors on the sixth and 

seventh floors. But schools, like buildings, need a foundation, and we, the class of ’52 

were the foundation. 

Freshman Room 302 was located on the Amsterdam Avenue side of Power. At the time, 

the Amsterdam Houses, which extended from 61 st to 64 th Streets, were being completed. 

The noise of the jackhammers was deafening. The faculty members had to project their 

voices in the classroom. What did you say, brother? The “projects” would provide Power 

with a new base for recruitment in future years. 

I tried out for the basketball team but was cut after the first round. The Power Panthers 

were known for their great basketball teams. The 1964 Power basketball team with Lew 

Alcindor, Art Kinney, et. al., was voted the high school team of the century by the sports 

editors of USA Today during the millennium year. Power, for many years, was a national 

high school “powerhouse”. 

Freshmen year was uneventful and I did not work up to my academic potential. I was not 

doing the required two and a half hours of homework every night. Why, at times, I even 

copied written homework from my classmates. Tsk! Tsk! 

AMO, AMAS, AMAT 

Like so many Catholic high schools, two years of Latin was a requisite for graduation. 

Brother T. V. Ryan, another Irish Christian Brother, would teach me the basics of this 

“dead” language. Students had nicknames for the faculty. We called Brother Ryan, 

“Skippy,” presumably after the ancient Roman general, Scipio Africanus. He was a strict 

but likeable man and quite a good handball player. 

I found out that you declined a noun and conjugated a verb. That was a start. To help me 

conjugate the verb amo I composed a parody to the tune of the “Mexican Hat Dance”. I 

remember the first line as going like this: Amo, amas, amat; amamus amatis, 

amant…Did you ever try to conjugate the verb spito? Easy: spito, spitare, actui, splash. 

Get the hook!

I would go on to take Latin II with “Big Ed” Hickey where I translated Caesar and found 

out that Gaul was divided into three parts. While I never regretted taking Latin, as it gave 

me a good foundation in the use of the English language, nonetheless, I never did well in 

it, winding up with a “65” average in both courses. “65” was the minimum grade needed 

to pass a subject, both in terms of the Academy and the Regents of New York State. 

I wound up with an “87” in English, “80” in Social Studies, “65” in both General Science 

and Elementary Algebra, and a “75” in Music. For some reason I received a “90” in 

Religion. 

Our Social Studies teacher, Mr. Kilcullen, became easy prey, even to the novice 

freshmen. The students dared not fool around in any of the brother’s classes. However, it 

was open season on some lay teachers, especially if your class management skills were 

lacking. Apparently, this was the case with Mr. Killcullen. As he would walk around the 

classroom, some students would chant: Kill cullen! Kill cullen! Kill cullen! One impish 

student went so far as to put a bottle of loosely capped Waterman’s Ink into Mr. 

Killcullen’s jacket pocket as he was walking down the aisle. It took a matter of seconds 

to ruin one suit jacket. Mr. Killcullen was at Power for only one year. 

Lunch was everyone’s favorite period. Contrary to popular belief, the motto of the 

cafeteria was not fidem scit, keeping in mind that an “sc” in pronounced as an “sh” in 

Church Latin. 

THE BOYS IN THE BAND 

During the first week of school, Brother Hennessey made an announcement over the 

public address system that any freshman interested in joining the boys band should report 

to the band room after school the following afternoon. 

The band room was on the lower floor of a separate two-story building located in the 

upper yard. The chemistry lab occupied the second floor. So between the two, it was 

dissonance to the ears and, at times, repulsive smells to the nostrils. 

Having had four years of piano lessons at St. Paul’s, I thought that I should try out for 

this renowned high school band. I had no idea for what I was trying out. What would I 

play - maybe the slide trombone or a manageable clarinet? I certainly couldn’t play the 

piano marching up Fifth Avenue, unless, of course, it was on a float; but, then again, they 

don’t allow floats in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. 

The next day, Brother Thomas P. Kostka, the moderator of the Power Memorial 

Marching and Concert Band, greeted me as I walked into the band room to apply for 

membership. He seemed to have a great sense of humor and a joy of life. Unlike some of 

the brothers that I met earlier in the opening week, Brother Kostka did not possess a 

threatening image.

Also in the room were Albert Casseday, the band director, and his associate, Salvatore 

Minichini. 

Mr. Casseday had played the trombone and baritone with the Paul Whitman orchestra and 

other famous big bands before he came to Power for his twilight years. It was Mr. 

Casseday who determined that I should play the double B flat bass tuba. Holy halos, I 

said to myself. I rarely used expletives, profanities, or whatever in my younger years. 

In addition, I would take Music Theory, an accredited Regents course. The school revised 

my schedule allowing me to take this new course. Mr. Casseday was a master of his craft 

and, believe me, there’s nothing like learning from a master. 

Don’t puff your cheeks, Murray! Short spits into your mouthpiece. I found out that my 

short spits were similar to those of a trumpet or trombone player, except that my “spit” 

went through more tubing and produced a lower pitched sound than their instruments. I 

soon discovered that spit was an effective lubricant for the three valves of the tuba, 

among other things. Like my four years under Sister Magellan in St. Paul’s, I would be 

four years under the tutelage of Mr. Casseday at Power. “Hot lips” would learn the basic 

B flat and E flat scales of the tuba and by the end of the year he would be playing Bugle 

Boy and The Thunderer. Boom – boom, Boom – boom. Hey, I was getting the beat 1 –2, 1 

–2. 

Among the many extracurricular activities in which Brother Kostka was involved were 

his fund raising activities for the band. Sorely in need of new uniforms, Brother Kostka 

led a successful drive, and by St. Patrick’s Day of 1949, the Power Band was marching 

up Fifth Avenue in their “snazzy” new purple uniforms with gold trim. Purple was one of 

the two official colors of Power, the other, gold. Mom took a picture of me attired in my 

new purple uniform on the roof of 363. Didn’t look bad at all; very cadet-like, if you 

don’t mind me saying so, even though the photos were in black and white. 

In sophomore year, I moved into the chair vacated by a graduating senior the previous 

June. Now I saw more action and marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade blowing my 

tuba up the grand dame of avenues. Sometimes the bell of my tuba caught a cold 

northeast wind gust causing me to misstep – and misplay. Mr. Cassadey made sure we 

were playing his Parade with the Irish as we passed Saint Patrick’s where His Eminence, 

Francis Cardinal Spellman, was reviewing the parade. And so, too, did we play as we 

passed the reviewing stand at 66 th Street where Governor Harriman and Mayor 

Impelleteri were presiding. Power’s band was noted as one of the best bands in the tristate 

area and it received many invitations to play at various parades. 

At one of the New Jersey Holy Name parades, a local sot tried marching in step with the 

Power band. It was both distracting and embarrassing so Brother Kostka took him by 

nape of his neck and gave him the old heave ho.

The four years of Music Theory were difficult. It seemed that it got more difficult by the 

year. By the end of the eleventh grade, I was writing music and composed my first piece, 

The Camp Adrian March. 

Our concert band was the best Catholic high school band in the city when. year after year, 

it won the Music Education League’s Class A and Class B competition besting Rice, All 

Hallows, La Salle Academy, and other regional high schools. We played some heavy 

music as the Lustpiel Overture, Naiobe, Saint-Saen’s Henry VIII and the Victorious 

Overture – how appropriate, the latter selection. Finlandia by Jan Sibelius was my final 

piano recital piece at St. Paul’s in 1948 and now, four years later, I was playing it in its 

entirety with a full concert band. Awesome! My adrenaline ran high each year as the 

League moderator, a little old lady, came to the podium to announce the results of the 

competition. The thrill of “winning” was as valid and euphoric as if I was playing on the 

Power basketball team and we won the state championship. What a high! 

NEITHER SNOW, NOR RAIN, NOR DOUGLAS MAC ARTHUR 

Shortly after completion of my 10 th grade, Communist North Korean forces invaded 

South Korea. Within hours the United Nations Security Council met in emergency 

session. Less the Soviet Union, the Security Council condemned North Korea and voted 

to take a “police action” against the “aggressor”. Because of the fact the United States 

pledged the largest contingent of troops, Pacific war hero, General Douglas Mac Arthur 

was placed in charge of the United Nations forces. The military strategy would be 

planned by the President and the Pentagon, not the United Nations. 

After the Inchon landing, the UN forces had pushed the Communist North Koreans all 

the way up the peninsula to near the Yalu River, the border of North Korea and 

Manchuria in Communist-controlled China. Then in late November of 1950, Chinese 

“volunteers” by the hordes swarmed across the Yalu and pushed the UN forces back to 

near the 38 th parallel. This “seesaw” undeclared war prompted Mac Arthur to propose 

enlarging the war and bombing China. The general felt “there is no substitute for 

victory.” Truman wanted the war contained. Mac Arthur kept banging the drums of 

bombing China, clearly undermining Truman’s position. On April 11, 1951, the 

commander-in chief relieved the general of his UN command. Did that cause an uproar! 

The propriety of President Truman’s action was the topic of conversation all across 

America, as well as in the halls and classrooms of Power Memorial Academy. In the eyes 

of many Americans, Mac Arthur was god-like, our own red, white and blue Caesar. How 

dare that hick from Missouri fire this great man! Impeach that despicable, Un-American, 

man in the White House! I sided with the Mac Arthur supporters at the time. Today, as I 

look back and having taught United States History for many years, I believe Truman did 

the right thing in removing the five-star general with an ego to match.

On the day that the general was to receive his ticker tape parade in New York City, the 

Power Memorial Concert Band was having its preliminary round in the Music Education 

League’s annual competition at Town Hall. Brother Kostka send out a memo to all band 

members stating that he expected every participant to be in attendance at Town Hall come 

rain, snow or General Mac Arthur. I was livid! I wanted to see my hero! 

On the eve of the celebration Mac Arthur’s plane touched down at La Guardia Airport in 

late evening. I read the Daily News earlier that day and found out the route that the 

General would be taking to his suite at the Waldorf Towers. He would be coming over 

the 59 th Street Bridge, heading west on 57 th Street, and then head south on Park Avenue 

to the Waldorf. If I couldn’t see him on his day, I most certainly could see him on his 

night. So I, along with nearly a million people, stood on the streets of New York about 

11PM to watch the General and his motorcade pass by. With hysteric fervor we clapped, 

shouted and gestured as he waved to us in a fleeting moment – once again, history had 

come alive for T. C. Murray. 

The next day, some seven and a half million people welcomed General Mac Arthur to the 

most tumultuous welcome that the city had ever seen. The largest crowd ever to attend a 

single event in New York City remains a record to this very day. 

That same day, the Power Memorial Concert Band played in the Music Education League 

preliminary competition in Town Hall. While I missed not attending the Mac Arthur 

extravaganza, I put my all into the required compositions. Power took first place and was 

now ready for the finals at Town Hall in May. 

THE HALLOWEEN HOP– A “BEVY OF GAY COUPLES” 

I would attend my first high school dance on a Friday night in mid-October– the 

Halloween Hop. The freshmen were instructed in Religion classes as to the proper dating 

and dance decorum. 

Date only Catholic girls – good Catholic virgin girls. “G’ is for girl; “G” is for good. 

Avoid non-Catholic girls at all costs. They may be an occasion of sin. Don’t associate 

with “them” for “outside the church there is no salvation.” 

Don’t date fallen-away Catholics. They’re like fallen angels. They don’t attend Mass on 

Sunday and when they do, they usually sit in the back of the church, are improperly 

attired, put a nickel in the collection basket, and never wait until the end of the Mass 

before leaving. They eat meat on Friday – you know the kind!

The following were the rules that we were to follow while dating and dancing: 

1. Don’t get too intimate; 

2. Don’t pet, neck and watch your hands; 

3. Never but never, “frictionalize”; 

4. Dance at least six inches away from your partner; 

5. Always remember that our bodies are “temples of the Holy Ghost.” 

It was suggested that if your date took the initiative and wanted to explore your further, 

one should put his hand in his pant’s pocket and grab his rosary. Fingering the beads of 

your rosary always worked in situations like this, believe me. 

The brothers assured us that they would be at the hop and that they were there to protect 

our best interests. They assured us that they would abide by the “spirit of the law” rather 

than by the “letter of the law” and would not have a ruler with them to enforce the “six 

inch principle.” 

I’m sure that I enjoyed myself at the hop, but like many freshmen, went dateless. My 

dance skills left much to be desired and I remained a wallflower throughout the evening. I 

still have two left feet and my terpsichorean skills still remain much to be desired. 

In the post-hop issue of The Purple and Gold, the school newspaper, there was a picture 

of several couples who attended the hop and the caption beneath the picture read: Bevy of 

gay couples enjoying the hop. My image didn’t make the photo. 

More serious topics as steady dating would be dealt with in the 11 th grade year’s Religion 

class. 

MISBEHAVIN’ 

For the most part, I was not a troublemaker. I rarely set foot in jug. 

On occasion I might “moo” going up the stairs after lunch, but who didn’t? The “bovine 

boys” loved innocuous fun. The staircase, which followed the route of an unused elevator 

shaft, zigzagged its way up through the various floors. A monitor was stationed at the top 

of each floor landing. However, if a group of playful students started “mooing” at the 

beginning of the floor below, it was almost impossible for the monitor to catch the 

“mooing” herd of well-fed heffers. 

In the boy’s room, one might find an inappropriate comment over the urinal. Let go of 

Hennessey’s (the principal) neck! I always wondered who was the culprit who wrote this 

anatomy analogy. If you were caught in the act of writing obscene messages anywhere in 

the Academy, the principal would ring your neck.

If a faculty member were absent, the substitute teacher would pass around a “sign in” 

sheet. Depending whom the substitute was, some students inscribed the sheet with 

fictitious names like “Richard Hertz,” “Peter Pissmire,” and the other usual double 

entendre appellations. At times, the class was left unattended. A student sentinel warned 

us of any faculty intruder and would holler: Chicky! Chicky! The class would then 

become silent. 

The only time that I got into trouble was in senior year. No student was allowed to leave 

the high school grounds at any time during the school day without permission from the 

Main Office. This was true at lunchtime, as well. One day a couple of us “went out to 

lunch”, and upon returning, we were nabbed by one sneaky brother only a few feet from 

the yard entrance to Power. Both of us were brought into the Principal’s Office 

individually. I pleaded nolo contendere to the charges and was severely reprimanded. 

If you are ever brought into my office again for disciplinary reasons, Brother Hennessey 

thundered in his Irish brogue, You will dismissed from this Academy and you won’t 

return! Is that clear, Murray?” 

Yes brother, I said contritely. 

RELIGIOUS LIFE AND FUNDRAISING AT POWER 

Each and every day began with a prayer, including one for the beatification of Brother 

Edmund Ignatius Rice. Brother Rice founded the brother’s congregation during the 

middle of the nineteenth century to educate poor boys in the newly industrialized cities of 

Ireland. Each and every class began with a prayer. 

One of the main reasons that parents sent their boys to Power was because of the 

religious education and activities that they would not find in a public school. For first 

generation parents it was “the” reason for their son or sons attending the Academy. There 

were more religious-related activities in the school than all secular activities combined. 

Religion classes were required in all four years of high school – and no one failed and 

went to summer school for Religion. Being a devout Catholic, I excelled in Religion with 

a 95 average during my 11 th and 12 th grades. This was my best subject, academically 

speaking. 

The school year opened with a Mass of the Holy Ghost at St. Paul’s. We prayed that his 

spirit would guide us through the year. And did I need that inspiration from the Third 

Person.

On the first Friday of every month when school was in session the Powerites attended 

Mass in St. Paul’s. They were then given an hour of free time to have breakfast in the 

cafeteria or some of the local restaurants. Many students, after nourishing their souls, 

headed for Child’s on Columbus Circle where they nourished their bodies with pancakes 

and sausage. Only kidding about the sausage. No meat on Friday! 

Columbus Circle was where the majority of Power students took the subway to their 

place of residence. Shortly after I graduated, the Circle was the site of a shoot for It 

Should Happen to You (1954) with Judy Holliday and a new star, Jack Lemmon. Viewing 

this film on video nearly fifty years later brought back memories of the good, old Power 

days. 

St. Paul’s was also the site of special Masses and the annual retreat. The Paulist Fathers 

were great preachers. The “C.S.P.” after the name of a Paulist stood for “can’t stop 

preaching.” The retreat consisted of Confession, Mass, two “fire and brimstone” sermons 

each day, Confession if you needed to atone after a Catholic Guilt Trip (CGT), sermon, 

spiritual exercises, and the day ended with Benediction of the Most Blessed Sacrament. 

Breakfast and lunch were sandwiched somewhere in between. This major spiritual event 

was held on the three days preceding the beginning of our Easter vacation. It got us in the 

mood for Holy Week, and perhaps, the two-week recess. 

The Father and Son Communion Breakfast was an annual event and brought out 

hundreds of lads and dads to St. Paul’s and breakfast in the ballroom of the Henry 

Hudson or another nearby fashionable hotel. I didn’t attend because I didn’t have a father 

to bring me. And, by the way, what happened to the moms? 

A Holy Communion graph was tacked onto the bulletin board. At the beginning of each 

week, every student was required to pencil in the graph indicating the number of times 

that he had received the Eucharist the preceding week. Mine grew and grew. I’m sure that 

some of my classmate’s indicators grew and grew too, just like Pinocchio’s nose. 

The Vocation Club, as you might guess, was high on the list of brothers’ preferences. 

Many Powerites were ripe for the brotherhood. Back in those days, you were accepted as 

a candidate at the end of your freshman year at the tender age of fourteen or fifteen. One 

of my classmate’s, Jim Reopke, entered the Irish Christian Brothers Juniorate at the end 

of his freshman year. More than fifty years later, Jim is still a member of the 

Congregation of Christian Brothers as the brotherhood is called today. His younger 

brother, Bob, entered the following year, and he too, is still following the rule of Blessed 

Edmund Ignatius Rice.

Other clubs included the Sodality and the Society for the Propagation of the Faith. During 

my junior year, the Sodality sponsored a dance held concurrently with the Mother’s Club 

Party and Dance. Both clubs held their respective event at the Park Sheraton Hotel on 

56 th Street and 7 th Avenue, with dividing partitions between the two ballrooms. It was in 

the barbershop of this hotel that crime boss, Albert Anastasia, would get whacked six 

years later. 

Each day in Religion Class, the brother, or his designated student rep., collected money 

for the missions. The sooner that Mason jar was filled with coins, the happier he’d be. 

Naturally the brownies made depositing the coins in the jar an event. 

The selling of Christmas cards at whatever price the market would bear, brought in 

money for the cause and put extra spending money for the holidays in my pocket. The 

more boxes sold, the greater the return. Naturally, the cards had a religious motif and 

followed the Knights of Columbus slogan: “Keep Christ in Christmas.” Sometimes, we 

prayed that the elements would do their thing and give us a day off so that we could have 

more time to sell our Christmas cards. Brother Hennessey referred to bad weather as 

“inclement” weather. The more “inclement” the weather, the better it was for us. In 

addition, the school sponsored a tobacco drive for aging men in the Catholic hospices 

located throughout the City. The young Powermen visited these homes carrying their 

Christmas cheer to the awaiting senior citizens. I don’t think that a tobacco drive would 

be high on the list of priorities today. 

In the spring, Power sponsored its biggest fund-raiser, the annual bazaar. Each student 

was given ten chance books to sell. If he sold the ten books, he met his quota and was 

eligible to receive prizes such as a portable radio, ball game tickets, etc. If the school met 

its quota, what do you think was the reward for the students? That’s right, a day off from 

school. So we worked our tail off to make sure that we met our individual, class, and 

school quota. Anything for a day off! 

THE 69 TH CRUSADE FOR PURITY 

One of the more interesting religious oriented clubs at Power and a chapter of a 

nationwide organization was the “Fighting 69 th .”

I’m sure that many of us have heard of the famed U. S. Army regiment of the same name 

that, each year, leads the St. Patrick’s Day parade up Fifth Avenue. Preceded by its 

mascot, an Irish wolfhound, and marching to the tune of the Garry Owen, an honor guard 

carries the standard of the Fighting 69 th , bearing the two numbers “6” and “9”, up the 

avenue. Its regiment flag bears the motto: Gentle when stroked, fierce when provoked. 

Another reminder of the regiment’s New York City roots is the statue of Father Francis 

X. Duffy, the World War I chaplain of the Fighting 69 th , located on the square that bears 

his name. Many people, including New Yorkers, call it Times Square. No! No! No! 

Father Duffy’s image, backed by a Celtic cross, is located on a triangular island between 

46 th and 47 th Streets at the intersection of 7 th Avenue and Broadway. It faces Times 

Square and is located on the same island where you can find a discount theatre ticket 

booth and a bust of another Yankee Doodle Dandy, George M. Cohan, at its apex. 

The youth organization, the Fighting 69 th Crusade for Purity Division, was an “army” 

fighting evil. The crusaders of the 1950’s fought especially hard to obey the 6 th and 9 th 

commandments for they felt that these were the two most commonly abused and which 

stood out in the world of the ‘50’s. What are the 6 th and 9 th commandments? The 

requirements for joining this division were an ardent love of purity, devotion to Mary, 

and an application blank from the Sodality. I don’t think that “fruits” were encouraged to 

join. 

A flier stated: Truly, in these troubled times, we are afloat on a tempestuous sea, filled 

with every sort of danger. The morality of the youth is at stake. A word to the wise is 

sufficient. 

Father Conroy, head of the 69 th , wrote an article entitled The Truth. In which he stated: 

The TRUE press is the Catholic press. Catholic papers do not carry screaming headlines, 

instead it reports worthwhile happenings and guidelines. Legion of Decency ratings, 

write-ups of prominent Catholic leaders, book sections, and questions on faith – not 

stories of drunken mobsters, ways of the city and separated families. Papers and 

magazines that carry this sort of muck have no place in Christian homes. 

I decided not to become a “69er”as I felt that I was too preoccupied with my parish 

activities. Only a few of my fellow classmates jumped on the crusade bandwagon. Like 

General Mac Arthur, Father Conroy and his group faded away.

POWER PANTHERS – POWERHOUSE IN BASKETBALL 

From day one, Power Memorial Academy fielded one of the city’s finest basketball team. 

From day one, I was an ardent basketball fan and attended many Power games at the 61 st 

Street Armory in the pre-Alcindor days. While not a national powerhouse during my high 

school years, nonetheless, the Power Panthers were a force to be reckoned with (sorry 

‘bout ending the sentence with a prep,). The Panther hoopsters always had a winning and 

sometimes championship season, at least within the CHSAA. Perhaps our foremost 

adversary at the time was LaSalle Academy on the East Side. Unfortunately, we lost the 

championship to them in my senior year. 

At the opening of the ‘51-52 basketball season, Brother Kostka was relieved of his 

position as moderator of the band and reassigned to be moderator of the Power Panthers. 

I really missed his extraverted presence in the band room during my senior year but being 

named basketball moderator was a step upward, I guess. Brother was most supportive of 

Ed Burns, the basketball coach who was also my math teacher. Mr. Burns was good in 

both. 

In an open letter to the men of Power, Brother Kostka writes: 

There is only one purpose in placing a (basketball) squad in competition, and that is to 

win – to win with superior play, fair play, good sportsmanship – and to pit brain against 

brain. Victory in such fashion, and in no other way, develops the finest 

characters…Whether we win championships or not, remember, we have given Power our 

best efforts. Do you likewise. 

PCQ10: What name did Power great, Lou Alcindor, assume upon entering pro-ball? 

VENITE ADOREMUS 

Christmastime at Power was always a lot of fun. Each homeroom vied to be the most 

decorative with a nativity scene the focal point. It was a time of giving. 

On the last day of class before the Christmas vacation we had a Mass at St. Paul’s, after 

which we returned to school for a shortened schedule. If a student wished to give a 

present to any of the faculty or to his favorite teacher, this was the time to do so. Nothing 

like racking up a few “brownie points.”

In most cases, your homeroom moderator was a teacher of one or more of the subjects 

that you were taking during the course of the school day. So he had to be treated extra 

special at Christmas. Usually a class rep collected from the homeroom and bought an 

agreed upon Christmas present. The gift was presented to the faculty member by the 

homeroom rep, who gave a short speech. Brownie points! The brother or lay teacher 

looked surprised. “Oh my, what can this be?” He shook the beautifully wrapped present 

wondering whether or not it was a bottle of DewarsScotch. He must have said damn 

when he opened it and found to his chagrin that it was only a bottle of common-class 

Three Feathers Whiskey. 

A “Spiritual Bouquet” always accompanied a present. For those readers who attended 

public school, a “Spiritual Bouquet”, not “bucket”, is a collection of spiritual exercises 

that the student offers for the intention of a special person, like the homeroom moderator. 

For example, if I attended a Mass and received Holy Communion with your intention in 

mind, I would inscribe this in a special card and present it to you. We had about 45 

students in my homeroom. Thus our “Spiritual Bouquet” read: 

We, the students of Homeroom 302, offer this Spiritual Bouquet to you, our very special 

brother and friend: 

45 Masses 

45 Holy Communions 

45 Rosaries 

450 Ejaculations 

The boys must have been working overtime on that last one! 

“MAD JACK” 

A legend in his own day was Brother John Berchmans Sloan. He was known as “Mad 

Jack” to several of his students. He was a teacher of American Literature in the 11 th grade 

and his reputation as a strict disciplinarian preceded him. Come junior year, I would have 

Brother Sloan for English III. Like Brothers Hennessey and Ryan, he too was from the 

land of saints and scholars. 

A book a month was required reading and a book report was to be neatly written in a 

special notebook. A proscribed format had to be followed. Brother Sloan collected my 

notebook each month and God help me, or any other student in his class for that matter, if 

it was not properly done. Some students tried the easy way out; they tried to take 

shortcuts. I don’t believe that the Cliff Notes series was in existence at the time, but I do 

know that we had Classic Comics Illustrated and The Readers Digest of Books. I believe 

that I was one of those students trying to take the easy way out. Tsk! Tsk!

I sat in a desk toward the back of the room. Location was everything when “Mad Jack” 

went on a tirade. Like a tornado, he would go down the row slapping the face of every 

student in his cyclonic path, while he ranted and raved about how poorly we were doing. 

Moron Mike he called out to an errant student while administering justice. Brother Sloan 

would stop around the fourth or fifth desk and then return to the front of the room. He 

never did complete a full row of face slapping. I guess he ran out of breath, lucky for me. 

Nor did I face the wrath of the man and his strap. I wish that I could say the same about 

my Religion III class and my World History class. 

After the first marking period (November, 1950), Delia faithfully attended the Parents 

Conference. She met with my teachers to inquire about my grades and progress. Waiting 

on a long line outside Brother Sloan’s homeroom, her turn finally came. Brother Sloan 

informed her that I was a very lazy student - too lazy to go to the bathroom. One might 

think that my Irish mother would not dispute a man of the cloth, for in Ireland, no one 

questioned a representative on the holy, Roman Catholic Church. However, not Delia! 

She took exception to his coarse remarks and let him know so. As a result of drawing that 

line in the sand, Brother Sloan was the essence of courtesy and diplomacy to Delia at 

subsequent meetings. Later in life, her son would manifest this same questioning quality 

toward clergy and religious. 

Poetry reading was one of the more pleasant aspects of American Literature. In spite of 

his brogue, Brother Sloan did quite a good job reciting poems. I’ll never forget his 

rendering of Edwin Arlington Robinson’s, “Richard Cory”: 

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, 

Went home and put a bullet through his head. 

Brother Sloan, in a solemn, almost tearful voice, said: He died and his eyes popped out! 

Things we remember! 

A SUMMER IN HELL 

During my sophomore year I took Plane Geometry and had as my instructor, Brother 

Francis Innocent Offer. You’re probably wondering about brother’s middle name. When 

a brother is received into the congregation, he is given a religious name such as 

“Berchmans” in the case of Brother Sloan and “Innocent” in Brother Offer’s case. In the 

brother’s community they call each other by their religious name rather than by their 

Christian name. “Hey Berksie, how are you doing?” “Okay Innie, how’s yourself?” 

Brother Offer came from nearby Sacred Heart parish and grew up in the center of Hell’s 

Kitchen. 

My struggle with math proved futile and I failed the course with an average I dare not 

say.

Brother Offer failed me! 

That’s what all kids say when they fail; they blame the failing grade on their instructor. 

My punishment, with apologies to Rimbaud, was the summer season of 1950 spent in 

hell, in a non air-conditioned room, with windows wide open, and a city cacophony in the 

background. It was an experience I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. 

I survived and couldn’t wait to finish off the summer at Camp Adrian. 

JIM FARLEY HONORED 

One of the most talked about events of my junior year was a testimonial dinner honoring 

former Postmaster General and Democratic National Committee Chairman, Jim Farley. 

At the time I asked myself: Who’s Jim Farley? 

A good Irish-American Catholic, Mr. Farley was a generous contributor to Catholic 

causes. The brothers operated Cardinal Farley Military Academy at Rhinecliff on the 

Hudson and that made FDR’s former aide very pleased. 

The April 30, 1951 black tie event was held at the Astor Hotel and ticket prices for the 

Power Gold Star Gym benefit at a $100.00 a plate were not meant to attract the average 

Power blue collar family. From the reports that I read, the event was a smashing, as well 

as financial, success. Mayor Impelliteri and Auxiliary Bishop Stephen Donohue were 

among those gracing the occasion. Harry Hirschfield served as toastmaster. 

Jim Farley’s speech in which he decried a lack of ethics on the part of elected officials 

stated: There has been a woeful lack of principle on the part of those who have been 

elected by the people to serve the community. Sound familiar? Times haven’t changed, 

have they? 

SENIOR YEAR 

It was amazing how quickly my four years in high school went by. As I entered my 

senior year at Power in September of 1951, I knew that it would be a year of choices and 

decisions, a year when I would reach my majority, and a year of fond memories. 

The year opened with a Mass at St. Paul’s for Power’s 1,050 students. I was one of the 

altar boys from St. Paul’s parish, one of four seniors at Power, who had the honor of 

serving the opening liturgy.

No sooner than the school year opened, “senioritis” started to set in. 

Two important September happenings sent me on my way. The first was taking the 

graduation photo for the yearbook. I went to the school photographer on the east side 

where I donned a tuxedo shirt, jacket and bow tie, took the picture in a flash, and was on 

my way back home. The second harbinger of graduation was being measured for the 

school ring. My former math teacher, Brother Offer, was the lord of the rings. By late 

fall, I would be a proud wearer of my purple (amethyst) and gold ring. 

I LOVED CURRENT EVENTS – AND STILL DO 

One of my favorite courses in senior year was Problems of American Democracy (PAD). 

While I didn’t excel, grade-wise, I loved the course. The weekly American Observer was 

a welcome supplement. There was a lot happening in America at the time and this was an 

ideal way in which to enrich my knowledge of current events. 

A reactionary wave was now sweeping across the country. President Truman reluctantly 

signed a Congressional bill mandating that all civil servants, public school teachers 

included, take an oath of loyalty to the government of the United States. Refusal meant 

dismissal! Investigations were going on all over the place. If a teacher asked you a 

question and you didn’t know the answer, you might reply “I refuse to answer the 

question on the grounds it might tend to incriminate me.” Yes, the Fifth Amendment was 

alive and well back then. We had the House Committee on Un-American Activities in its 

heyday. Remember the “Hollywood Ten”? Or Senator Estes Kefauver and his 

investigation into organized crime in the U.S.? Senator Joe McCarthy had not yet arrived 

on the scene. He was waiting in the wings. 

My grades weren’t bad in senior year. I pulled in the low 80’s in English, 75 in PAD, a 

96 in Religion and an 85 in Music. Having had Mr. Cassiday for four years in Music, he 

was voted my favorite teacher at Power. “Jim” was a great Texan whose friendship I 

cherished until the time of his death on March 10, 1970.

THOMAS P. KOSTKA, BROTHER EXTRAORDINAIRE 

While Mr. Cassiday was my “favorite teacher” at Power, Brother Thomas P. Kostka was 

my “favorite brother.” Like Mr. Cassiday, the band director, I came in contact with 

Brother Kostka, the band moderator, during my entire four years at Power, as well. 

Brother Kostka had a sense of humor and wit about him that I had never seen in any 

person up to this time. His positive thinking, coupled with his support, would make one 

want to reach for the stars. 

There was a special chemistry between Brother Kostka and myself. One day he invited 

me to accompany him after school to pick up some music on West 48 th Street. As we 

walked down Broadway bantering back and forth, we heard the strains the Weavers 

singing Goodnight Irene emanating from a speaker at the Colony Record Shop. After 

picking up the music, we retraced our footsteps northward along Broadway, passing the 

Colony once more, only to hear the reverse side of the Weaver’s platter blaring forth the 

sounds of Tzena, Tzena, Tzena. What a hora! Brother suggested that we stop in at 

Whelan’s for an ice cream sundae. Did that idea sound good, and so too was the sundae. 

We parted company at 363. As a result of this walk, Brother Kostka was not just another 

face with a collar. He was no longer only a brother to me, but a friend, as well. Indeed 

our walk was a high school moment to remember. 

The summer of 1952, I found out that Brother Kostka had been transferred to Iona, a 

brother’s college in New Rochelle, New York where he would take up a position of 

associate professor of history. Our paths would cross again before too long. 

OUR ONE AND ONLY PROM 

I really never dated during high school. The senior prom was fast approaching and I was 

thinking about the girl of my choice. When I say I had a short list, you better believe it. 

Actually, it was a list of one! 

The concept of a junior prom had not yet reached the high school scene. So my senior 

prom was “the” big dance of my four years in Power. Indeed, it was the one and only 

prom.

One of my mom’s closest friends and co-workers was a Polish-American lady, Charlotte 

Leonard. Like myself, Charlotte had only one child, a girl, a little younger than me. Joan 

Leonard was an attractive teenager who lived in Queens with her mom. I visited her 

home in Elmhurst on several occasions. I was introduced to Charlotte’s sister, Wanda 

Lawrence and her family who also lived in Elmhurst. Wanda’s son, Paul, who later 

became a priest, became a good friend of mine. My relationship with Joan was purely 

platonic. However, I felt that she would be the perfect prom date. So I casually asked her 

Hey Joan, want to go the prom with me? Naturally the answer was in the affirmative. 

Getting fitted with my first tuxedo was quite and experience. The off-white jacket was a 

perfect contrast to the black pants. Joan wore a long dress and looked like Eliza Doolittle 

ready to go to the ball – well, not quite. We met at 363 on the evening of the prom where 

I presented Joan with a corsage. After a few last minute touches, no pun intended, we 

took a cab to the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue and 61 st Street. No limos! We sat a table 

with my friend from 61 st Street, John Belton. 

It was mainly a table sitting and tablehopping evening. I might have faked my way 

through two or three non-challenging dances. Nonetheless, it was fun. We left the Pierre 

about 11:30PM and took a cab to Zimmerman’s Hungarian Restaurant where we had a 

midnight supper. No, we did not have goulash as the entrée. After dessert, we bid 

everyone a “good-night” and took a cab back to 363. We had arrived home before the 

bewitching hour of 2AM. Joan and her mom took the subway back to Queens. And that 

was it. No action, and certainly no weekend motel action like the proms of today. Try 

spelling “motel” backwards – “let om!” Life was so uncomplicated back in my high 

school days. 

OUR ONE AND ONLY SCHOOL TRIP 

One of the final recreational activities before the finals and graduation was the annual 

boat ride to Rye Beach in Westchester County. Eager Power students boarded the 

“Americana” at South Ferry for a day of fun in the sun. Some toted knapsacks; some 

carried portable radios so that they could listen to the new disc jockey, “Cousin” Bruce 

Morrow. This was our one and only school-sponsored trip. Today, school-sponsored trips 

include resort destinations as Disney World, the Bahamas, Mexico and God knows where 

else. However back in 1952, each and every student had a great four hours at Rye Beach. 

My favorite amusement park attraction was not the Dragon coaster or the loop, or the 

myriad of other rides, but rather navigating a slow speed motorboat in the calm waters of 

the Rye Beach lake. The “Americana’s” shrill horn sounded at 3:30PM signaling that all 

passengers should return to the boat. Shortly after 4PM we were plying the waters of 

Long Island Sound, onto Hell’s Gate, and then sailed southward down the East River to 

Battery Park. Wow! What a view of the City’s skyline.

IT’S A DANGEROUS WORLD OUT THERE, MEN OF POWER 

At our final spiritual exercise, the graduating seniors Communion Breakfast, Brother 

Hennessey, our beloved Irish-born principal, sent us on our way, stating that we had 

received a superior education for the Christian Brother’s of Ireland – a well-balanced 

training of minds and hearts for the task of saving your souls, developing your talents to 

the full… 

He exhorted us to be men of character – who put duty first and above everything else – 

men who stand for what is right, no matter, no matter what others may think or say. As 

Christian Brothers’ Boys you must be men of sterling character – men of whom Power 

memorial Academy will always be proud. 

We all said: Yes, Brother, we’ll always be good, pure, holy, upstanding, pure, Catholic 

men. 

POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE TIME 

D-Day had finally arrived - “D” for departure from Power Memorial Academy. 

Appropriately the date was June 6, 1952. The place was the auditorium of Hunter College 

on the Upper East Side. The time: 8PM 

Niftily clad in our black tuxedo’s and purple carnations, oops, white carnations, some 201 

seniors of the graduating class of ’52 marched down the center aisle to the strains of 

Edwin Elgar’s, Pomp and Circumstance and took their respective places in the reserved 

section of the auditorium. 

Auxiliary Bishop Joseph Flannelly presided and gave out the diplomas and awards. I was 

expecting Cardinal Spellman to be there, but alas, due to other more pressing 

engagements, His Eminence was unable to attend. His favorite altar boy was so 

disappointed. 

The keynote address was delivered by Brother Arthur A. Loftus, the president of Iona 

College. Men of Power, he said in his high-pitched voice, as the outgoing seniors listened 

courteously, and he continued to deliver a stimulating, challenging address. It was the 

first time that I ever saw or heard the man, who later would become the head of the Irish 

Christian Brothers (FSCH) and, under his leadership, the name would be changed to 

Congregation of Christian Brothers (CFC) and the world headquarters moved from 

Dublin to Rome. He seemed to be quite a dynamic leader.

I did not receive any awards – darn! However, I was very pleased when my closest friend 

at the time, Joe Rodriguez, was awarded the French Medal. Two other buddies, also 

Paulist boys, came home with accolades. Steve Sims was awarded the Math Medal while 

Louis Gomes took the Latin Award. Three out of twelve subject area awards going to 

neighborhood boys. Not bad, indeed. 

After the graduation ceremony, my mom, Aunt Betty and Uncle Mike took a cab back to 

363 where we had a party. Two medal recipients, Joe Rodriguez and Steve Sims, were in 

attendance. It was now time to move on with my life – work, college – whatever.

Chapter 6 – A TYPICAL TEENAGER? 

GROWING PAINS AND THE AGE OF INVENTION 

For the most part, I was a typical teenager growing up in the city as most adolescents did 

back in the late 1940’s and early 1950’s. 

Mom did not like the idea of her only son growing into manhood with buckteeth. To 

address the problem, she found a dentist in the Chelsea area who specialized in 

orthodontics. I paid my first visit to Dr. Sylvester Rothenberg on West 23 rd Street on May 

15, 1947. Wearing platinum braces on my upper set of teeth didn’t annoy me. However, 

two things bothered me. The first was taking an impression of my upper palate on a 

periodic basis. A stainless steel mold filled with “guck” was placed firmly into my 

mouth. Because I have a limited vertical constriction, my oral capabilities are somewhat 

restricted. The problem persists today. When my dentist says, Open wide! he invariably 

follows through, saying with the patience of a saint, Wider! Open wider, Tom. So getting 

the mold into my mouth was a major project in itself. Once it was in, I felt a suffocating 

sensation, as I gasped for breath. I couldn’t wait for the ordeal to end. At the next visit, 

Dr. Rothenberg would show me the congealed impression. Improvements were being 

made. The second thing that bothered me was the tightening of the braces. Now I know 

how people tied to the rack in the days of yore must have felt as the torturer cranked it up 

a notch. As my mastication ability was quite limited, eating dinner the evening of each 

tightening was problematic. The cost of the five-year project was $300.00 and was 

completed in April of 1952, just in time for the prom. Perfect timing! Perfect teeth! Eat 

your heart out Donnie! 

Acne was not a major problem with this adolescent, at least, nothing that could be 

addressed by constant cleansing with “Lifebouy” and a dab of “Noxema.” My weekly 

bath with Ivory Soap helped too. The “99 44/100 % pure” soap floated and did I have a 

ball playing with it in the bathtub.

With adolescence comes a degree of independence. One of the most important areas of 

self-assertiveness was in clothing selection. No longer would mom pick out what Tommy 

would wear, although she would accompany me to the clothing stores. Aside from my 

electric blue bell-bottoms, I usually chose more conservative clothing, especially for 

school-wear. My favorite clothing store was Bond’s on Broadway, across the street from 

the plush Astor Hotel. Between 1948 and 1954 the Bond’s waterfall impressed tourists 

and natives alike. Yes, a waterfall at the crossroads of the world, above the “cathedral of 

clothing,” and measuring 27’ by 132.” On either side of the recycled water cataract were 

two three-story tall figures of a man and woman. They were best seen lit up at night; 

aren’t we all? Bond’s casual clothing was reasonably priced and many of the suits came 

with two trousers. Robert Hall was even more reasonably priced and had just opened a 

store on West 54 th Street in a building that, in later years, would become “Studio 54.” 

Another favorite was “Barney’s” on 7 th Avenue and 17 th Street. It was not the upscale 

store of today but rather an affordable option for blue collar New Yorkers. A “Barney’s” 

label meant a lasting, durable article of clothing. 

My teenage years saw many “firsts” in my lifestyle at 363. Among those, were a 

refrigerator and a streamlined, chrome pop-up toaster. No longer would I have to worry 

about emptying the ice- pan from my icebox into the sink. No longer would I have to 

watch my manual toaster and turn over the toast from one side to the other, lest I burn the 

toast, or even worse, my hand. 

A communications “revolution” took place at the turn of the decade when we installed 

our first telephone. Mom in her infinite wisdom decided that it should be placed in my 

bedroom. Phones, in the days before e-mail, were teenagers’ delights. Located atop the 

desk portion of my antique secretary, it was a heavy piece of equipment with a rotary 

dial. We could have gotten a party line for a lesser cost but for an extra dollar or so, we 

had our fourth amendment rights virtually assured. One’s designated phone number 

consisted of a two-letter exchange and five numbers. The exchange indicated the area of 

the city in which you were located. The most common one’s in my area were CO for 

Columbus and CI for Circle. For example, the number of the Paulist Fathers was CO 5 – 

3209. My neighbors, the Bergen’s, had a CIrcle exchange. I guess that Ma Bell ran out of 

CI and CO exchanges, for my assigned number was JUdson 2 – 1384. Who the heck was 

Judson? 

It was about that same time when I spotted a small ivory-colored and tan portable radio 

for sale at an appliance shop located in the middle of my block. It was love a first sight. It 

was an Emerson brand radio and resembled a book. The cover popped open and the 

sound of canned music resonated throughout the shop. Wow! I had to get this radio, come 

hell or high water. The shopkeeper must have known my feelings as he accepted a 

minimal down payment, and held it aside for me until I could pay it off. Needless to say, 

I paid it off in short order, with, of course, a little help from mom. Possession day was 

like getting one’s first car, or whatever. The communications “revolution” would 

continue.

PUPPY LOVE 

Have you ever passed a pet shop, stopped, and let your fingers dance on the windowpane 

hoping to attract the playful, yelping puppies? Have you ever spotted a puppy in the 

window that you felt was a perfect match for you? Believe it or not, dogs, in many 

respects, are like their masters. And so it was, at the age of fourteen, I passed the 

Madison Square Pet Shop, located a half of block north of the old Garden on 8 th Avenue, 

and looked in the window as I had done many times before. On that particular day I saw a 

white puppy beckoning to me with wagging tail and muffled bark. Oh, those sad eyes 

saying: Take me, for I know that you’ll give me a good home and be a caring master. Not 

being trained in forensic skills, I clumsily pled my case before my mother. Who will train 

her? Who will take her out? Who will feed her? The usual questions from a concerned 

working mother ensued. However, with some stipulations, mom relented, and, for the 

modest sum of $15.00, we purchased the mixed breed (part Spitz), pink-nosed pooch. 

A family council was summoned to decide upon the name of our new family member. 

Princess was the clear choice. 

As you might guess, training a dog was quite an experience. After a few weeks, Princess 

was ready. She was trained to go out and do her thing in the real world. Those were the 

days before Ed Koch and his pooper-scooper ordinances and that is why the city fathers 

had posted signs “curb your dog.” 

I kept Princess for about a year. Neither my mom nor myself could keep up with the 

demands that the dog required. Aunt Betty, now retired, came to the rescue and 

volunteered to take Princess off our hands. Besides, she and Uncle Mike lived one floor 

below me in Apt. 2D. I could still hear the bark of my dog, talk to her through the 

airshaft, would see her every day, and take her out as the need required. Aunt Betty 

would later add two cats to the menagerie that was Apartment 2D. 

Fifty years later I pine for a pet. I feel a pet would be a great companion for me in my 

septuagenarian years. Over the past few years I have often thought of buying myself a 

pug puppy and have the debated the pros and cons of what could be a lifelong 

commitment. As of this writing, I feel I would have to relinquish my independence to a 

large degree if a pet were to come into my life. I travel somewhat and it would be unfair 

to the dog and very costly to me to board her in a kennel. Constraints would be placed on 

my “get up when you want” daily schedule. However, down deep in my heart, I would 

love to have the pug puppy of my dreams. Perhaps, one day I will visit a pet shop and 

ask: How much is that doggie in the window? I would guarantee her a good home. Puppy 

love all over again.

DISCOVERING GOTHAM 

Manhattan is a walker’s paradise, uptown, downtown, cross-town, or wherever. The grid 

pattern that marks its streets from 14 th Street northward makes it easy for even the most 

unsophisticated of traveler’s to navigate. Below 14 th Street, the northern border of 

Greenwich Village, well that’s a different story. 

As a teenager, I pretty much stayed in my own neighborhood/parish. Rarely, did I venture 

out of the area unless there was a specific reason. Mostly everything that I needed or 

wanted to see was within walking distance from 363, perhaps with the exception of the 

beach, the ballparks, the dentist, and a few other venues. However, some of my most 

interesting walks came on an unplanned basis. 

One of these came on a mild spring Sunday afternoon when I was a sophomore in high 

school. With minimal traffic on the streets, I decided to take Princess for a walk. We 

headed south on 9 th Avenue and continued right down to Canal Street via Hudson Street. 

Once in the Village, I found few tall buildings and a slower pace of life. Here I 

discovered that streets were no longer numbered but named after people, places and 

things. I passed Gansevoort Street and Abington Square, the terminal point of the number 

eleven bus that passed right underneath my bedroom window. To me, this was an 

important discovery and made my day. This was my first trek to Greenwich Village. It 

wouldn’t be until many years later that, as a resident of New Jersey, I would return. 

However, on that Sunday afternoon, my immediate concern was to return home. And so I 

did, with my dog panting behind me. 

Another area of the city that I discovered, thanks to visits to my orthodontist over a five 

year period, was the Chelsea area. Although the earliest years of my life were spent in 

Chelsea, my memories are quite faint. I usually took the 8 th Avenue local subway train to 

23 rd Street and walked up toward 9 th Avenue where Dr. Rothenberg’s office was located. 

Toward the end of that period, when I was about 16 or 17 years of age, I started to 

explore the Chelsea area, at one time, the heart of New York. It had some great 

restaurants including “Kavanaugh’s.” Across the street from the church of my baptism, 

St. Vincent DePaul, was the Chelsea Hotel, home to some of the country’s greatest 

literati – and those who aspired to be. Further east was the Metropolitan Insurance 

Building with its famous four-face clock, the largest of its kind in the world. And 

speaking of the largest of its kind, the London Terrace Apartments which took up one 

square city block was on 23 rd /24 th Streets between 9 th /10 th Avenues, was the largest 

single-building apartment complex in the country at the time.

SIDEWALK SUPERINTENDENT 

The post-war years saw a building boom, the likes of which New York had never seen. 

Bill O’Dwyer was in Gracie Mansion and Bob Moses was still one of the City’s major 

power brokers. “Gentrification” was added to the lexicon of the building-booming fifties. 

A unique way of seeing the gentrification of New York was to get in on the ground floor, 

literally. Developers provided portholes cut into the plywood fence that surrounded the 

perimeter of a site so that the curious New Yorker and visitor alike could witness the 

birth of a building. Thus, the term “sidewalk superintendent.” 

Because of the fact that Manhattan is solid bedrock, tall buildings could readily be built 

upon its base. A taller building required that a deeper foundation be laid. And so, I found 

myself a porthole and watched the digging and heard the blasting. Sometimes the crew 

had to lay a foundation some fifty or sixty feet below the ground level. It was quite 

interesting to watch. New Yorkers are great “watchers.” 

My first sidewalk superintendent job came in 1949. At the time the Port Authority was 

building a huge, centrally located bus terminal that would take up a square block from 

40/41 Streets and from 8 th to 9 th Avenues. Prior to its building, several smaller terminals 

were located throughout the city including the 50 th Street Capitol Greyhound terminal, a 

larger Greyhound site on 34 th Street near the Penn Station, and a terminal located in the 

Hotel Dixie on West 42 nd Street. On several occasions I walked down 8 th Avenue, often 

passing under the three gold balls of “Pawnshop Row,” to find my porthole at the new 

bus site. The mega-terminal was completed in 1950 and consolidated New York City’s 

bus traffic with special ramps leading into the nearby Lincoln tunnel. 

By the time I graduated from high school in 1952, Manhattan’s East Side skyline was 

evolving into structures of glass and steel – the new post-war modern look. 

In 1952 the United Nations and the Lever House on Park Avenue and 53 rd Street opened 

the doors of their glass houses. More glass and steel buildings would quickly follow. 

PCQ11: What area of expertise did Philip Johnson, Eero Saarinen and LudwigVan 

Der Rohe have in common?

Could you picture the East River skyline without the imposing UN Building today? The 

UN Site Committee had four finalists in mind for the site to house this international body 

ie. Lake Success, then serving as one of the UN’s temporary headquarters; Flushing 

Meadows, the favorite of Robert Moses; a site in the greater Philadelphia area; and a 

heretofore, unnamed site in Manhattan. As it came down to the wire, a site in Manhattan 

emerged as a clear favorite. With this in mind, UN Site Committee member, Nelson 

Rockefeller, purchased what was formerly a slaughterhouse area on the East Side from 

Zeckendorf Realty Corp. which had high hopes for developing the area. Upon its opening 

in 1952, the debates and bickering began while an apprehensive world was cautioning 

that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. 

THE STOOP, THE SPAULDING AND THE “PANTHERS” 

The stoop was an integral part of the city landscape frequented by old and young alike. It 

was a great place to hang out, especially in the evening where one could exchange 

pleasantries, review the events of the day, make plans for the evening, engage in a lively 

discussion of politics, religion, sports or just laze. 

The stoop of a brownstone at 15 West 60 th Street was my favorite gathering place as a 

teenager. It was also the apartment building wherein my buddy, Joe Rodriguez, resided, 

along with his Spanish-born parents, Ramon and Irene. The character of the block that lay 

between Broadway and Columbus Avenue had not changed in many years. It housed the 

“23” Post Office and several apartment buildings and the St. Paul Hotel. All that was to 

change with the construction of the New York Coliseum in 1955. 

The stoop was a great site for playing flyers up on a Sunday afternoon. All that was 

needed was a Spaulding (Spaldeen), a few interested teenagers, and you had yourself an 

hour or two worth of fun. The Spaulding was the greatest plaything around. No 

respecting teenager ever went anywhere without his trusty, bouncing ball. The stoop was 

used as a gallery from which we would cheer on our favorite peer’s in a challenging 

game of stickball. In this game, a broomstick was needed, in addition to a trusty 

Spaulding that, at times, proved harder to hit than a baseball, or for that matter, a softball. 

Boxball was another favorite played with a Spaulding. Using the actual stoop of Joe’s 

residence, many a game of flyers up was played from his stoop. People watching was lots 

of fun, especially as some of my teen-age peers ogled and whistled at some attractive girl 

as she passed by. I could show off my slight of hand abilities with a Spaulding by 

depressing the ball on a flat surface, where it would spin off and then return to me. Try it!

It was on this same stoop that the “Panthers” gathered nightly to hang out. The Panthers 

was a group of male teenagers from 60 th and 61 st Streets who formed a “youth group” for 

their development and established the stoop at Joe Rodriguez’s apartment as their 

“territorial headquarters.” Although we had our own jackets, it was not considered a 

“gang” in the traditional sense. Because 57 th Street was a two-way block, no “youth 

groups” were formed there. So I affiliated myself with the Panthers mainly because of 

Joe Rodriguez. I could have joined with Pat Hoey and his Crowns but felt that the 

Panthers was my kind of club. An adult authority figure, Jim Ryan, coordinated the 

group, bought the jackets, arranged baseball games in Central Park, and the many other 

things that an adult male role model should do. As we were the “Panthers A. C.,” the 

team also had baseball uniforms and an official schedule. Although I was a card-carrying 

“Panther,” I did not play on the baseball team. I stuck to playing “flyers up.” Classmates, 

Steve Sims and Charlie Stopfer, both from 61 st Street, were on the team, as was Whitey 

Martin, a blond, hyperactive teen who lived at the St. Paul’s Hotel at the corner of 60 th 

Street across from my parish church. Following the “Panthers” was “Lola.” Shall I say 

more? 

GET A JOB! 

All teenagers need spending money. That’s a given. While mom provided the essentials, 

it was necessary for me to seek gainful employment in order to pay incidental expenses. 

Because of my Paulist connection, my first part-time job was in the mailing department 

of The Catholic World, America’s oldest Catholic founded by the Paulist Fathers during 

the Civil War era. Housed in the Paulist Press Building at 401 West 59 th Street, the 

monthly had such distinguished editors as Father James M. Gillis, C.S.P. and such 

literary contributors as Hillaire Belloc. At the time, Father John B. Sheerin was editor of 

the conservative-leaning magazine. 

After school, I would report to office manager, Virginia Kendall, to pick up orders to be 

filled for back issues of the CW. I would then to proceed to the storeroom, which was 

formerly the broadcasting studio for the defunct Paulist radio station. There I would find 

the requested back issues, stuff them in an envelope, weigh and stamp the contents, and 

then bring them to the 60 th Street Post Office before closing time. Occasionally, I took the 

“A” train to Good Shepherd Church in Inwood where I brought materials from the CW 

and the PP (Paulist Press). 

PCQ14: With whom did composer, Billy Strayhorn, collaborate to write, “Take the ‘A’ 

Train?”

Alas, that job was short lived when my predecessor took a leave of absence from the 

Paulist Seminary. One Friday afternoon, I was called into the office of the business 

manager and informed by Virginia Kendall that the young man was returning to the CW 

and my services would no longer be required. She handed me my last pay envelope as a 

token to soothe my pain. You could imagine how I felt as the axe was falling. My eyes 

began to swell with tears. This was my first taste of politics. What made my termination 

of services difficult to bear, was that it came from within my own house, my own church, 

my own Paulist Fathers that I loved so dearly, and that made my firing all the more 

difficult to comprehend. 

It is said, that, when God closes one door, He opens another. 

Sheffield’s Farms, not only had their main Manhattan operation on West 57th Street 

between 10 th and 11 th Avenues, but also had franchise stores throughout the greater 

metropolitan area. One such store was located on 9 th Avenue opposite my bedroom 

window. It was your basic grocery store that was required to carry Sheffield dairy 

products. It was mom’s favorite grocery store and Max Ciffer, the Jewish proprietor, was 

more than generous to her. During the war years, he, at times, gave her rationed goods 

without requiring the allotted number of OPA stamps. Max allowed my mom the run up a 

a charge account which she promptly settled on pay day. His young son, Phil, was now 

home from a tour of service in the Korean War and was helping his dad, along with a 

cousin, Lou. I was now sixteen, and when the offer to work at Sheffield’s was proposed, 

I jumped at the opportunity and proceeded to get my working papers forthwith. 

As a delivery boy, I donned my starched apron, worked five days a week from 3 to 6 PM 

and all day on Saturday. I was paid on a fifteen cents per order delivered (twenty-five 

cents per order on Saturday’s). Usually, Max would round off the total. Like any service 

job, tips were my lifeblood. More often than not, deposits from bottles were part of the 

gratuity. I didn’t mind that at all. If I was bringing back some large beer bottles, as well 

as a few soda bottles, I could make a quarter or so on the delivery. Not bad! However, as 

young as I was, the walkups proved a challenge. By the time I reached the fourth floor of 

any given tenement, carrying a heavy-boxed order on my shoulder, I was pooped. Phew! 

Max Ciffer and his son, Phil, were very businesslike. Lou, on the other hand, more than 

compensated for his cousins with a good sense of humor, perverse as it was at times. It 

was from Lou that I learned my first Hebrew words, “shmuck” and “putz” to name a 

couple.

My delivery zone included a two-block radius from Sheffield’s. Each block had its own 

unique character. 58 th Street, right across from the Roosevelt Hospital, had many regular 

customers. Most of the block consisted of four story walk-ups. One of my favorite and 

most generous customers was the O’Connell family at 450 West 58 th Street. Jim was one 

of New York’s Bravest while his wife, Margaret, stayed at home to bring up their only 

child, Maureen. They usually gave me a quarter in addition to the many bottles that 

accumulated over a week’s time. 410 West 58 th Street was the only elevator residential 

building on that block and the home of a showgirl and stripper. Lou used to tease me with 

sotta voce remarks when she came into the store. Unfortunately, her tip for a delivery did 

not match her twin endowments. 59 th Street between Columbus Circle and Columbus 

Avenue was known as the “colored block” and consisted mainly of dilapidated walkups. 

Mrs. Reddick was perhaps Sheffield’s only customer from that block. A kindly, elderly 

lady, she was a good tipper besides. Delivering to customers on West 57 th Street was an 

entirely different story. I made deliveries to the Westmore and Parc Vendome apartments. 

In both upscale buildings, the service entrance and elevators, had to be used. Tipping was 

minimal, and if a housekeeper accepted the order, tipping was nil. I used a pushcart 

delivery wagon for larger orders as the Good Housekeeping testing facilities in the Hearst 

Building on 8 th Avenue between 56 and 57 Streets. No tips there! 

As time progressed, I learned the trade and worked behind the counter. As a customer 

entered the store, I filled his order on a step-by-step basis. Sometimes this meant using a 

“can grabber,” if you’ll pardon the expression, to retrieve a large can of tomatoes from an 

upper shelf or using the hook on the same stick to bring down a box of Kellogg’s “Pep.” 

Catching the falling object was as important as the initial retrieval for you did not want to 

leave the customer with damaged goods. I soon developed this into an art form. Slicing a 

half a pound of butter from the tub in the dairy case was equally as challenging. After I 

put the requested items on the counter, I then pulled out a paper bag to fit the size of the 

order. I then proceeded to take out my trusty pencil, marked the cost of each item on the 

paper bag, counted the figures to match the number of items on the counter, and then 

proceeded to add up the figures. That will be $5.29, Mrs. Murphy. God help you if you 

screwed up the totals. We didn’t want to lose Mrs. Murphy as a customer. 

Ciffer’s Cellar was my own private domain. It was reached from the street fronting the 

store. Here the boxes and crates of merchandise were delivered by truck and slid down 

the chute into the cellar where they were appropriately placed. On my first trip to the 

cellar, it was a dirty, disorganized subterranean space. “Operation Cleanup” began 

immediately and within a few weeks it looked like a new place. Louie was proud of my 

efforts. The cellar also contained a bathroom that I used not only to relieve myself, but to 

entertain myself as well.

One of the most drenching experiences while working at Sheffield’s involved my 

neighbor, Julia Butler. Apparently, Julia had returned from Gallagher’s watering hole, 

leaving her husband behind, and totally inebriated. I noticed from the store window that a 

small crowd had gathered on the street below my apartment building. Their eyes were 

affixed to a lady sitting on a windowsill threatening to jump. It was Julia Butler perched 

on her second floor bathroom windowsill. I did a Clark Kent, as I threw off my apron, 

and, as fast as a speeding bullet, ran across the street. Looking up, I pleaded with her: 

Julia, please don’t! You have a lot to live for. It took a few minutes before the cops 

arrived and proceeded to help her work her way off the ledge and into her apartment. 

This was one abortion to which I proudly contributed. 

I continued working for Max Ciffer until the end of my senior year in high school. Unlike 

the job at the Catholic World, we parted ways amicably. 

I might add that I worked briefly for Ruby Elkind, a Jewish Deli owner in the Westmore 

complex on West 57 th Street. He made the best hard salami sandwiches that I have ever 

tasted. Many an evening when mom was late from work, it was a baked Virginia ham and 

a potato salad dinner from Ruby’s. 

Both Max Ciffer and Ruby Elkind were the most Christian-like of individuals. 

THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT 

It wasn’t until after World War II that television became the communications medium of 

the masses. In the late 1940’s and the 1950’s rooftops were dotted with aerials of every 

size and shape. At the beginning of 1950, mom and I started thinking about the 

possibility of purchasing our own television set. Why do they call a “set?” Saving for a 

down payment became a priority. A problem, besides money, that presented itself in the 

pre-purchasing stage was current. Being a late 19 th century building, 363 had direct 

current (DC). Most buildings in the city had transformed to alternating current (AC). 

Now you know where the band AC/DC gets its name.

Paulist organist, Herb Becker, also lived in a “DC” apartment on 103 Street and 

Broadway. He advised us that Raytheon-Belmont had AC/DC television sets. He further 

advised us that the best place to pick up a set was at Master’s, a membership discount 

store on West 48 th Street off 6 th Avenue. So, after a nominal down payment and signing a 

document to pay off the balance plus interest on the installment plan, we made our first 

major purchase of a ten-inch console AC/DC television set. We now had our first 

television set and were introduced to the world of deficit spending. 

The day of the delivery was noted duly in my two-page, carbon-copied family 

“newspaper,” the 363 Gazette as “TV Day.” I liked to make an event out of important 

things. Still do! 

Before too long we were watching Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca on Your Show of Shows 

and Snooky Lansom and Gisele MacKenzie on the Lucky Strike Hit Parade. Every 

Tuesday night, it was “Uncle Miltie” Berle and Bishop Fulton J. Sheen. The trouble was, 

they both were on at the same time. Bishop Sheen prevailed! It’s too bad that we didn’t 

have color, as His Excellency would have appeared even more dynamic in his purple 

cape. 

My love of the silver screen continued. There were at least four houses in Manhattan 

where one could have both a movie and a stage show – the Capitol, Roxy, Paramount, 

and the art deco treasure, Radio City, Music Hall. In 1951, I remember waiting on line at 

Radio City to see and hear Mario Lanza in The Great Caruso. A year earlier I had seen 

Betty Hutton and Howard Keel in Annie Get Your Gun. I loved the music so much that I 

went to Colony Records and purchased the sound track on my first ever long-playing 

vinyl record. 

1951 saw the release of two of the finest sci-fi classics ever made. The Thing (from 

another World). I still remember when the crew of an Arctic expedition opens a door in 

search of the monster and a hand comes out at them, creating a frightening threedimensional 

effect. Even as a sixteen-year old, I was jolted by the swiftness of the hand 

scene. The second classic was The Day the Earth Stood Still with Michael Renee as a 

friendly interplanetary traveler and Patricia Neal as a welcoming earthling. 

PCQ13: “Klatu barada niktu” were the words that Patricia Neal’s character used to 

“turn on” Gort in the movie, “The Day the Earth Stood Still. Who was Gort?

As early as my teenage years, I became aware of the importance of musical scores in 

movies. Have you ever tried to watch a movie without the sound? Try it on your VCR 

with a copy of Jaws. Turn off the sound as Bruce, the great white, comes in for the kill. 

In 1949, when The Third Man was released, I immediately loved the music of Anton 

Karas playing the Third Man Theme on the zither. I loved, too, the eerie music of Dimitri 

Tiomkin in The Thing and he went on to win an Oscar for his scores of High Noon and 

the High and the Mighty. Alfred Hitchcock used musical scores to build up the suspense 

in all of his works. Doesn’t the music background of Star Wars and Superman by John 

Williams turn you on? 

In 1952, a Broadway theatre was converted into a new movie house fitted with a huge 

curved screen and three projectors. A new three-dimensional process was about to 

explode onto the silver screen. In early November, I attended one of the first showings of 

this much-hyped movie, This is Cinerama. 

I remember the opening scene being projected in black and white on a standard size 

screen with Lowell Thomas narrating the history of the movie industry. He moved from 

Edison’s Black Maria and The Great Train Robbery” to Rudolph Valentino and the 

“talkies.” Then, in one dramatic statement, Lowell Thomas said: Ladies and 

Gentlemen…this is Cinerama. With that, the curtain receded to the ends of the screen, 

stereophonic sound, used for the first time kicks in, the three projectors go on, and 

voila… you’re being transported on the incline of the Rockaway Beach roller coaster. 

The audience gasped as the coaster reached the top. Then, the downward plunge. 

Audience members screamed. A new day in the movie industry had arrived. I was 

impressed with This is Cinerama and, although not perfected, it did create a flawed three- 

dimensional effect. I went to see The Seven Wonders of the World a couple of year’s later 

I had great faith in the process and with a few bucks that I had saved, bought my first 

stock ever, a hundred shares of Cinerama. Unfortunately, Cinerama was short-lived. So 

too were my stocks. Oh well! 

In New York City there are three levels of theatre: in ascending order there is off-off 

Broadway, off Broadway, and finally the “Big Apple” itself, Broadway. 

As a teenager I had no interest in the theatre. It was so close, only several blocks from 

363 to the theatre district, and yet, so far. 

My first introduction to the theatre came with the arrival of two new tenants in the second 

floor of my building. Yolanda McKool and Janet Baldwin were off- Broadway theatre 

people. I didn’t use the word “actor” because a person participating in an off Broadway 

play had to serve in many capacities, in addition to the stage role that he or she played. 

Yolanda and Janet invited me to a play in which they were starring in an off Broadway 

house near Mama Leone’s Restaurant. While I don’t remember the name of the play, I 

must have enjoyed it, as I went back to another of their production’s some time later.

Across the street, adjacent to the Hearst Building, was the Blackfriars Theatre. It was run 

by a Catholic Theatre Guild and presented plays in keeping with Catholic tradition. I 

attended a couple of the Friars productions and enjoyed them. 

However, it wasn’t until very late in my teenage years that I attended my first Broadway 

production, Witness for the Prosecution. I found it to be a riveting drama and remember 

the final scene some fifty years later. However late, it was a start, and I would go on to 

see Pygmalion and The Matchmaker. The Golden Age of the Broadway musical was at 

hand with the former play transformed into My Fair Lady and the latter into Hello Dolly. 

So find an empty seat fellows… and attend a play. 

CAMP ADRIAN C.I.T. 

It was back to Camp Adrian during the summers of my high school years. 

Mr. Tom Lovely returned as Camp Director, as did the brothers who served as 

counselors. Belle and Elizabeth returned from the Carolina’s. Henry Pelham, a local, 

served as our maintenance man keeping the campfires going. Miss Marguerite Cowhey, 

the Camp’s owner, was on hand to welcome back the returning campers and stayed at a 

Victorian’s length from the new arrivals. She would save her formal welcome for them 

until after dinner in the dining room. Invariably, Dan Foley, a retired parishioner from St. 

Paul’s, would accompany the DeCamp bus on its Catskill journey and back. Dan and the 

bus driver would be invited by Miss Cowhey to have a repast at 1PM in the private 

dining room. There’s more coming, Dan would tell the driver. After all, it was a long trip 

back to the city – sometimes with a busload of returning, exuberant campers. 

I was back to my summer Shangri-La, escaping the heat and heated issues of city living. 

Cabin 2, for the second year in a row, was my assigned cabin. The Director’s cabin 

would remain my “home away from home” for several years. In addition, I would be 

staying for the entire six-week camping season as a counselor-in-training (C.I.T.) under 

the watchful eye of Mr. Lovely and Brother Damase. 

It was during my CIT years (1949-1952) that I got to know some of the younger campers 

of St. Paul’s on a personal basis. Many were altar boys such as Pat Gillespie, Peter 

Murray and Frank Desiano. In addition to Peter and Frank, many others came from the 

Amsterdam Houses including Vincent Panepinto, Ted Strack and Robert Wynne. Some 

blacks and Latinos were included among our camp’s roster. With the position of CIT 

came authority and responsibility.

Miss Cowhey had overnight guests on rare occasions. Noted Paulist and friend of the 

Cowhey sisters, Father James Martin Gillis visited the camp on several occasions. So too 

did another Paulist, Father Ronald Burt, the moderator of the altar boys. Her matriarch 

sister, Anna M. Cowhey of Camp Rip Van Winkle, stopped in at Camp Adrian on a 

regular basis but only for very brief visits, not lasting more than ten or fifteen minutes. 

Nan’s Irish setter, Roddy went everywhere with her. Keeping up appearances, Nan 

bought a new black Cadillac Fleetwood on her feastday (July 26 th , the feast of St. Anne) 

every three years. Coupled with the “GR 110” license plate, it was meant to impress. 

Josephine, the eldest of the Cowhey sisters, visited Camp Adrian less frequently, 

choosing instead to spend her time running Camp On-ti-ora. Joe had a mere Chrysler 

automobile with a less recognizable license plate. Marguerite did not drive, although she 

had an old Chrysler limo that the counselors drove for official Camp business. 

There were major changes during the early 1950’s. One side of the barn had been 

modernized. New floors had been laid. An altar, hidden by sliding doors, had been built 

into the recess of the far wall. The Paulist’s had donated some movable pews. A square 

grand piano had been moved into the renovated site. In effect, a recreation hall had been 

built. However, gone were the days of climbing up to the rafters and then jumping into 

the haystack to pass time during a rainy day. The second change was the purchase of a 

freezer. Up to that time, all our food was farm fresh. Now Miss Cowhey could store meat, 

and more importantly, ice cream. Yum! Yum! 

The renovated barn was ideal for Sunday Mass, evening programs, and rainy day 

activities, less of course, jumping in the hay. The pews could be moved to the side and 

would allow for the playing of indoor games such as volleyball and dodge ball. A cabinet 

with comic books was used extensively on rainy days. Campers, as well as the boys of 

Camp Rip Van Winkle, would contribute their well-read comic books to the Camp 

Adrian collection. Boxing was held once a week in the barn and falling to the new 

hardwood floor as the result of a one-two punch must have added to the pain. 

Two evenings a week, movies were shown in the barn. Barn swallows, which I thought 

were bats, were brazenly flying around perhaps attracted by the 16mm film projector’s 

light in the darkened room. Kill the Umpire with William Bendix and The Babe Ruth 

Story (the “sultan of swat” had passed away and was every kid’s super hero) were among 

my favorite flicks. One tearjerker film remains in my memory ‘till this present day. It was 

called Rainbow on the River and featured child star, Bobby Breen. I recently purchased a 

VHS copy of the 1936 film. 

Sunday evening in the barn was reserved for one-act plays or skits put on by each cabin. 

Some were individual efforts as Vinny D’Agostino’s impersonation of Al Jolson. 

Parables from the gospel were Cabin 2’s favorites. The cabin with the best presentation in 

the eyes of the staff could wind up with bonus points, and perhaps a trip into Candyland 

in the town of Saugerties. I loved those trips to Saugerties. They were nice breaks for me 

as a CIT, now away from home for a full six weeks.

Miss Cowhey gave Elizabeth and Belle two evenings free. Wednesday and Sunday were 

outdoor supper nights at the barn. Usually we had two sandwiches, milk and a piece of 

fruit. Prior to using the barn, we had to deal with ants from the local formicary. 

A highlight of the season was the annual Camp Adrian-Camp Rip Van Winkle baseball 

game. This occurred during the last two weeks of Camp Adrian’s season when we had 

the oldest group, usually ranging in ages from 12 to 14. The game itself was held at the 

Rip field, which was professional by all standards. It even had slate under the sod so that 

the field would dry quickly after a rainfall. The players were driven to Rip, while the rest 

of the campers walked the nine-tenths of a mile to Camp Rip Van Winkle. Not making 

excuses, the boys from Rip were playing as a team all summer long while our boys were 

playing as a team less than two weeks. It showed, as we usually lost. However, good 

sportsmanship prevailed at all times. It’s a matter of fact, the rich boys treated the poor 

boys to a soda after the game. How nice of them. 

With my background in music theory, and with help from Herb Becker on the music and 

Paulist Father poet, the Reverend George Johnson, I wrote the Camp Adrian March. In 

presenting the original manuscript to Marguerite Cowhey at the opening of Camp 

Adrian’s seventh season in 1951, I inscribed : …to give Camp Adrian a song of its own. 

During the 1951 season, I introduced the campers to their new song playing the square 

grand in the barn. Before too long, they got it and were singing the lyrics as they hiked 

the country roads. 

Chorus: 

Give us a loud stirring song, come all you stalwarts fill the air 

and with your voice clear and strong, sing out in accents sweet and rare. 

As we march on down the road, the blue and white will always wave; 

so come sing out in our song, raising your voices bold and brave. 

Refrain: 

Happy, lively, campers we, you can oh so plainly see. 

Loyal, we will always be, proving in our constancy. (Chorus) 

Refrain: 

For God and great country, lessons we learn constantly, 

in our camp activity, leading us to victory. (Chorus) 

It seemed that some of that World War II spirit prevailed in the second refrain.

Hiking still remained high on my list of camp activities. We took off our camp uniform 

of navy blue shorts and white tee shirts and dressed in our long pants whenever we went 

hiking. The Cowhey estate had over two thousand acres with several natural wonders 

within their domain. One of my favorite hikes was to “Salamanderland,” a ravine located 

about a mile and a half into the woods, past Camp Rip Van Winkle. Here, at the bottom 

of the sunless ravine, we overturned mossy rocks to see of we could find salamanders. 

We put our lizard friends in a coffee can and then set them free before returning back to 

Camp Adrian. Another destination was High Falls, a 70-foot “bottomless” cataract near 

Camp RVW. Like a lit fireplace, the falls had a certain mesmerizing attraction and were 

awesome during a rainy spring/summer. An after supper activity might include a minihike 

to the “Lone Ranger’s Cabin” about a half mile away on Bugle Hill. Here we played 

“capture the flag” while admiring the panorama of the Catskills in the background. From 

our vantage point, we could see the silhouette of Rip Van Winkle as he lay on his back. 

Mountain lore has it that when a thunderstorm occurs, the loud crash of thunder is Rip 

Van Winkle bowling. 

Marguerite Cowhey invited my mother to spend some time at Camp Adrian during the 

summer of 1952. Mom took off from work and graciously accepted Miss Cowhey’s 

invitation. This was the beginning of a lifelong friendship between the two ladies, and for 

both mom and me, Camp Adrian would become our summer Shangri-la. 

MOM AND MOONDOG 

Mom, after many years at the Hampshire House, decided to change jobs. After a short 

stint at the Belvedere Hotel, she found a chambermaid’s job at the upscale Warwick 

Hotel on 54 th Street and 6 th Avenue (No one who calls himself a New Yorker would call 

6 th Avenue, Avenue of the Americas). Mom would stay at the Warwick until her 

retirement in 1959. 

After establishing herself at the Warwick, mom got a maid’s job for Irene Rodriguez. 

Irene loved it and, she, in turn, brought some of her people in as chambermaids. This 

further cemented the bond of friendship between Irene and mom. 

I often met mom after work, just as I did in the Hampshire House. In this case, however, 

a stolid figure of a blind poet met the eye. There he was, day in and day out, in his usual 

spot on 6 th Avenue near 54 th Street. Clothed in a robe and standing tall with a Viking 

helmet and spear in hand, Moondog, had become part of the City landmark since the late 

1940’s. He remained a permanent fixture there until the early 1970’s. Perhaps, mom 

thought that he was the reincarnation of Turlock O’Carolan, the blind bard of early Irish 

literature. Later, I was told that he was an accomplished poet, philosopher and musician. 

Was he part of the Beat Generation that was coming of age in the 1950’s? In September 

1999, Moondog ascended into Valhalla.

EATING OUT 

Eating out as a teenager, in the days before the advent of the Golden Arch, was a lot of 

fun. I usually ate out once a week, usually on Friday’s, to give my working mom a break 

in the kitchen and she, in turn, gave me a dollar 

Although Chuck Full o’ Nuts on the corner of 57 th Street and 8 th Avenue was great for a 

frank and a whole wheat donut, it was mainly a lunch fast food restaurant. Lying between 

Simon’s Key Maker and the F. W. Woolworth was Horn and Hardart Automat, my 

favorite “waiterless” restaurant where one could have a quality dinner for under a dollar. 

Joe Horn and Frank Hardart opened their first Automat in Philadelphia in 1902. Soon 

other Horn and Hardart Automats spread to New York City. 

Located at 977 Eight Avenue, this two-story deco delight was open from early morning 

to midnight. It attracted all sorts from local blue-collar workers, to students from Power 

Memorial and other local high schools, to an evening crowd of sports fans and theatre- 

goers. Anyone with a nickel could place his cup and saucer under a gargoyle-like chrome 

spigot, turn the handle, and presto - a cup of coffee came flowing out. Take it to a table, 

read a newspaper, muse, relax – nobody rushed you. You had the occasional derelict, but 

that was the exception. My eyrie was in the corner of the balcony right over the cashier 

and a great spot to people-watch. New Yorkers are great people watchers. 

The five cents piece, a nickel, was the basic unit of currency at the Automat. The first 

stop was at the cashier’s counter where you would put down a dollar and get 10 nickels 

and 2 quarters in return. The rapidity in which the cashier dispensed those nickels always 

amazed me. After picking up my tray and utensils, I then headed for the walls where 

delicious foods awaited me behind the glass compartments of this eatery condominium. 

After depositing three nickels in the baked beans slot, the glass door popped open, and I 

took out a brown crock of the best baked-beans that I ever tasted. For five nickels, I could 

get a frank and beans, for seven nickels, a beef potpie. A tempting array of desserts could 

be purchased including my favorite, lemon meringue pie, at three nickels. Of course, 

there was the steam table where I could get a hamburger with mashed potatoes and a 

veggie, a roll with butter, a dessert and coffee – all for under one dollar. But the steam 

table lacked the adventure and defeated the purpose of the Automat. 

The Eight Avenue Automat closed down in the late ‘70’s and the last Automat, located 

on East 42 nd , closed its doors on April 4, 1991. Another New York institution gone. 

Friday’s was probably the day when I eat out most frequently back in my teen years. It’s 

my favorite dining out day of the week as I write this memoir. “Romeo’s,” on Broadway 

and 50 th Street, was my favorite Friday restaurant. I usually started off with a cup of 

minestrone soup. Being a good upstanding Catholic and choosing not to eat meat on 

Friday, a plate of spaghetti with mushroom sauce was my entrée of choice with Italian 

bread and a soft drink. A biscuit tortoni would pamper my sweet tooth. Again, a complete 

meal for under a dollar – and a quarter tip, of course, for the waiter.

There were many upscale restaurants in the area including Patsy’s, the home of the 

“ratpack,” on West 56 th Street, Patricia Murphy’s on 54 th Street and the touristy Mama 

Leone’s in the theatre district. These were out of the price range of mom and me. On 

special occasions, we ate at Child’s on Columbus Circle, where usually I had a turkey 

platter. Schrafft’s, on West 57 th Street near Broadway, was another venue for mom and 

me. Both Child’s and Schrafft’s were chain restaurants and both had bar service where 

Delia could have her favorite before dinner drink – a Manhattan. Delia seemed to prefer 

Schrafft’s as many of the waitresses were colleens from the Auld Sod. Schrafft’s had 

great chocolates that were sold by the box. Patsy’s is the only restaurant that remains 

today. 

“Eat at Joe’s” was the popular sandwich board menu placed outside restaurants or worn 

by an advertiser as he handed out cards or handbills encouraging potential patrons to eat 

there. However, I had my own Joe’s. Ramon and Irene, the parents of my good friend and 

classmate, Joe Rodriguez, often invited me to dinner in their fifth floor apartment. By this 

time, my mom, Delia, and Irene had become friends. Being a walkup, worked up an 

appetite, but the walk up the four flights was more than worth it. My favorite was Sunday 

dinner at Joe’s. Ramon, a native Spaniard, made a terrific arroz con pollo. I usually came 

back for seconds and thirds. Being a perfect host, Ramon made sure that I was well fed. 

Eat more, Tom. Good! he would say in his Castilian accent. The same was true for the red 

wine that he poured liberally from a gallon jug. Drink more, Tom. It’s good for you. I 

never over-indulged, well almost never. 

THE GIANTS OF THE HENRY HUDSON HOTEL 

During the early 1950’s both the New York Giants Football Team and the New York 

Giants Baseball Team resided in the less than giant rooms of the Henry Hudson Hotel. 

The hotel was the home away from home of team members who did not reside in the 

greater metropolitan area. Draped from one of the two flagpoles was the impressive logo 

of the New York Giants. 

The hotel was the focus of the city when the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers 

ended their regular season in a tie. 

A two out of three game playoff series was required to determine the 1951 National 

League pennant winner. The Bums won the first game. During the second game that was 

piped over the P.A. system at Power Memorial Academy, the Giants bested the Dodgers. 

Upon the conclusion of the second game, I ran down to Davega’s Sports Store in the 

Madison Square Garden complex and bought myself a baseball. As the players were 

returning to the HHH, I enthusiastically requested that they autograph my baseball. They 

obliged. On my prized ball, faded through the years, I have the signatures of Sal the 

Barber Maglie, the winning pitcher that day’s game, as well as Dave Kozlo. Yankee, 

Bobby Brown, was also in the hotel that day and he obligingly added signature to my 

Giant ball. This day remains for me, a cherished one in sport’s history.

PCQ14: What was the name of the New York Giant’s baseball player, who in the third 

game of the 1951 playoff series between the Giants and Brooklyn Dodgers, hit the 

“shot heard around the world?” 

I frequently used the HHH gym before fitness guru, Jack Lenane, set up shop at the hotel. 

I played a solo game of “21” in basketball and then went for a swim in the pool. During 

certain times the pool was closed so that another “giant”, a giant in the swimming world 

could practice for her English channel crossing. Who was she? Hint: initials F. C. 

The HHH ballroom was a center of social activity most nights of the week. County 

Longford had their annual St. Patrick’s dance there. St. Paul’s had some of its parish 

dances there. The one thing good about the HHH ballroom was that its entrance was less 

than a yard from the entrance to my apartment building at 363. I wouldn’t have to worry 

about a designated driver or taxi if I over-imbibed at a ballroom function. I never did. My 

nose is growing!!! Well, once, I took a little too much, and my mom was very perturbed. 

The HHH has had many lives since I left New York in 1959 including being the 

corporate headquarters for the City’s PBS station, WNET, and later a residence for some 

of the many nurses employed by nearby Roosevelt- St. Luke’s Hospital. I was glad to 

read recently that it has had yet another renaissance as the “Hudson Hotel” with the main 

entrance on 58 th Street. Perhaps, I’ll do an overnighter. Dejavu, baby, Dejavu!!! 

LIFE IN THE GARDEN 

One of my favorite pastimes was a hockey game at the old Madison Square Garden on a 

Sunday night. Joe Rodriguez, Whitey Martin, along with some of the other “Panthers” 

and myself attended Sunday night hockey games on a regular basis. Although George 

Mikan was in his heyday, NBA basketball did not appeal to us. We were diehard hockey 

fans and would not divide our loyalties between the two MSG professional sports. 

Our first stop before entering the Garden was at Nedick’s where we had a tasty frank 

washed down with an orange drink. Admission to the game was forty cents upon 

presentation of a General Organization (G.O.) card. While the seats were up near the 

rafters, we didn’t care, for we had a bird’s eye view of the impending action. 

I feigned loyalty to the home team – the New York Rangers while Joe was an avid 

Detroit Red Wings fan. The Rangers was a respectable team back in my teen years. 

Players Chuck Rayner and Edgar Laprade would go on enter the Hockey Hall of Fame in 

Toronto. However, the Red Wings dominated the hockey scene winning the Stanley Cup 

in both 1950 and 1952. Some of the greatest players in hockey history complemented 

their ranks – Ted Lindsay, Terry Sawchuk, and the indomitable, Gordie Howe. Usually, I 

wound up losing any bets I made with Joe as his Red Wings prevailed. Holy spittin’ 

chicklets!

PCQ15: What is the name of the machine that is steered by a two-man skating crew for 

smoothing the ice? 

Gladys Gooding was the resident MSG organist and her renditions before and during the 

game aroused the espirit d’ corps of all fans within earshot. She worked fans into a 

frenzy with her repeated four note crescendo: C, down to G,A,B and back to C. Boom, 

boom, boom, boom; Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom. And the 

place went wild. Ms. Gooding also played the organ for the Knick home games. 

At times, we made our own music. Our favorite was I’ve got a “Lumley” Bunch of 

Coconuts, a takeoff on a song of that time, I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts, and of 

course, it alluded to Toronto player, Harry Lumley. “Music hath its charms…” 

During the baseball season would play at Ebbet’s Field, home of the Brooklyn Dodgers.’ 

Besides playing and singing the National Anthem and Take me out to the Ballgame, 

Gladys struck up Three Blind Mice whenever an ump made an unfavorable call against 

the “Bums.” I can hear her now! 

Whenever she played Sweet Georgia Brown on the Garden’s organ, we knew that Lou 

Saperstein and his fabulous “Harlem Globetrotters” were tearing up, down, or over the 

shellacked basketball court. The disciplined antics of this “zany five” with names like 

“Meadowlark,” “Goose” and “Geese” captured the hearts of professional and college 

basketball fans alike and, at times, played against the pros including George Mikan and 

the Minneapolis Lakers, as well as College All-Star teams. The “Globetrotters” 

invariably won. 

BEYOND GOTHAM 

I first got bitten by the travel bug when I was sixteen, sweet sixteen and never been 

kissed. Aside from summers in Camp Adrian, I had not left Gotham’s gates with perhaps 

the exception of an overnighter to Asbury Park to visit Bill Bergen’s (Apt. 4B) mother. 

Occasionally, I took the 125 th Street ferry for a day of fun at Palisades Amusement Park 

on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. The amusement park of song beckoned 

people to “Come on over” and that’s exactly what I did, to swim in its salt-water pool and 

ride its challenging roller coaster. Challenging, too, was the walk up the cliffs known as 

the Palisades. The amusement park is long gone and has been replaced by the 

gentrification that has marred the beauty of this natural wonder.

Charlotte Leonard had worked with my mother in the Hampshire House for many years 

and the two had become good friends. Joan, Charlotte’s only-child, was my age and we, 

too, had become friends. So it was not surprising when Charlotte invited me to join her 

and Joan for a summer visit to the coal country of Wilkes-Barre, Pa. I was fifteen and this 

was the first trip out of the City on my own. I took a Martz bus from the Dixie Terminal, 

located in the bowels of the Dixie Hotel on West 42 nd Street. It was interesting to watch 

the bus revolve on a turntable and drive up the incline to exit on 43 rd Street, and then over 

to the Lincoln Tunnel. Charlotte met me at the Wilkes-Barre Terminal and brought me to 

her two-week rental where I had a few days of fun and good company. 

The following year, Charlotte extended the invitation again. Maybe she was trying to fix 

me up with her daughter, Joan??? At age seventeen, I was becoming more daring. With 

money from my earnings as a delivery boy, I decided to fly to Wilkes-Barre from Newark 

Airport. My mom was somewhat apprehensive about letting her Tommy become another 

“Lone Eagle.” I was cool, calm and collected as I boarded the twin prop American 

Airlines plane at Newark. It was a sheer delight experiencing my first takeoff. No sooner 

than the plane had taken off, it seemed that it was making its descent into Wilkes Barre 

Airport. Like the previous year, I sipped my Kool-Aid under the sun in the backyard and 

had another good time with Charlotte and Joan. 

I was a junior in high school when I received an unexpected surprise. Father James 

Martin Gillis, C.S.P., invited me to be his guest for three days at St. Paul’s College in 

Washington, D.C. Perhaps the most celebrated Paulist Father of that time, Fr. Gillis was 

making a retreat at the Paulist Seminary, prior to his golden jubilee mass and celebration 

at St. Paul’s in New York. I jumped at the invitation and a reason to visit my Nation’s 

capital for the first time. 

This invitation presented me with the opportunity to ride the rails of a major railroad for 

the first time. I boarded a shuttle bus at the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Terminal in 

Columbus Circle (under the huge “other cola” thermometer) that took me to the Jersey 

City train depot. I boarded the “Royal Blue.” What an exhilarating experience to ride the 

rails back then. I had lunch in the dining car replete with table linens, silverware, and 

courteous waiters. After reading the menu, I wrote my select on the actual tab so that 

there could be no mistake as to what I ordered. Upon arriving at Union Station, I was met 

by one of the seminarians who drove me to the college. 

From the window in my room I could see the Capitol building in the background. I 

wandered through the streets of the immediate area of Brookland, stopping at Trinity 

College and the uncompleted National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception on the 

grounds of Catholic University. On subsequent trips, I would explore the government 

areas of our Nation’s capital. Highlighting the trip was a dinner honoring Fr. Gillis. The 

dining room was bedecked in gold trim and the dinner was fit for a golden jubilarian.

These trips were an introduction to my life as a traveler. My first airplane flight would be 

the first of many. During the past twenty years, I have logged nearly three hundred 

thousand air miles. Currently, I have a balance of over a hundred thousand miles in my 

mileage bank. In recent years, I have traveled on Amtrak’s “Silver Meteor”, “Southwest 

Chief” and the “Coast Starlight.” Nice trains to be sure, and great scenery on the latter 

two trains, but still leaving a lot to be desired. Must paper plates, plastic forks, lousy food 

and late trains be the norm today on our nation’s railroads? Must I go to Europe to enjoy 

and savor railroading as it used to be here in America? Why was Amtrak’s “Silver Star” 

over three hours late on my trip from Newark Penn, Station to Orlando, Florida, on 

March 18, 2004? Let’s get our railroads back in shape instead of pouring billions into 

unnecessary projects. 

REACHING MY MAJORITY 

On December 28, 1951, while a senior in high school, I celebrated my eighteenth 

birthday in Washington, D.C. I had saved up some money from my earnings and 

combined Christmas-birthday presents to afford a trip to our Nation’s capital. Having 

one’s birthday so close to Christmas can be a short-changing experience when it comes to 

receiving presents. Why must I be that “Holy Innocent?” 

I traveled the day before by B & O ‘s “Royal Blue” and ensconced myself at the Statler- 

Hilton Hotel at 16 th and K Street NW. I had a great time sightseeing. I visited outdoor 

shrines and indoor museums. I walked to the softball field near the Washington 

Monument, the “spot” where the flying saucer landed earlier in the year in The Day the 

Earth Stood Still. For a novice and solo traveler, I navigated the city pretty good. After 

all, I was now a man in the eyes of the law. 

On the evening of my birthday, I ate in the hotel and to assert my rite of passage, I 

ordered a Brandy Alexander with a firm voice. I was “chicken” to try mom’s favorite – 

the potent Manhattan cocktail. 

I fell in love with the city of Washington, and in June of the following year, I took mom 

there for her birthday. I’m not too sure which birthday she was celebrating. You know 

how “funny” Irish ladies are about their age. I didn’t tell her until the evening before our 

departure for the three day trip that we were flying down to D.C. Mom was beside 

herself, as she had never flown before. Don’t worry, mom. Everything will be okay. If the 

plane comes down, we’ll just use a parachute. Little devil, me. We took a cab to 

LaGuardia for an early morning flight, and before too long, we were airborne. Once we 

ascended to our cruising altitude, mom settled down and had a breakfast of juice, 

blueberry pancakes and tea. She finished every bit. Once we checked into the Statler- 

Hilton on 16 th and K Sts. NW, I was ready to give mom a “TC” tour of Washington. We 

did quite a bit of walking and she kept up with me. Quite a trooper, mom.

Upon turning eighteen, all young men, able or not, were required to register for the draft. 

This meant a trip down to the Selective Service System Office on Whitehall Street for a 

physical examination and subsequent classification. Upon entering the office that was 

filled with eighteen-year olds like myself, I completed the necessary paperwork. Then I 

proceeded to the examination room where a doctor told me to strip to my shorts and wait 

on a line with other young men. I thought to myself that the law of averages dictated that 

some of these guys were destined for combat duty in the raging Korean conflict. The 

exam itself was pretty basic – eye test with colored cloth balls, touch your toes, - take off 

your shorts – cough- jump up and down – next! I was given a voucher that entitled me to 

one lunch. For the first time in my life I tasted army franks and beans. Not bad, if I 

remember. Because of the fact I was still in school, I was given a “student” classification, 

an effective temporary deferment from military service. 

I LIKE IKE 

On Election Day of 1952, I exercised my franchise for the first time. It was a presidential 

year pitting former World War II general and Columbia University president, Dwight 

David Eisenhower against the governor of Illinois, Adlai E. Stevenson. Ike was the 

Republican candidate, Stevenson, the Democrat’s candidate. Being a young man 

espousing conservative values, the liberal “egghead” from Illinois was not for me; the 

man from Abilene was. I proceeded to register as a Republican in the early fall of 1952. 

My Congressional district was then known at the “silk stocking district” and was 

represented by lawyer, “Fritz” Coudert. I affixed the “I Like Ike” button that I had picked 

up and, like millions of loyal Americans, went to the polls on Election Day 1952. I cast 

my first vote for the Republican ticket. Ike promised to end the war if elected president. 

He was elected, although the south remained solid and voted for Stevenson. The World 

War II hero kept his promise, went to Korea prior to his inauguration, and the KoreanWar 

ended shortly thereafter– back where it started, at the 38 th parallel. 

Mom did not vote. For whatever reason she had not become an American citizen 

The newly renovated White House was ready for its new occupants, Dwight and Mamie 

Eisenhower. Red-hunting California Senator, Richard Nixon moved into the U. S. Naval 

Observatory vice presidential residence bag and baggage. 

I remained a loyal Republican until 1980.

GET A REAL JOB! 

No sooner than I graduated from Power Memorial Academy in early June, I went job 

hunting. Getting a Social Security card was the first order of business. After receiving my 

“life number”, I tried two different manual labor positions, both of which lasted no more 

two days each. The first was as a busboy in the Automat, the second, working for J. P. 

Stevens selling refreshments to the fans in Yankee Stadium. The wages were minimal, so 

I bided my time waiting for Camp Adrian to open in mid-July. 

As we entered the fall season, I found myself gainfully unemployed. I didn’t feel right 

lollygaging at home. So I pounded the proverbial sidewalks of New York and got a full 

time position as a mail clerk in Warner-Hudnut Pharmaceuticals on 18 th Street and 6 th 

Avenue. It was a 9 to 5 job from Monday thru Friday. That gave me the weekends to 

hang out with the guys. The pay wasn’t great but at least I had a weekly source of 

income. 

I now became a commuter on New York City’s famed subway system. Every morning I 

left the house about 8:15AM, catching the 6 th Avenue local to 18 th Street. The trains were 

packed during rush hour – sardines in a tin. I passed the time by looking at the 

advertisements and admiring the most recent Miss Subway photo. 

At Warner-Hudnut, I found my coworkers to be both pleasant and helpful as I learned 

how to operate a Pitney-Bowes stamp machine and make my rounds delivering the mail 

in the morning and picking up the outgoing mail in the afternoon. However, I was asking 

myself whether or not I wanted to be a mail clerk the rest of my life. 

I had just celebrated my 19 th birthday on December 28 th of 1952. My teenage years were 

coming to a swift end. I looked back over these years and asked myself: Was I a typical 

teenager? After reading this chapter, what do you think? Was I a “typical” teenager or, 

perhaps an “atypical” teenager?

Chapter 7 – GROWING UP CATHOLIC IN HELL’S KITCHEN 

CONSERVATIVE ME 

Bridget Delia Murray was philosophically a progressive, New Deal Democrat. So, too, 

was Aunt Betty. Not so, Aunt Mary who switched political parties in the mid 1930’s from 

Democratic to Republican to became our family’s unabashed FDR basher. Unlike her 

poorer sisters, Aunt Mary’s financial portfolio included a number of blue chip stocks. 

Many good Republicans have sizeable portfolios. I have often asked myself why I was so 

like Aunt Mary when it came to politics in my earlier life. Certainly, Mom and Aunt 

Betty had a much greater influence over me than my matriarch aunt from Rockaway 

Beach. 

Labels are sometimes misleading, but for what its worth, I considered myself a right 

wing conservative Republican in the 1950’s and 1960’s, and will attempt to give 

supportive evidence of that fact in this chapter. I will attempt to identify the factors that 

most influenced me in forming a “right” conscience. 

The holy Roman Catholic Church was, and still is, the embodiment of conservatism. I 

was influenced in my thinking by the writings of Father James Martin Gillis, the noted 

Paulist columnist and author. With the advent of television, I was an avid fan of Bishop 

Fulton J. Sheen and religiously watched his program, Life is Worth Living, every week. 

By the late 1950’s, it was in color and the bishop with his flowing purple cape was even 

more impressive. Bishop Sheen was television’s real “caped crusader.” 

Besides the Church, there was the secular media. I listened to conservative 

commentators, Fulton Lewis Jr. and John T. Flynn on the radio. I read George Sokolsky 

and other conservative columnists in the Hearst-owned New York Journal-American, as 

well as John O’Donnell in the New York Daily News. Of Time, Newsweek, and U. S. 

News and World Reports, the last was my favorite. And let’s not forget the American 

Mercury. 

Educationally, from kindergarten to post graduate school, I was molded in institutions run 

by the Catholic Church. When the Catholic college that I attended banned Catcher in the 

Rye from my English class, conservative students applauded the pro-censorship 

administration’s decision, myself included. Need I say more?

FROM ALTAR BOY TO ALTAR SERVER 

It was during my final grade school years that Father Joe Hayes replaced Father Maurice 

Mc Mahon as moderator of the Altar Boys. I worked well with both moderators, although 

I seemed to identify more with the younger Father Hayes. 

I was now serving mass for some of the more noted Paulist Fathers: Bertrand Conway, 

Joseph Mc Sorley, and James Martin Gillis. I served them all. Over the years, I came to 

know Father Gillis, the editor of The Catholic World, the oldest Catholic monthly in 

America. Father Gillis also wrote a weekly column for the archdiocesan newspaper, The 

Catholic News (called Catholic New York today). 

As an altar boy, my goal was to serve as master of ceremonies at the 11AM Solemn High 

Mass. This would be achieved by the time I was in high school. 

Father Joe Foley had taken over as director of the Paulist Choir upon the retirement of 

Father Finn. The new choirmaster was known for his behind-the-altar dramatics, and was 

known to utter an occasional expletive if one of the choirboys hit an off key note. In the 

1960’s he would rebuild the three-manual organ midway in the church and install a set of 

pipes, including a pontifical trumpet. 

I got to know some of my fellow-altar boys real well. John Kelly and I vied in friendly 

competition for best altar boy in St. Paul’s Parish. 

Activities abounded in the parish. The Paulist Fathers had to keep up their image as one 

of the most progressive congregations in the country. During my teen years, I was one of 

the most active younger participants in parish life. Go, Tommy, go! 

Oh what fun the altar boys had in an ongoing “war” against the choirboys. The altar 

boys’ room was on the second floor of the rectory, next to the sacristy, while the 

choirboys’ room was a floor below. Both would enter by a common side entrance and 

take a staircase to their respective rooms. Having the “high ground,” the altar boys 

showered unsuspecting choirboys with glasses of water as they were about to enter the 

building. They replied to their dousing with language highly unbecoming choirboys. 

While some altar boys did not continue their chosen chores into high school, I opted to 

stay the course. As a senior altar server with the stress on “server” as opposed to “boy,” I 

now had distinguishing features. No more starched collars irritating my tender neck. No 

more red or purple bows tied to perfection in front of the collar. Now it was just a 

cassock and surplice – an insignia that one had risen in the ranks.

Senior servers were given select assignments including the 11AM solemn high mass on 

Sunday or the midnight mass at Christmas. Serving mass at the convent was another perk. 

My favorite assignment was serving weekday mass at Grace Institute. Founded by 

shipping magnate, William Grace, this secretarial school for ladies was located on 60 th 

Street off Amsterdam Avenue. The late Victorian, Addams-like structure lay atop a hill 

wherein classes were conducted, both day and night, by the nuns. After mass, the mother 

superior invited the altar server to partake of a hearty breakfast. 

Teaching novice altar boys how to serve mass was another senior server perk. Not only 

did you teach them the Latin responses of the mass but the A to Z’s of serving a no- frills 

attached mass as well. Among those I taught were two boys from the Amsterdam Houses, 

Francis Desiano and Peter Murray (no relation). 

Francis was a very refined boy who visited my house on occasions to take piano lessons 

from this dilettante pianist. He never did become an accomplished pianist; neither did I! 

Besides becoming one of our best altar boys, Francis was active in the Legion of Mary 

and attended Camp Adrian for several years. Upon completing one year at Power 

Memorial Academy, Francis accepted God’s calling and entered the Paulist Seminary. I 

proudly attended his ordination and was at St. Paul’s for his 25 th anniversary mass and 

celebration a few years ago. Father Frank was named the youngest pastor of St. Paul the 

Apostle parish where he served with distinction for two terms. His fellow priests elected 

him the youngest president of the Paulist Fathers, also for two terms. 

Peter Murray was less serious than Frank and a natural born athlete. Like Frank, Peter 

attended Power Memorial Academy. He attended Camp Adrian for many seasons and 

was voted outstanding camper in the mid -1950’s. After graduating from Iona College 

and doing a stint in the service during the Vietnam era, Peter married, and he and his wife 

settled in Tampa, Florida. He taught English at the University of Southern Florida and 

presently owns a computer-related business. 

I am still in contact with both Frank and Peter. 

As a senior altar boy, or senior server as we preferred to be called, I had the honor of 

serving His Eminence, Francis Cardinal Spellman on numerous occasions. I was 

probably the cardinal’s favorite altar boy at St. Paul’s. I possessed a signed copy of his 

book, The Foundling, in my autographed collection. Over fifty year later, on March 12, 

2005, I presented the signed book to Bishop Gerald T. Walsh. A Power alumnus, who 

was at St. Paul’s to be the principal celebrant for the Power Memorial Academy Alumni 

Association’s Mass of Remembrance. Could this presentation be a harbinger for Bishop 

Walsh? At this event, Frank Feeley, another former altar boy who I taught, played the 

pipes during the necrology.

I always wondered why the church put the title “cardinal” between his first and surname. 

Why couldn’t it be Cardinal Francis Spellman? His Eminence was driven from the 

Powerhouse at 452 Madison Avenue in a black Chrysler limousine bearing the letter H 

on the license plate. I wondered, too, what the “H”stood for. Perhaps it stood for 

“hierarchy” or for “Hayes,” the name of his predecessor. 

Bishop Fulton J. Sheen was a regular to St. Paul’s. I served the celebrity bishopon many 

occasions . One of my fondest memories of Bishop Sheen was at a Confirmation 

ceremony where one of his many famous converts was receiving the sacrament – Claire 

Booth Luce. The heavy press coverage of the event provided many distractions for altar 

servers like myself. Flashbulbs from the Speed Graphic cameras going off all over the 

place and cameramen jockeying for position in the sanctuary were some of the obstacles 

that I had to deal with. Perhaps my ego machine was working overtime hoping that the 

photographer would get a shot of me in a ceremonial position with the bishop. No such 

luck. Bishop Sheen was quickly becoming the first of the great televangelists and a 

household name on the lips of many Americans. 

CARDINAL SPELLMAN AND ME MAKE THE CENTERFOLD 

There I was, right smack in the Friday, May 4, 1956 issue of the New York Daily News 

centerfold, fully attired in cassock, lace surplice, and white gloves placing a chair on the 

main altar of the Church of St. Paul the Apostle for His Eminence, Francis Cardinal 

Spellman. Finally, my day had arrived in “New York’s Picture Newspaper.” 

The occasion was an ordination ceremony in which the Cardinal was elevating some 

sixteen deacons of the Paulist Fathers to the priesthood on Thursday, May 3, 1956. The 

conferral of the sacrament of Holy Orders took some two and a half hours and was the 

largest group of Paulist’s ever to be ordained. I still see Fr. James McQuade of the largest 

Paulist class. 

Besides the ordination photo, others in the centerfold included Mamie Eisenhower and an 

eight year old girl at the White House for a National Hearing Week Proclamation; Mrs. 

Margaret Kelly, mother of Princess Grace, who was returning to the States after her 

daughter’s wedding in Monaco; former vice president and US Senator from Kentucky, 

Alben Barkley, lying in state; and Sharon Kay Ritchie, Miss America of 1956, bestowing 

congratulatory kiss on the cheek of Lael Jackson, Miss New York State. Was I in rare 

company! 

Serving at the ordination ceremony was one of my last acts in the capacity of an altar 

boy, now in his early twenties. For about a dozen years, I faithfully served my parish in 

this capacity and now it was time to take off the ecclesiastical uniform that I wore so 

well. However, I would not sever my ties completely with St. Paul’s.

HERB BECKER, ROLE MODEL 

One of the most positive influences in my teen-age years was Herbert Becker, organist 

and member of the Paulist Choristers. He lived with his wife and young son in a nearby 

apartment building on 56 th Street. At that age, we all need role models. 

The Church of St. Paul the Apostle had many evening liturgical services including 

missions, novenas, and the stations of the cross during Lent. The services usually began 

and 8PM and closed about 45 minutes later with benediction of the Blessed Sacrament. 

The closing ritual consisted of two Latin hymns (do you remember their names?), the 

blessing with the monstrance, the Divine Praises, and the singing of the hymn, 

Holy God we Praise Thy Name. The altar servers were required to be in the sacristy 15 

minutes prior to the service so that they could don their appropriate apparel. 

For those, like myself, Mr. Becker was on hand to organize and oversee activities that 

would keep us entertained until benediction. He introduced us to a game called “Jenkins 

Up,” played with a quarter and requiring considerable manual dexterity. It was something 

new and a lot of fun. Our academic prowess was challenged when Mr. Becker, trivia 

book in hand, would challenge us with questions that ranged from history to 

entertainment and then some. I remember his questions on slogans where the participants 

had to name the company after the respective slogan was read aloud. The pause that 

refreshes is the slogan of what company? The first contestant to answer correctly 

received a point. 

He organized field trips for us. The Cloisters was my favorite trip and proved that 

“history can be fun.” His deep-sea fishing trips from Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn were 

very popular. By then, I had my sea legs and went on every fishing trip that Mr. Becker 

organized. So did John Kelly and Jim Saul, like myself, altar servers for many years. We 

usually went bottom fishing on a party boat for porgies but, on occasion, fished for 

mackerel. For a small fee, one could rent a rod, reel and tackle. The boat provided the 

bait, usually cut up clams. I preferred to be a “gentlemen fisherman.” I didn’t mind 

baiting the hook and was thoroughly elated when I got a bite, but I hated to take the darn 

fish off the hook. That chore was left to Mr. Becker. Invariably, I brought home at least a 

dozen fish from each trip that I gave away to my neighbors and kept a couple for mom. 

She was the fish eater of the family. I was not. Unfortunately, some kids got seasick and 

could not wait to see the Tower of St. Mark’s Church in the distance upon their return to 

port. I empathized with them, thinking of myself some years earlier coming into 

Provincetown after a day of feeding the fishes and seeing the Pilgrim Memorial 

Monument reigning supremely over the town’s landscape. Land ahoy, my fellow altar 

boys! 

Mr. Becker visited my home on several occasions, including my high school graduation, 

where he played the piano in a way that I wished that I could have played. Mr. Becker 

encouraged me in my musical pursuits and helped me with the music of the Camp Adrian 

March. One could not have wanted a better role model.

SEXTON, SACRISTAN, OR WHATEVER – THAT’S ME 

A crisis occurred at St. Paul’s during the spring of 1951 when John Conlon, the sacristan 

for years resigned his position. The duties of a sacristan (I don’t like using the term 

“sexton”) include opening and closing the church, preparing the altars for the liturgies, 

setting up the priestly garments for masses, overseeing the altar boys, and a myriad of 

other functions. Having been John Conlon’s assistant, Father Thomas G. Mc Mahon, the 

pastor, asked me to fill the sacristan’s position until a replacement could be found. This 

was great insofar as I was concerned. 

Being interim sacristan meant that I had to rise at an ungodly hour and be on time to open 

the church at 5:30AM but the perks were great. Thanks to a special arrangement made 

with Brother Hennessy, the principal of Power Memorial Academy, I was allowed to 

come into school late. The “deal” also allowed me to leave Brother Sloan’s English class 

at 11:30AM in order to go over to the church and set up for the 12:10 noonday mass. 

Anything to get away from Mad Jack! After a hearty midday dinner at the rectory, I 

returned to school sated for the two afternoon classes. 

Father Mc Mahon must have had a lot of confidence in this seventeen-year old interim 

sacristan, especially when he gave me the keys to the kingdom, or should I say to the 

combination to the walk-in vault. It contained the gold and gem-bedecked sacred vessels. 

One chalice alone was insured for $20,000.00. Jim O’Connor, a former Pan-American 

employee, was hired as the new sacristan. While my grades may have suffered, I 

thoroughly enjoyed the month or so on “special assignment,” and accepted the 

responsibility that came with it. 

Several years later Aunt Mary was visiting Rome. At the time Father Mc Mahon was 

pastor at Santa Susanna, the American church in Rome. I suggested that she include a 

visit to Santa Susanna on her itinerary. She did and had a nice chat with Father Mc 

Mahon. In the course of conversation, the good father referred to her nephew as a “spark 

plug.” I wonder what he meant by that? 

THE HECKER CLUB – ST. PAUL’S OWN C.Y.O. 

The Hecker Club was St. Pauls’ answer to the nation-wide Catholic Youth Organization 

(CYO). Named after Isaac Hecker, the founder of the Paulist Fathers, it functioned in 

much the same way as the CYO did, but with added embellishments.

Taking advantage of the cavernous auditorium that lay beneath the church, the Hecker 

Club sponsored a number of activities for the youth of the parish. Some were weekly 

events basketball, dances and roller-skating. 

When it came to the dances that I frequently attended, I found myself to be a wallflower. 

Pops prevailed, as rock and roll had not yet arrived on dance scene. At times, some Latin 

rhythms were included. I was known to join in a Conga line singing: One, two, three, la 

conga! One, two, three, la Conga! as I snaked along holding the waist of the boy or girl 

in front of me. Someone was holding my waist too – boy or girl, I don’t know. 

My favorite Hecker Club activity was the roller skating event. I wasn’t a bad skater and 

enjoyed rolling my way along the marble floor on rubber wheels to an Ethel Waters 

organ tune. Occasionally, there was speed skating, but this was forbidden by house rules. 

Occasionally, there was some body checking, and this too was forbidden by house rules. 

Occasionally there was a pileup. Too bad, for this too, was forbidden by house rules. 

BINGO 

The auditorium was used for bingo once a week. After all, what’s a Catholic Church 

without bingo? I worked for several weeks in that smoke-filled auditorium, selling and 

exchanging double tiered bingo cards to a bunch of elderly, and some not so elderly, 

patrons out for a good time. A good time meant taking home more money than you came 

in with. One evening while closing out, I came up short and was required to put up the 

difference out of my own pocket. Some senior citizen must have given me the short 

shrift. Not having the money on my person to put up, I quit! From that evening on, I have 

had an aversion toward senior citizens. Now, in my early years as a septuagenarian, I 

have lessened that aversion. 

I’M OFF TO JOIN THE LEGION 

A new religious organization was born in the parish when Father Burt introduced the 

Legion of Mary. Prayer and good works, with apologies to Martin L., were the spiritual 

pillars of the Legion. Military-like in structure and using Latin names like praesidium and 

vexillum, this Dublin-based organization had a two-tiered structure at St. Paul’s.

I was the president of Our Lady, Queen of All Children Junior Praesidium. I would have 

preferred to be called by a more military name. General would have done fine. We 

addressed each other as “brother,” long before the term “brother” became fashionable. 

Inasmuch as it was a male only praesidium, we had no sisters. In addition, I was a rank 

and file member of the adult praesidium. There, I reported to my brothers and sisters on 

the activities of my junior group. Father Burt served as spiritual advisor to both groups. 

We had a nice mix of teenage males in our group. Pat Hoey, Pat Gillespie, Rich Oliver 

and Frank De Siano were among the most active members of our praesidium. Pat Hoey 

succeeded me as president, and Frank De Siano went on to succeed Pat. 

The junior praesidium met weekly in the Altar Boys Room off the sacristy. After the 

opening prayers, each “brother” told of the good deeds that he had done during the 

previous week, mostly involving his peers. Occasionally, a member did help an old lady 

carry a package or help a blind man cross the street. 

I brought “Joe the hustler” to Confession. Joe told me that he hadn’t been to Confession 

in over six months. As the brother secretary recorded the good work in his book of deeds, 

I would say to my fellow-Legionnaire: Good work, brother! Try to get Joe to go to 

Confession on a weekly basis. One never knows. Perhaps, he’ll join our ranks in a short 

time. 

It must have been a feel good experience for each member as he told of his week’s 

activities trying to save the soul of his neighbor or classmate. In some cases, a member 

passed. If the same member passed on a regular basis, week after week, then the spiritual 

director would have a talk with the respective “brother” and would admonish him to get 

out there and start saving souls. 

My writing skills were put to good use when I wrote an article for the Maria Legionis, the 

Legion of Mary magazine. The piece was entitled: Hells Kitchen’s Angels and centered 

about the good works performed by the teenagers in my local chapter. Was I ever an 

“angel” from Hell’s Kitchen, at least, back in those days. 

FROM THE LEGION OF MARY TO THE LEGION OF DECENCY 

On the second Sunday in December an annual ritual took place in all parishes throughout 

the country. It was the Legion of Decency Pledge Sunday – sounds like your local “PBS” 

television station. Millions of Catholics in thousands of churches would promise not to 

see naughty motion pictures or to read smutty books or magazines. Church censorship 

authorities considered taking the pledge against “smut” more important than taking the 

pledge to abstain from alcohol. Hiccup!

During each mass, the parish priest would ask all the faithful to stand and to take the 

following pledge (not to be confused with the Irish-Catholic pledge promising to abstain 

from drinking): 

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost (the Holy Spirit had not 

yet arrived)… Please raise your right hand and repeat after me: 

I condemn indecent and immoral motion pictures and those that glorify crime and 

criminals. I promise to unite with all who protest against them. 

I acknowledge my obligation to form a right conscience about pictures that are 

dangerous to my moral life. 

As a member of the Legion of Decency, I pledge myself to see only good pictures. 

I promise, further, to stay away altogether from places of amusement which show 

pictures that can be an occasion of sin. 

I promise to buy, read, and circulate only, good wholesome literature… 

Did I see someone in the pew in front of me with his left hand behind his back and his 

fingers crossed? Did left hand equate with a sign of the devil? 

Although my arm felt tired after being in an upright position for five minutes, 

nonetheless, taking the Legion pledge was an exhilarating experience. I felt so good for I 

was a member of the Legion of Decency, a soldier as it were, fighting all the smut that 

was proliferating our screens and bookshops. 

Movies were classified, like vitamins, by the Legion office into the following categories: 

A1 – unobjectionable for general patronage eg. the Disney genre 

A2 – unobjectionable for adults and adolescents eg. 

A3 – unobjectionable for adults eg. a little more violence, a long kiss 

B - objectionable in part for all eg. a steamy scene or a “damn” word, too much skin 

C - condemned 

Any Catholic seeing a movie with a “C” rating, “C” as in condemned, was guilty of 

committing a mortal sin. If a viewer of such smut were to die in a movie house, probably 

due to a heart attack while watching the condemned film, his soul would go straight down 

to hell where it would burn for all eternity. Crackling coals were for cookouts and 

marshmallow roasts, and not for the life hereafter as far as I was concerned.

The Legion of Decency ratings, along with many stories and photos of Cardinal 

Spellman, could be found in our diocesan newspaper, The Catholic News. It was 

unbelievable, the control the Legion had over Hollywood from the early 1930’s to well 

into the 1960’s. The Production Code Administration of Hollywood and the Legion of 

Decency, like politicians, made strange bedfellows. 

My teenage years saw the release of many controversial films, none of which I saw – at 

least not during those formative years. Foreign films, especially from Catholic Italy, 

rattled the Legion’s chains. The might armies of the Legion came out in full force in 1951 

to protest the opening of The Miracle at the Paris Theatre. The “art house” located near 

the Plaza hotel on 58 th Street was swarmed with pickets. So many times I walked by the 

theatre, witnessing scores of people, mostly from the usual Catholic organizations, 

rosaries in hand, urging prospective attendees to boycott this blasphemous movie. While I 

empathized with these well meaning souls and as conservative as I was back then, I could 

not get myself to march to the beat of their drum. Like a Duracell battery, the Paris 

Theatre lives on and is still New York City’s premiere art house for independent and 

foreign films. 

And speaking of miracles, I’m sure that all of us have seen Miracle on 34 th Street. When 

it was released in 1947, the Legion gave this classic a “B” rating. Many people wondered 

why the institutional Catholic Church gave this “feel good” movie such a harsh rating. 

Alas, upon further review we find that Maureen O’Hara’s character was playing a 

divorcee and the Catholic Church absolutely forbids divorce. If the character had her 

marriage annulled, perhaps the movie would have received a Legion upgrade. However, 

Maureen did redeem herself in the 1952 movie with John Wayne, The Quiet Man that 

received an A3 rating. Oh, that brawl! Go, Duke, go!!! 

Hollywood director, Elia Kazan, stirred a storm of controversy in 1951, while he was 

working on the film version of Tennessee William’s successful Broadway play, A 

Streetcar Named Desire. Because the play contained rape, violence, ho—sexuality, and 

other forbidden topics, the PCA and the Legion edited and re-edited, edited and re-edited 

some more, before they placed their “imprimatur” on the screenplay. The play had now 

been gutted, purged of its undesirable qualities. Kazan was devastated. Even though the 

movie version was nowhere near the stage version, it opened to rave reviews and remains 

a classic today. It seemed that every time I opened the Catholic News, there was a piece 

about His Eminence, Francis Cardinal Spellman, using the bully pulpit to condemn “C” 

rated movies. The cardinal prevailed over Otto Preminger and his Moon in Blue just as he 

had over Elia Kazan. Preminger retorted boldly that No one has the right to tell the 

American people what to see and what not to see. 

PCQ17: Who was the director of “Baby Doll,” a C-rated 1956 movie, denounced by 

Cardinal Spellman from the pulpit of St. Patrick’s Cathedral?

As for me, I chose not to attend any of the “C” rated motion pictures for I had to maintain 

my image as a Hell’s Kitchen teen-angel and, besides, I was too young to be admitted 

into the art houses. 

~ 

Today, The United States Council of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) still maintains a movie 

guide for the Faithful. While keeping the three “A’s,” it has an “L” classification that 

replaces the old “B” rating for those films with “problematic content many adults would 

find troubling.” And then there’s the “O” rating – “O” for morally offensive, replacing 

the “C” for condemned. During the 2005 Academy Award ceremonies, Million Dollar 

Baby” earned several Oscar’s for “Best Picture,” “Best Acress” (Hilary Swank) and 

“Best Director,” the conservative Clint Eastwood, while The Sea Inside won for best 

Foreign Language Film. Both merited an “O” rating by the USCCB, mainly for their 

treatment of euthanasia. However, unlike the Legion of Decency, one does not tarnish 

his immortal soul by committing a mortal sin if he sees an “O” rated movie. 

I CONFESS 

Saturday was a busy day for most Catholic teenagers. The highlight of the day was the 

weekly trip to the confessional box. 

The box was a small cubicle entered by opening the door or pushing aside a heavy 

curtain. Most boxes were unlit for all intents and purposes, save a bathroom-type night- 

light. God forbid that I should be recognized. Once inside the box, the penitent knelt on a 

special kneeler that triggered a mechanism, turning on a red light visible from the outside 

of the confessional and indicating that the cubicle was in use. A partition, replete with a 

screen door, separated the priest’s cubicle from that of the penitent. On the other side of 

the priest’s private domain lay another cubicle. If the confessor in that cubicle spoke too 

loudly, I could hear him contritely telling his sins to the priest. Tsk! Tsk! 

Preparation for the sacrament of Penance, or Confession as it was more commonly called 

back then, was most important. Today, it is called the sacrament of Reconciliation. Part 

of the preparation was an examination of conscience whereby one reviewed the time 

period since his last confession and made a list of all the sins he may have committed 

since his last confession. Naturally, it was a mental list as opposed to a written shopping 

list. The longer one was away from confession, the longer the list.

The list was divided into two categories of sins – mortal and venial. As I mentioned 

earlier, if a Catholic was to die with soul-stained mortal sins, even one, he was doomed to 

eternal damnation. Lesser or venial sins demanded lesser punishment – time spent in 

Purgatory, a “place” neither here nor there. It was a state of spiritual existence, which, 

after a period of “time” the soul would be allowed to enter heaven and live with God 

forever. Please consult Dante’s Divine Comedy where you may learn more about el 

paradisio, el purgatorio, and el inferno. However, el limbo is not mentioned in Dante’s 

work. Is that the “place” where non-baptized babies reside? 

The CGC (Catholic Guilt Complex) worked overtime in helping me to determine what 

sins I should confess in the box. What is the CGC? Simply put, it is feeling guilty about 

something you really shouldn’t feel guilty about at all. Back in the forties and fifties, the 

Catholic Church portrayed repentance like something out of the Great Awakening replete 

with fire and brimstone. Often times the rationalization process set in. To tell or not to 

tell, that was the question. 

Questions! Questions! Questions! Answers? Answers? Answers? 

Is it a sin if one unintentionally eats meat on Friday? 

Is petting, necking or deep kissing a sin provided one does not go all the way? To show 

you how naïve I was, for years I thought that French kissing was just that – the way 

French people kissed, like on both sides of the cheek. Oh Tommy! 

Is it a sin to begin pleasuring yourself, and then, of your own volition stop – and you stop 

before whatever? Probably, a venial sin, because you did stop. 

I once asked my high school religion teacher whether or not instant gratification was a 

sin. He evasively replied that it depended on what I meant by instant gratification and 

said: Lighting up a cigarette is instant gratification for me. It may mean different things 

to different people. I think that what he was trying to say was: different strokes for 

different folks. 

Questions! Questions! Questions! Answers? Answers? Answers? 

~

One of my attributes was, and is, honesty, albeit one of few today. To me, lying is a most 

reprehensible sin and one that is frequently omitted in the box. I have no idea why so 

many Catholics failed to confess the sin of lying when they openly admitted that they did 

so in the presence of their peers. No, I didn’t feel the need to confess that, they would say 

with indifference. Did they forget the title of the song It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie? Why, even 

our first president, George Washington, knew the gravity of lying. When accused of the 

crime or arborcide, Washington, according to legend, said: I cut down that cherry tree. I 

cannot tell a lie. And it’s good to see that every president thereafter has adopted that 

mantra. Fibs, however, fall into a different category. 

Did I agree with Oscar Wilde that the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it or 

did I fight the good fight? In most cases I fought the good fight to overcome the 

temptation. However, when it came to certain sins of the flesh, I yielded. Was 

entertaining impure thoughts a sin? If so, were they mortal or venial sins? I cannot help 

but think of the boy who had just reached the age of puberty and who, in the 

confessional, tells the priest that he fantasized over impure thoughts. The father confessor 

in a stern voice said: You mean to tell me that you entertained impure thoughts? The boy 

waited a minute and then replied rather nonchalantly: No father, but they sure entertained 

me. 

The “m” word was never used in the confessional – you know, the one that ends in bate. 

Besides, it sounded rather repulsive. Sounded repulsive, that is. “Ejaculation” was rather 

ambiguous, so the term “self abuse” was the operative confessional box word for this 

sixth commandment violation. It would be rather crude to tell the father confessor: I 

played with myself about three times a day for the past week, father. Whew! So the term 

“self abuse” seemed to fit the bill, although it conjured up in my mind thoughts of 

flagellation and self-inflicted wounds, perhaps even wearing a cilice belt. Ugh! 

Going to confession on a weekly basis could be problematic. What if I had no serious 

sins to confess and most of the times, I didn’t? Oops, there goes my nose. It’s growing! 

Well, let’s say with the exception of those bate sins. But on those occasions when I 

would say: Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last 

confession. Since that time, I have committed no mortal sins. The priest commended me, 

told me to keep up the good work, gave me absolution for past sins, and sent me on my 

way. In the process, I increased my allotment of sacramental grace. 

Going to confession could also be embarrassing. I remember waiting in line to go to 

confession on Saturday evening. A friend of mine had just entered the box. After a few 

moments of silence, the priest in a loud voice hollered: You what? Needless to say, the 

kid put on a sheepish grin as he left the confessional. I, very wisely, moved to another 

confession line, lest the same fate await me 

Confession was always what it was meant to be – a cleansing experience – Ego te 

absolvo.

IN THE BOX WITH FATHER DEVERY 

Revealing your innermost and private transgressions to another human being can cause 

apprehension, especially if your revelations were real “lulus.” And this can get even more 

complicated if you know the priest behind the screen. 

I talked to my friend, Pat Hoey, recently and asked him who was his favorite father 

confessor at St. Paul’s. Without hesitation, Pat replied: Father Devery. Yes, Father 

Devery was everyone’s favorite including mine. I’m told that one could confess the worst 

of sins to Father Devery and, without browbeating or scolding, would gently admonish 

you and grant absolution – all in short order. Father Devery had a mechanical counter 

held in his hand as each penitent did his thing. I’m sure that Father Devery holds the 

record for absolutions granted at St. Paul’s. 

Never have I been so embarrassed in the box as on that late afternoon on a crisp fall 

Saturday when I went to confession to Father Devery. Just moments earlier, Notre Dame 

had beaten one of their traditional rivals. Father Devery was a proud alumnus and avid 

fan of the Fighting Irish. As I entered the box, I knelt, and as the screen door opened, I 

said the usual opening line of Bless me father and went on to confess my sins. This time I 

had committed a couple to those Sixth Commandment “no-no’s.” After receiving the 

usual penance of three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys, I went on to say the Act of 

Contrition as Father was doing his Ego te absolvo rite of absolution. 

As I was about to make my break from the box, a voice from behind the screen said: 

Tom, would you be good enough to go down to the Davega’s Sports Store and buy me a 

Notre Dame pennant. I’m so proud of today’s ‘Fighting Irish’ win that I want to rub it in 

to my fellow priests at dinner this evening. Needless to say, I blushed as I acceded to his 

request and got even redder as we both exited our respective portion of the box so that he 

could give me some money for the banner. Within a half an hour I was back to the box, 

not as flushed, this time to give Father Devery his Fighting Irish pennant. Cheer, cheer, 

for old Notre Dame! 

In my late teens, I found an alternative to Father Devery – a Spanish-speaking priest in 

St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Actually, he spoke quite a bit of Spanish but very little English. 

That was fine with me. The Gothic masterpiece was on my way to work at the Harvard 

Club on a Saturday afternoon so it was a matter of convenience, as well. Confession with 

the padre was great. A quickie of the first order! No sooner than the penitent entered the 

box, he would say in broken English: Tell me your sins, please. I could have committed 

the worst of the worst sins ten times over and he would say: Are you sorry? and I would 

say: Yes father. He, too, was a three Our Father and three Hail Mary man. Before one had 

a chance to finish the Act of Contrition, he was slamming the screen door shut in your 

face. It took less than sixty seconds for the entire ritual. I timed it once. Thank God for 

Father Devery and confessors like him, without whom the Catholic Guilt Complex 

(CGC) would be unbearable.

THOSE FORTY DAYS OF LENT – OUCH! 

Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent in the Catholic liturgical calendar. It lasts forty 

days and is a season of prayer, penance, good works, fast and abstinence, culminating 

with the feast of the Resurrection. On Ash Wednesday the penitents file up to the altar 

railing and kneel while the priest places ashes (made from burnt left-over palms from the 

previous year) in the sign of the cross on the forehead of the receiver, saying, in Latin, 

that we came from dust and into dust thou shalt return. We are constantly reminded of 

our mortality during this holy season. 

Ash Wednesday was of particular importance as members of the faith were dubbed, in 

knightly fashion, with ashes on their forehead. They were justifiably proud and they 

wanted to show it. Some pious people went back to their church for a second time later 

that same day for another into dust ritual for fear that the original application had worn 

off. A good Catholic was not to be seen in public without that external symbol on his 

forehead on this first day of Lent 

Needless to say, sinful acts were out of the question. Not even venial sins! The 

temperature in hell would be turned up if you died in a state of mortal sin during Lent. 

The laws of fast and abstinence governed all Catholics during Lent. As a youngster, I 

always confused the two but abided by then, nonetheless. Setting the record straight, 

abstinence required that all Catholics abstain from eating meat on Ash Wednesday and all 

Fridays during the Lenten Season. Fasting required that all adults between twenty-one 

and fifty-nine and a half years of age were allowed to eat only one full meal and two 

lesser meals per day with absolutely no snacks between meals during lent. Why the half? 

The same rules applied during ember days during other times in the Church calendar, 

presumably, Sept-ember. Sorry! Couldn’t resist! 

Besides abstaining from sin, we were to abstain from non-sinful pleasures – eating the 

things that we like most such as cake or candy or not going to dances or movies, the “A” 

rated one’s, of course. Were “hot cross” buns in that category? The good nuns and 

fathers told us to accentuate the positive, from “don’t” to “do.” More “do’s” than 

“don’ts” were the order of the day. Why not attend mass every day during Lent? Why not 

do the Stations? Why not offer your services for a worthy cause? Good point, Father! 

Good point, Sister! 

Some Catholics, especially Irish and Irish-Americans, took the pledge to abstain from 

alcoholic beverages during the Holy Season. Come St. Patrick’s Day, we found a number 

of broken pledges. Tsk! Tsk!!

The color purple dominated the liturgies for forty days. Two Sunday’s before Easter, 

Passion Sunday, all figures of Christ, Mary and the saints were draped in purple and 

would remain so until Easter. The sacrament of matrimony was deferred until after 

Easter; funerals, well they were allowed, as the vestments were a morbid black. Flowers 

were not permitted to adorn the altar during the Holy Season. 

The Stations of the Cross were held every Friday evening at St. Paul the Apostle Church 

as an altar boy carrying a heavy crucifix and accompanied by two acolytes, proceeded 

down the two side aisles, pausing at each of the fourteen stations as the priest read 

prayers from the pulpit. The text of the readings was from Alphonsus Ligouri, an 

eighteenth-century saint. Each station would begin with the priest saying: We adore thee, 

O Christ, and we bless Thee and the congregation would respond: Because by Thy holy 

Cross, Thou hast redeemed the world. After the usual standing and kneeling prayers, a 

verse of the Stabat Mater would be sung at the end of each station. Doing the Stations in 

the second largest Catholic Church in New York City was quite a workout. Some people 

prefer to do them privately. 

The Passion gospels on Passion and Palm Sunday’s were inordinately long, taking all of a 

half an hour. 

If one really wanted to get into the Lenten mood, he could take the bus to Union City on 

the other side of the Hudson and see the Passion Play. 

Palm Sunday saw the usual scramble to get the choicest pieces of palm that the church 

had to offer, after which one would pen a piece shaped in the sign of the cross on his 

lapel or other article of clothing. We were proud soldiers of the Lord and wanted to show 

off our insignia. 

Not all was penance during Lent. A state of war existed between the altar boys and the 

choirboys. My favorite annual “battle” occurred at the evening Tenebrae service during 

Holy Week. The celebrants chanted the Litany of the Saints and choir alternately 

responded: Ora Pro Nobis or Orate Pro Nobis (today the list would be considerable 

longer as Pope John Paul II added more saints to the list – more than other pope in 

history). As the litany and seasonal psalms were being sung, the sacristan turned off the 

lights, section by section. The church grew progressively darker and darker. The candle 

stanchion held fifteen candles. They, too, were extinguished, two by two, until you were 

left with the one lone candle. By the end of the lengthy service, the church was pitch 

black except for the last lone candle that represented Christ, the crucified Christ. The 

candle was taken behind the Stamford White’s great altar where more psalms were sung. 

Then the flame of the wick was snuffed out to. At that point, the choirboys simulated the 

sound of thunder by banging their hymnals on the sanctuary stalls. With darkness on their 

side, the altar boys would send a volley of their hymnals hurtling across the dividing aisle 

into the choir section. Ouch! Ouch! As the lights went on Father Foley, the Choir 

Director, made a pronouncement unfit to print.

Lent officially ended at noon on Holy Saturday. Now I could pick up my new suit (that 

would last me five years) at Bond’s and mom could do her shopping for the Easter 

Sunday dinner. Now I could have my weekly Saturday night bath. Now I could return to 

my long-awaited instant gratification. 

COLLARED ETIQUETTE 

The Roman Collar is a stiff white collar worn on the front part (for obvious reasons) of 

the neck of a cleric. It nicely offsets the blackness of his suit or habit. The collar is the 

most important exterior symbol of a man of the cloth and one in which we, as good 

Roman Catholics, were taught to respect and acknowledge – something like Old Glory. 

So whenever one would see a priest on the street, or a brother for that matter, he would 

tip his hat and say: Good morning, father. Sometimes it was difficult to tell priests and 

brothers apart – they all looked the same with their black suits and white collars. For 

some reason the same attention was not relished upon nuns, although I would always say: 

Good afternoon, sisters. Unlike the priests, they usually traveled in pairs and were easier 

to spot from afar with their white, wide-brimmed, heavily starched headpiece. 

Sometimes, a gust of wind would send the poor nuns into disarray. 

There was a certain aura about priests, and we were brought up to stand in awe of that 

aura. The priest was above reproach, a unique member of the first estate, replete with his 

unquestionable authority coming from God. And that’s the way it was – period! 

That aura carried over into the secular world. That collar opened many doors that would 

otherwise be shut. Although he didn’t wield a big stick, the clout of a priest in the 

community was greater than that of a policeman. Like the policeman on the beat, the 

priest, in many instances, did not pay for his coffee and doughnuts or whatever. The 

collar meant prized seats to a Broadway show or a complementary cocktail at the finest 

restaurant. Why deprive the priests of those fringe benefits when so many of them take 

the vow of poverty? 

THE MASS 

Preparing for Sunday mass was an important part of Catholic upbringing. All masses 

were held on Sunday’s in the days of my youth; Saturday evening masses were yet to 

come.

Saturday was a busy day in the lives of most Catholics back in the days of yore. Earlier in 

the day it was Confession; later in the evening in was the bath – one cleansed the soul, 

the other, the body. The Saturday night bath was a cleansing ritual in preparation for the 

Lord’s feast the next morning. I did not have shower facilities in 363 and had to make 

due with the weekly bath. I know that stinks but what can I tell you. That was the way of 

tenement living back then. 

Come Sunday morning, we were “dressed to the nines.” After all, we were going to 

worship the Lord. Being properly attired for mass was very important. Even at Camp 

Adrian, the campers and staff wore their dress blue and white’s. Marguerite Cowhey put 

it this way: If you were going to the White house to meet the president of the United 

States, wouldn’t you put on your best clothes? How infinitely more important is God. 

Good point, Miss Cowhey. 

~ 

One was expected to be on time for the renewal of the sacrifice on Calvary and to stay for 

the entire duration of the liturgy. Canonically, a Catholic had to be present for the three 

principal parts of the mass – the Offertory, the Consecration, and the Communion. Some 

Catholics followed that to the letter. It dismayed me to see so many Catholics cutting out 

after the Communion. I always wondered why. Was it the second collection or, perhaps, 

to avoid the exiting crowds? 

One was expected to be generous to his church. The practice of tithing was nothing new. 

Each family was expected to give at least ten percent of their net income to the church. 

So your envelope was put in the collection basket during the Offertory collection, in 

addition to seat offering as one entered the church. The basket went around again after 

the Communion – and again. I hated when those darn ushers shoved the basket in my 

face, again and again. 

Talking during services was prohibited and one was expected to kneel, stand and sit at the 

appropriate times. 

Sitting during the duration of the mass became an issue at St. Paul’s and Father Thomas 

Mc Mahon issued the following dictum in the June 1948 Parish Bulletin: 

It has come to our attention that not a few of the people who attend Mass here on Sunday, 

especially those who sit in the rear of the church, remain seated all during the Holy 

Sacrifice of the Mass. These people remain seated during the most solemn moments of the 

Mass, the moments of Consecration. That Catholics take such a disrespectful and 

disinterested attitude toward the renewal of the sacrifice of Calvary is something very 

hard to understand. We earnestly hope that this regrettable habit will be discontinued in 

our church. There you go!

DELIA’S SECRET SHATTERS AN IRISH MOTHER’S DREAM 

It is clearly evident that I was strongly influenced by the Paulist Fathers. They played an 

important role in my younger life. I had become a pillar of their parish. I knew them all 

from the Superior-General of the Congregation down to the most recently ordained 

Paulists. Perhaps, I could join their ranks and become a priest. Is this not every Irish 

mother’s dream? 

Not gainfully employed or attending college during the fall of 1952 gave me time to think 

about whether or not I truly had a vocation. Was I being called by God to serve in His 

ministry? I took exploratory steps to pursue that priestly dream including meetings with 

Father Mc Gough, Vocation Director of the Paulist Fathers. I was now on the road of 

achieving my youthful dream, or at least, so I thought. 

Two problems surfaced in pursuit of this quest. 

The first was academic, and involved producing a copy of my high school grades. The 

progressive Paulists had justifiably high standards for admission into their minor 

seminary at St. Charles College in Baltimore, Maryland. I was not an intellectual 

heavyweight in high school and my transcript from Power Memorial Academy confirmed 

that. 

The second involved the presentation of an official copy of my baptismal certificate. I 

made my way down to the Church of St. Vincent de Paul on West 23 rd Street in Chelsea 

to pick up a copy certified copy, replete with embossed seal. Upon inspection of the 

document upon arrival at my home, I noticed that the name of my father was missing. 

Why was that particular space blank? What was going on here? It was a matter of 

concern to both the Paulist Fathers and myself. What followed was a revelation. 

SINS OF THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE HOLY CHURCH 

A few days later, Thomas A. “Uncle Tom” Murray, paid a visit to 363 and invited me out 

to dinner at Child’s Restaurant on Columbus Circle. While eating a turkey dinner, a 

favorite of mine at Child’s, Uncle Tom dropped a bombshell; actually two bombshells. 

The first was that he averred that he was my father.

Up to this time I really had no idea who my father was. I always accepted what my 

mother had told me as a child, that my father had separated from her after my birth and 

that she had no idea as to his whereabouts. This is what I told friends and peers whenever 

they prodded me on the issue – Oh my parents, they’re separated. 

So now at dinner at Child’s, I find out that Uncle Tom is really not my uncle after all but 

rather my newly found father. It hit me like a ton of bricks. All of a sudden I find out that 

I was an illegitimate bastard conceived by Bridget Delia Murray. 

Looking back, I can see the feasibility of mom living a big lie. People can be cruel. 

Society can be cruel. The institutional Catholic Church can be cruel. Today, we live in a 

somewhat more accepting society, but back then, it had to remain Delia’s secret. I had to 

remain Delia’s secret. 

Recently, I made an inquiry to a priest friend of mine as to why the father’s name was 

omitted on my baptismal certificate. The reason he gave was that in case of an 

illegitimate offspring, it was the contention of the institutional Catholic Church that the 

name of the father must be protected at all costs, and therefore not included on the 

baptismal certificate. It makes sense that a male dominated institution as the Catholic 

Church would see fit to exclude the father’s name – perhaps, he was a major benefactor 

to the parish and if his name were made public, it could be most embarrassing. Why it 

could even be grounds for annulment if he was married. 

Uncle Tom then proceeded to drop the second bombshell when he told me that I was the 

product of a consanguineous marriage. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I 

asked him what the heck was a consanguineous marriage. He told me that his father and 

my mother’s father were brothers. That would make Uncle Tom and my mother first 

cousins. I was their illegitimate son, the net result of an illicit tryst between two family 

members. The spirit of Franklin and Eleanor live on. 

Bastard children have minimal rights. One of these was the restriction to the priesthood 

on the part of many dioceses and just as many religious orders and congregations. 

Usually, to soften the blow of rejection, candidates are told that other things such as 

grades or recommendations were factored in, and that they are used in the denial of 

admission process. Subsequently, I was denied admission to the Paulist Fathers; my 

application to St. Charles College rejected. There went my dreams of becoming a Paulist 

priest. 

Initially, I began questioning what I thought was a very unjust decision. I was like one of 

the Paulist family for eight years. Now it appeared that I was not good enough for them 

because of some hoary precedent. 

Was it my fault that I was born out of wedlock and subsequently stigmatized as a 

bastard? What did I do as a child of God to deserve this?

Because of my fidelity to the Catholic Church, I found it very difficult to question the 

men in black, the collared men in black. 

With all these traumatic experiences coming one after another, depression set in. The day 

of Prozac and Zoloft had not yet arrived. Neither my mom nor I thought it would be a 

good idea to fix my problem with the existing anti-depressants of the day. A good cry and 

other forms of release were the antidotes of the time to combat depression. If it were not 

for the TLC and the support of mom, I do know what I would have done. She was an 

angel of mercy, indeed. 

Another factor that help ease the psychological pain was my resiliency. Hell’s Kitchen 

kids hang tough! 

~ 

It has been said that: Whenever God closes one door, He opens another. How true this is, 

especially if you’re a teen-angel from Hell’s Kitchen. 

Not all was lost in terms of pursuing the priesthood. Father William O’Gorman, another 

Paulist stationed at the mother church, heard about my plight and contacted Bishop 

Bernard Espelage, O.F.M., of the Diocese of Gallup in New Mexico. Father O’Gorman 

laid the cards on the table for the bishop as to my illegitimacy and marginal grades. In the 

spirit of St. Francis, the good bishop accepted me as a candidate for the priesthood in his 

desert diocese. He arranged for me to enter St. Bonaventure University, a Franciscan 

institution in upstate New York in January 1953. I was now fully recharged, psyched up 

and eagerly awaiting my first day of college at St. Bonaventure.

Chapter 8 – THE BONNIES, IONA, AND THE CORPS 

WHERE’S OLEAN? 

Upon my acceptance as a student at St. Bonaventure University in Olean, New York, I 

scratched my head, asking myself Where’s Olean? I had never heard of the town. 

Pursuing the question, I secured an atlas, and after employing some minimal cartographic 

skills, I found that Olean was an upstate community about 70 miles due south of Buffalo 

in the Allegheny Mountain region of New York State. 

Shortly after we rang in the New Year of 1953, mom and I did quite a bit of shopping for 

college. Judging by the location of SBU, the weather – cold, snowy winters – had to be 

taken into consideration. Mom felt that I had to be prepared for the elements. By the time 

I was ready to leave for college, I bought a maxi-suitcase. This was filled to capacity with 

the necessities required for college living. 

Mom, Aunt Betty and Uncle Mike walked me to the B&O depot at Columbus Circle. 

Darn, that suitcase was heavy! It was now “kissie-bye” time and just before getting on the 

bus mom said: Don’t forget to write. Upon arriving at Hoboken by ferry, I boarded the 

Erie Railroad to take the long, overnight ride to Olean. 

It was late January and finally I was off to college. I was required to arrive at SBU 

several days before the beginning of the second semester for orientation and testing. 

THE ARRIVAL 

I arrived in Olean the next morning after an oft-interrupted sleep on the night train. It 

seemed that it stopped at every town along the 400-mile route. It was yet to merge with 

the Lackawanna Railroad, noted as the “Route of Phoebe Snow.” Who the heck was 

Phoebe Snow?

I took a cab from the Olean train station to SBU. It was a most impressive sprawling 600acre 

campus dotted with a number of Franciscan Mission- style buildings. One of these 

buildings was Devereux Hall, the main dormitory. I was escorted to Room 347, a room 

that I would share with two other SBU students. Neither one was in residence at the time. 

It was the semester break. However, I was introduced to Father Duffy, the third floor 

prefect. Father Duffy had his room down the hall. I thought it was a good idea to have an 

authority figure so close to the students. College kids can get unruly, at least, so I was 

told. 

After unpacking and settling down, I had an opportunity to explore the vast campus on 

my own. Of the many campus buildings, the one that impressed me the most was the 

Friedsam Library. The interior was so beautiful, unlike any New York City library that I 

had seen. Rare Ming vases and several original Rembrandt paintings adorned its public 

areas. It boasted such acquisitions as the oldest Bible in America, as well as the original 

manuscripts of Seven Story Mountain author, Thomas Merton, and other famous writers. 

After dinner in the dining hall, followed by further exploration, I settled in for a good 

night’s sleep. The next day was snowy and windy as I found my way to a pre-fab 

building where I took a battery of tests. A few days later I met with my assigned 

counselor who told me that I had an I.Q. of 101 as opposed to a 98 reading in high 

school. I was told that anywhere between 90 and 105 was average. I was pleased that I 

was an “average” student, and was not distraught because I no longer qualified for 

membership in the MENSA society. On the aptitude tests, my lowest readings were in 

art, mechanical drawing and science with art being the lowest. Music was at the top end 

of testing. I scored a 100. Thank you, my friend and former high school music teacher, 

Mr. Jim Casseday. Music was followed by clerical, literary and social skills in that order. 

Somewhere along the way I received my course schedule. 

MY ROOMIES 

Bobby Clark, a freshman like myself, was at St. Bonaventure on a basketball scholarship. 

As you might guess, at 6’6’’, he towered over my 5’10” frame. He was from the Pittsburg 

area and was quite amiable. He took the upper bunk while I was in the lower. The single 

bed was reserved for senior, Bob Halloran from Williamsport, PA. From patrician stock, 

he was the owner of a beautiful Packard automobile, no, not the “Patrician” model. He 

was a nice enough guy but his seniority kept us apart. It was through Bob, that I became 

friends with Jack Mc Mullen, a senior, and the editor of the college newspaper, the Bona 

Venture. 

In addition to my roommates, I met other Bonnie men in a short order. I ran into two 

classmates from Power Memorial who were attending SBU – Jerry Keeler from 

Englewood and Tom Watson from Hell’s Kitchen.

BASIC COURSES 

I carried 18 credits which was par for the six courses that I took. 

Latin with Fr. Gaudens Mohan, OFM, was mandatory inasmuch as I was contemplating 

the priesthood. He made the course appealing throwing in some off-color tie-ins. He used 

the church pronunciation, as opposed to the classical, and reminded us that an “sc” in 

church Latin is pronounced like an “sh.” He went on to give us an example by citing the 

motto of college dining hall, Fidem scit. Go ahead, try it! Translated it means, He knows 

the faith. Intercoure te is the Latin way of telling a person go have intercourse with 

himself. Father Gaudens was a kindred spirit and my favorite monk. 

Right up there with Father Gaudens was a layman, Professor Marron. Professor Marron 

taught Western Civilization, and for the first time in my academic life, I took a liking to 

history. Using the Carlton J. H. Hayes text, A History of Europe, we explored European 

History from the Catholic Reformation to the onset of World War II. I loved the course 

and complied a notebook that was second to none. It’s a matter of fact, word spread about 

its thoroughness, and several of my classmates including Jerry Keeler asked me to 

conduct a review class before the final exam. I did, and they did well on the final. So did 

I. Perhaps, I had been inseminated - a future history teacher was yet to be born. 

My other courses included English, Classical Culture, General Science, and, of course, 

Theology. I maintained “B” to “C” level grades for the most part. 

In addition to the academics, I played the tuba in the ROTC Band. Did I look snazzy in 

that military uniform. SBU afforded the students the opportunity to join its many 

activities. High on my list of activities was the Cinema Club. While the movies weren’t 

the most recent, they still were entertaining and I attended almost every showing. A visit 

to the college canteen for a milkshake and a piece of cake after the show was in order. 

There were plenty of things to do in and around SBU. Often I went swimming in their 

olympic size swimming pool. On one occasion, my roomie, Bobby Clark, and I went for 

a dip. We were the only two swimmers in the pool. Without warning I got a severe leg 

cramp. Hearing my call for help, Bobby jumped into the water and made his first save of 

the day.

BEER AND BURTON BURGERS 

About a half mile down the road heading in the direction of Allegheny was the Burton, a 

tavern noted for its quarter pound hamburgers and cheeseburgers. Walking in the cold 

crisp air was no problem to me. Most of the time, however, I got a ride to there and back. 

It was THE college hangout where one could quaff a “U. C.” or “Genny”, have an 

alternative to college chow, and talk a blue streak about the professor that gave you a “D” 

in your term paper. My favorite was their cheeseburgers. They started me on 

cheeseburgers and they’re still one of my favorites today. To the best of my recollection, 

I never came back to the campus “bombed.” 

BASKETBALL AND THE BONNIES 

There were no two ways about it; the “Bonnies” had a great basketball team. Bill 

Kenville was their team captain and leading scorer. 

I attended several of their games, including a trip to Buffalo to play their archrival, 

Canisius College. Some friends and I went up by car and on February 28 th and made a 

weekend of it. We stayed at a reasonably priced hotel and watched the game on Saturday. 

After the game I went to a late movie, I Confess, directed by Alfred Hitchcock and 

featuring Montgomery Clift. When I came out of the movie past midnight, I encountered 

a lake-effect snowstorm and had to battle the elements getting back to my hotel. March 

did come in like a lion. 

Niagara University was another archrival of the Bonnies. A trio of Niagara students had 

taken off from Buffalo in a Piper Cub airplane with SBU as their destination. Their 

objective was to drop anti-Bonnie flyers on the campus the day before the SBU-Niagara 

game in Buffalo. They never made it, as the light plane went down in the mountains near 

Franklinville. After an intensive search, the plane was found. The students did not 

survive. 

It seemed to no sooner than I had settled in at SBU than I was back home to Manhattan. 

The Bonnies were playing Seton Hall in the Garden and a weekend excursion was 

planned. It was a tempting event and very reasonably priced. Besides, I would not have to 

worry about lodging in a hotel because 363 was only seven blocks from the Garden. I 

didn’t tell mom that I was coming home. Surprise! Surprise! I said as I greeted her with 

open arms. 

To this day, I am a lover of college basketball, NCAA, March madness, and all.

YOU MADE ME CRY, JOHNNIE RAY, JOHNNIE RAY! 

One of the guests in the upscale Warwick Hotel where my mother was working as a 

chambermaid, was singer, Johnnie Ray. In a conversation with the popular singer, mom 

told him about her pride and joy who was attending St. Bonaventure. Johnnie Ray was 

doing a concert in Buffalo the following weekend and when asked by mom if he 

wouldn’t mind giving me a phone call while he was in Buffalo, he said he’d be delighted 

to do so. Mom phoned me about the prospective caller. That weekend I stood around and 

waited for the third floor hall phone to ring. I waited and waited and waited. No phone 

call from Johnnie Ray. I felt like the little white cloud that cried. 

SPRINGTIME IN THE MOUNTAINS 

It was so good to see the first signs of spring. The long winter was becoming a memory 

as we approached the Easter break. I didn’t catch a cold or flu during my stay at SBU. 

Some say it was the cold, dry air that kept me healthy. 

I enjoyed returning home for Easter. I participated as an altar server at St. Paul’s, met up 

with the Panthers and other of my friends. Most of all, I spent some time with mom. 

Something seemed to be bothering her but she would not give me any indication as to the 

problem. Perhaps, she was lonely without me. I didn’t know. 

I took the train back to Olean. What a drudge! My suitcase now contained lighter clothes 

for the springtime. Oh, the beauty of springtime in the mountains. As a city boy, this was 

a new and ethereal experience for me. One of my memorable outings was a trip to 

Allegheny State Park with some of my Bonnie friends. After a full day in the park, we 

arrived back in the area in time to have a couple of burgers and brews. 

It was now the end of May and final exams were upon us. I took my Latin final in the 

library – on the honor system. Was I tempted? You bet I was. Did I violate the honor 

code? No!

LETTERS FROM MOM 

While all of the letters that I received from my mother were most gracious, the ones 

toward the end of the semester seemed troubling. I sensed something was awry on my 

Easter break. 

Apparently mom had fallen behind in her financial commitments to the college and an 

unfortunate chain of events followed. Father O’Gorman began a series of aggressive 

phone calls, harassing her for the tuition payments. Because of her son, she had gotten 

into water over her head. She had taken out a loan from Beneficial Finance to address the 

problem but that was not enough. Think what a semester in a boarding college costs 

today – about $20,000 at SBU, and that’s just the base figure. The lack of compassion 

and understanding by this man of the cloth was repulsive. As a result, I began rethinking 

my future. Perhaps, God did not give me a vocation after all. Perhaps, I should start 

thinking in terms of other professions or careers. Thank you, God, for opening that 

second door for me. 

The handwriting was on the wall. As much as I loved the college, clearly I was not in a 

financial position to return to St. Bonaventure in the fall of ’53. 

IN BETWEEN COLLEGES 

One of the first things that I did upon returning home was to fill mom in on the 

happenings at St. Bonaventure and inform her of my decision not to return in the fall. It 

was really a fiat d’ accompli. It couldn’t be otherwise because of the O’Gorman factor 

and the lack of funds. At the time, I felt that I needed a break, and after a summer at 

Camp Adrian, I would pursue admission to another college. 

Aunt Betty and Uncle Mike welcomed me home, as did Princess who couldn’t contain 

her excitement and wet the floor. 

Despite Fr. O’Gorman’s attitude, I reactivated myself in St. Paul’s parish life. I continued 

to hang out with the Panthers and other of my peers on Joe Rodriguez’s 60 th Street stoop. 

Joe had just completed his freshman year at St. John’s College in Brooklyn (pre-Hillcrest 

days) where he excelled.

Thanks to a few odd jobs at Max Ciffer’s and Ruby Elkind’s grocery stores, I was able to 

save up a few bucks and take mom out to dinner for her birthday. This was my way of 

saying “thanks” for all the hell that she had been through in the previous months and for 

the many sacrifices that she had made for me. My choice of restaurants was Jack 

Dempsey’s on Broadway near 49 th Street. Yes, like other famous boxers, the “Manassa 

Mauler” had opened a restaurant in the heart of Manhattan, and there he was to greet us 

when we arrived. Mom had her usual Manhattan before dinner. We had a great dinner at 

a moderate cost. This was a restaurant, replete with a girl going from table to table, 

saying in an alluring voice: Cigars, cigarettes? and another girl with her Speed Graphic 

camera saying Would you like your picture taken? Having a few bucks in my pocket, I 

said Why not! I took mom back to Jack Dempsey’s in 1955 where, after dinner, he signed 

a menu for her: To Mrs. Murray – lots of luck – Jack Dempsey. As I scan it now, I see 

that one could get a Tom Collins for seventy-five cents and a complete turkey dinner for 

$3.10 or a filet mignon dinner for $4.50. The daily special club dinner ran for $1.90 

The opening of Camp Adrian couldn’t come soon enough. So it was with pleasure that I 

boarded the DeCamp Bus, no pun intended, on West 60 th Street in front of St. Paul’s 

School for the shortened trip, using the recently opened, New York State/Thomas E. 

Dewey Thruway. Miss Marguerite, Mr. Lovely, and the brothers did their usual 

welcomes. No longer was I a C.I.T., but now I was a full-fledged counselor. I had arrived 

in more ways than one. I was assigned my own cabin, and continued to oversee the wash 

house. These six weeks at Adrian gave me time to reflect on my future under a huge 

maple tree behind the backstop in the ball field. The whole laid back atmosphere of the 

Catskills was conducive to relaxation and cogitation. 

Toward the end of the camp season my mother phoned to inform me that Julia Butler, the 

alcoholic lady from Apartment 2C, tried jumping from her window again. This time, she 

was successful in her suicide attempt. I felt badly and asked myself if I could have 

prevented the inevitable, just as I had a couple of years earlier. I took a day off from 

camp and took the bus to Port Authority. I attended the last night of the wake at Walter B. 

Cooke Funeral Home on West 72 nd Street and Columbus Avenue. After condolences to 

Bill Butler and their daughter, Marie, I looked for a restaurant. I found the Casa 

Delmonte at 158 West 72 nd Street. It was a gastronomic discovery and instantly became 

my favorite New York restaurant. After dinner, I took a bus back to Saugerties and 

arriving in the former paper-mill town well past midnight and discovered there were no 

taxis in service that late at night. I walked the eight miles plus from the center of town to 

the camp, arriving about 3 a.m. in the morning. I would finish out the season at Camp 

Adrian and finalize my plans for the future.

A MIXED UP COLLEGE KID 

Upon my return to the city and with a small stipend from Miss Cowhey, I had a talk with 

mom regarding my future plans. I knew that I wanted to continue college. I certainly did 

not want to go back as a mail clerk to Warner-Hudnut or deliver groceries the rest of my 

life. I knew the priesthood was not for me. Mom – all I know is that I want to go to 

college and make something of myself – and make you proud of me, as well. 

I did not know what I wanted to do, what I wanted to become, what I wanted to major in, 

or where I wanted to go to college. These questions would be answered in due time. 

In the meantime, mom said that she would go back to Beneficial Finance Corp. and see if 

she could secure a loan that would take me through the first year of college. Yes, indeed, 

she had a “friend at Beneficial” and they consolidated the SBU loan with the new loan – 

at an almost usurious 24.9 interest rate. It was enough to get me started in a new college, 

a new life. However, the downside was that monthly payments had to be made and as a 

result, mom had to tighten the budget at home To save postage money, I usually walked 

cross-town to the BFC office on Lexington Ave. and 57 St. to make the monthly 

payment. 

Now that I had the startup money for college, the next question was to which commuting 

college should I try to gain admission. To me, there was only one answer, one college. 

BROTHER, CAN YOU SPARE SOME TIME? 

Now that there was light at the end of the tunnel, I phoned Brother Thomas P. Kostka at 

Iona College in New Rochelle, New York. If anyone could help me, my former Band 

moderator and friend from Power Memorial, Brother Kostka could. 

Brother Kostka just returned from the brother’s vacation house in Ventnor, New Jersey 

and was so happy to hear from me. He listened patiently as I told him my story – of how 

mixed up I was, my mother’s financial situation, and all the other blues of my recent life. 

After twenty minutes or so on the phone, Brother Kostka said he would look into my case 

and get back to me in a day or two. I prayed! I prayed some more! And true to his word, 

Brother Kostka, my high school idol, phoned to say that I should report to Iona College 

the day after Labor Day for on-site late registration. I was to make contact with another 

former Power teacher, Brother Joe McKenna who was then Dean of Students at Iona.

IONA ALMA MATER 

Iona College is a small liberal arts college that was founded by the Christian Brothers of 

Ireland in 1940. After the war its student population swelled with vets taking advantage 

of the G.I. Bill. This was true, also, when I applied to Iona in 1953. The returning vets 

from the recently ended Korean War were entitled to similar benefits and would populate 

the campus in the mid 1950’s. Iona was a male only college, as were so many academic 

institutions of the time. The male species prevailed! 

In terms of size, the campus was very small. It consisted of a library, two Georgian style 

buildings for academic use, and a pre-fab, multi-purpose building. Classrooms, 

administrative offices, and labs were in Cornelia Hall; classrooms, a bookstore and 

student lounge, as well as a small theatre, were located in Doorley Hall. 

I arrived at Doorley Hall where late registration was taking place. I walked up to Brother 

Mc Kenna and introduced myself as a student from SBU and a former Power alumnus. 

He recognized me immediately and that made me feel comfortable. The Dean had been 

briefed by Brother Kostka, and he was aware of my personal situation. 

What was most unusual was that he did not demand a transcript from either Power 

Memorial or SBU. He did, however, request that these documents be sent to Iona as soon 

as possible. Those were the days before the SAT’s, so I didn’t have to worry about 

submitting those scores. A half of century later, some of our country’s leading educators 

are questioning the worth and validity of this nationwide standardized test. Perhaps we’ll 

return to the pre-SAT days before too long. 

After I filled out the required forms for admission to the college, I was given a schedule 

and proceeded through the course selection line. There, I was assigned my respective 

sections in the courses that I would carry during the first semester, as well as being given 

the book list. United States History (to 1865) was being taught by Associate Professor, 

Brother Thomas P. Kostka. Did I luck out! Finally, I would be taught by the master 

teacher that I heard so much about from my peers while I was attending high school. 

I carried 17 credits during the first semester. Included were Reading and Composition; 

Selected Readings in Latin; my first philosophy course, Logic; my first romance 

language course, Spanish I; and a religion course in Moral Law. The second semester was 

a continuation of the first semester courses. 

My first day at Iona was great. I met some of my St. Paul’s/Power classmates who were 

attending Iona. John Kelly and Carl Stopfer were among this group of friends. However, 

they were a two years ahead of me in college.

Brother Kostka’s U. S. History class was awesome. He presented history in a way that 

motivated students to learn. His course was interspersed with jokes and anecdotes. 

Learning history with Brother Kostka was fun. Even his tests and quizzes had a 

humorous quality about them. On a Revolutionary War test, he asked: Who wrote The 

Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin? After class, some of the students from the class 

were asking each other: Who wrote “The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin?” Even I 

fell for it. That’s a trick question, Brother. 

My English teacher caused a storm of controversy when he assigned his students to read 

J. D. Salinger’s, The Catcher in the Rye. The administration of Iona, a Catholic male 

college, was infuriated that he assigned a freshman English class such thrash and 

demanded that he cancel the assignment and never again assign a controversial work 

without first consulting with the administration. He withdrew the required reading. So 

much for academic freedom on a Catholic college campus in the year 1953. 

Getting to and from New Rochelle was part of my total college experience. This meant 

getting up a little after 6 a.m., eating breakfast, washing, catching the IRT at Columbus 

Circle to 42 nd Street and transferring to the cross-town shuttle train – just in time to catch 

the 7:35 Stamford local. Arriving about 8:15 at the New Rochelle station, I took a briskly 

paced 20-minute walk up North Avenue to the college. The procedure was reversed in the 

afternoon. Sometimes I car-pooled with John Kelly or Billy Storer, both of whom lived in 

the Hells’ Kitchen area. 

This being my first year at Iona, I decided not to get overly involved in school activities. I 

did join the Gaelic Society and contributed a story on Our Lady of Knock to the college 

newspaper, The Ionian – my first literary submission to a publication. 

With Christmas just around the corner and with the money situation ever so tight, I got a 

temporary job for the holiday season working in the parcel post division of the US Post 

Office. The object of these behind-the-scene’s workers, myself included, was to deposit 

packages into appropriate mail sacks. I was happy to join with the seasoned handlers and 

within a few days became a “pro” at tossing the parcels into their respective mail sacks. 

The passing of each day made me become more daunting at my task, tossing the parcels 

from further distances. If a parcel was marked “handle with care”, I made sure that I 

didn’t do a backboard shot. The job with Uncle Sam lasted nearly a month and it brought 

in a few bucks, sorely needed for the holidays and beyond.

THE MIGHTY GAELS 

New York City was a big basketball town back in the 1950’s. The New York 

metropolitan area teams including, Iona, St. John’s and Seton Hall dominated the courts. 

College basketball had recovered from the fixing scandals of the post-war years. To 

receive an invitation to play in the N.I.T. at Madison Square Garden was a more coveted 

and prestigious invitation than one extended by the N.C.A.A. – at least in the eyes of 

local colleges. Those were the days of Richie Guerin from Iona, the Maguire brothers 

from St. John’s and Richie Regan from Seton Hall. 

I attended many basketball games during my college years at Iona. Watching Richie 

Guerin, who would go on to play for the Knicks, was a sheer delight for this basketball 

fan. After Guerin graduated from Iona in 1954, “Jumpin’ Joe” Bernardi and Stanley Hill 

led the Gael’s offensive. 

Stan Hill, one of the few African-Americans on the Iona campus, was a history major and 

we shared several classes together. He had a good sense of humor and we got along well. 

Stan went on to become the leader of one of New York City’s largest municipal unions. 

Bob McGuire, another member of the Gael’s starting five, went on to become Police 

Commissioner of NYC under Mayor Ed Koch. 

An Iona fixture, Jim McDermott was the coach of both the Gael’s basketball and baseball 

teams. The O’Connell Gymnasium at the far end of the Iona campus was the home of this 

sports legend. The gym was quite limited in terms of seating capacity and necessary 

amenities. Because of this reason, some of Iona’s home games were played at the 

Westchester County Center in White Plains. 

One of the most thrilling games that I ever attended was the one in which Iona played the 

Bonnies at the Garden on Thursday evening, December 20, 1956. The Gael’s team 

captain, Joe Bernardi, sunk a buzzer basket with only a few seconds remaining in the 

game. The final score: the Gaels 64, the Bonnies 63. Was I on a high! 

The following year Iona traveled to Olean, New York to play the “seven-member” 

Bonnie team on their home court. 

My friend from 56 th Street, Pat Hoey, a sophomore at Iona, joined me on the overnight 

trip on the Erie Railroad It was quite an experience for Pat, his first time outside the 

metropolitan area. It would be a trip that he would not forget. The railroad ride proved to 

be a challenge, especially as we steamed toward western New York State – railroad cars 

humping, stops at every town along the way, and a nearly sleepless night as we nearly 

froze our ears off in the frigid coach car.

After checking that morning at a local motel, we freshened up, had lunch at the Burton, 

toured the “enemy” campus, and patiently awaited the game that evening. My loyalty was 

now clearly with the Gaels. I had my doubts from the beginning about the game being 

played on the home court of the Bonnies. Home court advantage was clearly displayed 

when the referees made close calls, invariably in favor of the Franciscan college team. 

At one point in the game I rose from the stands to give the Gaels a rousing cheer, only to 

be physically pushed down by a bonnie fan from the row behind me. I almost got into an 

altercation. That’s how hot I was. However, I was cooled off when a power failure caused 

the lights and heat to go off. In time, the power was restored and the game continued. The 

Bonnies hadn’t lost a game in their home court arena in a long time. That night was no 

exception. Iona fell to the Bonnies. Pat and I met another couple of Iona students who 

had driven up for the game and they invited us to return to NYC with them the next day, 

after a brief visit to the frozen Niagara Falls. What a natural wonder! 

I continue to be a fan of college basketball today. The same cannot be said of 

professional basketball. Go Gaels! 

STRUGGLING STUDENT 

I was not an intellectual heavyweight in college and my official transcript proves it. 

Throughout the four and a half years that I attended Iona, my GPA never rose above 2.2 

with the exception of the final semester. My record indicates that I received three “FX’s” 

– that’s course withdrawals without permission – and not special effects. The other two 

were in the same course, Education 305, the Philosophy of Education. I received three 

legitimate “F’s” viz. Philosophy (Metaphysics), Elementary Spanish, and American 

Government. I had to repeat all of the aforementioned courses. Shame! Shame! I really 

had a good instructor for American Government, Mr. Dan O’ Connell. I loved his course 

but his tough grading system proved to be my downfall. I did much better the second 

time around with the same instructor. Mr. O’ Connell sparked my interest in American 

Government, which is alive and well today and would later teach American Government 

on a high school level. It is worth noting that I did receive two “A’s”, both of which were 

in Religion. What else would one expect from a kid from Hell’s Kitchen?

Spanish II, a so-called easy subject, proved to be difficult for me. Dr. Messina, a native 

speaker, was very difficult to understand – at least when he made an attempt to speak 

English. Even today, we have professors who speak English so abominably that even 

Henry Higgins would have a problem teaching them to speak the proper King’s English. 

Occasionally, some immature collegian (not me) would laugh at Dr. Messina, and a chain 

reaction of tittering would follow. One day, upon hearing laughing throughout the 

classroom, he reacted by saying: The young man who is making you laugh had failed this 

course before (not me). That remark caused the class to go into an uproar, as the reason 

we were laughing was that Dr. Messina had his fly open. My friend, Joe Rodriguez, 

helped me out many times with Spanish translations and all the other things that a good 

enabler should do. 

The liberal arts program offered at Iona was quite good. Nolan Fallahay’s British 

Literature, Beowulf and all, was great. So, too, was Bill William’s American Lit class. 

Music Appreciation with Joe Surace was quite appealing. Joe was the leader of the 

college glee club and moonlighted as an organist at Radio City, Music Hall. What an 

organ! Actually, the Showplace of the World has two consoles. History Department 

chairman, Ernst Winter, was an interesting professor of European History. The Austrianborn 

Winter wound up marrying one of the Von Trapp girls and proceeded to make his 

own sound of music. I endeared myself to Irish-born, Brother Patrick Doyle, my Latin 

teacher for four semesters. 

It was in Brother Doyle’s Latin class that I met several new friends. One in particular was 

Joe Irwin. I visited his upscale home in Mount Vernon on several occasions where I had 

the pleasure of meeting his parents and their Irish housekeeper, Kate. One day he took me 

for lunch at the Wygakill Country Club, my first such visit to a private club. I savored the 

moment, as well as the liver and bacon and a side of stewed tomatoes that I had for lunch. 

Upon graduation, Joe entered St. Joseph’s Seminary in Dunwoodie, and today is pastor of 

a Catholic Church in Westchester County. 

There were on-campus legends that I never had as instructors. The list included Dr. 

Bodhan Chudoba who skied his way to freedom after the communist takeover of his 

native eastern European country. Brother Thomas Bullen, a walking genius, was 

chairman of the Science Department and received his three academic degrees in three 

consecutive years – BS in 1915, MS in 1915 and his Ph.D in 1917. Quite an academic 

feat, indeed! 

My GPA fell below 2.0 during three of my semesters at Iona. As a result, I was hauled 

before the Committee on Academic Standing on at least two occasions. Committees were 

quite the thing in the 1950’s, not only in Congress, but on college campuses as well. The 

chairman of this committee was Brother Thomas P. Kostka. Need I say more. 

Brother Kostka was an inspiration to me and to so many other students whose lives he 

touched. Indeed, he was a most Christian brother.

Having to declare a major by the middle of my sophomore year, I opted for history. I 

wanted to follow in Brother Kostka’s footsteps for he proved to me that history can be 

fun. My grades in most of my history courses were respectable. 

I had hoped to graduate college in June of 1957, one year behind my high school 

graduation class. However, this was not to be. I had to return in September of 1957 to 

repeat the Metaphysics course that I had failed under Dr. Lamm. God damn Lamm was 

the popular refrain on the campus, even among some of the student brothers. 

In the spring of 1957, I had yet to decide what I would be in life – que sera, sera! With a 

history major, one does not have too many options. Perhaps, I should emulate Brother 

Kostka all the way and become a history teacher. 

With a teaching career in mind, I approached Brother Mark Egan, Ph.D, who was 

considered to be one of the “giants” in the counseling profession. Brother Eagan told me 

in so many words that I would never make it as a teacher. While I was a little upset by 

this paragon’s insight into my future, nonetheless, I decided that his recommendation 

would not be in my best interest. 

The following fall I took several education courses, as well as repeated the philosophy 

course that I had twice failed. Not only did I enjoy the education courses and did well in 

them, but I enjoyed my third go round with Metaphysics as well. With a stimulating 

teacher, Brother Leo Downey, I wound up with a “B” in Metaphysics and a GPA of 2.5 

for my final semester at Iona College. 

It was during the fall of 1957 that I helped found the St. Thomas More Political Science 

Forum of Iona College. Dr. Ernst Winter agreed to serve as club moderator while my 

Hell’s Kitchen friend, Bob Naun, was elected its first president. I would coordinate the 

club’s speakers program. At the time, my friend from the Harvard Club, Joe Murphy, was 

the Republican candidate for the Senate of the State of New York and he agreed to be the 

Forum’s first speaker. Also, former Utah Governor, J. Bracken Lee, and National Review 

editor, William F. Buckley Jr., were speakers that I arranged to appear at Iona. In 

February, 1959, my friend and mentor, Dr. Charles Malik, president of the United 

Nations General Assembly, appeared at Iona on my behalf to receive an honorary degree 

and deliver a landmark address. This proud Iona alumnus sat front row center in Harris 

Gymnasium, prouder that a peacock.

MOM FEELS FINANCIAL PINCH 

By the fall of 1954 mom was beginning to feel the financial strain. She had “maxed out” 

her account at Beneficial Finance and had trouble making the minimal monthly 

payments. At the rate of 24.9% interest, she’d be paying the loan off well into her 

retirement. Sacrifices are sacrifices, but this was too much. It was time that I go job 

hunting. 

Uncle Mike suggested that I try the Hotelmen’s Employment Agency at the corner of 56 

Street and 8 th Avenue. They had an opening that suited my schedule to a tee. It was a 

bellhop’s position at the Harvard Club on West 44 th Street. The hours were from 4PM to 

1AM with Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s off. That didn’t sound too bad. I would have to 

give up my weekends and holidays, but, on the other hand, I would have off two days that 

classes were in session. 

I proceeded to fill out the paperwork, agreed to the Agency’s commission, and within an 

hour I was meeting with the Director of Personnel at the Harvard Club. I was now ready 

to be gainfully employed, therefore alleviating some of mom’s financial woes. In 

addition, it allowed me to continue my college education. Unlike today, there were very 

few financial aid programs offered by colleges. I had little choice but to combine work 

and school, and hope for the best. It paid off! 

Because of the proximity of the Harvard Club to Grand Central Terminal, the New Haven 

Railroad’s Stamford Local now became my primary mode of transportation to New 

Rochelle. My neighborhood friend, Pat Hoey, who entered Iona as a freshman in 1955, 

was a frequent rider with me. Although he was an accounting major, we did have many 

things in common to talk about and to help pass the thirty-five minute train ride. While 

traveling alone, I read the U. S. News and World Report magazine to keep up with current 

events. I was now beginning to read the New York Times, an academic upgrade from my 

favorite tabloid, the New York Daily News. 

On the sidelines, my mother cheered, as did Aunt Mary and Aunt Betty – all hoping, and 

praying hard, real hard, for my successful completion of college. Sadly, I lost Aunt Betty 

on February 21, 1957. While shopping, she suffered a fatal heart attack outside the local 

A & P. This was the first time in my life that I experienced the death of a loved one. I 

was distraught that I lost my favorite aunt. She wanted me to finish college and I would 

fulfill her desire. As a token of her caring, I thought about placing my 1957 college ring 

in the casket beside her. I was advised against doing so and complied with the request. 

I’m sorry I did, for I later lost the ring.

DRINKING BEER AND PLAYING THE JUKEBOX AT THE BEECHMONT 

One of my earliest discoveries was the site of the Beechmont, a bar and grill located on 

North Avenue diagonally across from the back steps of Iona College. This was the 

official “watering hole” of the college. The bar drew college regulars, myself included, 

and the kids were rarely proofed to establish that they were, indeed, at least 18 years of 

age. Many college kids today pray for a return to the “good old days.” 

We had other eateries in the area such as the College Diner. While the diner wasn’t bad, 

it wasn’t a place that one could relax for extended periods of time, and besides, it didn’t 

serve the “nectar of the gods.” 

In addition to Pabst on tap, the Beechmont served great lunches at reasonable prices. My 

favorite was the meatball “wedge” and the chef made an excellent tomato sauce to 

complement the meat that was sandwiched in between the long, hard roll. 

“Big Pete” was the owner and Mario helped with the bar tending. They ran a clean, 

orderly, although a sometimes crowded and noisy establishment. 

One of these occasions was World Series time where games were played in the afternoon 

back then. It was wall-to-wall people and many a game did I watch from my barstool or 

table. At times, the game dragged into late afternoon and I’d still be there with some of 

my peers. By the time the game ended, it was I who would be dragging. 

It was after one of those late-ending games that my college buddies and I left the 

Beechmont and traveled by car back to Manhattan. Our kidneys, stomachs and whatever 

were bloated with beer. It was painful holding it in. We just had to go! So the driver 

found a pull-off spot, if you’ll pardon the expression, on the Henry Hudson Parkway and 

the five of us piled out with the greatest of speed and relieved ourselves into the Hudson 

River. It looked as if the scene was choreographed or if the “manikin de piss” time five 

had been transported from its pedestal in Brussels to the banks of the Hudson. 

Because of similar problems, I often had to excuse myself from an afternoon class to fix a 

“leak.”

I passed many hours in the Beechmont listening to the jukebox. No longer could one put 

another nickel in the nickelodeon. The price of a single selection had doubled to a dime, 

or three selections for a quarter. Many quarters were spent by me for this “canned 

music.” But I enjoyed it. I loved drinking beer and listening to the jukebox, not 

necessarily in that order. 

It is impossible to remember all the songs that I listened to during the nearly five years 

that I frequented the Beechmont. Local New Rochelle resident, Theresa Brewer, was 

coming out with hit after hit including Till I Waltz Again with You. Other of my favorites 

included Rosemary Clooney’s This Old House, the Ames Brothers and their Naughty 

Lady of Shady Lane, my favorite Platters disc, The Great Pretender and Tennessee Ernie 

Ford’s Sixteen Tons. A French song, The Poor People of Paris with Les Baxter and his 

orchestra caught my fancy. 

PCQ19: Do you remember the name of the French chanteuse who made the song, 

“The Poor People of Paris,” a hit, some years earlier? 

By 1955, the jukebox was including a limited number of rock selections. “The King” had 

been born on a Sun label, and before too long Elvis would capture the ears of many music 

listeners, especially the younger set. His recordings shook up a lot of people, including 

myself, and to me he was one step above a hound dog. His fans called that singing. Ugh! 

However, I must say that I enjoyed his ballads especially Love Me Tender. It took me 

many years – decades – to appreciate the musical genius of “the King.” Times were 

changing. Music was changing. I was not 

A few years after I graduated from Iona, Pete sold the Beechmont and the new owners 

changed its name to the Levee. It is the bar of song that appears in an early ‘70’s classic, 

American Pie: drove my Chevy to the Levee and the Levy was dry. Eventually the bar 

reclaimed its old name and remains the Beechmont today. 

PCQ20: Do you remember the name of the Iona College alumnus and New Rochelle 

resident who wrote the pop anthem, “American Pie?”

One day, while in a creative mood, I wrote a parody of The Thing, a song made famous 

by Phil Harris in 1950. If you remember the tune, join with me in the lyrics: 

While I was walking down the streets of New Rochelle one day; 

from college I was coming one cold and snowy day. 

I saw afar a neon sign that beckoned me to say: 

Oh, I need some of that xxx before this cold kills me. 


The site of the Beechmont close at hand was very good to see, 

It made me feel a different man so full of joy and glee. 

I walked right in and found a stool and said this hurriedly: 



The bar was not so crowded as it was half past two, 

my schedule concludes that time and that’s not bad to do. 

The brew was good and pepped me up, so I said this one again: 

Oh, I need more of that xxx before that cold kills me. 

Oh, I need more of that xxx before that cold kills me. 

The second round was tastier, refreshing as could be, 

I felt it was a joy in life and that’s no fallacy. 

It warmed me up from freezing cold and prompted me to say: 

Oh, I need more of that xxx before this cold kills me. 


An hour passed and I still quaffed the foamy, golden brew, 

from high upon my chrome barstool, I had a hazy view. 

“Another one?” the barman said, I answered him “Why not?” 



(slowly) 

Now the moral of the story is: If you are in a bar 

and you should see a great big glass and its within your reach; 

don’t ever stop to pick it up, that’s my advice to you, ‘cause (pick up tempo) 

You’ll never get rid of the xxx and the hangover it leaves you. 

Oh, you’ll never get rid of the xxx and the hangover it leaves you. 

(or perhaps the moral of the story is that I should have spent less time drinking beer and 

playing the jukebox at the Beechmont, and spent more time on my studies.)

FINISHED COLLEGE, NOW WHAT? 

My goal had been achieved. I had finished college on the “five year” plan in January 

1958. I had accumulated the required 128 credits with a major in History and a minor in 

English. It was a feel-good experience. Where would I go from here? What would be my 

next step in life? 

Those questions were to be answered by a member of the Harvard Club. Through the 

efforts of Captain John Batchelder, U.S.M.C. recruiting officer and HC member, I 

applied and was accepted into the Officers Candidate Corps. The next OCC program 

would begin in Quantico, Virginia, at the end of March. “Gung ho” was the only way to 

go. 

I continued working at the Harvard Club until early March, at which time I took a week’s 

vacation in Florida. While looking forward to my ceremonial graduation from Iona 

College in June, it seemed like a long time off. Besides, my military commitment might 

prevent me from attending. Only time would tell. 

MEETING THOMAS AQUINAS AT TROPICAL PARK 

Thomas Goodwin, an older co-worker at the Harvard Club, and I had become good 

friends. We often attended the 1:30AM Sunday mass at St. Agnes Church across from the 

Chrysler Building. Tom was taking a month off from his bellhop duties at the club and 

was planning to visit his brother, Harold, a horse trainer residing in Miami for the winter 

racing season. Knowing that I was entering the OCC program at the end of March, Tom 

invited me to join his brother and himself for a week of fun in the sun in Miami. I guess 

he felt that I should build myself up for the challenges that lay ahead. 

It was quite an experience landing at Miami Airport. In those days, passengers alit the 

aircraft by descending the steps of a movable staircase onto the tarmac and then walked 

into the terminal. The jetway had not yet arrived. Coming from a cold, wintry New York 

climate, it was so good to feel the warm breezes of the sub-tropics. I proceeded into the 

terminal where I was met by Tom and his brother, Harold. They were both clad in 

Bermuda shorts and sport shirts and looked so refreshingly cool. It was dinnertime, so we 

proceeded directly to “My Brother’s Place” restaurant where I was treated to some good 

southern cooking.

For the next week I was their houseguest in their rented three-bedroom home on the 

Miami-Coral Gables borderline. There was plenty to do in the immediate area. One of the 

highlights was an afternoon of swimming in the Venetian Pool, replete with its caves, 

waterfall and slide. We had nothing like this in New York. 

Several mornings I arose early and watched Harold’s horses work out at one of the big 

three racetracks. I was there when Tropical Park overlapped with Hialeah. Among the 

several horses that Harold trained was “Thomas Aquinas” - one of my patron “Thomas” 

saints. Harold invited me into the stable to meet Thomas. There he was, erect as erect 

could be. Boy was I embarrassed. Now I know where they get that unmentionable 

expression, “horse-hung.” Now I know why television crews covering horse shows, 

sometimes are forced to pan off in another direction when a similar situation arises, no 

pun intended. 

I learned a lot from Harold during my week’s visit to Florida. One evening while passing 

his room with door ajar, I noticed that he was kneeling beside his bed saying his prayers. 

Like his brother, Tom, Harold was a devout Catholic. I learned, too, about the racetrack. I 

found out the difference between win, place and show. You’d think that I would have 

found this out from my bookie friends in New York. I learned about the odds, that the 

greater the odds, the lesser of a chance your horse had on winning. However, if your 

horse came in against the house-stacked odds, then you had money to take me out to 

dinner. Elementary, my dear Thomas! Whenever Harold had a horse running, he placed 

his bets at the hundred-dollar window. Me, I stuck to the two-dollar window. 

Perhaps the most colorful spectacle that I attended while in Florida, was the running of 

the Flamingo Derby at Hialeah. It was a big event of the Florida social season – the Ascot 

of Miami – and I was there. 

Harold told me that the prime reason one should go to the track was to have a day out, a 

day of fun at the races. Come prepared to spend a few bucks and never but never go over 

your head. Harold admonished me further by stating, that in the total picture, there is only 

one winner – the house. 

I loved watching the bugler, bedecked in his bright red coat and black cap, and hearing 

the shrill notes as they blared forth from his golden trumpet. It is now post time.

“SEMPER FI” 

On March 22, 1958, a couple of days before my departure for Quantico, I had a goingaway 

party, the likes of which we had never seen at 363. Some forty people – mom and 

Uncle Mike, friends and neighbors, Panthers, altar boys, Legionnaires, classmates from 

Iona, and even a member of the Harvard Club, plebeians and patricians – all crowded into 

the limited spaces of my apartment and the adjacent apartment of Miss Kramer. None of 

the neighbors complained; they all were invited. 

Why did I join the Armed Services? Although the Korean War was over for years, 

nonetheless, I felt that it was my patriotic duty to serve our country. Lest we not forget, I 

was a straight, upstanding, red-blooded, conservative American. Why did I choose the 

Marine Corps? Perhaps it was the influence of Capt. John Batchelder, USMC, and a 

member of the Harvard Club; perhaps I felt that the Corps was the most challenging 

branch of service; or perhaps it was those magnetic posters that read: “The Marine Corps 

build men.” Perhaps I was recalling the days when as a young kid during the summer of 

1943, I crossed the heavily trafficked 57 th Street in order to hear the Marines Hymn as it 

blared forth from the loudspeakers atop a Marine Corps recruiting vehicle. Upon recrossing 

the street I got hit by a car, but that didn’t dampen my spirits. In 1958, as in 

1943, I loved the Marine Corps. Whatever the reason, I made a choice. 

Then it was off to Quantico, located some thirty-five miles south of Washington, D.C. on 

the banks of the Potomac River. A USMC bus was there to meet the train and to take the 

new arrivals to the base for processing. Once inside the gates, I knew that I was inside the 

“academy” of the Marine Corps. We passed the FBI complex that shares the base with 

the Marines. Through the closed window of the bus I could hear a platoon being put 

through its paces while singing loudly: 1-2-3-4, I love the Marine Corps; 1-2-3-4, I love 

the Marine Corps. I had arrived as “gung ho” as the best of them. 

The change from civilian to military identity was done quickly. Our first stop was 

Headquarters and Supply (H&S) Company where we received our government issued 

(GI) supplies including skivvies, combat fatigues and boots. Then it was hair removal 

time at the sheer shop. Dog tags and military identification cards were issues. Hurry up! 

Keep the line moving! shouted a multi-striped Marine. In less than an hour I had become 

Candidate Thomas C. Murray with the rank of private in the United States Marine Corps. 

I was assigned to the third of four platoons in “B” Company – that’s “B” as in Bravo. 

Two southern white sergeants were the platoon instructors. For some reason I felt that 

these men were still fighting the Civil War. However, they would be there 24 hours a day 

to show us our new way of life – Semper Fi, baby!

The daily routine began with the shrill of a whistle and the rattling of a garbage can. 

“Everybody up!” the sergeant roared as he put on the lights in the darkened barracks. 

Nothing like getting the morning off to a good “start.” With a white towel wrapped 

tightly around our waists, we tended to our biological needs in the “head”, followed by 

the other “s’s” before getting dressed in our fatigues. It was now fallout time on the banks 

of the dark and foggy Potomac River where roll was taken, followed by chow served on a 

silver platter (a metal food tray) in the mess hall. No comments please on the word 

“mess.” 

Classroom instruction played an important part in our training. Manuals were issued on 

of day of our arrival and the candidates were expected to know everything contained 

therein. We were to know the nomenclature of our weapon, as well as be able to 

dismantle our M-1 rifle and put it back together again. Never, but never, did you call your 

weapon a gun. Using appropriate gestures we said: This is my rifle, this is my gun; this is 

for fighting, this is for fun. Tsk! Tsk! 

Quantico was noted for its obstacle course, reputed to be the toughest in the country. In 

full pack, a candidate had to run the course that included rope climbing (watch those hand 

burns), pull-ups with hands outward, scale a seven foot wooden wall (never wear a ring 

lest your finger be severed from its socket by an errant nail), and other physically 

demanding challenges. I remember a thoroughly exhausted fellow-candidate sitting down 

at the end of the grueling course for a quick rest. An unappreciative sergeant asked: Are 

you tired, boy? 

Yes sir! was the candidate’s reply. 

Well then, run the****in’ course all over again! 

Spirit building ranked high on the list of priorities at Quantico. A parody of “The Bridge 

over the River Kwai” (Colonel Bogey March) was popular at the time: 

Bull_xxx_will make the grass grow green. 

Bull_xxx_will make a good Marine… 

Another favorite was: 

We’re Sergeant Taylor’s raiders, we’re raiders of the night, 

we’re signified candidates who’d rather drink than fight. 

Hi-dee, hi-dee, gosh almighty, who the hell are we: 

The third platoon, the best platoon, from Bravo Company. 

And so it went: 1-2-3-4, I love the Marine Corps; 1-2-3-4, I love the Marine Corps.

The “white glove” inspection was another time-honored institution in Quantico. Once a 

week the commander would inspect the barracks from top to bottom. Each candidate 

would be standing at attention at the bulkhead of his bed while the major made his 

rounds. At one inspection, the major the stood on a chair, unscrewed the frosted globe 

that encased the light bulb, and stuck his white-gloved finger into the inside of the globe. 

You guessed it! He found a particle of dust and sent the globe crashing to the ground 

smashing it to smithereens. He descended from his perch and went up to one on the 

candidates and making eye contact and inch or two from his face said: This looks like a 

house of defecation. Do you know what a house of defecation is, boy? 

The nervous candidate replied: A house of ill repute, sir! So much for “Joe College.” 

We were physically monitored on an ongoing basis. About three weeks into the program 

my blood pressure reading was higher than it should have been. It was taken again the 

next day and still read higher than the proscribed reading for candidates in the OCC. In 

mid-April I was sent to the U. S. Naval Hospital on the base (the Navy tends to the 

medical needs of the Marines and some Naval personnel seem to think that the USMC is 

part of the US Navy). I spent several days in the hospital for tests and observation. The 

blood pressure was still up there. Upon discharge from the hospital, I was reassigned to 

H&S Company where I would stay until a determination could be made in my case. 

Word came down from headquarters that I could not continue in the OCC program. My 

blood pressure readings were higher than what was expected for the strenuous program. 

They gave me the option of going down to Parris Island and starting over as a raw recruit 

or terminating my service with the Corps. If I chose the latter option, I would be given an 

honorable discharge from the service. After giving the matter some thought, I decided 

that if I could not wear a bar on my shoulder, I did not want to wear a chevron on my 

sleeve. The honorable discharge was the route to go. I would continue staying at H&S 

until my orders separating me from active duty came through. 

H&S was great. There were other candidates and enlisted men there. Some, like myself, 

were passing time while they awaited orders. I could now sit back, relax and listen to the 

Everly Brothers singing All I Have to Do is Dream. 

During the month or so that I was in H&S, I was given a number of weekend passes. This 

gave me a chance to get back to the city to see mom and my friends. One of the 

weekends, I went to see my former eight-grade teacher, Sister Modesta, who was 

stationed in Arlington, Virginia, at the time. She was so happy to see one of her “Paulist 

boys.” Besides her welcome company, she fixed me the most delicious sandwich that I 

had eaten in quite a while, as well as a cup of tea – a pleasant change from the chow and 

mud at Quantico.

And yet another weekend I went up to Washington, D.C. I was toying with the idea of 

seeing my first ever, “C”-rated movie, And God Created Woman. Featuring the French 

hussy, Brigette Bardot, it had been playing at the Paris Theatre in New York City well 

before I left for Quantico. In spite of the best efforts of the Legion of Decency and the 

usual pickets from numerous Catholic groups, it was breaking attendance records at the 

famed art house. 

Being a good Catholic young man, I had qualms about attending the “C” rated movie 

playing in our nation’s capital. I had never attended a condemned movie in my life. 

“They” were in Washington D.C. too – picketers from Legion-affiliated groups. “Ban 

Bardot” and “Boycott Blasphemy” their signs read. Already the group was saying, in 

unison: Hail Mary, Full of Grace…as they fingered the beads of their rosary. This 

complicated the situation. Did I have the intestinal fortitude to cross a picket line? What 

am I doing here in the first place? Who would see me entering the theatre? Perhaps, I 

could see it, knowing that Washington, D.C. provided a “safety zone” more than twohundred 

miles away. I don’t think that I would run into someone from my parish and thus 

tarnish my good, altar boy, name. The CGT (Catholic Guilt Trip) was now factoring into 

my decision. If I saw it, I’d be committing a mortal sin, and with that came the prospect 

of burning in hell for all eternity if I were to die. As a conservative Catholic, I should 

have not entertained the prospect of going to Washington to see a condemned movie to 

begin with. But I did and that’s history. 

The self-righteous attitude of the picketers turned me off. Who were they to tell me what 

motion pictures I could see or not see? My inner self was reacting to these reactionaries 

and their censorship. I had made my decision. I crossed the picket line, purchased my 

ticket, and went in to see the movie. That was the first and only time that I ever crossed a 

picket line. The movie was tame by today’s standards and was rated PG-13 when it was 

re-released a number of years ago. I found neither the movie nor Brigette Bardot 

titillating. 

The perks at Quantico, not available to civilians, were multiple. The PX was a great place 

for shopping. The base bar for enlisted me was a beer drinker’s dream. For a quarter, one 

could buy a whole pitcher of beer. What a buy! One night I became overwhelmed with 

the prospect of buying a pitcher of beer for a quarter. I paid my twenty-five cents and 

proceeded to chug-a-lug my pitcher. After that was finished, I planked down a quarter for 

another pitcher. I made it back to the H&S barracks all right, but no sooner that I arrived 

there, I puked all over the floor. Disgusting! Embarrassing! I had to swab the deck and 

several of my bunkmates were somewhat perturbed at this uncontrollable display not to 

mention the malodorous effects of barfing. Perhaps it was a harbinger of things to come. 

By mid-May 1958 my orders had come through. I was now placed in the reserve and 

separated from active duty. I donned my civilian attire and took the first train out of 

Quantico. I received my “Honorable Discharge from the Armed Forces of the United 

States of America” on the 15 th day of June, 1959. Semper Fi baby!

CAP, GOWN AND HOOD 

Saturday, June 7 th , 1958, had arrived. It was Graduation Day at Iona College. It was a day 

that I had long awaited and, thought at times, the day that would never come. Joe 

Rodriguez drove mom and myself up to New Rochelle for the ceremony. Marguerite and 

Nan Cowhey of Cowhey Camps also attended the ceremony. 

Cardinal Spellman presided over the outdoor event and Brother Barnes, the college 

president conferred the degrees. The address to the graduates was given by the editor of 

The Catholic News, Richard Reid. Moments before, Mr. Reid was one of four recipients 

receiving honorary degrees from Iona. 

I had the good fortune of meeting Mr. Reid at a reception shortly after graduation. He 

shared with me an interesting story about His Eminence, Francis Cardinal Spellman. I 

love Cardinal Spellman stories. 

One day the Cardinal received a phone call from an irate monsignor who was pastor of a 

suburban parish. The cardinal’s secretary, also a monsignor, took the call in the cardinal’s 

office on Madison Avenue. The phoning pastor became very indignant when the 

cardinal’s secretary told him that His Eminence was in conference and would not be able 

to speak to him. Apparently, this pastor was the bane of Cardinal Spellman’s 

ecclesiastical existence. Steaming, the cardinal’s secretary banged down the phone, 

saying: You son of a bitch! At that very moment the cardinal had come out of his office 

and had heard the “un-monsignorlike” outburst. The cardinal’s secretary cringed with 

fear, thinking that he might be transferred forthwith to Saugerties, the last outpost of the 

Archdiocese of New York. The cardinal, knowing to whom his secretary had been 

speaking, gently rebuked him saying: Please, next time, remember it’s the Right 

Reverend son of a bitch. 

A small graduation party followed at 363. It paled in comparison to the March “going 

into the service” party, but it was a success by any standard. Herb Becker was at the 

piano playing everything from Sousa to Strauss. Among my guests were neighbors from 

across the hall, Cesare Bardelli and his lady friend. Both were members of the 

Metropolitan Opera Company and they both obliged by singing to a receptive audience. 

The diva sang Secret Love, a song popularized by Doris Day a few years earlier. I didn’t 

make a big deal of it at the time, but as I now look back I realize that it was quite an 

honor having two opera stars from the Met singing at my graduation party. 

My college graduation was a time to reflect upon the sacrifices that Delia had made to 

help finance my education, as well as the encouragement that she gave me along the way. 

Thanks mom! I love you!

Chapter 9 – HOPPING AT THE HARVARD CLUB 

THROUGH THESE DOORS 

Through the doors of the Harvard Club of New York City passed some of the most 

important movers and shakers of the 1950’s and perhaps, the twentieth century. It was the 

private domain of the men of Harvard, a sanctuary away from the hustle and bustle of the 

busiest city in the world. It was a place for business, relaxation, a game of backgammon 

in the Grill Room, a beer at the bar, a gourmet meal in the great dining room, reading The 

New York Times in a lounge chair in Harvard Hall, or a moment of solitude in the quiet of 

the second-floor library. At the Club, you entertained or were entertained; it was a place 

where the important issues of the day were discussed over a Harvard size (super-large) 

cup of coffee or something stronger. 

Although founded in 1865, the present clubhouse was not completed until the end of the 

nineteenth century. It was designed by the esteemed architectural firm of Mc Kim, Mead 

and White, whose firm designed everything else of major architectural importance in the 

city at that time – or just about. 

As a member passed through the portal of 27 West 44 th Street, he entered the lobby, 

where he was greeted by veteran employee, Pat Cronin during the day or myself in the 

evening. The doorman kept a log of members present in the club on a huge membership 

board behind his desk. When the member left the club, he was checked out. The doorman 

had the right to challenge any person who passed through the portal whose membership 

he questioned. A guest of a member had to produce his guest card. Privacy and security 

were priorities at the Club. It was at the doorman’s desk that incoming calls to members 

were taken. If a member expected a call, he would advise the doorman of his 

whereabouts and when the call came in, a bellhop would page him. Most members, 

however, were paged over a public address system located at the doorman’s desk. Dr. 

Nathan Pusey, telephone, Dr. Pusey. If the member did not emerge to answer the phone 

at the phone bank located at the far end of the lobby, the doorman would phone down to 

the telephone room in the basement and advise the operator that there was no answer.

The anteroom was impressive, replete with an imposing fireplace. A grand staircase led 

up to the library onto the second floor. Separated by a waiting area, another staircase led 

downward to the basement level, site of the barbershop, bootblack, lavatory and 

administrative offices. Oil paintings of Harvard’s president, Nathan Marsh Pusey and his 

predecessor, James Bryant Conant, adorned the walls on either side of the entrance to the 

Grill Room. Opposite the bellhop’s bench was a cigar stand where a member could 

purchase tobacco goods, Harvard Club memorabilia, or any one of the many books 

written by Harvard alumni. 

Next to the doorman’s desk was the side door to the Ladies Lounge. It was not meant to 

be used as an entrance but rather to provide ingress and egress for members and staff. 

From the Club side, it was hard to tell that a door really existed. The Ladies Lounge was 

a two story annex containing a reception area, a large dining room on the second floor, 

and, of course, a powder room. Mae Winters and her associate, Vincent Arra, tended to 

the cloakroom. Women were forbidden from entering the Clubhouse except on weekends 

and they had to be off the premises no later than 10PM. A seemingly misogynist member 

would have no compunction complaining to me if a woman was in the Club one minute 

past the bewitching hour. Harvard was an all-male institution and the Harvard Club was 

an all-male domain. Most members wished to keep it that way. The girls were waiting in 

the wings – or perhaps, the Ladies Lounge. 

FRONT PLEASE 

I consider myself fortunate in getting a bellhop job at the Harvard Club in the fall of 

1954. While the pay was modest, nonetheless, it was enough to get me through college 

with a little pocket money to spare. The hours though, were long, from 4PM to 1AM, and 

included a half-hour for a meal and two fifteen-minute breaks. Many a times I could be 

caught dozing on the bellhop’s bench. In the beginning, I found it difficult maintaining 

both a full time job and carrying a full college credit load (one semester I carried twentytwo 

credits). I arose at 6:30AM, made the commute to Iona College in New Rochelle, 

went to work and didn’t get back home until 1:15AM. How the heck I did it, I’ll never 

know. I persevered. I had no choice. Being off from work on Tuesdays and Wednesdays 

helped compensate, as did being able to catch up on my sleep on Saturdays and Sundays. 

My home was only a twenty-minute or so walk from the Club. That was a big plus, 

except in inclement weather.

I arrived early on my first day of work and entered by the employees’ entrance on West 

45 th Street. I proceeded to the Personnel Office whereupon Mrs. Campbell sent me to the 

Uniform Room where I selected a uniform: black pants and a black jacket with crimson 

stripes on the sleeves. A clean white shirt, black tie, as well as black shoes and black 

socks were part of the uniform and the responsibility of the bellhop. Periodic dry cleaning 

of the uniform was also the responsibility of the employee. I was assigned a locker in the 

bellhop section of the basement locker room where I donned my new working attire. This 

was my first time in uniform and I didn’t look too badly. I returned to Mrs. Campbell’s 

office and awaited the arrival of Bernard Leo Minnax, the Assistant Manager of the Club 

and my new boss. A few minutes later a well-built man with gray hair and a sternlooking, 

reddish face entered the room. Dispensing with the usual formalities, Mr. 

Minnax, walked me upstairs and introduced me to my immediate superior, doorman, 

John Poe. As Mr. Minnax went on about his duties, John greeted me with a handshake 

and a smile. Whew! What a relief to be away from what appeared to me to be the “house 

dick.” 

John Poe briefed me as to my duties as Club members were breezing in and out past his 

checkpoint. As a bellhop, I would help any member with his luggage who was checking 

in or out of one of the sixty-two rooms at the Club. I would hail a cab, if requested. I 

would give meal breaks to the checkroom man as well as the elevator man. Learning to 

operate the elevator was easy as the Club had only six floors. Traffic was heaviest to the 

third floor during dinner time where there were a number of banquet rooms and to the 

sixth floor where there was a fitness center that included squash courts supervised by 

squash pro, John Jacobs. On the sixth floor, one could get a massage by Ted. He was 

quite adept with his hands I was told. 

John introduced me to my fellow bellhops who were sitting on the bellhop’s bench. My 

namesake, John Murray, was an older fellow who had been there for a while and really 

taught me the ropes of “bellhopping.” Joey was a cute kid about my age from the 

mountains of Kentucky. His accent and his long strides gave rise to his nickname, “the 

hillbilly.” A third, rather gregarious man, Ralph Crater, was on duty from 11AM to 8PM. 

I proceeded to take my place at the far end of the bench and worked my way on a rotation 

basis toward the first position. I awaited my turn to be called. Suddenly, the buzzer from 

the front desk rang as John Devine, the desk clerk, called out: Front please! I had arrived 

in the world of “bellhopdom.”

TRANSIENT WORKERS 

Within a year John the elder, Joey the hillbilly, and Ralph the gregarious were gone. It 

seemed that they were transient workers, not to be confused with Michael Quill’s transit 

workers. Their replacements, however, stayed for at least two years and became my 

friends as well as co-workers. First and foremost was John Harkins. Like myself, John 

was a college student. He was attending St. John’s in Brooklyn and resided in Bronxville 

in Westchester County. Why he didn’t go to Iona, I’ll never know. He had a great sense 

of humor and we worked well together. Armand Thiabault was a few years older than 

John and me and was a struggling artist from Maine. Most artists are struggling artists! 

George Crowley from Woodside filled in the 11 to 8 spot. George was in the same age 

group and weight group (heavy) as John and the two got along famously, calling each 

other “glom” and “glub” and other non-complementary appellations. Richard Page, a 

fellow Iona College student, also did a stint at the Club during this period only to be 

replaced by Jack Cronin. An older fellow, Tom Goodwin, would join the ranks when 

Armand left. John Harkins went on to become a lawyer and I would keep in touch with 

him for many years. George Crowley became a member of “New York’s Finest.” 

Not to be missed was Al Bauder. Al, a balding man in his early sixties, was the elevator 

operator. He had many positions in life prior to working at the Club. First and foremost, 

was his experience as a house painter. He moonlighted one weekend and did a great job 

painting my apartment. I paid him, of course. It wasn’t too long before Al was upgraded 

to the cigar stand located directly opposite the bellhop’s bench. He had good interpersonal 

skills and a great sense of humor, albeit perverted at times. When I told him that 

I was thinking of going into teaching, he wisecracked in a good-natured way. Good 

morning, Mr. Murray, Al would say, giving me the Italian salute as he emerged from the 

humidor room. I guess that it was a takeoff on the movies Good Morning Miss Dove and 

The Blackboard Jungle, both of which were released in 1955. 

A WONDERFUL HUMAN BEING 

Once I got to know Mr. Minnax, I found that under his tough façade lay a wonderful 

human being. Once he got to know me, he showed me many considerations. Realizing 

that I was a full time college student, he allowed me to go into the Ladies Lounge to 

study when it closed at 10PM. He allowed me time off when requested. He was 

responsible for my in-Club promotions. He gave me the summer off so that I could 

continue my work in Camp Adrian. I owe so much to Bernard Leo Minnax and will 

remember him always in my thoughts and in my prayers.

WALKING THE GREAT WHITE WAY 

The crew usually checked out about 12:40 or 12:45. We would give the night watchman a 

pack of cigarettes a week in return for punching us out at 1AM. Tsk! Tsk! 

Many a time John Poe and I would walk to the subway station at 47 th Street and 7 th 

Avenue where he would get the train for Astoria, Queens. John was a very deep person 

and was ready and willing to talk to me about his innermost feelings. 

Armand Thiabault, on the other hand, was an extravert. Although he prided himself of his 

artistic ability as a painter, he was not making the breakthrough that was hoping for in 

New York. On our way to the subway, we would sing Frank Sinatra’s, Love and 

Marriage and other favorites of the pop era. Armand was an unabashed homosexual and 

on our post-midnight walk he would sing his parody of Eddie Fisher’s, Wish You Were 

Here, inserting the word “queer” for “here.” We always had a gay time on our nightly 

walk to the subway – that’s gay in the 1950’s context, joyous. 

After leaving John and Armand off at the subway, I continued across the street passing 

Duffy Square and headed northward up the Great White Way to 57 th Street. New York is 

a city that never sleeps, so there was plenty of activity going on in the clubs and the bars 

along the way at that time of night. I usually arrived home at 363 about 1:15AM and tried 

to make as little noise as possible as I passed mom’s sofa in the living room/kitchen on 

the way into my bedroom. 

Sometimes on weekends, I would go north on 8 th Avenue and stop at a White Tower for a 

cheeseburger. On a hot night, I might stop in Gillhouly’s for a nice cold draft beer. 

Back in those days, it was relatively safe to walk the streets of midtown Manhattan late at 

night. Times have changed and so have the streets.

NO TIPPING PLEASE 

The Harvard Club was a private, not-for-profit institution, and had a no tipping policy 

towards its employees. As a worker in a service industry, I was not overly elated. 

There were members who made exceptions to the rule and good for them. Every bellhop 

hoped that he would be sitting at near end of the bench when a known “tipper” entered 

the Club. Many a time I was at the near end, and did I hop when a member known for his 

kindness towards the bellhops entered the Club. 

May I take your bag, Mr. Connelly? 

Sure, Tom, as he approached the front desk to check in. 

And as I left his “usual” room, he invariably handed me a crisp new dollar bill. That 

usually made my night. 

George Holden Tinkham, a former southern Congressman, was a frequent visitor, 

sometimes staying a couple of weeks or more. In the evening he rang up the doorman and 

said: When the time comes, pick up my newspaper. About ten o’clock, the next day’s 

papers were on the newsstands and I obligingly picked up the paper for the aging former 

civil servant. He always kept a bottle of bourbon in his room and he loved his awfulsmelling 

stogie cigars. I’m surprised his unkempt beard didn’t go on fire. I hated going 

into his room. It reeked! However, I did get a quarter tip for each delivery. 

Employees would benefit from the annual Christmas drive. Members were not obliged to 

contribute to the fund. Many didn’t, but many did. An oak tag board neatly lined and 

decorated was placed in the front office. Here a member could sign his name and the 

amount that he pledged toward the Employees Christmas Fund. Naturally, we all checked 

the board as it got closer and closer to the holidays. We kept in mind those who were 

especially generous. A few days before Christmas the tally was made and the spoils 

divided to the employees on the basis of rank and seniority. Have yourself a Merry 

Christmas! 

Each month a musical group, “the Bohemians”, met in the combined Biddle and North 

Rooms on the third floor. Their concerts attracted a large crowd and its membership 

roster included the brother and conductor of the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra, 

Eugene Ormandy. Two bellhops were dispatched to the third floor cloakroom to take care 

of the musicians and lovers of classical music. Many were guests and this was reflected 

in their generous tips. The proceeds were shared with the doorman, the elevator man and 

the other bellhop who was on call in the lobby area. Some nights I came home with $5.00 

in my pocket. The Bohemians were great contributors to the cause of education. – mine.

RISING THROUGH THE RANKS 

It was a bittersweet day that I learned that John Poe would be leaving the Club. John and 

I got along so well. Mr. Minnax asked me to take John’s position as doorman. Having 

filled in at the front door on Thursdays and Fridays, John’s days off, I had the experience, 

as well as the seniority. I gladly accepted the promotion and continued keeping Tuesdays 

and Wednesdays as my days off. I was now the immediate superior of the bellhops, as 

well as the checkroom attendant and elevator operator. Power! Prestige! Perfect 

together! 

Perhaps, the most important perk that came with the job was that I was now considered 

an “officer” and, as such, I could order my dinner from a selection of entrees listed on the 

menu in the main dining room. The employees’ cafeteria in the basement left much to be 

desired in terms of appetizing culinary delights. Oftentimes on a Saturday evening, John 

Poe would give me an extended meal break so that I could go to the recently opened 

Tad’s on Forty-second Street for dinner. For a dollar, one got a strip steak, baked potato, 

garlic bread and salad. Not bad, eh? Now as Doorman and Bell Captain, I could enjoy 

dining at its best. I would go into the kitchen at 7PM and make my selection from any of 

four “officer choices” from the six or seven entrees on the menu. On occasion, I would 

tip the chef with a pack of cigarettes – and the world of gourmet dining was mine. I 

would take my tray and proceed upstairs to the balcony of the forty-foot high dining 

room. The balcony was usually closed off to members, and from my aerie I could look 

down upon the diners below, knowing that I was experiencing the same culinary delights 

as they were. Yum! 

Things could get hectic between 5 and 6PM. Both my phones were ringing off the hook. I 

was paging members over the p.a. system every other minute. Several members 

commented on how much they enjoyed the new “voice.” I guess it was my diction. 

At 6:30PM, the chauffeur of J. A. Ables, the president of Purolator, would run in to tell 

me that he was here and to page Mr. Ables for his ride back home to Mendham, New 

Jersey. Sometimes Mr. Ables was in the middle of a game of backgammon and seemed 

annoyed to be disturbed. Sometimes the chauffer had to wait until “J A” was good and 

ready to leave. I guess that you can do that when you’re president of a large company like 

Purolator. Sooner or later he left the Club and away he went in his top-of-the-line silver 

Chrysler Imperial. Tunnel traffic wasn’t that bad in the fifties. 

Al Bauder at the cigar stand used to tease me whenever I paged a certain Dr. Bator: Dr. 

Bator, telephone, Dr. Bator. Al yelled over to my desk: Is his son, Master Bator, with 

him? I told you earlier that Al had a perverted sense of humor. Perhaps, I did too.

As Doorman and Bell Captain, I loved working with my fellow employees. The 

chemistry between us was great and they always cooperated with me in busy times, as 

well as slow times. 

As time went by, I was promoted to the front office where I assumed a myriad of duties. 

Now I did not have to wear a uniform but rather a light black jacket. It felt so good and 

saved time punching in and out. 

The role of Desk Clerk in pre-computer days was interesting. Room reservations were 

usually made over the phone and, at times, I had to tell a member: Sorry, we’re all 

booked up for that day. Of course, if it was Mr. Connolly calling, we’d fit him in one way 

or the other. 

In tandem with the role of Desk Clerk was that of Theatre Ticket concierge. The Club 

had three direct lines to store front ticket brokers in the days long before Ticketron or 

Ticket Master. A member would call up or stop by to request theatre tickets. Sometimes 

he would let me make a suggestion – A drama or a musical, sir? Needless to say, I had to 

be knowledgeable in thespian pursuits. If I could not fill a member’s request for a 

particular show because it was sold out or had SRO, then I would suggest other 

possibilities. On occasion, a member would palm me to get a pair of tickets for that 

impossible dream of his. And, on occasion, I would come through, especially if I used my 

preferred ticket broker. 

The mid-fifties saw some real big hits including Bells are Ringing with Judy Holliday, 

the Pajama Game with John Raitt and Damn Yankees starring Gwen Verdon. By the time 

I left the Harvard Club, the “big two” were My Fair Lady and The Music Man. “Lady” at 

the time was the hottest ticket in town, but by George, I got it. I got it. The cost for an 

orchestra seat was under $8.00, so you figure $10.00 a seat including brokerage fee and 

Club service charge. 

Another one of my jobs was cashier. The cage was at the far end of the office and 

separated from the front desk by a partition. A large two-door safe was within this area 

and I was given its combination. The cashier was given a bank with which to conduct 

business for an eight-hour period. Change was readily available for members, as was 

check-cashing privileges, up to a $25.00 limit. Anything higher had to be approved by the 

manager. Signature cards were available in the front office that I could check out if I was 

in doubt as to the veracity of the signer of the check. A member or guest signature was 

the key to all transactions in the Club. At the end of the day, I had to fill out a balance 

sheet. It seemed that I had learned a lesson from those senior citizens playing Bingo at St. 

Paul’s during my high school days. Invariably, my balance sheet was balanced.

THE STEADIES 

McClure Howland was a steady member who stayed for several nights on a regular basis. 

He was quite a jovial middle age man who brought his own beer – nips of malt liquor. He 

believed in sharing the wealth and often gave me a bottle that I discreetly hid until I had a 

late night break, at which time I would consume the mini-bottle in a few swallows. Mr. 

Howland seemed to be a trusting soul as one evening he requested that I pick up his car at 

the Hippodrome Garage on the corner of 44 th and 6 th . I was told there was a famous 

theatre on the site some fifty years earlier. With ticket stub in hand, I waited for the 

attendant to bring the car to street level. I was curious as to the make of his car and in a 

few minutes discovered that it was a green Dodge coupe. I made a right as I exited the 

garage and drove three quarters of the way down the block to the Harvard Club that was 

on the left. This was my first experience driving in New York City and I made it, all three 

quarters of a block – and without a license, I might add. Tsk! Tsk! 

Speaking of cars, one of the Club’s members was a U.S. Navy Commander (ret.) who 

had a classic MG convertible. Often he would bring a young sailor into the Club for a 

drink at the bar, and perhaps, dinner. He never seemed at a loss for seamen. One 

afternoon he showed me his MG, parked in front of the Club, and although I did not get 

the ultimate invitation to go for a ride with the Commander, nonetheless, I had the 

pleasure of seeing this sleek, low-to-the-ground, vintage motorcar. Anchors Away! 

The Harvard Club bar was a hangout for many of the steadies. It was a beautiful 

horseshoe-shaped oak bar with a shiny brass foot-rail. The deep Crimson-red wallpaper 

added a dignified touch to the bar, as Crimson was Harvard’s official color. A member 

could munch on crackers and cheese, cheddar or cream, as he quaffed down a cold glass 

of Piels draught beer. I remember well the yellow, square Piels knob at the top of the 

shaft as the bartender meticulously pulled downward as the frothy nectar of the gods 

filled the tilted glass. 

One such bar frequenter was Charlie Whiting, a lawyer in his late thirties. He was a very 

personable member. However, I’d hate to have to pay his bar bill. Often Mr. Whiting 

could be seen doing research in the library, after which, he would descend the steps 

saying: I’m on the lam. 

Edmund Kerper, an older gentleman who made his fortune in the sawmills of New 

England, was another lively member. Nicknamed the “Beaver,” Mr. Kerper used to let 

out hoots as he left the bar. One could always tell, or hear, when Mr. Kerper was in the 

Club. Before his death, he was responsible for the complete parquet re-flooring of the 

lobby and Grill Room of the Club. It was his Club too and he loved it.

Col. Arthur F. Cosby served as a member of the Rough Riders during the Spanish- 

American War of 1898. The Colonel was on in years and walked with a cane. Knowing 

that I was a history major, he presented me with an envelope, addressed to me at my New 

York address and in the upper left corner, his name and address from Troop K of the 

Rough Riders. A commemorative three cents stamp of the famed cavalry group is affixed 

to the envelope. It presently hangs on the wall of the new bar in the Harvard Club with a 

brass strip noting that it was presented by a former bellhop some fifty years later. 

The debonair, bow-tie wearer, Eugene Buskirk, frequented the club quite often. I never 

found out his profession or occupation, but I do know that he was among the most 

gentlemanly of members. He always had a smile on his face as he gave me a, Good 

evening, Tom, as he entered the Club. 

Joseph Hartman, president of Michigan Peat, had his New York Office down the block 

from the Club. In the summer of 1958, Mr. Hartman assisted me with job hunting, 

writing a letter of introduction to the head of a school placement bureau in New England. 

While I eventually wound up at Essex Catholic High School in Newark where a friend of 

mine was principal instead of an upscale Connecticut boys school, I will never forget this 

good will gesture by Mr. Joe Hartman. 

Other steadies included Henry H. Reed, a member of the powerful House Committee, and 

Barney McCormick, both lawyers. It seemed to me that there was a proliferation of 

lawyers at the Club. Socialite, Cleveland Amory, was another frequent caller at the HC. 

He seemed snobbish and aloof, at least to the employees. For the most part, the members 

were far from snobbish but rather down to earth people with a Harvard degree. It was my 

pleasure working with them. 

BROOKS ATKINSON’S “BROADWAY SCRAPBOOK” 

The low-keyed Brooks Atkinson, the chief drama critic for the New York Times, was one 

such member. With pipe in hand, or mouth, as the case may be, the conservatively 

dressed, bow-tied, Atkinson entered the Club without any fanfare. Certainly the adage, 

The pen is mightier than the sword, proved true in his case. Many a play he made with his 

pen and many a play was broken with that same pen. To theatre producers, Atkinson was 

a god. In order to get some brownie points with my English teacher at Iona, William F. 

Williams, I purchased a copy of Broadway Scrapbook that highlighted Atkinson’s life as 

a theatre critic. I requested that the author inscribe it personally to Mr. Williams. Mr. 

Atkinson gladly obliged. I gave it to Mr. Williams who was elated at receiving a 

personally autographed book from the dean of theatre critics. I look back at this giveaway 

and say to myself: Tom, you were a schmuck of the first order in giving this book away. 

Anything for points! I always remember this gesture as I pass the theatre that bears the 

name of the New York Times drama critic. As a teacher, I mentioned his name on the 

opening day of class each year, telling my students of the power of the pen, while holding 

my pen in front of them. They got the point.

HARVARD HALL 

The most impressive room in the Club is Harvard Hall. One gets a sense of its magnitude 

as he enters from the Grill Room. It is here that a member may take a newspaper or 

magazine from a stand and sink into one of the several lounge chairs. It is a quiet room 

and, in spite of its forty-foot ceilings, is well insulated for sound. 

It was more than once that I saw a member dozing with a fallen newspaper at his feet. Its 

tone reflected another time in history – perhaps, the Gilded Age or the era of Teddy 

Roosevelt, one of Harvard’s most distinguished alumni. Teddy’s ghost is said to haunt 

the Hall as one of his safari trophies, the head of an elephant, looks down upon this great 

room. 

Harvard Hall has been the setting for many social events at the Club – concerts, speeches 

and the like. 

The Hall and the Grill Room were the focal points during the holidays. Spouses and 

families were invited to join the festivities, usually held in the late afternoon. Such was 

the case on Christmas and New Year’s Day. The setting was Dickens-like with the 

fireplaces ablaze in the lobby and Grill Room. One could sip Cognac-laced eggnog from 

a crystal cup while soaking up the ambiance. A choral group or instrumental trio would 

play the sounds of the season as the members and their families sat back and enjoyed the 

sounds of the season. Sometimes they joined in the singing…Don we now our gay 

apparel, tra, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. 

And speaking of gay apparel, each year the young men of Harvard’s Hasty Pudding Club 

made the trip from Cambridge to New York to put on a comedy in drag. This was the 

first time in my sheltered Catholic life that I had ever seen young men dressed as women 

and, although they looked quite “real”, I was careful not to ogle them. By the bellhops’ 

bench in the lobby, I could hear unrestrained laughter emanating from Harvard Hall. Eat 

your heart out Rudy! 

Late in the evening I ventured into Harvard Hall to play the Steinway grand piano. It was 

quite a thrill for this dilettante of the piano to play such a precision instrument. Where is 

Your Heart and Believe Me If All Those Endearing your Charms were among my favorite 

pieces that I played by ear. I seemed like the Pied Piper whenever I played the latter. 

Upon hearing the air, members would come out from the grill and bar and stand around 

the piano. At my first “recital,” I was unaware that the latter tune was also Fair Harvard. 

From then on it became my signature piece at the piano.

BRAIN TRUST 

Adolph A. Berle Jr. was a professor of economics at Columbia and was tapped by 

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt to lead a panel of economists to advise him as to 

how to get the country back on its feet after the worst depression it had ever known. This 

advisory group soon became known as FDR’s “brain trust.” Apparently, the input paid 

off and, by the end of the thirties the country was well on its way to recovery. 

Although Dr. Berle was not a steady, nonetheless, I enjoyed seeing him and his 

octogenarian father during their visits to the Club. I researched his role in the Roosevelt 

White House and realized the enormous impact that Dr. Berle had made in helping to pull 

this country out of the Great Depression. 

William F. Linehan, professor of English at Harvard University, and I became friends 

after many conversations in the world of academia. He admired me because of the fact 

that I was working my way through college and thoroughly enjoying the HC experience 

as well. One evening we discussed early British literature. It was an intellectually 

stimulating discussion and I felt honored, perhaps proud, of the fact that I was able to go 

tete-a-tete with a person of the professor’s caliber. He was pleasantly surprised when I 

waxed eloquently, reciting the opening stanza of a Spenserian sonnet to him. I was 

amazed too, especially as a student attending a small college in New Rochelle that not too 

many Harvard men had ever heard of it. Go Iona!!! Our friendship continued for several 

years after I left the Club, although it was mainly through correspondence. 

Another Harvard professor, Dr. J. Raymond Walsh, was another educator that I knew at 

the HC. He was one of the country’s most noted economists. 

THE CLUB’S CONSERVATIVE CIRCLE 

There were many conservatives in the Club. They were my kind of people. 

It the fall of 1954 I started my job as bellhop at the Harvard Club of New York. It would 

be here that I would be influenced and befriended by some of the most influential 

conservatives in America at the time.

Heading the list was George S. Montgomery Jr., a high-powered attorney from Coudert 

Brothers. As I mentioned in an earlier chapter, Mr. Montgomery and I became friends 

and worked together on several conservative projects. Archibald Roosevelt, son of 

Teddy, was also a Club member and with whom I chatted many times. Colonel Milton 

Anthony Stone was an active McCarthy supporter. All admired me, not only for working 

my way through college but also for my political philosophy. I went on to establish a 

solid base among the conservative circle members of the Harvard Club and their friends. 

Often Mr. Montgomery sponsored meetings of the conservative circle at the Club in the 

privacy of one of the third floor meeting rooms. It was at one of those meetings that I 

requested Mr. Montgomery to have the attendees sign a copy of a revised edition of The 

Roosevelt Myth by John T. Flynn. It was my intention to present the book as a “get well” 

card to the dying James Martin Gillis, Paulist Father. 

The list of signatures read like a “Who’s Who” of the conservative world and included 

the book’s author, John T. Flynn; “Alliance” head and Club member, Archibald 

Roosevelt; Stockbroker, E.F. Hutton; former N.J. Governor, Charles Edison; former 

Congressman and Harvard footballer, Hamilton Fish; and the meeting sponsor, George S. 

Montgomery, Jr.; 

One of my Paulist friends presented the book to Father Gillis a few days before his death. 

After his death, the book was returned to me from that same Paulist friend and was 

presented by me to the Harvard Club Library on October 31, 2005.. 

There is not doubt in my mind that George Montgomery and his circle of conservative 

friends had a profound influence on my early political thinking. Over time, we became 

friends and I knew his son, George S. Montgomery III who also was a lawyer at Coudert 

Brothers and a member of the HC. 

Another of the Club’s leading conservatives was Col. Milton Anthony Stone (ret.) and 

one of the area’s leading supporters of Senator McCarthy. He usually came to the Club in 

the late afternoon, enjoyed some potent potables at the bar, and then left. I loved paging 

him over the p.a. system: Colonel Stone, telephone, Colonel Stone. 

Former Dutchess County Congressman, Hamilton Fish, was among the Club’s 

conservative/Republican delegation. He was a bane in the life of fellow Dutchess County 

resident, Democrat, FDR. At the time I knew him, he was retired from the hallowed halls 

of Congress. Mr. Fish made many trips to the City for business and social purposes. For 

whatever reason, he always stayed at the Mansfield Hotel across the street from the HC. 

Perhaps the beds at the Club could not accommodate his huge frame. I was told that he 

was quite a football player for Harvard in his day. He had only to cross the street for 

lunch at the Club and whatever business or socializing he had to do.

And then there was the weekend telephone operator, Felicity Burnelli, an avid supporter 

of the Wisconsin Senator. That’s all she ever talked about when I visited her in the 

telephone room located in the basement. She was angered when he was censured and 

devastated when he passed away in 1957. Actually quite a few of the employees were in 

the McCarthy camp, including myself. 

FROM CLUB TO CAMPUS 

Could McCarthy survive the one-two punch of the Army-McCarthy hearings and the 

Senate censure? Some in the McCarthy establishment seemed to think so. It was the time 

to rally the troops behind the fallen Senator. Resurrection was possible, they believed. 

Toward that end a committee calling itself “Ten Million Americans Mobilizing for 

Justice” was formed. The committee was heavily weighted with right wing politicians 

and retired military brass. Col. Milton Anthony Stone (ret.), one of the conservative circle 

members at the Harvard Club, was among the list of committee members. I had gotten to 

know Col. Stone at the Club and volunteered my services for the cause. Collecting ten 

million signatures supporting McCarthy would be a Herculean task. 

I was the Iona College coordinator of the petition effort. To my disappointment, I did not 

collect as many signatures as I hoped I would. McCarthy’s popularity was waning on the 

Iona College campus and on campuses throughout America. However, Col. Stone was 

appreciative for my efforts on McCarthy’s behalf. The committee was disappointed when 

the total number of signatures nationwide fell far short of the ten million goal. The 

petitions were then brought to Washington and presented to members on the Capitol Hill. 

However, this did not stop them for having a rally at Madison Square Garden. I was there 

and participated in the hoopla and listened to the rabble-rousing speeches of politicians 

and generals. 

Senator McCarthy, the guest of honor, was the guest that didn’t show. He was being 

hospitalized in Bethesda and sent his regrets. That was a downer for me as well as the 

nearly twenty thousand exuberant Senator fans at the Garden. 

One of the evening’s highlights was a speech by J. Bracken Lee, the controversial 

governor of Utah. Lee decried everything from McCarthy’s censure from the left-leaning, 

Republican controlled Senate to the federal income tax amendment that he felt should be 

repealed. 

That event was the closest I ever came to attending anything close to a political 

convention.

In January of 1957 Governor J. Bracken Lee’s second term expired. Now he could devote 

his time to conservative causes and became national chairman of “For America,” a pro 

States rights and anti communist organization based in Washington, D.C. It was in this 

capacity that I first met the former governor of Utah. An introduction was arranged 

through George Montgomery and I proceeded to make arrangements for J. Bracken Lee 

to appear at Iona College in late October of 1957. 

I rode with the former governor in his limousine the day of his Iona appearance and spent 

the round trip ride conversing about the conservative cause. His address dealt with the 

eradication of socialism in America, attacks on the liberal left, as well as urging the 

repeal of the 16 th Amendment (federal income tax). 

In 1958, Lee made an unsuccessful bid for the U.S. Senate. I supported his campaign 

with a small contribution and with I letter I sent to the Utah press citing how impressed I 

was with his political thoughts. One response was from a college newspaper editor who 

told me that Lee was a “big wind,” mind my own business, and to turn my mind to 

matters in your own state that you can have an effect on. Take that, TC.! 

By 1960, liberals were making inroads into American politics. J. Bracken Lee was now 

mayor of Salt Lake City. I addressed to him my concern over the liberal incursion and in 

a letter dated August 4, 1960 he wrote: 

Like yourself, I have the same question –what do we do now? My only answer 

is to keep on doing what we have been. Some day the American people will 

awaken and find out that being a so-called “liberal” is nothing more or less 

than being a greedy, selfish individual who has no like but his own personal 

gain, and, that the so-called liberals are simply exploiting the American people. 

When the people become tired of being shorn they will rise up and do something 

about this. It is our duty to keep on pointing out what suckers the American 

people are to follow these Pied Piper, so-called liberals. 

Now that was a slap in the face to the liberal establishment if I ever saw one 

JOSEPH N. WELCH FELLS THE MOST POWERFUL MAN IN AMERICA 

In the spring of 1954, a Boston lawyer captured the attention of the Nation in the Army- 

McCarthy hearings. His name was Joseph N. Welch. I did not know Mr. Welch at the 

time but as I started my bellhop job at the Harvard Club later that year, I would come to 

know the “humanity” of this “David” who felled the “Goliath” known as Senator Joseph 

R. McCarthy.

The Army-McCarthy hearings had a carnival-like, charged atmosphere with namecalling, 

innuendo and dilatory points as commonplace occurrences. McCarthy tried to 

browbeat Welch, a rather low-keyed and meek man. It did not work. McCarthy’s 

intimidation of the Boston lawyer hit a low point when the Senator brought up the name 

of one, Fred Fisher, an intern in Welch’s law firm, who McCarthy accused of joining a 

subversive law guild a year or so earlier. Although the young man had long disassociated 

himself from the organization, naming him as a questionable subversive on national 

television could ruin the budding lawyer for life. 

This prompted Welch’s historic reply: Have you no sense of decency, sir? At long last 

have you no sense of decency? 

At that point, the most powerful man in America was brought to his knees. Now it was 

just a matter of time. 

Although at the time being a McCarthy supporter, I was not a fan of the Boston lawyer 

but, in retrospect, I was privileged to have known this mild mannered Boston attorney 

who always treated me with courtesy and respect at the Harvard Club. 

AND FROM THE LEFT 

At the Club one could meet members representative of the whole political spectrum, from 

left to right, and everything in between. There was talk among my fellow bellhops that 

there were even members of the Club who were Communists. I was told that one way to 

spot a “commie” was by the newspaper he read. If a member came into the Club with a 

copy of the leftist-leaning New York Post under his arm, this might be cause for 

suspicion. If he had a copy of the recently-published Village Voice, he was definitely a 

“commie”, or at the very least, a “pinko.” Many members, I’m sure felt that one 

Communist in the Harvard Club, was one Communist too many – with apologies to 

Senator McCarthy. It was quite an experience working at the Harvard Club during the 

height of the McCarthy era with opinions coming from all sides of the political spectrum. 

Then there was Irving Ferman, a Harvard Club member, as well as a member of the 

“loyal opposition.” It was he who introduced me to an A-list conservative, William F. 

Buckley Jr.

Based in Washington, D.C., Mr. Ferman was a lawyer for the American Civil Liberties 

Union (ACLU). He was a noted liberal in his day. Truthfully, I saw little difference 

between the bleeding heart liberals of the ACLU and their ilk, and the Communist Party, 

USA. I was clearly over to the right in my college days, way over. However, Irving 

Ferman was a very pleasant Club member with whom I conversed on a number of 

occasions and, in all instances, containing my burning conservative ideology. 

Even though Mr. Ferman represented a left wing organization, we respected each other’s 

opinions and got along well. One day at the Club, I expressed to Mr. Ferman my interest 

in trying to make contact with William F. Buckley Jr., a young conservative known for 

his forensic skills and writing abilities. It was my hope that the rising star of the 

conservative movement might be able to make an appearance at Iona College. Imagine 

bringing Bill Buckley to Iona! 

Mr. Ferman just happened to be the next-door- neighbor of Brent Bozell, an editor of the 

National Review. It was Brent Bozell who suggested that Mr. Ferman write a letter of 

introduction on my behalf directly to Mr. Buckley. He did and accordingly, arrangements 

were made for the editor-in chief of National Review and author of McCarthy and His 

Enemies to appear at Iona College on May 2, 1960. This was a coup for Iona and a 

personal coup for me. His appearance was “pro bono” which made it even better. 

We chatted afterwards and the conversation with a member of the conservative 

“intelligentsia” elite was a very unique experience for me. I think that I held my own with 

this academician, although I found him somewhat standoffish. Mr. Buckley is still going 

strong and, over the years, has become a best-seller novelist as well. 

I don’t know whether or not Mr. Ferman is still with us but, if he is, and I were to meet 

him, I would reach into my wallet and proudly pull out my ACLU membership card. 

AUTHORS’ CORNER 

Adjacent to the cigar stand was a locked display case that was filled with the latest books 

that were written by Harvard personnel or alumni. “Authors’ Corner” was the domain of 

Al Bauder, although I doubt that he ever read any of the books in the case. 

Some of the 1950s best sellers were among the rotating collection including By Loved 

Possessed (1957) by James Gould Cozzens. I purchased a copy of By Love Possessed 

from Al and requested that the author inscribe it for me. On the title page he wrote: 

For Thomas C. Murray 

BY LOVE POSSESSED 

James Gould Cozzens (signature) 

12 November 1957

I sat on the bellhop’s bench, looking at the glass-encased book collection, and dreamed 

that, I too, would be a published author. That day has come to pass. 

PCQ21: What was the name of the 1955 best seller novel written by HC member, Sloan 

Wilson, that told of the challenges of a career man and his family in post-War 

suburbia? 

SHENANIGANS 

On Friday nights, about 10PM, Front Desk Clerk, John Devine sent me out to the local 

deli on what might be called a “Devine mission.” John, a man in his sixties, had 

immigrated from Ireland and was in the employ of the Harvard Club for many years. He 

knew virtually every member of the Club, as well as their likes and dislikes. It was about 

10PM that Mr. Minnax, the Night Manager, left the Club to go home. The coast was now 

clear. I could implement my mission, which I always chose to accept. I proceeded to the 

local deli about a block away to pick up two large cans of Ballantine’s beer – one for him 

and one for myself. After 8PM John was the only employee at the Front Desk where he 

doubled as room clerk and cashier. So he nursed his can of beer in the “safe area.” I drank 

mine in the storage area of the checkroom with the blessing of the abstainer attendant, 

Harry Berkelheimer. 

One evening John was pouring his can of beer into a glass when suddenly he heard 

footsteps coming in his direction. He misdirected his aim and continued to pour the beer 

onto the floor. As I neared the cage, I said: Hi John, it sound like you’re taking a piss 

back there. John wasn’t overly happy with my remark, saying: I thought that you were 

Mr. Minnax. Your footsteps sounds just like his and I wasted all this good beer. He did 

get over it, but at least he didn’t have to worry about gong to the bathroom on his A-train 

subway ride to Inwood. 

I was a little bit more daring than John when it came to acquiring a brew. When things 

slowed down and the coast was clear (Mr. Minnax had left for the night), I made my way 

to the back of the bar, caught the attention of Cucci the bartender, and gave him the 

signal that I wanted a glass of beer – a large glass. I watched him as he pulled down on 

that square Piel’s knob as the golden brew flowed gently into the twelve-ounce glass. 

Unbeknownst to the members, Cucci ceremoniously delivered the freshly drawn beer, 

crowned with its white tiara, to this impatient, waiting bellhop. Like other fellowemployees 

who did “favors” for me, he received a package of cigarettes in return. His 

hand had never lost its skill.

Sometimes my co-workers were in a frisky mood. Leslie worked the Grill Room alone 

after 9PM. He was about ten years older than me and had fought as a soldier in the 

German army during the closing phase of World War II. Perhaps it was now time for 

revenge for Germany’s loosing the war. About 11PM I had gone up to the darkened 

balcony of the Dining Room for a cup of coffee. No sooner than I had my first sip, I 

found myself being met by a hail of ice cubes. The missiles were being launched by 

Leslie from the floor below. Instant massive retaliation was the order of the day! So I 

gathered up the spent ice cubes and returned fire. We were both acting like kids but it was 

a hell of a lot better than a war of bullets a decade or so earlier. 

Antics continued when I worked in the front office. I was working the day shift behind 

the cashier’s cage when the day desk clerk “goosed" me on his way to the safe. I was in 

the process of cashing a check for a member. I jumped, letting out a muffled “ooh.” In 

true Harvard demeanor, the member pretended not to notice the incident. 

Harry Berkelheimer, an older Jewish employee, worked on the same 4 to 1 shift as 

myself. He was hired as the checkroom attendant about a year after myself and we got 

along admirably. Part of the checkroom area included a separate storeroom where 

suitcases and larger items were stored. This room also held unclaimed items that had 

been there for at least a year, if not more. Harry was most generous to me as he gave 

away some of the unclaimed items. One such item was a topcoat from Brooks Brothers. I 

was probably the only kid on the Iona campus wearing a B.B. coat. Harry gave me a felt 

Tyrolean hat, feather and all, to complement my wardrobe and make me one of the best - 

dressed student’s on campus. He even threw in a black brief case. Thank you, Harry. 

THE SIGNING OF MY YEARBOOK 

I was scheduled to graduate from Iona College in June of 1957 and ordered a yearbook in 

anticipation of my graduation from Iona. As earlier mentioned, things turned out 

differently and I had to repeat a course that I had failed. This postponed my graduation 

until the following year. Undaunted, I asked co-workers and members alike to sign the 

inner cover of the ’57 yearbook. As I look back upon this document today, I realize the 

importance that the Harvard Club played in my life in the 1950’s. The list reads like a 

“Who’s Who” and includes Harvard English professor, William F. Linehan; Bohemian 

Music Society Coordinator, Clyde Burrows; Economics Professor, J. Raymond Walsh; 

former U.N. trusteeship Council President, Mason Sears; and economist and coordinator 

of F.D.R.’s “brain trust,” Adolph A. Berle Jr. 

Other HC signers included: Eugene Buskirk, James Buxbaum, Charles Whiting, Edmund 

Kerper, McClure Howland, Richard Kernan, B.A. McCormick,Joe Murphy, George S. 

Montgomery III, Col. Milton Stone, Hamilton Fish, and Laurence Dennis.

Many of my co-workers inscribed the book. Stay as sweet as you are, wrote “Mae of 

Harvard.” (Mae Winters, Ladies Lounge checkroom attendant). Hopefully Mae, I’m still 

a sweet person today, although now I’m a septuagenarian. 

The 1957 Icann Yearbook is now with “The Papers of Thomas C. Murray” in the archives 

of the Seton Hall Univeristy Library. 

HARVARD CLUB MEMBERS WHO INFLUENCED MY LIFE 

A lawyer, a politician and a statesman were to have an indelible effect on my life. I will 

share with you my thoughts on the lawyer and the politician in this vignette; the 

statesman will be discussed in the next chapter. 

~ 

George S. Montgomery Jr. was a senior partner in the prestigious law firm of Coudert 

Brothers at 488 Madison Avenue. An imposing man in his sixties, his mere presence 

commanded attention. His son, George III, also was a HC member and a lawyer. Either 

his wife predeceased him or he was divorced; I was never too sure as to his marital status, 

nor did I ask. I knew, however, that at the time, Mrs. Betty Cowles often accompanied 

Mr. Montgomery for dinner in the Ladies Lounge. 

It was George Montgomery who introduced me to the conservative movement and many 

of its leaders. He was one of the major conservative activists on the east coast and will 

discuss later his role in the movement – and mine. Besides the political attraction, Mr. 

Montgomery, like many members, admired me for working my way through college. 

As time cemented our friendship, invitations would follow. One such invitation came 

from Betty Cowles to attend a reception at her east side apartment. On the evening of the 

party, I put on my Sunday best and took the 57 th Street cross-town bus to its terminal 

point at Sutton Place. Finding the address was no problem. It felt so good being greeted 

by a doorman in this ultra-exclusive building. After receiving the clearance, I found my 

way to Mrs. Cowles apartment. And what an apartment that was – a huge duplex 

overlooking the East River. Upon entering, Mrs. Cowles greeted me, as did Mr. 

Montgomery. A white-gloved server enticed me to some hors d’oeuvres and a refreshing 

drink. Here I rubbed shoulders with the second estate, a unique experience for me. Mrs. 

Courdner, the wife of GE president, and I had a pleasant conversation on the state of the 

Union. And so the evening went. I left the imposing building with all its noted guests and 

returned home before midnight in a lowly cross-town bus. Oh to be rich and famous!

Mr. Montgomery and Mrs. Cowles both attended my “send-off” party at 363 prior to my 

leaving for the OCC Marine Corps program at Quantico, Virginia, in mid- March of 

1958. The place was packed, mostly with younger people; two apartments were in use. 

As soon as I heard the bell, I buzzed them in. I could hear Mr. Montgomery, who had a 

slight limp saying, “Slow down, Betty,” as they trudged their way up the three flights of 

stairs of my tenement. 

After introducing Mr. Montgomery and Mrs. Cowles to my mother, I ushered them into 

my bedroom. This would be a safe area and way from the maddening, bourgeoisie crowd. 

By this time, I no longer had a bed but rather a studio couch that gave me much more 

room. It was there that I had my “special guests” sit while Delia and I talked to them. It 

was like something out of La Cage au Folles – religious symbols throughout. A large oil 

painting of “The Crucifixion” by artist and HC bellhop, Armand Thibault, hung on the 

wall over the couch. I was hoping and praying that a cockroach would not peer out from 

behind the painting. The critters behaved themselves that night, thank God. Both Mr. 

Montgomery and Mrs. Cowles found my mother very interesting, able to hold her own in 

conversation, and the perfect hostess. 

Mr. Montgomery presented me with a copy of J. Edgar Hoover’s, Masters of Deceit, with 

an appropriate conservative Republican inscription. 

On my mother’s birthday in mid-June, he sent her a box of twelve long stemmed 

American Beauty Roses. I had never seen such beautiful roses in all my life. 

Mr. Montgomery and I would keep in contact with each other for several years after I left 

the HC. 

~ 

Joseph J. Murphy was a man in his thirties when I first met him. Of all the Club 

members, our friendship was the closest and one that would span four decades. 

Boston-born, Joseph Murphy, was a World War II vet, having served in the Army’s 

intelligence division, the O.S.S. After the War, he moved to New York City where he 

started his own insurance business and lived in an upscale apartment building in the 

Chelsea section. His business thrived and he was able to maintain a winter home in 

fashionable Palm Beach, Florida and a summer home in upscale, Sea Girt, New Jersey. 

Mr. Murphy, a confirmed bachelor, frequented the HC daily where he would have a 

Scotch or two at the bar, followed by dinner. He knew most of the HC employees on a 

first name basis and always greeted them accordingly.

A Republican, Joe Murphy lost a bid for the New York State Senate in the heavily 

Democratic, Tammany-controlled West Side. He was a Rockefeller Republican, 

invariably espousing middle-of-the road views. That was fine with me, so I helped him in 

his campaign, introducing him to many of my Hell’s Kitchen friends. Republican power 

broker and HC member, Roy Goodman, were among his political allies. The McManii 

clan of the Democratic West Side was not. To show my good will, I invited Mr. Murphy 

to speak at the political science forum at Iona College, knowing that his political gains 

would be nil. He obliged and visited the New Rochelle campus. 

A friendship was developing between this Irish-American, Catholic, Republican and the 

Irish-American, Catholic, Republican, Boston insurance broker. 

Even though I left the City in 1959, the friendship continued. Over the course of the 

years, I met Joe Murphy several times in Palm Beach, once visited his Sea Girt home, 

and many times visited his commodious studio apartment in the ParcVendome at 340 

West 57 Street. 

On several occasions I was his guest at the Club where we had a drink or two at the bar 

and a gourmet Harvard Club dinner. It was at the Club that he introduced me to the game 

of backgammon. Beginner’s luck prevailed as I beat my host in my first game of 

backgammon ever – or perhaps, it was the drinks that I had at the Club beforehand. I 

relished those visits to the HC. Although there were many new faces on the HC staff, it 

was a great experience revisiting the Club – as a guest – and I loved it. 

I tried phoning Joe Murphy at his New York City home in the early 1990’s but was 

advised by the operator that the number I dialed was not in service. Mr. Murphy may be 

no longer with us but his memories remain. Dave Goldstein, the Club’s Program 

Coordinator, informed me recently that Joe Murphy died in 1997. I shall miss him. 

MY HARVARD CLUB EDUCATION 

While it is true that during the years that I worked at the Club, I was getting a formal 

education at Iona; nonetheless, I feel that my total experience working at the Club and 

meeting the movers and shakers of the time, was, in itself, a unique education. Many of 

the members were inspirational. Some members went one-on-one with me about the 

burning issues of the day. My co-workers were absolutely great to work with. 

I look back and wonder how I could have maintained a full academic schedule at Iona as 

well as a full time job at the Harvard Club. Many Club members admired me for working 

my way through college. But I did it and here I am a half of century later. 

My memories of the Club will always be cherished ones.

Chapter 10 – THE BELLHOP AND THE DIPLOMAT 

THE LEBANESE DIPLOMAT, A HARVARD CLUB REGULAR 

During my years at the Harvard Club, Dr. Charles Malik was a frequent resident. Flying 

in from his native Lebanon, his stays at the Club were of at least one-week’s duration and 

he always requested the commodious Room 531. Many a time, I took his bags up to his 

room, engaging in conversation en route. Over a period of time, a bond developed 

between the bellhop and the diplomat. 

Charles Habib Malik was a native of Lebanon and a graduate of the American University 

of Beirut (1927). Upon completion of his studies at A.U.B., he worked for three years in 

order to pay for his post-graduate education at Harvard. He returned to Lebanon with a 

Ph.D. in hand and began a teaching career at the A.U.B. He soon earned the nickname of 

“the philosopher.” In 1945, Dr. Malik took a leave of absence from education and entered 

the diplomatic corps in the service of Lebanon. The Lebanese government recognized his 

prowess as a leader and he would rise rapidly within the ranks of the corps. 

One of the things that Dr. Malik and I had in common was that we both had to work full- 

time in order to pay for our higher education, a factor that bonded the bellhop with the 

diplomat. He admired that work ethic and often inquired about my progress at Iona 

College. Dr. Malik had a genuine interest in the welfare of this bellhop. 

CHARLES HABIB MALIK, A UNITED NATIONS PIONEER 

Dr. Malik was one of the pioneers in the creation and building of the United Nations. He 

was a representative of Lebanon at the signing of the United Nations Charter in San 

Francisco in April of 1945, was a key figure in drawing up the Universal Declaration of 

Human Rights, and, in 1951, succeeded Eleanor Roosevelt as Chair of the Human Rights 

Commission. He served as Lebanese Ambassador to the United States from 1953-1955. 

It was with this list of impressive achievements and a career of service that Charles Malik 

was named Foreign Minister of Lebanon in 1956. It was in this capacity that I first got to 

know Dr. Malik at the HC. The Club would be his home away from home whenever he 

was meeting at the United Nations and it couldn’t have been more conveniently located 

for the Lebanese diplomat, only a few blocks directly cross-town from the UN.

THE LEBANESE CRISIS OF 1958 

In February, 1958, Nasser took a bold move announcing that Egypt and Syria had joined 

together in forming the United Arab Republic (U.A.R.). His ultimate objective was to 

create a confederation of Arab states – with himself as president, of course. The recently 

created republic of Lebanon, lying southwest of Syria, was his next target. However, its 

government was solidly pro-Western. 

A year earlier, Malik met with President Eisenhower in Washington, D.C., to lay the 

foundation for a program of U.S. economic and military aid should the situation warrant. 

This cornerstone of U.S. foreign policy in the Middle East became known as the 

“Eisenhower Doctrine” and clearly was an enlargement of President Truman’s policy of 

containment. The Middle East would not be allowed to fall to communism. 

Nasser set out to topple the pro-Western Lebanese government of President Camile 

Chamoun in the spring of 1958 by sending Syrian guerillas across the border into 

Lebanon for the purpose of fomenting unrest and rebellion, and thereby toppling the 

Lebanese government. By mid-May it seemed that Nasser was on his way to achieving 

his objective. A meeting of the regional Arab League was called to address the crisis. 

Inaction was the order of the day. Dr. Malik announced that the next step would be the 

presentation of Lebanon’s case before the United Nations. He made it clear that, if the 

Arab League continued its inaction, he would have no choice but to call a meeting of the 

Security Council. That’s the last thing that Nasser and his communist cohorts wanted to 

happen. 

The eyes of the world were now focused on this small Middle Eastern country. On May 

31, the Lebanese government called a press conference to address the worsening 

situation. Dr. Malik was expected to address the conference on the Middle East 

tinderbox. However, he did not show up. Instead, at the request of President Chamoun, he 

was winging his way to the United States to present his case before the UN Security 

Council. It was thought by some that the conference was used as a ruse in order to help 

insure his safe passage out of the country. He left Lebanon under elaborate security 

precautions and, upon his arrival at the Harvard Club in New York City, Dr. Malik was 

assigned around the clock police protection by the Division of Special Services of “New 

York’s Finest.”

An emergency session of the Security Council was called on Thursday, June 5 th . I wanted 

to be part of history and waited on a long line in front of the United Nations with the 

hope of being admitted to the 3PM session of the Security Council. I was one of the lucky 

ones to obtain entrance and immediately took a seat in the visitors’ gallery of the Council 

chamber. It was sometime after 3PM when the President of the ten member Security 

Council advised those in attendance that the meeting was deferred yet another day. Darn! 

I was frustrated after waiting in the line for over an hour, only to be told that there was no 

meeting. Should I come back and wait again in the line tomorrow or forget about it??? 

JUNE 6, 1958 – THE “D-DAY” OF MY LIFE 

It was shortly after lunchtime on Friday, June 6, 1958, that I decided to abandon the idea 

of waiting on a long line in front of the United Nations as I had done the day before. 

Instead, I went over to the Harvard Club with the intention of requesting that Dr. Malik 

issue a pass whereby I would be able to bypass the long line and go directly into the 

Security Council chamber for the 3PM session. 

Once inside the Club, I spotted Dr. Malik surrounded by Dr. Azkoul and other aides. He 

seemed decidedly busy and I was rather hesitant about approaching him with my request 

for such an insignificant thing as a pass. Here was a man about to plead his case before 

the world body, a case that involved the future of his country and peace in the Mid-East, 

perhaps the world. Did I have the impetuosity to go up to him as he was about to leave 

for the United Nations and request a pass? I decided to go through with my brazen plan. 

If it were anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have done it, but Dr. Malik was not anyone 

else. He was my friend and mentor. 

Approaching the Lebanese diplomat now surrounded by a cadre of diplomats and security 

personnel, I presented Dr. Malik with my request for a Security Council pass. 

I am too busy to do this now. You will come with me. 

Before I knew it, I was being ushered into the black Chrysler Imperial of the Lebanese 

Mission to the UN, bearing its distinctive “DPL” license plate and, with a police escort, 

proceeded to the United Nations. I didn’t believe that this was happening to me. 

Upon arrival at the UN, we went directly to the Security Council chamber. I was given a 

seat right on the Security Council floor in front of the press corps and others who had 

come to witness and report on what would become a historic event. From there I would 

witness history unfold.

Shortly after 3PM, the Council president called the meeting to order. Dr. Malik opened 

the debate by accusing the United Arab Republic of massive, illegal and unprovoked 

intervention in the affairs of Lebanon. He went on, at length, to support his premise citing 

numerous incidents of UAR involvement in the internal affairs of his country for the sole 

purpose of toppling the pro-western government of Lebanon. As the debate proceeded, 

the delegate from the UAR, with the support of the USSR delegate, countered Malik’s 

assertion stating that his case was weak. The US and the United Kingdom supported the 

Lebanese position. The debate would continue the next day. 

I left the UN after 8PM and headed home, for on the following day, June 7 th , I was 

formally graduating from Iona College. There is no question in my mind as to which of 

the two days was the more important. Indeed, Friday, June 6 th , 1958 was a day that will 

forever live on in my memory. It was a day that this future history teacher lived history to 

its fullest. It was the day my friend and mentor took on the UAR and its communist 

cohorts, and paraphrasing the famed commentator of the time, Edward R. Murrow, I was 

there! Indeed, June 6, 1958, was the D-Day of my life. 

THE UN ACTION INADEQUATE 

The debate continued into the following week. Sweden introduced a resolution calling for 

a United Nations observation team to patrol the Lebanese-Syrian border. The Soviet 

Union opposed this concept and the New York Daily News editorial of June 10 th predicted 

that the USSR would cast its 84 th “nyet” vote in the Security Council. Henry Cabot 

Lodge of the US urged ratification. After the closing statements, including a masterful 

and passionate appeal by Dr. Malik in support of the resolution, a vote was taken. The 

resolution passed with no dissenting votes and the Soviet Union abstaining. The caption 

in the Daily News editorial of Friday, June 13, read: Our Mistake and Glad of It. 

Dag Hammarskjold, the UN Secretary General, was authorized to set up immediate 

policing and observation teams to patrol the border to prevent any men and weapons from 

crossing the UAR border into Lebanon. It seemed at the time that the Mideast time bomb 

would be diffused. Because of limited UN manpower this was not the case, and arms and 

men slipped through the minimally manned border under cover of darkness. The UN’s 

actions were not enough. More was needed.

THE EISENHOWER DOCTRINE IS INVOKED 

By mid-July, it seemed that the Lebanese government would fall to Nasser. At this point, 

Lebanese President, Camile Chamoun, through the US Ambassador to Lebanon, appealed 

to President Eisenhower for immediate emergency assistance. On the evening of July 14, 

Dr. Malik met with US Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles, at the Old State 

Department Building in Washington, D.C. Dulles said the US government was 

sympathetic to Lebanon’s plea and that President Eisenhower was about to take action. 

On July 15, President Eisenhower called a special session of Congress and announced 

that the United States Marines had landed in Lebanon. Their presence in the Mid-East 

was as a peacekeeping force only. The Eisenhower Doctrine was now implemented for 

the first time. 

On Tuesday, July 29, Dr. Malik returned to Lebanon to meet with his president and other 

top Lebanese officials. 

Sadly, the efforts of the superpower of the West and the United Nations were not enough. 

Infiltration continued! Escalation continued! The Mideast was on the brink of war. 

DIPLOMACY PREVAILS 

Dr. Malik returned to the United States as an emergency session of the General Assembly 

was called. The General Assembly can act in the case of inaction on the part of the 

Security Council. This was one of the few times in the history of the United Nations that 

the GA was called into special session. The Russian bear was snarling and practicing 

Soviet style “brinksmanship.” President Eisenhower came up from Washington to 

address the GA. Indeed, the world was on the brink. 

While all this was going on, Dr. Malik met with delegates from nine other Arab nations, 

including the UAR, in a suite at the Hotel Pierre. Malik’s bottom line plea was not to 

draw the rest of the world into an Arab-related problem but rather try to resolve it within 

the confines on the Middle East. A resolution was drafted at the hotel meeting and all ten 

Arab country’s signed on. It was officially proposed to the GA on August 22 and ratified 

on the same day. Shortly thereafter, the Marines would be withdrawn from Lebanon, as 

would be the UN Observers. These behind the scenes’ maneuvers on Dr. Malik’s part 

showed his magnanimity as a diplomat and his resolve in preserving world peace. He was 

ready for his next role on the world stage.

MY FRIEND, MY MENTOR…THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED NATIONS 

The president of the UN General Assembly is elected for a one-year term and the office 

carries very little with it in the way of power. However, the president has tremendous 

prestige and influence. 

In September 1957, Dr Malik was a candidate for this position, running against Sir Leslie 

Monroe of New Zealand. For the sake on unanimity, Malik withdrew from the race with 

the assurance from his fellow delegates that he would be their choice for president at the 

next GA session in September of 1958. 

With much of the tension of the Lebanese crisis now behind him, he could now catch his 

breath and await what appeared to be an uncontested election only weeks away. 

It was late August and I was back from Camp Adrian. I had returned to my duties at the 

Harvard Club while patiently awaiting any word as to a possible teaching position. 

During that period I saw quite a bit of Dr. Malik. 

At one point, he told me that if elected president, he would bring his wife, Eva, and son, 

Habib, over from Lebanon and live the year in New York City. He asked me if I knew of 

any apartments that might be available and to let him know immediately if I located one 

that suited his needs. I did give him some suggestions that included the Parc Vendome 

and the Westmore, both on west 57 th Street. 

Because of his very pro-Western stance during the Lebanese crisis and for other political 

reasons, Dr. Malik alienated some within the Arab world. The Arab League announced 

on September 7 that it would not support Malik for the top UN General Assembly post. 

Two days later, Mohammed Ahmed Mahgoub of the Sudan announced that he would run 

for the presidency and immediately received the backing of the Arab League. The Soviet 

bloc nations announced that they planned to do likewise. A new dynamic was now 

present. It was no longer a “shoo-in” for the Lebanese diplomat. Now it had become a 

race. The presidency was now the hottest issue in the halls of the United Nations. 

Dr. Malik maintained his confidence in the electoral process. I’m sure that he must have 

been taken aback when he read the New York Times on Sunday, September 14, and saw 

the caption: Sudanese Leads for Top UN Post – Mohgoub Now Likely to Win Assembly 

Presidency over Malik. 

The big day had arrived. It was now Tuesday, September 16 th , 1958, and the 13 th Session 

of the United Nations General Assembly was about to convene. The first order of 

business was the election of the president.

Dr. Malik had invited me to attend this historic opening. After all, never in the history of 

the UN General Assembly had there ever been such a contentious election, and it 

remained the most controversial UN election up to the new millennium. Dr. Malik was 

bestowing yet another you are there honor upon me. I respectfully declined the invitation, 

for I had another commitment that September 16 th day – an invitation from Brother 

Francis I. Offer to begin my teaching career at Essex Catholic High School in Newark, 

New Jersey. A few days prior to the election I sent Dr. Malik a telegram that stated: 

Best of luck in the forthcoming UN General Assembly election. 

I’m sorry that I can’t be there in person due to my classes, but 

you can be sure that I’ll be there in spirit. 

My fellow-educator understood that I could not be with him at the UN that day. 

At the end of my first day of teaching, I took the bus back to New York from Newark. As 

soon as I arrived at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, I nervously put my dime in the pay 

phone and dialed the Lebanese Mission to the United Nations. I was elated to find out 

that Dr. Malik was elected GA president by a vote of 45 to 31. That phone call made my 

day. My friend, my mentor, was now president of the United Nations General Assembly. 

Immediately, I sent a congratulatory note to Dr. Malik. The following week I received a 

telegram addressed to me at the Harvard Club. 

Thanks for your message. We must all dedicate ourselves anew to the cause of peace with 

justice throughout the world. It was signed “Charles Malik, United Nations” 

THE IONA COLLEGE CONTROVERSY WITH MURRAY IN THE MIDDLE 

While Dr. Malik was still Foreign Minister of Lebanon, we discussed the impending 

election for the GA Presidency. With my alma mater in mind, I asked him if he would 

consider visiting Iona College if he were to be elected to that office. He replied in the 

affirmative and stated that he would visit the college on my behalf. 

Shortly after his election to the GA Presidency, Brother William H. Barnes, President of 

Iona College, sent Dr. Malik a letter inviting him to speak at the New Rochelle 

institution. He responded to Brother Barnes in a letter of October 15 that due to his 

presidential duties and very busy UN schedule, he would be unable to visit and speak at 

Iona. As soon as the news of the invitation refusal reached the college, I was notified of 

the turndown. Was my friend and mentor reneging on his promise to me?

I called Dr. Malik at his UN office, told him of his letter declining the invitation to visit 

Iona College, and reminded him very diplomatically of our conversation earlier in the 

year. He said that he would look into the matter. The next day, Dr. Malik phoned my 

home and, with the letter from the college president in front of him, noted that Brother 

Barnes made no mention of me. He suggested that Barnes redraft another letter 

mentioning me, and that he would act accordingly upon receipt of the revised letter from 

the college president. I conveyed this message to officials at the college. The college 

president opted not to re-invite Dr. Malik, as it would put him in a difficult spot. 

However, college officials would not have any problem if the St. Thomas More Political 

Science Forum invited him to speak at a school assembly. 

Accordingly, Dr. Ernst Winter, Head of the History and Political Science Department and 

Moderator of the St. Thomas More Political Science Forum at Iona College sent a letter 

to Dr. Malik on November 11. In it Dr. Winter states: 

We are extremely sorry to have missed including in our invitation any 

reference to our faithful alumnus, Mr. Tom Murray. It has been through 

his interest in his old club, the St. Thomas More Political Science Forum 

of Iona College, that we learned of your gracious assent to address us here 

at the college. 

Dr. Winter proceed to suggest appearance dates and went on to say: 

The College will make every arrangement for your enjoyment and safety. 

The invitation by our President Brother William H. Barnes still stands, 

you are to be his luncheon guest. 

Dr. Winter received an affirmative response from Dr. Malik with an agreed upon date – 

Wednesday morning, February 4, 1959 at 11AM. 

Word of Dr. Malik’s impending visit to the Iona campus reached the members of Iona 

College Board of Trustees. Their view was not to relegate the UN President’s visit to a 

low-keyed assembly sponsored by a college club, but rather to call a special convocation 

and confer upon such a distinguished visitor an honorary degree. Brother Barnes acceded 

to the wishes of the Board. So, what was initially a non-visit became an assembly and 

then was upgraded to the ultimate honor a college can bestow on any individual. The Iona 

College LL.D. would be one of more than 60 honorary degrees that would be conferred 

upon Dr. Malik during his lifetime. The colleges and universities ranged from Ivy League 

schools like Harvard, Princeton and Yale to smaller colleges like Iona.

On February 4 we met at the Harvard Club shortly before 10AM. Dr. Malik and his wife, 

Eva, and I would ride in a limousine. Two other cars accommodated our guests attending 

the ceremony. They included Brother Francis Offer, principal of Essex Catholic High 

School, and Stanley Kaysan, the school’s number one student; my friend Joe Murphy, a 

member of the Harvard Club; and Thomas A. Murray, Esq.. This was the only event 

related to his son that my father ever attended. For whatever reason, my mother did not 

attend. We left the Club on schedule at 10AM. When we arrived at the New Rochelle 

border, we were given a police escort to Iona College. 

As soon as the limo pulled up to the convocation site, Brother Barnes and other college 

officials were there to greet us. Brother Sam Ryan, Vice President of the College, a man I 

knew from my high school days, took me aside and said, in essence, that I should back 

off and that they, the brothers, were running the proverbial show. What did I do to ruffle 

their feathers? It seemed to me that I was the focal point of a controversy. Why me? I 

took the remark as a slight. I had no intention of putting myself in the foreground. It was 

Dr. Malik’s day at my alma mater and his alone. 

The Harris Gymnasium was adorned in bunting and was filled to capacity for this VIP 

event. I was escorted to my seat in the first row. To my surprise, I was the only occupant 

in the first row. Actually, I felt a bit isolated. However, I spotted some friendly faces 

around me including Professor Brophy, my former English teacher and Brother Egan, my 

counselor and yes, Brother Egan, I had returned to my alma mater as a teacher. Brother 

Offer, Stanley Kaysan, Joe Murphy and my father were in the third or fourth rows. 

The procession began with Brother Barnes leading the group that included George 

Vegara, the Mayor of New Rochelle, Br. Sam Ryan, Br. Vaughan the Dean, Dr. Winter 

and Dr. and Mrs. Malik. 

After the conferral of the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws, Dr. Malik delivered his 

address: “The Limitations and Possibilities of the United Nations.” To this day, it is 

considered one of the most objective and realistic speeches ever given on the world body 

by any leading United Nations figure. 

A luncheon followed at the President’s house in the upscale Beechmont area of New 

Rochelle. In all fairness, some brothers came up to me, cocktail in hand, and thanked me 

for my efforts for being the catalyst in bringing about the day’s events. 

It was time to leave. The policeman revved up his Harley-Davidson and we bid farewell 

to the campus of my youth. Dr. Malik had fulfilled his promise. 

I would see Dr. Malik many times during his UN presidency including a field trip to the 

UN for my Essex Catholic High School students on December 8, 1958.

TWO WEEKENDS IN A ROW WITH THE UN PRESIDENT 

In appreciation of his many kindnesses to me, I invited Dr. Malik, his wife, and young 

son, Habib, and the son’s nanny, to the Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Baily Circus at 

Madison Square Garden. On Saturday, April 18, mom and I met Dr. Malik and his family 

at the Garden. It was now “Thunder and Blazes” time. Some things had changed in the 

three-ring circus since my last visit as a child many years earlier. Gargantua, the king of 

the gorillas, had died several years earlier and was no longer a side show attraction. The 

dozen and one clowns were still exiting from a bug-sized automobile. The high-flying 

Wallenda’s were still doing their trapeze thing. 

PCQ21: What was the name of the red-nosed clown who was forever sweeping an everevasive 

spotlight beam from under the center ring canvas? 

I bought a small red light flashlight on a string for Habib. He seemingly enjoyed whirling 

it around during the darkened segments of the “greatest show on earth.” Unfortunately, at 

one point he unintentionally hit his father in the face while he was making circles with his 

red light toy. I think his father promptly took it way from him. 

We had a wonderful time at the circus, although I don’t think that I have attended a 

Ringling Brothers’ circus since. It also gave the Malik family an opportunity to meet my 

mother. 

At the time I was limping along, suffering from an ingrown toenail. After the circus let 

out, we exited onto one of the side streets. The taxi situation seemed hopeless. So I 

suggested to Dr. Malik that I would walk over to 9 th Avenue and have the cab drive 

eastbound on 50 th Street where it would pick up the Malik party and take them to their 

Park Avenue home. He would not hear of any such thing. Instead, the UN President went 

up to 9 th Avenue and brought the cab to my mom and me. He then would return to 9 th 

Avenue to hail a cab for his family and the nanny. This act of humility on the part of a 

world leader will remain with me always. Thank you, Dr. Malik. 

In a letter dated April 20, 1959, Dr. Malik wrote: 

This is to thank you and your gracious mother for the wonderful time 

we had at the Circus on Saturday. Habib enjoyed it very much and we 

are looking forward to seeing you this weekend. 

Mom and I were the guests of Dr. and Mrs. Malik for dinner on Saturday, April 25. This 

was quite an honor for both mom and me – two Saturday’s in a row with this man of 

international stature.

We both put on our finest attire and took a cab to 1088 Park Avenue where we chatted 

with Dr. and Mrs. Malik in their ninth floor apartment. It was then off by cab to 

Yorkville, an area populated with Germans, Austrians, and to a lesser degree, Irish. We 

dined at the Jager House, a German/Austrian restaurant located on Lexington Avenue, as 

a musician plucked the strings of his zither, contributing to the mood of the evening. 

Indeed, Harry Lime was alive and well and living at the Jager House. 

After dinner we returned to the Malik residence where I was granted an interview with 

the UN General Assembly President. 

A wide range of issues were discussed, from the Lebanese crisis of the previous year to 

Dr. Malik’s plans for the future. 

I asked him about the role of the USA in the Middle East. He spoke at length in this area 

stating that we, the USA, could and should have taken a much stronger role in the Middle 

East. It was – and still is – a tinderbox area with instability in many of its countries. The 

domino theory must not be allowed to be implemented in that area of the world. As the 

symbol of pro-westernism in the Middle East, Dr. Malik believed that an aggressive 

policy against the communists must be pursued by the United States and its allies. Part of 

the conversation centered on his piece in the March 29, 1957 issue of U.S. News and 

World Report entitled: “How to Beat Communism in the Middle East.” He stated that he 

would continue his fight against Communism and Nasserism asserting that peace in the 

Mid East can only be attained when these two forces are destroyed. Malik reiterated his 

contention that the United States had a chance last year. 

Economic aid to the countries in danger of falling to Communism should be increased, 

adding, however, that the US should not try to “buy” friends abroad. 

I asked Dr. Malik to appraise the U.S. Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles. His remarks 

were favorable and he considered Dulles a capable foreign minister. As a general rule, 

Dr. Malik found working with Democratic administrations more favorable than working 

with Republicans, John Foster Dulles being the exception. 

He ruled out running for the position of Secretary General, noting that a candidate must 

be approved by the Security Council, and that he would receive a “nyet” vote from the 

USSR. Dr. Malik said that he was not willing to compromise his principles for the UN’s 

highest office. He continued by saying that in all likelihood his many years with the UN 

would come to an end at the expiration of his term as GA President. 

As for the future, Dr. Malik stated his desire to return to academic life and intellectual 

pursuits.

A few trivia tidbits were passed along to me. He assured Harvard Club night manager, 

Bernard Minnax, that he would honor his $3,000.00 plus phone bill. Mrs. Malik had 

fourteen armed guards at her country home in the mountains outside Beirut during the 

time of the 1958 Lebanese crisis 

The evening was both educational and entertaining. 

BACK TO EDUCATION FOR DR. MALIK 

One of Dr. Malik’s last unofficial acts as General Assembly President was to deliver the 

commencement address at Dartmouth College. He would return to Dartmouth the 

following year as professor in the Department of Government. 

The “philosopher” continued his academic career as a member of the Philosophy Dept. at 

the American University in Washington, D.C. He would continue writing and 

speechmaking throughout these years. 

Yes, my friend, Charles Malik was a fierce Communist fighter. He didn’t have to resort 

to the tactics that so became the demagogues of the Cold War. He didn’t ruin innocent 

lives through recklessness like so many of our elected officials in Congress such as 

Senator Joseph McCarthy and his ilk. Dr. Malik fought the good fight, and my only regret 

was that he did not live to see the demise of Communism in the Western World. 

HIS LEGACY LIVES 

In a small way, I have tried to keep the legacy of Dr. Malik alive. While moderator of the 

Social Science Federation of Essex Catholic High School, and later on at Mater Dei High 

School, I created the “Dr. Charles H. Malik Plaque” which was awarded, only when 

merited, to an outstanding member of the Federation. Being good was not good enough 

for consideration of this student honor. 

While at Mater Dei High School I was moderator of the school’s chapter of the National 

Honor Society. I further honored my friend and mentor by placing the quote that appears 

at the heading of this chapter: To lead the leader must inspire, but only the inspired can 

inspire. As leadership is one of the four qualities that is expected from a NHS member, I 

felt that quote from Man in the Struggle for Peace by Dr. Malik was quite appropriate. 

Actually I have used that quote as a benchmark to measure people from politicians to 

principals.

Although Charles Habib Malik passed away in 1987, his legacy lives on. The world is 

now a better place than when he entered it as a young Lebanese diplomat in the 1940’s. 

Dr. Malik contributed in a major way to making this world of ours a better place in which 

to live. 

The United Nations, the world body that he helped bring into existence and shape, 

commands respect today, even from its fiercest critics. Blazing the trail in the field of 

human rights, the UN has proven itself as a viable body addressing other areas of concern 

as well – refugee relief, the environment, disarmament, social and economic issues, 

peacekeeping in troubled areas, and the list goes on and on. 

Could Dr. Malik have envisioned the largest collection of world leaders ever assembled 

to celebrate the 60 th anniversary of the institution that he helped mould? 

Yes, Dr. Malik, you have been vindicated. Throughout your entire life you have fought 

the good fight. I could fill many pages on your attributes and superlatives, but you would 

not want me to do this. Your legacy to the children of the new millennium speaks for 

itself. 

You were many things to me – a member of the Harvard Club who stood head and 

shoulders above most; a friend who cared, not only about this lowly bellhop, but all 

people; a mentor who introduced me to the field of diplomacy and the workings of the 

United Nations; and I dare say, even though I may not have realized it at the time, that 

you were also a father figure to me. 

You made a difference in this writer’s life and for that I am eternally grateful.

Chapter 11 – THE MAINSTREAM FIFTIES, OR WERE THEY? 

IKE AND MAMIE, THE NATION’S FIRST COUPLE 

I have no regrets voting for Ike in my first election experience, or for that matter, voting 

for him again in 1956. The former five-star general was the first professional military 

soldier to be voted into the Nation’s highest elective office since Ulysses S. Grant in 

1868. Americans in the 1950’s liked the glitz and glamour connected with war heroes. It 

was just a year before Ike was elected president of the United States that another five star 

general, Douglas Mac Arthur, was welcomed back to the States in true imperial fashion. 

So why not elect the hero of D Day president of the United States? 

The former Columbia University President made the Korean War his top priority and 

wasted no time in bringing the conflict to an end, albeit a stalemated end. 

Ike was a grandfather figure and charismatic man who had no trouble beating his 

“egghead” Democratic opponent, Adlai Stevenson, in a landslide. A repeat performance 

between the two would be staged again in 1956 with similar results. Clearly, America 

liked Ike. 

His coattails swept the Republicans into control of both houses of Congress in 1953, a 

control that would be momentary. By the end of the decade, the Democrats would be 

back in solid control of both houses of Congress. Bipartisan cooperation was the order of 

the day. 

Ike’s middle of the road, moderate approach to the issues of the day was referred to as 

“modern Republicanism.” A majority of my fellow Americans and I seemed to like this 

new approach of keeping the best of the New and Fair Deal programs while introducing 

further progressive legislation. 

Along with progressivism came prosperity, despite two recessions during Ike’s two terms 

as president. The stock market was soaring to new heights. Even I was “bitten by the 

bug.” I made the big decision to get into the market and introduced myself to my local 

Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Beane stockbroker on Madison Avenue. My first 

stock purchase was quite modest by most standards. I ordered a whopping hundred shares 

of Cinerama at $2.00 a share. The following year I went over to the big board and bought 

a few (very few) shares of Merck, a New Jersey based pharmaceutical manufacturer. I 

held on to both stocks for a short time. Unfortunately, I needed the money for school and 

other projects so I decided to sell both – at a loss, of course. 

1

Eisenhower was a visionary a la Henry Clay. Ike submitted to Congress a massive road- 

building bill that would link the country with a vast network of interstate highways. With 

bipartisan support it sailed through Congress. The net result was our “I” system of 

superhighways, still serving drivers well into the new millenium. Thank you, President 

Eisenhower! 

The building of superhighways, as well as improved state roads, created the need for 

ancillary services. Holiday Inn’s began appearing all over the country and Howard 

Johnson would not be far behind. Less attractive, service-wise, were the independently 

owned motels, where, for a few dollars, a weary traveler could find a plain and simple 

night’s lodging. Certainly you got more bang for your buck at a motel. At the end of the 

decade, some people were more hesitant about staying in a motel after viewing Alfred 

Hitchcock’s thriller, Psycho. 

In addition to a place to sleep, fast food restaurants appeared on the scene to fill the 

stomachs of hungry families. Dick and Mac, of the famous Mc Donald brothers, opened 

their first fast food eatery in California during this era. One Big Mac, coming up! And no, 

Dick did not have a hamburger named in his honor. 

Dwight’s wife, Mamie, was a very popular First Lady. Many American housewives 

emulated her, even to the extent of going to their local hair stylist and getting a “Mamie- 

style” coiffure. 

The Soviet Union startled the world in 1957 with the launching of Sputnik. It was a space 

breakthrough that made our country take stock of its space program. What space 

program? One good thing to come out of this orbiting sphere in space was that I was now 

given a new nickname – “Sputnik.” From “Sparkplug” to “Sputnik” in a few years – 

Beep! Beep! Beep! 

However, one of the things that unsettled me regarding the president was the U2 spy 

plane incident that occurred during Eisenhower’s last year in office. Some of us 

remember that a US plane was shot down over Soviet territory. Premier Khrushchev 

soundly excoriated the US government for its actions. Our initial reaction was to deny 

that the incident ever happened. Plane, what plane? Perhaps the good premier was 

fabricating the story in order to have an upper hand at the impending summit conference 

between the two world leaders. Hesitatingly, our government acknowledged the 

possibility that a “weather” plane had flown off course into Soviet air space. 

Khrushchev’s then trumped his ace card. He produced the intact U2 spy plane replete 

with its pilot, Gary Francis Powers, for the whole world to see. 

2

There were a lot of red faces in Washington, including that of our commander-in-chief. 

Perhaps, I was naive in thinking that our government was telling the truth. Perhaps, I 

remembered all too well, the Parson Weems’ tale that told the story of our first president, 

who, when confronted about cutting down that proverbial cherry tree, responded by 

saying: I cannot tell a lie. I have learned a lot about trust in my elected officials and my 

government since the U2 incident. My naivete has diminished considerably since then. 

POINT OF ORDER, MR. CHAIRMAN 

The postwar “Second Red Scare” ran well into the 1960’s. Sentinels of American 

freedom included powerful members of Congress and the Executive branches of our 

federal government. Conservative Eisenhower appointments to the Supreme Court helped 

balance the federal judiciary and offset the New Deal and Fair Deal appointments of 

earlier years. Alas, one of Eisenhower’s appointments to the bench, Earl Warren of 

California and William Brennan of New Jersey, went on to become one of the most 

liberal justices of the twentieth century. We all make mistakes. 

Did communism present a threat to the national security of the United States? J. Edgar 

Hoover felt so. Even the most liberal of Americans would answer, yes to that question. 

With the solid backing of the American people, Congressional committees and law 

enforcement agencies set out to do their task – eradicate the Communist threat in the 

United States. 

Because of some overzealous “Red hunters,” paranoia permeated the minds of millions of 

Americans. The late 1940’s saw loyalty oaths incorporated into teacher’s contracts and 

the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC) was getting started, using the 

Hollywood establishment as its whipping boy. Both sides of the aisle implemented the 

“Second Red Scare.” Democrat Senator, Pat McCarran from Nevada, sponsored the anti- 

immigrant, Internal Security Act, which a fellow-Senator likened to the Alien and 

Sedition Acts of Jefferson’s day. Ironically, it would be my friend, Peter W. Rodino Jr., 

who would succeed conservative Republican, Fred Hartley, in New Jersey’s 10 th 

Congressional District and lead the movement to undo the discriminatory immigration 

act. 

3

The 1990 movie Guilty by Suspicion focuses in on the Hollywood hearings and features 

Robert De Niro’s character as one of Hollywood’s top directors who is called before 

HUAC and asked to name names. This film was shown to the students of my American 

Government class at Mater Dei High School and gives the viewer a flavor of the “Second 

Red Scare.” It definitely supports the paranoia theory. 

Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party? In so many cases 

the witness exercised his fifth-amendment rights under the Constitution. If a witness 

“took the fifth,” he was branded a Communist by the conservative establishment. If he’s 

not a Communist, what does he have to hide? During this same era we saw the fifth being 

taken by organized crime members as well as labor leaders accused of racketeering. More 

recently corporate CEO ’s took the fifth in the Enron scandal. It appears the fifth- 

amendment is alive and well. I often asked students in my U. S. History and American 

Government classes: Why do you think that our Founding Fathers incorporated the fifth 

amendment into the Bill of Rights? 

Not to be outdone by Senator McCarran, or Martin Dies and Francis Walter on the House 

side of Capitol Hill, Joseph R. McCarthy waged his own very personal vendetta on 

communism in America from the Senate side. 

Joseph R. McCarthy, the junior senator from Wisconsin, led the fight against communism 

in the committee hearings that were held during the first half of the 1950’s. Many 

Americans joined McCarthy in his relentless crusade against internal subversion. He was 

a cause celebre, and was supported by millions of Americans, including myself. If 

anyone could stop communism in its tracks, it was “Tail-Gunner Joe.” This zealot was 

our hero, our idol. 

In a short time, McCarthyism became the topic of conservation around the dinner table, 

in the workplace, and in the classroom and barroom. Very few Americans had no opinion 

of the Senator; most did. While supporting his overall goals, many did not believe in the 

tactics he used to accomplish his end. Terms such as: browbeating, innuendo, 

recklessness, guilt by association, character assassination, witch-hunt, demagogue, and 

other pejoratives were used by the anti-McCarthy forces here in the United States to rein 

in the zealot-senator. They were unsuccessful in their quest to tumble the Wisconsin 

Senator. Almost overnight McCarthy became the most admired man in America to some; 

the most feared man to others; and yet, a Machiavellian demagogue to others. 

4

During one of my visits to our Nation’s capital in the early 1950’s I had the honor of 

seeing and hearing Senator McCarthy live from my seat in the Senate gallery. This was 

one of the biggest political thrills I experienced up to that time. Although he was not a 

polished speaker like his fellow Republican, Everett McKinley Dirksen from Illinois, 

nonetheless, I received a “high” just by merely seeing him in action on the Senate floor. 

PCQ22: What television newscaster is portrayed in the 2005 movie, “Good Night and 

Good Luck”? 

The Army-McCarthy hearings were held in the spring of 1954 and televised in black and 

white. Nearly thirty-million Americans, including myself, watched the proceedings that 

were taking place in the Senate Caucus Room. Fortunately, I hadn’t yet started my job at 

the Harvard Club, thus affording me the opportunity to watch the proceedings from the 

Beechmont Bar in New Rochelle or from my own home in Manhattan. I remember so 

well, watching the events as they unfolded over fifty years ago. 

The ever-controversial Senator accused the Army of being soft on communists as the 

Dept. of the Army promoted a left-leaning captain to major. Who promoted Peress? 

became the question of the day. However, McCarthy tried to induce the Army to grant 

special privileges to one of his staffers, G. David Schine, who had been inducted into the 

Army a couple of months earlier. Once the hearings began, McCarthy pulled every 

parliamentary procedure maneuver in the book to get the spotlight. He constantly rose to 

points of order, at times annoying the committee chair, Senator Karl Mundt. 

McCarthy’s counsel was a shrewd, manipulative New Yorker, Roy Cohn. It was Cohn 

who introduced his special friend, G. David Schine, to Senator McCarthy and before too 

long Schine had a position on the Committee’s staff. 

The Army-McCarthy hearings gave Americans the chance to see the junior senator from 

Wisconsin in action. They were not pleased with what they saw. McCarthy’s approval 

rating had dropped some twenty-five percentage points. 

The American people saw too, a mild-mannered Boston lawyer by the name of Joseph 

Welch (see Harvard Club chapter) who would not be browbeaten by the junior Senator 

from Wisconsin, and who rose above the charged, circus atmosphere to contribute to 

McCarthy’s downfall with his, sense of decency, remarks. “Tail Gunner Joe” had met his 

match. A “Joe Must Go” movement was now clearly afoot. 

5

Shortly after the hearings, Senator Ralph Flanders, Republican from Vermont, introduced 

a resolution censuring his fellow-Republican Senator for conduct unbecoming a United 

States Senator. The resolution passed 67 – 22. 

The censure left Joe McCarthy a broken hearted man and in a matter of three years he 

died of complications of the liver. I was a proud supporter of McCarthy ‘till the 

very end, and was crushed by his death. He, too, was mortal. 

LIFE GOES ON AT 363 

Over my 21 years at 363 West 57 th Street, I saw the transience of apartment living, 

people coming and going, shops open and closing. That’s all part of city life. 

By the 1950’s, Dr. Greenwald, whose dental office was on the first floor, was the one of 

the longest tenured tenants in the building, second only to mom and myself. While he 

occupied the only professional office in the building, he did not reside at 363 – God 

forbid. He was a serious type and invariably blew his fuse when someone rang his bell in 

the foyer in order to gain access to the building. Out of his office, dental tools in hand, he 

came to admonish the bell ringer – sometimes with the choicest of expletives. 

Mom was one of Dr. Greenwald’s patients. Over the years he fitted her with a least two 

pairs of false teeth. For whatever reason, mom had bad teeth and took a sane recourse to 

address the problem. Each night before retiring, mom placed the dentures in a small bowl 

filled with water and a special solution. Next morning she secured the dentures in her 

mouth with a dental adhesive, put on a happy face, and it was off to work. 

I was not a patient of Dr. Greenwald but remained loyal to my orthodontist, Dr. 

Rothenberg. It was a weekend during the late 1950’s that I suffered an unbearable 

toothache. Mom suggested pressing cloves on to the impacted tooth, saying it was a tried 

and true Irish remedy. It was the weekend, Dr. Greenwald’s office was closed and I had 

no place to go. The home remedy was ineffective and the pain seemed to be increasing. It 

was now about 2AM in the early morning so I got dressed and went over to the Roosevelt 

Hospital only a block away. 

6

It was a Saturday night/Sunday morning and the ER was in overdrive. I waited and 

waited and waited. With no immediate relief on the way, I decried the bureaucracy of the 

municipal hospital and decided to try St. Claire’s Hospital on 51 st Street. Perhaps, it was 

the nuns or even St. Claire herself. It worked, and within a matter of a few minutes I left 

the Catholic institution feeling so much better. I walked up desolate Ninth Avenue to 363 

where mom had waited up for me. I’m better ma! As I made my way through her living 

area, I looked at her teeth in the bowl, vowed in my own mind to take care of my own 

teeth, and retired to my room, exhausted. 

We now had a new super. Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and their Boston terrier, “Duke,” left for 

another better-paying job. The new super, Ross, took care of another property managed 

by Intercontinental Realty at 301 West 57 th Street. He also resided there, which meant 

that Apartment 1B was now available for a paying tenant. 

In 1955, Bill Butler of Apt.2C passed way joining his wife Julia who predeceased him. I 

wonder whether or not there are bars or spats in heaven?Aunt Betty passed way in 1957. 

Uncle Mike Moriarty chose to remain as a tenant in Apt. 2D. He continued to live there 

for many years after the passing of his wife. He had the dog and the two cats to keep him 

company. 

Bill and Elsa Bergen remained ensconced in their fourth floor apartment, as did our next- 

door neighbor, Lillian Kramer. Bill and Elsa were very outgoing; Lillian somewhat 

reserved. Elsa hosted some great parties in Apt. 4B and enjoyed a nip or two to keep the 

revelry going. Mom usually had a highball or two to keep her going. Highlighting her 

candlelight suppers was a spaghetti casserole that was second to none. She passed her 

guarded recipe on to my mom, who, in turn, passed it on to me. To this very day, it 

remains my favorite dish, and its well worth the several hours that it takes to make. Yum, 

yum! 

Elsa was from Finland, Bill from New Jersey. It was Elsa who introduced me the music 

of Jan Sibelius , the Olympic feats of Paavo Nurmi, and the architectural wonders of 

contemporary, Eero Saarenin. 

As I mentioned, Elsa liked to imbibe somewhat, but so too did Bill. And when they both 

got a buzz on at the same time, it lead invariably to a spat. Being without the benefit of 

air conditioning in the summer, we relied upon a fan and our screen door. So when Bill 

and Elsa went at it, we could clearly hear the round by round squabble as it progressed. 

Sometimes Elsa turned up the phonograph to drown out the argument. That only added to 

the dissonance. 

7

Sometime during the late 1960’s, Bill Bergen perished in a fire of suspicious origin that 

started in their apartment. It was believed that Bill’s smoking in bed caused the fire. Elsa 

went on with her life. Before too long she linked up with Uncle Mike and, yes, you 

guessed it – they became a common law couple, moved out of 363, and lived for several 

years thereafter in an apartment on the upper West Side. Elsa passed away in the early 

1970’s. 

In the early part of the decade, I added a blackboard to my furnishings and placed it 

above the far end of mom’s studio couch in the living room. It was about thirty by 

twenty-four inches and I used it frequently for messages, solving math problems, and 

writing music. Later on, I added a high narrow bookcase in the hallway and before too 

long it was filled with a full complement of nearly a hundred books. Perhaps, these new 

additions were a harbinger of my life to come. 

All in all, 363 wasn’t a bad place in which to live. I enjoyed some of the best years of my 

life there but by the end of the 1950’s, and after some 21 years in midtown Manhattan, 

mom and I were ready for a move. 

FRIENDLY SAUGERTIES 

“Welcome to Friendly Saugerties.” This is the caption on a sign entering the village of 

Saugerties, just off NYS Thruway, Exit 20. Located on the Espous Creek, its earlier 

history saw it prosper as a mill town for the paper industry, but by post-War years, it was 

all but nil. 

It was during the 1950’s, as a counselor at Camp Adrian, that I got to know the village 

that seemed frozen in time. It traditional character was so becoming of the decade. Its 

Main Street could be “Main Street, U.S.A.” 

When Marguerite Cowhey purchased a vintage Chrysler limo in the mid-fifties, it 

provided transportation from Camp Adrian to the village of Saugerties, some eight miles 

away. Neither Marguerite nor I had a driver’s license but counselor, Pat Gillespie had 

turned eighteen and had a valid license. Pat, who later became a member of New York’s 

Finest, was the Camp’s official chauffeur. Usually, the “best cabin” was treated to an 

afternoon visit to the village and an ice cream sundae in “Candyland.” 

8

Counselors were given a day off each week and that meant an afternoon and early 

evening into friendly Saugerties. Pat Gillespie usually combined a trip to the village, 

taking with him award-winning campers, doing some chores, and leaving off the 

counselor on Main Street to enjoy the change of venue for a few hours. 

This meant dinner and a movie at the Orpheum Theater. This developing cinephile got to 

know George Thornton, the owner of the theater, as did Peter Lawrence, a Camp Adrian 

Counselor who operated the camp’s 16mm projector. Later, Peter moved up the road to 

be a counselor at the prestigious, Camp Rip Van Winkle. With the closing of the Cowhey 

Camps in 1969, Peter decide to make Saugerties his home and helped George Thornton 

run his movie house. Today, Peter owns the Lawrence Building on the corner of Main 

and Partition Streets, manages the Orpheum, and remains a Victorian in his mores. 

On my day off, I took in a movie at the Orpheum. In 1954, I saw one of my all time 

favorite John Wayne movies, The High and the Mighty. It was the first of the air disaster 

movies and I tried replicating the Duke as I whistled Dimitri Tiomkin’s Oscar-winning 

the title theme as I left the theater for dinner across the street at the Exchange Hotel. In 

1955, it was Audie Murphy’s autobiographical tale, To Hell and Back, about the most 

decorated hero of World War II, with Mr. Murphy playing himself. Like so many movies 

of the 1950’s, it told of the protagonist overcoming tremendous odds to overcome their 

respective challenges. After dinner, it was a cab back to the camp and a recharged 

counselor ready for another week. 

The character of Saugerties changed little over the years. However, the conservative 

charm of Friendly Saugerties was almost “deflowered” in 1969 when promoters of the 

Woodstock festival considered it as a possible site. Today the town is an antique center. 

FADING RADIO WAVES 

Although I had graduated from the cereal serials, I continued to be an avid radio fan. I 

still woke up to the sounds of Rambling with Gambling with second generation, John A., 

now filling in for this father. 

Breakfast with Dorothy and Dick was soon to be off the air as Dorothy Kilgallen focused 

her attention on her gossip column in the New York Journal American, and as a host on a 

new television show, What’s my Line? I’m not quite too sure what happened to Dick. 

9

Religious programs abounded over the air-waves. For Catholic households there were 

many to choose from including Fr.Patrick’s Peyton’s, “The Rosary Hour,” reminding 

listeners that the family that prays together, stays together. Often did we pray the rosary 

around our small kitchen radio. 

Paul LaValle and the Cities-Service Band of America, one of my favorites programs, 

would fade away too. Every Saturday morning I tuned into WNEW to hear the Make 

Believe Ballroom and listen to the top pops of the day. I continued listening to Fulton 

Lewis Jr., John T. Flynn and other conservative commentators. Even today, 2007, local 

radio seems flooded with conservative commentators – Rush, Curtis, et. al. At the end of 

the decade (1959) Bruce Morrow made his radio debut. Affectionately known as Cousin 

Brucie, he would become a familiar voice to countless thousands over forty years. He 

remains a favorite of mine today as he spins those golden oldies on 101fm. Go Cousin 

Brucie! 

BUBBLING BOOB TUBES AND FAMILY VALUES 

The “boob tube” and the “idiot box” were among the appellations given to the television 

set in your living room. Television was now replacing radio in many homes. With the 

added dimension of sight, it was more appealing than radio to many, especially inasmuch 

as it was less taxing on the imagination. Technical advances, such as color and 

improvements in the quality of the image, were being made. Dumont, Channel 5, was 

now giving the big three networks a run for their money. The local stations WOR and 

WPIX, and the PBS station on Channel 13 rounded out the selection in the days long 

before cable. 

With what little time I had to watch television, I had to be somewhat selective. Ozzie and 

Harriet, portrayed a typical 1950’s family of mom, dad, and two kids. Lucy and Desi 

were not on the top of my list, although mom loved Lucy. 

I did not grow up watching Howdy Doody. He came well after the halcyon days of my 

youth. However, I would find out later that many of my baby boomer students’ thought 

that I looked a lot like the famed puppet. On a rare occasion I was known to take a quick 

peep at Buffalo Bob, Howdy, Clarabelle, and the gang. 

Variety shows piqued my interest. The Texaco Star Theatre with Bob Hope was my 

favorite while mom watched the Perry Como Show. Mr. C’s style could indeed sooth the 

savage beast in us all. 

10

Both of us loved Lawrence Welk and his bubbling champagne music. His show was 

enhanced with many homespun, talented professionals. The Lennon Sisters added a nice 

a one and a two a to the Lawrence Welk Show. 

During my non-working years in the early 1950’s I watched the Ed Sullivan Show every 

Sunday night at 8PM. Here was variety at its finest. Ed was always discovering new 

talent, from the charming Carmel Quinn from Englewood, New Jersey to the gyrating 

Elvis Presley from Memphis, Tennessee. Many parents and those of conservative 

persuasion condemned Sullivan for bringing such a lewd performer as Presley to a family 

show. The censors prevailed and the camera technicians were instructed not to video the 

King below the waist. His hip gyrations were considered to be the work of Satan by 

some. Personally, I was not enthralled either by his singing or his gyrations. 

One day while I was hitch hiking on the Cross County Parkway during my college days 

at Iona, I was given a ride by chauffeur driving a black Lincoln with Connecticut license- 

plates. In those days hitching was a common and relatively safe practice. I gladly 

accepted the ride and jumped into the car. The uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel 

introduced himself to me as Ed Sullivan’s driver. Mr. Sullivan was not in the back seat 

but that didn’t matter to me. The feeling of sitting in a plush leather seat was great. Being 

driven from door to door in Ed Sullivan’s car was even greater. The chauffeur dropped 

me off across the street from my home at 363, continued east on 57 th Street and then onto 

Broadway. The Ed Sullivan Show emanated from a theatre on Broadway and 54 th Street 

that now bears his name. 

Jackie Gleason and Art Carney provided fun for both mom and me in The 

Honeymooners. Jackie Gleason’s parish, while in New York, was St. Paul the Apostle. 

Long Islander, Perry Como could be found worshipping there also as he did his show 

from a Manhattan television studio. 

11

Television would change the entire character of professional sports, for better or for 

worse. Night baseball games would soon become chic. 

Toward the end of the fifties game shows started to take center stage on television. The 

$64,000 Question and Twenty One were watched by millions each week. 

PCQ23: Do you remember the name of the Columbia professor who was “prepped” 

with the correct answers before appearing on “Twenty One?” 

With the prosperity of the Eisenhower era, it was not long before many households 

would not only have two chickens in every pot, two cars in every garage, but now two 

television sets in every home. 

CHROME, SPARKLING CHROME 

I did not have to go to a GM Motorama Show to see the latest in automobile styling. The 

General Motors Building on Columbus Circle was primarily an office building without a 

showroom unlike the current General Motors Building across town on Fifth Avenue. A 

walk down Broadway from 57 th to 54 th Streets housed several auto retailers that proudly 

showcased their latest models as the new car season approached in the early fall. It was 

on this “Automobile Alley” that I checked out the latest models each year. 

The Cadillac showroom was at the southeast corner of 57 th Street. It was there that I 

developed a fantasy with the queen of US autos, the Cadillac, even though I possessed 

neither car nor license to drive a car. However, I could window shop and that I did. 

Perhaps it was the connection with Ann Cowhey of Camp Rip Van Winkle who bought a 

new black Cadillac Fleetwood every three years that made me love that car. Her latest 

model was a 1954 entry bedecked with chrome and wraparound front window. The 

chrome, especially on the rear panels and the dual exhaust pipes, made a startling contrast 

with the gilt-painted Fleetwood. However, my all time favorite was the 1958 Fleetwood, 

black, of course. Its chrome fins was the closest thing I ever saw to the Batmobile. 

12

The Oldsmobile showroom further south on Broadway also impressed me. Later in my 

life I would be the owner of a used, very used, 1955 “98” four door Olds. Its two-tone 

paint separated by sleek chrome strips, wraparound windshields, and its hydramatic drive, 

made it a most desirable luxury car of the mid 1950’s. In 1958, Olds came out with one 

of the most chrome fitted cars around. 

Charlie Wilson, president of General Motors, so impressed President Eisenhower that he 

named him his Secretary of Defense. Perhaps Ike liked the sound GENERAL Motors. 

Sorry for being so corny but I couldn’t resist the temptation. Remember Wilde? The only 

way to get rid of a temptation is to do what? General Motors and the Department of 

Defense were now wed. Indeed, a marriage made in heaven. Their offspring was the 

military-industrial complex. Later Ike would issue his famous caveat on the military- 

industrial complex. It was Wilson’s belief that what was good for General Motors was 

good for America. Michael Moore, if he were around back then, might have taken 

exception with that premise. 

So much for the gas guzzling behemoths and profit hungry corporate executives. Have 

times really changed? 

Television was used to the max in promoting automobiles and why not. Dream machines 

with dream girls? 

Speaking of dream girls, Betty Furness was gaining national attention as the 

Westinghouse saleslady selling her wares over national television. Those refrigerators 

featured chrome trim, chrome handles, and chrome interior fixtures. Not to be outdone 

was the bicycle industry. Schwinn made the Cadillac of bicycles and did it show. Chrome 

handlebars, light casings, undercarriages housing the horn’s chrome button which the 

cyclist had to press frantically to warn pedestrians in harms way, and a 

myriad of other accessories made it the heaviest two- wheeler on Central Park’s bicycle 

path. Personally, I preferred riding my rented Columbia Sports Tourist, a much lighter 

and faster bicycle and a heck of a lot less chrome. 

And so, the chrome fad of the fifties went from diners to dinettes and everything else in 

between. 

13

A BLUE-COLLAR PATRON OF THE ARTS 

My co-worker at the Harvard Club, Armand Thibault, was a talented artist from Auburn, 

Maine and like so many artists had come to New York City to study at the Art Students 

League on West 57 th Street. And like so many artists in the City, was starving. He had 

painted a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II that hung at the Government House in Ottawa for 

many years, as well as one of Kenneth Roberts, the celebrated Maine author of Northwest 

Passage. 

A year earlier I commissioned Armand to paint a portrait of Father James M. Gillis of the 

Paulist Fathers. Father Gillis did not sit for the portrait but rather Armand painted his 

image from photos that I provided. He did an outstanding job and I presented the portrait 

to Marguerite Cowhey of Camp Adrian, a very close friend of the noted priest. She, too, 

was impressed with Mr. Thibault’s artistic capabilities. Today, the painting hangs at the 

Paulist Center at 405 West 59 Street. 

About the same time, he showed me an unfinished oil painting of the Crucifixion. It was 

rather large and recaptured that Good Friday event in a very impressive fashion. I 

commissioned him to finish it off during his spare time. The painting was completed in 

the fall of 1956, at which point I decided to have an unveiling and accordingly booked 

the ballroom at the nearby Hotel Empire for December 5, 1956. 

One night at the Harvard Club, he did a pencil sketch of Marilyn Monroe with her dress 

being blown up by the draft under the subway grating. You know, the scene from The 

Seven Year Itch. That exposure of Marilyn really got her husband at the time, Joe Di 

Maggio, really ticked off. I still have it in my collection. 

To provide entertainment for the evening I contacted a former parishioner, Tom Corley, 

who, at the time, was living in Chicago. Tom, a talented tenor, had just released a vinyl, 

Famous Operettas on a Mercury label and agreed to do the entertainment pro bono. 

The evening of December 5 th arrived. Clad in tuxedo, I was the emcee of the event. The 

Harvard Club management and fellow employees turned out en mas to show support for 

Armand and myself. Club member, Joe Murphy, had a place on the dais, along with 

Armand, Tom, and myself. At one end of the dais were the three sisters (Mom, Aunt 

Betty and Aunt Mary) and, at the other end, the three priests. What a balance! 

14

Drum roll, please! The time for the unveiling of Armand’s Crucifixion had finally 

arrived. Armand joined me in the unveiling ceremony. Then came the oohs and aahs. 

Tom Corley then took center stage, starting off by singing three Irish songs including one 

of my favorites, Macushla. Only Kate Smith did it better. 

Three of the boys from the Paulist Choristers, Faith, Hope and Charity, then entertained 

the enthusiastic audience with their rendition of Tonight You Belong to Me made famous 

by two eleven year olds, Patience and Prudence. They also sang Whatever Will be, Will 

Be, a song made famous by Doris Day a year earlier in the movie The Man Who Knew 

Too Much. The boys rang in the Christmas season with Santa Claus in Coming to Town. 

Perhaps the biggest crowd-pleaser of the evening was Tom Corley’s glass-shattering 

rendition of Granada. It prompted the audience to give Tom quite an ovation. The 

entertainment portion ended with Mr. Corley leading the group in a Christmas sing-along 

and taking the octave in Adeste Fidelis. 

Perhaps I was overly generous at evening’s end in comparing Tom Corley to the great 

Irish tenor, John McCormack. However, I was interested in helping to launch Tom’s 

singing career in New York City and this I would do. I was now ready to take on the role 

of an impresario and give a little competition to Sol Hurok and set up a date in late May 

for Tom Corley’s New York debut at the Town Hall on West 43 rd Street. The attendance 

was sparse, the reviews poor, and took a financial loss. Fortunately Joe Murphy of the 

Harvard Club assumed the deficit of this losing venture for which I was very grateful – 

Earth Angel, indeed. Tom Corley was not John McCormack, nor was I a Sol Hurok. Hey, 

that’s “show business!” 

15

HANGING OUT AT THE “GREASY SPOON” 

Do you remember the movie Marty with Ernest Borgnine? The 1955 production won 

Best Picture and Borgnine Best Actor Oscars the following spring. There was a 

scene, showing Borgnine’s character and several of the guys hanging out at the local 

greasy spoon. The common question that each of the characters was asking of the others 

was: What do you want to do tonight? I dunno, what do you want to do? was the pat 

reply. An hour later the group was still sitting there sipping coffee and the evening’s 

plans had not yet been resolved. They wound up the evening just hanging out. That scene 

was repeated over and over in 1950’s America and is repeated by young people today 

under different venues. It was certainly true of the Panthers. 

Although most of us were collegians and getting older, we still hung out on the stoop of 

Joe Rodriguez’s house at 15 West 60 th Street. About 8PM we moved over to a blue-collar 

restaurant on Broadway between 60 th and 61 Streets. Here we hung out. At times it was a 

scene out of Marty at least in terms of decision-making. Perhaps indecision might be a 

better word. Do you want to go bowling? Do you want to take a walk down Broadway? 

Do you want to make plans for tomorrow night’s Rangers game? And so it went. 

Actually we had some spirited discussions. The name that came up most often was that of 

Senator Joseph R. McCarthy, the red-hunting junior US Senator from Wisconsin. I was a 

fierce defender of this savior of America. However, not all in the group shared my 

conservative, America First, values. Sometimes these greasy spoon debates got so loud 

that the owner told us to pipe down or get out. 

Sports, as you might guess, was a common topic for discussion. Most of us were Ranger 

fans and Joe Rodriguez, a Red Wings fan, was fighting overwhelming odds. Sorry, Joe, 

the Red Wings suck! On the other hand, baseball loyalties were evenly divided between 

the New York Giants and the Yankees. Even though Walter O’Malley and the “boys of 

summer” were still in Brooklyn, there were no Dodger supporters among us. So much for 

“dem bums!” 

As the decade progressed, we saw less and less of each other. The year 1956 saw several 

of the gang graduating from college and either going on to graduate school or entering 

the work force. 

16

BOWLING WITH A BUD 

It was during my early college years when I had some free time on my hands that I took 

an interest in bowling. Our local bowling alley, the Circle Lanes, was atop the Automat, 

between 57 th and 58 th Streets on Eight Avenue. Red Reidel was the manager and on site 

pro who had been known to bowl a 300 game on occasions. 

Automatic lanes had not yet been installed so pin setters did the job manually. Of course, 

I gave the pin boy the customary quarter after I finished my three games. Modern 

bowling alleys with automatic setters had just been installed in the recently opened Port 

Authority Bus Terminal on Eight Avenue and 40 th Street. However, I chose to bowl in the 

Circle Lanes as it was just around the corner from 363. 

An attraction at both lanes was a bar. Back in the 1950’s, the age for the legal purchase 

and consumption of alcohol was 18. Invariably my buddies and I opted for a long necked 

bottle of brew while we bowled. Nothing like bowling with a bud; or should that be an 

upper case “B?” 

Joe Rodriguez, Bobby McArdle, Charlie Stopfer and other members of the Panthers 

Athletic Club spent many an evenings in this relaxing sport. Red Reidel was there to 

instruct the novices like myself. I didn’t own my own bowling ball but relied instead on 

one of Red’s “house” balls. 

I didn’t become a seasoned bowler but had fun hitting those lanes. Yes, hitting was 

exactly what I did, for on occasion I was known to literally hit the shining alley floor with 

my ball as it left my hand after delivery, taking one bounce as it took its slow curve into 

the gutter. Perhaps I relied on my bud too much. 

My highest game was a “191.” Was I ever proud of my accomplishment and celebrated 

accordingly. 

It has been a number of years since I last picked up a bowling ball. I sure that if I were to 

go out bowling tonight I may not hit “191” but I’d have a heck of a lot of fun. 

17

FUNTIMES IN THE CITY 

One thing was certain about living in metropolis and that was life was almost never dull. 

There were plenty of leisure activities to keep me busy for many lifetimes. I availed of 

some. 

Happy was I when the Wollman Memorial Ice-Skating Rink was completed in Central 

Park. The new rink, located off 5 th Avenue and 62 nd Street near the Park’s pond of post 

card fame, would bring new pleasures to thousands of New Yorkers in this oasis for the 

masses. It would provide me with yet another recreational challenge. Unlike Rockeller 

Center, one could rent and pair of skates and have fun on the ice for a modest sum. 

Having been a fair roller skater, I tried my luck on the ice. I did not meet with similar 

success and after a couple of falls at Wollman, gave up. Tsk! Tsk! 

In terms of the performing arts, I decided to give opera a try and went to see La Giaconda 

at the old Met on Broadway and 40 th Street. It was ho hum. Perhaps, like the failed ice- 

skating venture, I should have gone back a few times and cultivated a taste for it. 

Philistine me – tsk! tsk! 

My saving grace was the theatre, the Broadway theatre. As a result of working as the 

theatre-ticket concierge at the Harvard Club I was able to purchase tickets to Broadway 

plays for myself, less the brokers commission. My Fair Lady with Rex Harrison and Julie 

Andrews won the Tony Award for Best Musical in 1957. Before too long, I purchased 

a single balcony seat for the award-winning musical. I dressed to the nines for this first 

very special evening at the theatre. Back in the 1950’s most people dressed fashionably 

when going to the theatre. It was like going to Sunday mass, dress-wise. As I entered the 

Mark Hellinger theatre on the evening of the play, I felt euphoric. Was I walking on the 

footpath of Harvard Club member and New York Times theatre critic, Brooks Atkinson? I 

came! I watched! I loved! I was so overwhelmed with the entire production - the Lerner 

and Lowe music, the choreography, the sets, the costumes, everything about the play. I 

was smitten! I had to return to the Hellinger and see it a second time. 

This I did when I invited the principal of Essex Catholic High School, Brother Francis 

Offer, to the show as my guest in 1959. After a good Italian dinner at the Casa Del 

Monte, we walked down to the Hellinger theatre. Edward Mulhare was in the role of 

Professor Henry Higgins and Pamela Charles was Eliza Doolittle. Brother, too, loved the 

show. My Fair Lady remains my all-time favorite musical and I have seen several of its 

revivals. 

18

In researching this vignette I picked up the (1959) Playbill for that show out of my 

collection that spans four decades. Looking at the ads in this Playbill was a sheer delight. 

Naturally, Cadillac and Oldsmobile had full-page ads with images of their respective, 

chrome-laden automobiles. I did note a half a page ad for a French import car, the 

Renault The four-door model, the Dauphine was selling at $1645.00 and getting 40 mpg. 

Take that Detroit! Also, I notice a Cunard Steamship Line ad for their two trans-Atlantic 

queens. I spotted an ad for United States Lines. This US-based steamship company had 

two trans-Atlantic crossers, the S.S. United States and the S.S. America. It seemed, at the 

time, that Britannia no longer ruled the waves. Within a decade, the day of the trans- 

Atlantic steamships would be history. Pan-Am and TWA would rule the skies. 

The 1958 Tony for Best Musical went to The Music Man. It was playing at the Majestic 

Theatre and I proceeded to order two orchestra seats from my associate at the theatre 

ticket agency. This time I invited Brother Tom Kostka of Iona College as my guest for 

dinner at the Casa Del Monte and an evening at the theatre. I thought that both of us 

would identify with this musical from our days with the Power Memorial Academy band. 

That we did. Robert Preston was the perfect Professor Harold Hill. It was deja vu as the 

River City boys band marched to the tune of Seventy-six Trombones. It was a show- 

stopper. It was a tune that you carried with you out of the theatre. It was music that 

resonated in your head as you tossed and turned in bed that night. Following a Sousa 

principle, composer Meredith Willson takes the tune Goodnight My Someone which is 

played in three quarter time, changes it to march tempo (6/8), adds triplets and voila – it 

becomes Seventy-six Trombones. Go ahead! Try it, preferably using the think system. 

My Fair Lady ushered in the Golden Age of the Broadway musical. As we entered the 

new decade of the 1960’s, the talents of Rogers and Hammerstien would reach fruition 

with their classic entrée, The Sound of Music. Brother Offer and I saw this and many 

other plays together. We would do our usual routine, dinner at the Casa followed by a 

play. I might add that Brother Offer’s sister, Geraldine and brother, Tom, worked in the 

theatre district as ticket takers and ushers…and don’t forget to tip your usher. 

There was a lot of free entertainment out there, especially in the summer. I attended any a 

band concert led by Edwin Franco Goldwyn at the band shell in Central Park’s Mall. One 

of his marches is appropriately called On the Mall. 

19

WHERE HAVE ALL THE ORANGE ROOFS GONE? 

Driving the highways of the east coast, one could not help but notice the proliferation of 

Howard Johnson’s restaurants and soda fountains. They were everywhere, some four 

hundred of them scattered across America’s highways giving hungry Americans a good 

meal at a reasonable price. Many of us remember their unique soda fountains with their 

many flavors of ice cream. They prided themselves of their ice cream product. If you saw 

a bright orange roof in the distance, you knew your pangs of hunger would be satisfied. 

In 1954, the lodge concept was added and now you could have a cocktail, a 

nice dinner, and retire for the night – watching black and white television, or whatever. 

The menu was varied and included such entrees as fried sweet clams, chicken croquettes, 

macaroni and cheese, or for a lighter fare, a hotdog on a bun. Did I say “hotdog?” In the 

wait-staff training program, the use of the word “hotdog” was verboten; only “frankfurt” 

was permissible. 

In 1974, Mel Brooks directed his first major movie, the off-color, western spoof, Blazing 

Saddles, featuring Howard Johnson as the proprietor of a soda fountain in the besieged 

town of Rock Ridge. It seemed that his family had proliferated the town. The display in 

front of the store boasts a ice cream – one flavor sign. 

PCQ24: How many flavors did Howard Johnson’s feature in most of its soda fountains 

during this era? 

There were several “HoJo’s” in NYC back in the 1950’s and I usually opted for the one a 

few blocks over on West 57 Street. On July 9,2005, the last of NYC’s Howard Johnson’s 

Restaurant’s, the one at Times Square, closed down. If it were not for gentrification, the 

site would still be thriving another forty-five years. There was a HoJo’s not too far from 

me, in nearby Asbury Park. However, it too was sold recently. Today four remain. 

I used the Howard Johnson’s Lodge on Virginia Avenue in Washington, D.C. on many 

occasions whenever I stayed in Washington, D.C. and I was a “regular” at their 

restaurant. Right across the street from the Watergate complex, one of its rooms served as 

a lookout and communications center for the bungled break-in of the National 

Democratic headquarters. Today, HoJo’s has been converted into the George Washington 

University boutique hotel. 

20

In 2005, there are only five Howard Johnson’s Restaurants remaining. Where have all the 

orange roofs gone? Where have Simple Simon and the Pie-man gone? 

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH THE MOVIES 

From my earliest days I have had a love affair with the cinema. Perhaps, it started with 

the Disney’s Technicolor production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Pinocchio. 

My developing mind was mesmerized with both of these upbeat, animated, musical 

productions. During the War years, I could be found almost every Saturday at the Town 

Theatre watching a double feature movie, trailers for movies yet to be shown, the 

newsreel, and a Republic serial – all in black and white. The cartoon, of course, was in 

color. My cinematic journey that began back in the late 1930s continues today. 

Wanting to share with you some of my experiences, I have incorporated movies in a 

major way in the Pop Culture continuum in this Memoir. You may have noticed that I 

have posed many PCQ’s on cinema. How well did you score in this area? Perhaps, you 

too, are a cinephile? Naturally, like all good cinephiles, there may be a diversion of 

opinion on each movie and that’s what critiquing movies is all about. How often did 

Siskel and Ebert go at each other? 

To me, there is no replacement for the movie theatre. It’s the whole ambience of a movie 

theatre that turns me on – the big silver screen, the sound, the interaction of the audience 

at times, munching hot popcorn or your favorite candy bar, and so much more. Gone are 

the days of the grand movie houses made popular by Loews and the R.K.O. production 

companies, although a couple of relics still remain in Brooklyn and Jersey City. But who 

needs a Wurlitzer Organ and thousand-seat art-deco theatre to enjoy the movies? 

More than 90% of the times, I attend movies alone. I am usually one of the first one’s in 

and the last one out of the movie theatre. Strategic seating is important and I try to get a 

seat with an unobstructed view in one of the last rows in the center of the theatre. There is 

nothing worse than arriving late for a movie on a sunny afternoon, coming into a 

darkened auditorium and trying to make your way to a seat. Gone are the days of 

usherettes with flashlights. Often such “blind man” experiences have proven 

embarrassing to me as I groped my way through an aisle of annoyed movie patrons. I’m 

sure that you wouldn’t want someone crossing your line of viewing in the intro scene of a 

James Bond movie. 

21

I like watching the credits following the end of a movie. Besides listening to the theme 

music, it gives me an idea of who’s who behind the scenes. To me, these people are just 

as important as the stars. Edith Head, up there in your wardrobe in the sky, are you 

listening? 

~ 

The 1950’s had some great movies and I would like to share with you some of my 

favorites. 

Let’s begin with 1953 with The Robe, which at the time was playing at the Roxy Theatre 

on 7 th Avenue and 50 th Street. Starring Victor Mature, this 20 th Century Fox production 

introduced a new motion picture process called “Cinemascope.” This 35mm format on 

wide screen added a new dimension to cinema entertainment. Even the music played at 

the beginning of the introductory 20 th Century Fox logo, was enhanced by adding a trill 

of finality. The movie, based on the robe worn by Jesus Christ, was quite good. I liked all 

those biblical movies of the 1950’s with a cast of thousands. Go Cecil! 

Not to be outdone, that same year the Paramount Theatre featured Vincent Price in The 

House of Wax. Every movie viewer who entered the theatre was given a pair of 3-D 

glasses that were to be worn during the feature. You can just picture some 1,000 movie- 

goers watching their favorite master of the macabre, all with their 3-D glasses affixed to 

their ears and nose. Now that was a real eerie sight. The process was somewhat effective 

as I remember. nearly getting hit in the face with that darn paddleball. I saw all of 

Vincent Price’s films from The House of Wax to The House on Haunted Hill later in the 

decade. By then, British actors Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee were giving Price a 

run for his money. 

The following year at the same theatre I saw 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea featuring 

James Mason as Captain Nemo. The movie was based on a Jules Verne classic written 

nearly a hundred years earlier and told of an underwater craft powered by an unknown 

source of energy. The people of the day scoffed at Verne. It was ironic that about the 

same time the movie was released, the United States Navy launched its first atomic 

power submarine from Groton, Connecticut. 

PCQ25: Do you remember the name of the first atomic-powered submarine? Hint: It 

bears the same name as Captain Nemo’s craft. 

22

Another movie based on another of Jules Vernes works, Around the World in 80 Days, 

was released in 1956. It was the masterwork of Liz’s beau, Richard Todd, and introduced 

yet another cinematic process, Todd A O. Great cinematography, a rich musical theme, 

a who’s who of actors, all made for a pleasing experience. Cantinflas made the day of 

many moviegoers. 

Some movies are designated as tearjerkers. One such movie was An Affair to 

Remember released in 1957. It starred screen idol, Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. After 

a no show at the Empire State Building, Cary Grant’s character is about to give up on 

his new-found love. The final scene powerfully portrayed by both actors left me crying. 

And a word to my male readers: Don’t believe that boys don’t cry nonsense. If you are so 

moved while watching a movie and it brings you to tears, so be it. I have been known to 

cry at movies and I might cite Sleepless in Seattle and Boys Don’t Cry as examples. This 

uncanny effect is but one of the many powers of cinema. 

CHRISTOPHER LEE, A NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD 

Horror movies still piqued my interest and one that had a special meaning for me was a 

Dracula movie. As part of the promo campaign in New York City, British actor, 

Christopher Lee, was on hand for the opening of The Horror of Dracula in 1958. He was 

appearing, in person, replete with cape, in the area around the Loews Criterion Theatre. 

There were other eerie props including a horse-drawn hearse driving around the Times 

Square area the evening of the premiere. 

At this stage of his life, he had been in films for nearly a decade and although not a 

household name in America, he was recognized in his native Transylvania – oops, 

London, that is. Like that battery in commercials, he is still going strong today and has 

appeared in both the Star Wars and Lord of the Rings trilogies. Today, Lee is one of the 

most credited actor’s in the world. 

Being a horror film buff back then, I walked down to the movie house for the premiere 

showing and purchased a paperback copy of The Horror of Dracula in the theatre’s 

lobby. Summoning my courage to go up against this vampire, I requested that he sign the 

book for my Aunt Mary. He obliged. 

23

ROCKAWAY BEACH – “IRISHTOWN, USA” 

With the passing of Uncle Buddy on November 20, 1953, Aunt Mary decided to open her 

home to mom and me. Perhaps, she needed the company. An occasional visit might fill 

the void now left by her late husband. They had no children and therefore, more than 

ever, she had to rely on visits from her sister, Delia. Aunt Mary called my mom Doll, a 

contracted form of Dolly, and both parties seemed comfortable with that appellation. 

Sometimes I wonder if Delia’s “secret” had anything to do with visiting Aunt Mary while 

Uncle Buddy was alive. I remember only one visit pre-November 1953. 

Aunt Mary lived in Apartment 404 of a well-kept building located at 195 Beach 115 th 

Street. It was in a great location, less than a block from the beach on a residential street 

lined with larger multiple dwelling homes and the Park Inn Hotel and Park Inn Baths 

located at the beach end on the block. Woody Allen pans in on Beach 115 th Street in his 

opening scene of Radio Days. Close by were the shops of Beach 116 th Street where one 

found a supermarket, Breakers restaurant, a Cushman’s bakery, and the Rogers Hotel. 

This two way street was the terminal point for the L.I.R.R., later to be replaced by the 

subway. 

Aunt Mary lived in the Rockaway Park was the section of the Rockaways. To the west 

lay the affluent Belle Harbor and Neponset sections, to the east lay the blue collar 

Rockaway Beach. The Park Inn Hotel reflected the large Jewish population in the area 

and was known for its fine Kosher offerings. I used to love watching Jewish couples 

parading the boardwalk on a summer’s evening. Invariably the gents were dressed in a 

light suit while the ladies were wrapped in their mink stoles. 

My first introduction to Rockaway Beach was in the early 1950’s when Father Joe Hayes 

of the Paulist Fathers sponsored an outing for the altar boys. Our chartered bus first took 

us to the Park Inn Baths. Here we had the option of lying on the beach and catching some 

sun, or splashing around in the Park Inn pool. Then the bus took the sun-burnt boys to 

Playland amusement park for an hour or so. Then back to the teeming city. 

In my opinion, Rockaway Beach was so superior to Coney Island – the quality of the 

sand, the cleanliness, and the challenging waves. However, Coney Island surpassed 

Rockaway when it came to the number and variety of amusements. 

24

Rockaway Beach was nicknamed “Irishtown USA” long before the northern Catskills 

became a summer vacation destination for many of the city’s Irish community. The “two 

b’s” – bungalows and bars -abounded there. Many of my friends’ families rented 

bungalows, usually for the duration of their two-week vacation period. It was a close-knit 

community. The center of “Irishtown” was Beach 103 rd Street. It was there that the 

throngs jammed into the bars on Saturday evenings. They danced the night away to the 

strains of Mickey Carton and his band or other popular Irish groups. Some drank the 

night away, which led to scenes akin to The Quiet Man. A common sight on Beach 103 rd 

Street was a police van ready to take unruly revelers to the local police station for an 

overnight visit as guests of the city. 

PCQ26: What was the nickname given to the aforementioned police van? Hint: The 

first of the answer is a very popular Irish male name. 

Getting to mass at St. Camilus the next day was problematic for some. Being pre-Vatican 

II, there was no Saturday afternoon mass option. Sunday morning and a noonday mass 

was it. Rockaway Beach was very Catholic. If you were on the beach at noon, you stood 

for the Angelus while to bells of St. John’s tolled. If you were on the beach at 6 PM, you 

stood. Naturally, you looked around to see how many other people were standing. 

Displays of faith everywhere! Good Irish Catholics! On August 15 th , the feast of the 

Assumption of Mary, it was believed that the ocean waters held a curative power. For the 

most part, the first and second generation Irish were people of profound faith. As a 

practicing Catholic at the time, it bothered me that so many of my Irish-Catholic brethren 

came into mass late and left early – or early enough to avoid the second collection. Some 

came shoddily dressed; others, recuperating from a hangover, reeked with the smell of 

booze. They were the shameful, shanty Irish! Fortunately, they did not represent the 

greater majority of worshippers. Later I would opt to attend Sunday mass at the more 

“reserved” St. Francis De Sales Church in Neponset. 

25

An evening walk on Rockaway’s boardwalk was a refreshing experience. Many strollers 

including myself headed in the direction of Playland on Beach 98 th Street, passing Stella 

Maris, a high school for good Catholic girls. Further down was St. John’s Home for bad 

Catholic boys. Oops, “There is no such thing as a bad boy.” Sorry Father Flanagan of 

Boys Town. The boys in the St. John’s band performed in concert once a week during the 

summer. If I wanted to shoot a few hoops, I could join the Maguire brothers at the 

boardwalk basketball courts. 

I would continue my visits to Aunt Mary into the sixties. In the early 1970’s, Aunt Mary 

would enter the Park Nursing Home, built on the site of the Park Inn Swimming Pool and 

Baths. 

THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD 

During the 1950’s several neighborhood buildings were torn down thus changing the 

character of the neighborhood. 

The Roosevelt Hospital, named after Teddy’s family, was the first to receive a major 

facelift. The aging Emergency Room on the corner of 58 th Street and 9 th Avenue was 

replaced by a modern facility. The familiar sound of the ambulance siren would continue 

unabated. The old Syms Operating Theatre on the 59 th Street corner was replaced by a hi- 

rise patient pavilion, as well as a state-of-the-art OR. Years later the Roosevelt Hospital 

would consolidate with St. Luke’s. 

The four-story walkup building in which Max Ciffer had his grocery store was torn 

down. It was replaced with a more upscale, four-story building. On the site of Ciffer’s 

grocery store was the Grimes Travel Agency, owned by the publisher of New York’s 

largest Irish newspaper, the Irish Echo. 

Joe Rodriguez and his parents were forced from their walkup that was doomed to a 

similar fate in the late 1950’s. Subsequently Joe, Ramon and Irene relocated to another 

walkup on West 57 th Street between 9 th and 10 th Avenues. Gone would be the days of 

hanging out on the stoop of 15 West 60 th Street. 

26

The most noticeable change in the neighborhood landscape was the erection of the New 

York Coliseum 1955-56. 

The aging Robert Moses, chairman of the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority, 

decreed that a coliseum should be built at Columbus Circle. Did God speak to Moses as 

He did to His ancient namesake? Did the powerful power broker feel that his coliseum 

would be a symbol of immortality like the 2000 year-old wonder of the Roman world? 

Eminent domain was used to buy up or condemn to properties in a two square block area 

from 58 th to 60 th Streets and from Columbus Circle to Ninth (Columbus) Avenue. It was 

bureaucracy at its most efficient level. Childs Restaurant, the theatres, the 24-story 

Manufacturers Trust Building, St. Paul’s Hotel - all would be razed to make way for the 

realization of the dream of Moses. The plans called for closing off 59 th Street completely. 

What would become of all the families in the “colored block?” A new term, 

gentrification, was now beginning to appear in the lexicon of city dwellers – tear down 

the old and replace with the new, the higher priced new. 

The New York Coliseum was officially opened in April of 1956 with Mayor Robert F. 

Wagner Jr. and Moses in attendance. Also in attendance was noted architect, Frank Lloyd 

Wright. I wonder what he thought of the bland two-block building at Columbus Circle or 

the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority medallion affixed to the front of the 

building and heralding the wonders built by the Authority. It was appropriately one of a 

set of four that included the great seals of the United States, the State of New York and 

the City of New York. 

High-rise apartment houses were build behind the Coliseum and faced the Church of St. 

Paul the Apostle. Unfortunately the rents were too high for those dispossessed on 59 th 

Street. 

I enjoyed going to several of the events held under the roof of the Coliseum including 

automobile and boat shows. I only wished that I had one of those 36 foot Chris Craft 

cruisers. My favorite show, however, was the annual Sportsman Show. For an extra fee 

you could cast your rented rod into a pool filled with trout. I wasn’t too skilled with my 

rod and reel. In any case fishermen had to return their catch to the pond. 

27

The life to the Coliseum, which was to last for ages as an endearing monument to Moses, 

had a life of but thirty years. It closed its doors in 1986 shortly after the opening of the 

Javits Convention Center on 33 rd Street and 11 th Avenue. It occasionally rented out space 

to antique shows and other expositions until the Grim Reaper with the swath of his scythe 

razed the structure in 2000. Today, the 76-story twin tower, Time-Warner complex, 

occupies the site and its upper public space gives viewers a commanding view of the 

upgraded Columbus Circle. 

And, yes, the Coliseum was one of the earliest urban renewal projects in the city where 

gentrification became the operative word of the real estate moguls. It would begin a wave 

that the Helmseys and the Trumps, the Zeckendorfs and the Zuckermans are still riding 

today. 

IT’S DISCRIMINATION – PERIOD! 

Although the fifties was the favorite decade of my lifetime, there was something rotten in 

the state of Denmark. Discrimination prevailed! Segregation prevailed, be it de facto or 

de jure! 

During the post-war years, steps to address the problem would be taken. President 

Truman, as commander-in-chief, desegregated the Armed Forces in 1948. In the 

Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas, the Supreme Court in 1954 urged 

desegregation of our public schools with all deliberate speed. 

De facto segregation existed all around me. The colored block on 59 th Street was but one 

example. After moving to North Arlington in October 1959, I noticed that there were no 

black people in residence in this suburban community. It too, I later realized, was 

practicing de facto segregation. There were ways and there were ways of keeping the 

unwanted element out of town. I didn’t have a problem with blacks, nor did I have a 

problem with de facto segregation. 

Clubs and recreation sites commonly discriminated against blacks and other minorities. 

Sometimes one minority would discriminate against another minority. Was this not the 

case in Palisades Amusement Park? Lying just across the river from Manhattan, it could 

be reached by ferry or car from the city. During the post war years I was hard pressed to 

find a black person swimming in their huge salt-water wave pool. 

28

During my earliest trips to Washington, D.C., I found that Jim Crow laws were alive and 

well. A black person was relegated to the upper balcony in many of the movie theatres. 

“Nigger Heaven” was the pejorative given by some white folks to that “black only” area 

of the theatre. So much for the land of the free – at least in our Nation’s capital. 

In 1958, during my first trip to Florida, I witnessed Jim Crow again. While attending the 

races at Tropical Park I had to go to the men’s room. There I saw two doors, one for 

white patrons, the other for black patrons. I was taken aback. How could this be 

happening in America? 

It was a little over a year earlier when my alma mater, Iona College, played Ole 

Miss.Stan Hill, a friend and fellow history major, was a key player for the Gaels. It was in 

short order that Stan, Iona’s only black player, found out that he was persona non grata 

in the rebel host state. Upon hearing that a black player was one of Iona’s starting five, 

the Mississippi governor at the time, Jim Coleman, ordered that the Rebels of Ole Miss 

forfeit the game. It was the same state where lynching was commonplace in the 1950’s 

and, where three civil rights activists would be murdered in 1964. 

It wasn’t until 44 years later that the Iona Gaels would play the Rebels of Ole Miss. On 

March 16, 2001, the New Rochelle, New York, team would fall to Mississippi 72-70. 

However, Stan Hill, a former labor leader in his mid-sixties at the time, was invited to 

attend the game by the current governor, Ronnie Musgrove. During the first half, Stan sat 

between the governor and the chancellor of the university. The Rebels of Ole Miss 

presented a signed basketball to Stan. Times had seemingly changed for the better. For 

the record, Stan Hill moved over to the Gaels side of the arena during the second half of 

the game, donning his Iona pin and sitting next to college president, Brother James 

Liguori. 

Another incident that is still fresh in my memory occurred during the late 1950’s while I 

was still working at the Harvard Club. Mrs. Betty Cowles, a friend of conservative 

lawyer, George S. Montgomery Jr., invited me to a party that she was hosting in her 

upscale Sutton Place apartment. While making arrangements with a caterer she was told 

that they were sending a black server. She was so infuriated that she cancelled the order 

and the server, saying: I’ll do it myself! She did exactly that and I was there. After all, I 

was a conservative too. 

29

Anti-Semitic references were commonplace too. I must have heard dozens of 

uncomplimentary Jewish references during my teen years. One of the first such remarks 

that I witnessed was one delivered by my General Science teacher when I was a freshman 

at Power Memorial Academy. The Catholic high school accepted, on occasion, non- 

Catholic students. One such exception was Jim Rosenthal. Young Rosenthal was “antsy” 

and often got out of his seat. One day Rosenthal left his seat to throw out a piece of paper 

in the waste paper basket in front of the room. The teacher, being distracted, blew his 

stack and said: Rosenthal, will you stop roaming around the room like a wandering Jew. 

Returning to his seat, the young teenager burst into tears. Oops, boys don’t cry! I’m sure 

that after the incident the teacher realized that words hurt too. I didn’t see Rosenthal’s 

name on the 1952 Graduation Program. 

Even my beloved Camp Adrian felt the effects of racism. Each year the 12 – 14 year old 

group at Camp Adrian played our brother camp, the elite Camp Rip Van Winkle, in a 

game of baseball held at their regulation field. There were several years in the 1950’s that 

the Adrian team consisted of at least one black player. The matriarch of the Cowhey 

sisters, Nan, and the Director at Camp Rip Van Winkle, Pop O’Donnell, let the tacit word 

go out that they preferred that Adrian not play its black members of the team against the 

all-white Rip nine. However, after the game, Rip invited the Adrian players and non- 

players for a cold drink at the canteen. That was nice! 

I saw blatant discrimination against Hispanics too. Very few people spoke out during the 

1950s. Silence seemed to be the operative word of many, far too many, including myself, 

during the 1950s. 

Working with Catholic Charities at St. Paul’s, I saw how the other half lived – in squalor, 

in crowded tenements, eking out a living, and resigning themselves to a life of poverty. 

Some were on the dole, on welfare, and inwardly I resented having to pay for this group 

out of my hard earned wages. 

Those of “h” orientation were indeed, a silent minority. If one did not remain silent and 

stay homebound in the closet, his job, and even his very life was at stake. 

30

I could recite a litany of other incidents during my early lifetime where bigotry and 

hatred reared its ugly head but time does not permit. I could recite a lesser litany today. In 

far too many areas of social concern, society, churches and institutions remained silent. 

Omission can be a sin. Silence can be a sin. There were far too many followers and too. 

few leaders to affect a change in our 1950’s society. 

Those were the fabulous fifties for some, but not for all. 

SWIMMING UPSTREAM WITH AN EDDY HERE AND THERE 

It was the McCarthy era where a second Red Scare was taking place. Committees in both 

the Senate and the House were waging a relentless war on communism. Like biblical 

zealots they pursued their prey without mercy and without regard for one’s Constitutional 

rights. It was my contention that the United States was in a war against communism and 

in war, everything, including McCarthyism, was fair. I earnestly believed that the 

destroying of lives, metaphorically and literally, was part of the price we had to pay to 

save America. 

J. Edgar Hoover, head of the FBI since shortly after the first “Red Scare,” used whatever 

means necessary to combat the evils of communism. Wiretaps, surveillance, tailings, and 

a myriad of other methods were used against those who were suspected of being 

communists or communist-sympathizers. Lists were compiled and the usual suspects 

were rounded up on a periodic basis. Some liberals questioned the tactics employed by 

the “greatest living American” and his G-men. Thankfully they were few and far 

between. 

The American Civil Liberties Union, a child of the original “Red Scare,” reared its ugly 

head to thwart the efforts of McCarthy, Hoover and other great Americans. Rarely, thank 

God, was this leftist organization successful. 

31

Journalists like Murray Kempton of the New York Post challenged the establishment. 

Edwin R. Murrow openly decried Senator McCarthy on his television show. Pulitzer 

Prize winner, Norman Mailer, helped found the Village Voice and columnist, Nat 

Hentoff, would be its noted columnist for decades hence. Dorothy Day, the founder of the 

Catholic Worker was a social activist who many considered a saint in her times. These 

were among the voices crying for reform. Reform, bunk! At the time I felt that the status 

quo must prevail and that these well-intentioned do-gooders should cease and desist from 

rocking the proverbial boat. 

I, like millions of Americans in the 1950’s, was a member of the “silent generation.” 

Indeed, we were a “nation of sheep.” Back then, I’d rather follow than lead; swim with 

the current rather than swim upstream with an eddy here and there. 

It was during the 1950’s that Alan Ginsburg, William Burroughs, Jack Keruoac, 

Lawrence Ferlinghetti and others were publishing works challenging the existing order of 

American society. They referred to themselves as the “Beats.” Within a short period of 

time, America coined the term “beatnik,” using the “nik” of the then recently launched 

Sputnik. The questionable term referred to those dressing and acting in an unconventional 

manner. Although mom called me a beatnik, it was not in the demeaning sense. I 

wouldn’t be caught dead with a copy of Keruoac’s novel, On the Road. A signed, first 

edition copy of that book recently sold for $45,000.00. Or for that matter would I 

purchase a copy of Alan Ginsburg’s poem, Howl. I was told that Ginsburg’s poems 

lacked iambs, structure, and all the necessary components for a good poem. Besides, it 

talked about the best minds of his generation, my generation, looking for an angry fix. 

Most repulsive, indeed! 

~ 

32

I still look back upon the decade of the “fabulous fifties” and relish many precious 

memories of that bygone era. 

There was so much to do for a young person growing up in Manhattan. Indeed, New 

York was a city that never slept. 

I love reading period books and delight in perusing the photo section of each. I love 

hearing the sounds of the 50s. It’s a matter of fact, the largest collection of my records 

and CD’s are of those unmistakable sounds of the 1950’s. Rock and roll was making 

inroads into the pop market. Rock and roll was here to stay. 

The conformity of the 1950’s would give way to the confrontation of the 1960’s. Many of 

the “silent generation” would become the “vocal generation.” The “Age of Aquarius” 

could be heard in the distance. 

33

BEYOND THE CLASSROOM DOOR: 

MEMOIR OF A CATHOLIC HIGH 

SCHOOL LAY TEACHER

Chapter 12 – GOOD MORNING, MR. MURRAY 

GETTING STARTED 

Upon my severance from the USMC in mid-May of 1958, I returned to the Harvard Club. 

Bernard Leo Minnax, the Club’s night manager, always welcomed this “prodigal son.” 

Now was the time to plan my strategies for gaining a teaching position, come the fall. 

Joe Hartman, a Harvard Club member, sent a letter of recommendation to a friend of his, 

Bob Hoskins, Director of the School Service Bureau in Windsor, Conn. Mr. Hoskins sent 

me the application form and upon completion advised me of the possibilities. He stated 

that the demand for history teachers had been thin. Most of the prospective schools were 

upper class boarding schools. This presented a problem for me, as I wanted to live at 

home, watch over my mom, Delia, and have my evenings free. Doing dormitory duty for 

privileged boys was not the most appealing thought. However, I advised Mr. Hoskins to 

keep my file active until further notice. 

My second strategy was to advise my friend and mentor, Brother Thomas P. Kostka, 

Asst. Professor of History at my alma mater, Iona College, of my desire to seek 

employment in one of the Irish Christian Brother’s schools in the metropolitan area. 

Complying with my request and wishing me the best of luck, he sent me the names of 

several principals of schools including Power Memorial and Rice High School in 

Manhattan and All Hallows Institute in the Bronx. 

Also included on the list was Essex Catholic High School, an archdiocesan high school 

that had just opened the previous September in Newark, New Jersey. Its principal was 

Brother Francis I. Offer, my former math teacher from Power Memorial Academy. I had 

met Brother Offer earlier in the year near Power and in a kidding way said to him: Hey, 

Brother, I hear that you’re the new principal of a high school over there in the sticks of 

New Jersey. If you live in mid-town Manhattan, everything outside of this solid piece of 

bedrock is the “sticks” – believe me. It seemed that the brothers were on vacation, as I 

did not hear from any of the listed schools. 

Not having a teaching position in September did not deter me from going back to Camp 

Adrian. Once again, Mr. Minnax allowed me to take off from my duties at the Harvard 

Club. Adrian was the closest thing to heaven on earth. I returned home in late August 

where I resumed my duties at the Harvard Club. I probably could have stayed at the 

Harvard Club the rest of my life but neither my co-workers nor myself wanted that. I had 

to get moving.

September had arrived and, in desperation, I contacted the Archdiocesan School Office, 

filled out a form, and placed my name on an active list of prospective teachers. I waited 

and waited. Finally, on September 10, I received a letter from Sister Regina Monica, the 

principal of Saint Paul School in Spanish Harlem on East 118 th Street. She was looking 

for a fourth grade teacher and requested an interview with me. I was interviewed and Sr. 

Regina (why do so many nuns take the name “Regina?”) was impressed with me 

especially after I gave her a demonstration on the school’s piano. You can play the piano, 

too; that’s wonderful. I was so relieved and happy when Sister invited me to join the staff 

and start my new career on the following Monday, September 15 th . 

While on duty at the Harvard Club on Sunday evening, September 14, Mr. Minnax told 

me that my mother had called the Club. He said that she had received a telegram and 

wanted me to call her right away. I was taken aback a little. You know Irish people and 

telegrams – a harbinger of death. I wondered who might have passed from this world as I 

dialed the phone to call her back. She answered, and in a composed voice said that I had 

received a telegram from Brother Offer. Brother requested that I phone him that evening 

at Essex Catholic High School in Newark, New Jersey, regarding a teaching position. I 

did exactly that and he offered (no pun intended) me a teaching position at Essex 

Catholic and that I go over to the school in Newark the next day for a briefing. 

Immediately, I sent Sister Regina a telegram that I was unable to accept the grammar 

school position and thanked her for her consideration. 

So too, did I thank Mr. Minnax for this would be my last night as an employee of the 

Harvard Club. A new life awaited me over there in the “sticks” of New Jersey. 

THE ARRIVAL 

The next day, following Brother Offer’s instructions, I took the 118 Public Service bus to 

Newark from the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Getting off at the last stop, the Public 

Service Building, I proceeded across Military Park, and caught the 13 Nutley bus. I asked 

the driver to let me know when we came to the Essex Catholic stop in North Newark. 

After a fifteen-minute drive, I had arrived at Essex Catholic High School. Wow! Brother 

Offer was right. The building was immense. Its pillared façade reminded me of a classical 

structure that I had seen sometime, somewhere before. Was it modeled after one of the 

seven wonders of the ancient world?

I walked up the wide front steps toward the doors situated behind the Doric pillars. Upon 

entering the mammoth edifice, I made my way to the principal’s office on the first floor 

where I was greeted by Brother Offer. After a few minutes of banter, he presented me 

with my teaching schedule. It called for teaching five freshmen classes: three English 1’s, 

one World History and a class in Elementary Algebra. But, Brother, you failed me in 

math when I was in high school. 

Don’t worry, Tom, I’ll give you all the help you need. 

I advised him that I lacked practice teaching and wondered whether that was a liability. 

Brother seemed unfazed, noting that some of the best teachers in the brother’s schools 

never had practice teaching, were not certified, and very few had courses in pedagogy. 

That remark gave me a sense of confidence as I looked forward to embarking on my 

teaching career the next day. 

Brother Offer mentioned that he was planning to start a boy’s band at Essex Catholic and 

had contracted the services of Col. J. B. Mac Kenzie (ret.) to be the new Band Director. 

Because of my band background at Power Memorial and the ROTC Band at St. 

Bonaventure, he requested that I be moderator of the new activity. I accepted the after- 

school position and would remain two years in that capacity. 

After further discussion about the two-year old school and its philosophy, mission and 

objectives, Brother took out a single piece of paper and asked me to sign on the dotted 

line. I signed the employment agreement without hesitation. My beginning annual salary 

would be $3,000.00 a year. Do you want it payable over a 10 or 12- month period, Tom? 

OUR LADY OF MUTUAL BENEFIT 

1957 was a banner year for the City of Newark, New Jersey, an insurance hub of 

America. It was in that year that the Mutual Benefit Life Insurance Company announced 

its intentions of staying in Newark and planned to move from its imposing structure at 

300 Broadway in North Newark to a newly built headquarters in downtown Newark.

The year 1957 marked a giant step forward in the educational development of the City of 

Newark. Archbishop Thomas A. Boland realized that the revitalization of Newark was at 

hand and announced that the Archdiocese would open its first regional high school for 

boys in the City of Newark. The archbishop invited the Christian Brothers of Ireland 

(now called the Congregation of Christian Brothers) to administer the new school. 

Several existing sites were looked at including the old Newark State Teachers College 

and the soon-to-be-moving, Mutual Benefit Life Insurance Company, both located on 

Broadway in North Newark. The archdiocese chose the latter, buying the structure for a 

below market price of three and a half million dollars. The archdiocese would spend 

another million dollars over the next three years to transform the large granite building at 

300 Broadway into a school that would eventually house and educate nearly 3,000 

students. Many years later after the closing of the school, Mutual Benefit Life forgave the 

remaining debt owed by the Archdiocese. 

There was much guessing about the name of the future school. How about: Our Lady of 

Mutual Benefit High School? 

Because of its central location, the Archbishop, in his infinite wisdom, decided to call it 

“Essex Catholic High School for Boys.” Initially, it would serve, not only Essex county, 

but Bergen, Hudson and Union counties, as well. It would draw students from over a 

hundred parishes from the four county Archdiocese of Newark. 

Appointed as the founding principal of the new school was Brother Francis I. Offer. His 

task would be of Herculean proportions. Not only was he superior of the brother’s 

community and principal of the school but was “architect-in-residence” for the 

renovation job that was to transform an insurance building into a school. Within a few 

short years, Essex Catholic would become the largest boy’s high school in the State of 

New Jersey. 

Due to the “big move” from 300 Broadway to Broad Street, the new school opened three 

weeks late in September of 1957. The last day, the securities were moved from the 

building in an armed convoy. Mutual Benefit decided to leave the vault behind. The 

vault, once the largest in the country, had cost more than the entire moving bill, its solid 

steel structure solidly embedded in concrete in the basement of their former headquarters. 

Later, the subterranean cavern would serve as home to the school newspaper, The Eagle.

Essex Catholic High School had to be unique in many ways. Where could one find a 

school with its own 999-seat theatre that would rival Broadway’s best houses, replete 

with an orchestra pit and sets that were three-stories tall? High-speed elevators that took 

faculty members to their appointed rounds? Or a ballroom that measured nearly sixty by 

one hundred and twenty feet? Or a gymnasium that included a four-lane bowling alley? 

How about an oak paneled boardroom that was used for Student Council meetings (as 

well as my Life Begins at 40 birthday party), or a principal’s office that would rival one 

of a “Fortune 500” corporate executive today? We even had a second and a half floor – 

shades of Being John Malkovich. Back in the 1920’s when Mutual Benefit built the 

building, they had the recreational interests of their employees in mind, a common 

corporate practice back then. We had it all at Essex Catholic. 

It would take me years to discover all the nooks and crannies, hidden rooms, and 

everything else that made Essex Catholic such a unique site for a school. By my second 

year at the school the renovation process would be complete. Until then, it was a 

“building in progress.” 

INTO THE CLASSROOM – THAT FIRST DAY 

I made sure to set my alarm for 7AM for surely I would not want to be late my first day 

of school. After a hurried breakfast and dressed in jacket and tie, I gave mom and kiss 

and it was off to the Part Authority Bus Terminal. I walked up the steps of Essex Catholic 

and, with time to spare, helped to usher the new freshman class into the auditorium. As 

the principal approached center stage of the auditorium the freshmen automatically stood 

reflecting their grammar school upbringing. 

Following the invocation, Brother Offer extended to the quizzical freshmen a warm 

welcome helping to break the icy atmosphere that prevailed up to that point in time. In 

the half an hour that followed, he would explain the purpose of the school to the attentive 

students. In jest, Brother referred to freshmen as the lowest of the low. You are the lowest 

rung on the academic ladder. You are dirt! He went on to say that dirt is a very important 

part of any structure and if you don’t have it, the building collapses. If we don’t have a 

freshman year upon which to build, the school does not function. He also warned the 

freshmen not to buy elevator passes from the upper classmen, and for that matter, passes 

for the non-existent swimming pool.

Aside from the academics and athletics, discipline and the religious nature of the school 

were important reasons that most parents were sending their sons to Essex Catholic. 

Brother stressed these two aspects several times during his presentation: You may be here 

today, but if you violate our code of discipline, you will be gone tomorrow. He went on to 

say: Today, we have 400 freshmen boys sitting before me – 400 boys in ten classrooms. I 

can almost guarantee you that this time next year, your ranks as sophomores will have 

been diminished. Instead of having 400 boys, the number next year will be closer to 300 

and the number of classrooms will be reduced from ten to eight. Nothing like shaking up 

the poor innocents. 

Brother “Burksey” Whelan, the Vice-Principal, read out the student roster for each 

homeroom. “Homeroom 312 – Mr. Murray” Each of my new students filed out of their 

seats upon hearing their name being called and met me in the corridor outside the 

auditorium. With a stern demeanor, I walked my charges up the up staircase to Room 

312. There was a dead silence inside the room. I don’t know who was more apprehensive, 

me or my students. That would quickly change. 

After taking the roll, I went on to stress the importance of a homeroom. I wanted Room 

312 to be the best freshman homeroom in Essex Catholic – in academics, sports, missions 

and spirit. At the sound of the bell –everything in schools is done on the sound of the bell 

– I proceeded to my first class. Back in those days, it was the teacher who traveled from 

class to class; the students remained in their respective homeroom all day. Later I 

questioned the educational soundness on this concept. Classes were grouped from “A” to 

“J” with “A” being the highest, at least in terms of their admission scores. The problem 

was, a student in an “A” class was expected to excel across the board. Would the 

converse be true? We all know that an “A” student who excels in math and science may 

not necessarily excel in the humanities. So much for across the board, homogenous 

grouping of students. Besides, it was very constraining sitting in the same classroom all 

day long. Some kids tend to get fidgety. 

My first class was an Elementary Algebra Class. It was a “B” class, the second brightest 

in the school. It was here that I would have my greatest challenge. Thanks to help from 

Brother Offer throughout the year, the class fared well in the finals. I had the 

responsibility of forty students on my shoulders and, therefore, forced myself to learn this 

despised subject. I would have this same class for English I during third period. Here too, 

they would be challenging, bringing out the best in themselves and their new teacher. 

World History was slotted in Period 2 for this novice and was a spirited group of some 

forty mid-level young men. I loved them! 

The afternoon had me teaching two English 1’s including the “A “and a “H” class. That 

“A” group would stimulate Aristotle. The latter group, less serious, was also a pleasure to 

teach.

I told my classes what was expected from them, how their marks would be determined, 

and the weight of homework and class participation. In English, book reports would be an 

integral part of a student’s grade. Tests would always be announced well in advance. 

Quizzes could come at any time. The kids loved my weekend homework policy: No 

written homework on weekends. Caveat: Written homework if this privilege is abused!!! 

As the day progressed, the more comfortable I became. I finished off the school day and 

headed home to Manhattan. I had survived my first day in the classroom. 

MY COLLEAGUES, BROTHERS AND LAY 

It was during the first week of school that I had a chance to meet my colleagues, both 

brothers and lay. 

Brother Jim Reopke was a classmate of mine at St. Paul’s and Power Memorial. He 

entered the brothers at the end of his freshman year in high school. That was the last time 

that I saw Jim. Now, wearing the habit of the Irish Christian Brothers, he hadn’t changed 

that much since I last saw him nearly a decade earlier. Jim remained at Essex Catholic 

four years and would rise in the ranks to become a high school principal and a consultor 

to the Provincial, the ranking brother in North America. 

Charlie Joyce, a native of Chicago, was an affable brother who I got to know real well. 

He was not standoffish as were many of the brothers I knew at that time. Brother Joyce 

was the founder of our school’s glee club and premiered the male chorus at a Christmas 

concert for parents in December of 1958. 

A lay teacher of note was John Ennis. He was a Dominican-educated, that is, Dominican 

as opposed to Jesuit. John taught English at the school, and was the moderator of the 

school newspaper, The Eagle. This East Orange resident and I were good friends during 

his years at Essex Catholic and I would miss him as he moved into higher education at 

Kings College in the mid-1960’s. 

John Flood, one of the original “Essex 7,” was an inspiration to me and was there to help 

novice teachers like myself. His sense of humor was uncanny. Did you hear the story 

of…

My good friend from Hell’s Kitchen, Pat Hoey, graduated from Iona College in June of 

1959 with a business degree and a major in accounting. He was debating whether or not 

to go into the business world or try his skills in the most noble of professions. With some 

encouragement from this Hell’s Kitchen buddy, he opted for the latter and began his 

teaching career at Essex Catholic High School in 1959, a career that would span some 

thirty-six years. 

Brother Jim Ward, a classmate from Power, would join the Essex Catholic faculty the 

same year. 

THE WILD COLONIAL BOY 

Thomas David Tobin was hired by Brother Offer one hour after I had inked my contract 

on that Monday of September 15, 1958. Looking at it another way, I had seniority over 

my fellow-colleague, Tom Tobin, by one hour. I didn’t realize it at the time, but a bond 

between Mr. Tobin and myself would be created – a bond that would last until his death 

nearly forty years later. 

Tom was a broth of a lad who hailed from rebel country - Cork City, Ireland. Like 

myself, he had thoughts of entering the priesthood. He abandoned them in favor of 

attending London College where he received his BA in history. Like the Wild Colonial 

Boy of song, Tom left old Erin’s shores for Australia’s sunny clime. For several years he 

taught at an elementary school in Bundarra, deep in Australia’s bush country (outback). 

He then taught near Sydney where he was close to his sister, Kathleen, who was a sister 

in God’s service. 

After seven years in Australia, he left the Commonwealth for the United States where he 

studied history at Georgetown while residing with a friend. Upon completion of his 

studies at this Jesuit bastion, Tom decided to return to teaching and headed for yet 

another Commonwealth country, Canada. A funny thing happened to him on his way to 

Canada. In mid-September of 1958, Tom stopped off to visit his cousin, Noreen Ahern, 

who with her friend, Agnes McTigue, ran an upscale rooming house on Ballantine 

Parkway in North Newark. While there, cousin Noreen told Tom of the new Catholic 

high school that had recently opened and suggested that he call Brother Offer. That he did 

and the rest is history. He never quite made it to Canada, at least not until eleven years 

later.

Tom was an imposing man who stood six feet, five inches tall and weighed about twohundred 

and forty pounds. He held his weight well and the students knew better than to 

antagonize this “gentle giant.” His brilliance shone but he was rarely pedantic. His 

command of the English language was masterful; his speaking style, compelling; and his 

wit, Wilde-like. Some of the style present in these memoirs is reflective of Mr. Tobin. 

Indeed, he had a way with words. 

His versatility as a teacher left his colleagues in awe for during his ten years at Essex 

Catholic, Tom taught math, history, science, English, and even mechanical drawing. 

Having had a classical upbringing it was not an uncommon site to see Mr. Tobin helping 

a student after school in Latin or literature. Many teachers and students alike aver that 

Mr. Tobin was the most brilliant man ever to enter the hallowed halls of Essex Catholic 

High School. I would agree. His perspicacity never ceased to amaze me. 

Tom stayed on ten years at Essex Catholic and endeared himself not only to his students 

and faculty but to my Irish mom as well. He visited mom and I several times while we 

were still living in New York and was a regular visitor to our North Arlington apartment 

once we moved to New Jersey. So many times he was our guest for ham and cabbage, 

Dutch oven pot roast or a roast chicken dinner. So many times I visited him in Newark. 

He was there for me; I was there for him. Most importantly, he became my closest friend 

and esteemed colleague. 

HAVE STRAP, WILL TEACH 

I mentioned in my high school chapter that the rule of the strap prevailed in many 

classrooms when I entered high school back in 1948. Some ten years later, little had 

changed. A teacher without a strap in a Catholic high school was like a sheriff without a 

gun. Have strap, will teach was still permeating the mentality of many Catholic 

instructors, as was the mantra: “A quiet classroom is a good classroom.” 

Neither myself, nor my colleagues, Pat Hoey and Tom Tobin, were exceptions to that 

rule. We each went to our local shoemaker and purchased our Cat’s Paw “persuader.” 

The brother’s had theirs in stock from previous assignments. Some faculty members even 

had names for their straps. “Excalibur” was the idyllic name that Mr. Tobin chose to call 

his instrument. 

Bend over! Application of the rubber on the buttocks of the student was the more 

common place of impact. After a couple of shots on the can, a student was jumping 

around the room doing his rendition of the “can-can.” Fewer faculty members proceeded 

to administer “justice” on the student’s hand (hopefully, not the hand that he used for 

writing or whatever).

Former New Jersey governor, Jim McGreevey, once commented: Mine was the kind of 

family, if I got hit in school I would never tell my parents because they would whack me 

twice as hard. Back in the fifties and sixties, the parents usually supported the teacher on 

the issuance of corporeal punishment even though laws prohibiting its use were on the 

books. 

Hit a kid today and a teacher would have a lawsuit on his hands or, at the least, a black 

eye by a retaliatory student. 

I did not have a name for my little thing and perhaps that was for the best. Regarding the 

application of the strap, I usually administered bottom shots but on occasion asked the 

obliging boy to hold out his hand. For the most part, the kid accepted corporeal 

punishment as part of the private school process. 

Double jeopardy was the order of the day in one of my classes. Brother James R. Kelly 

who served as Dean of Discipline asked that I send any student who had I strapped into 

his classroom that was next door to mine. There the poor kid would be administered 

another dose of “justice”, probably with more gusto than I had used moments earlier. 

I abandoned using the strap as a result of an incident during my second year of teaching. 

For whatever reason, I had asked a student to come to the front of the room and hold out 

his hand for a shot. My arm, strap in hand, descended with the rapidity of a falling 

guillotine blade. Before impact, the student suddenly pulled back this hand, leaving me to 

catch the full impact of the shot in my private area. I was writhing in pain. The class was 

in an uproar. Some students were rolling on the floor with laughter. Before too long, I 

joined in the laughter, albeit with tears in my eyes. Did justice ever triumph! Ouch!!! 

A much more civilized method of punishment was “Jug” (Justice Under God) or 

detention. Each teacher was issued a detention pad. Each slip listed infractions and was 

signed by the issuing teacher. Naturally, those teachers with a minimal of classroom 

management skills were the ones who abused the system by issuing an inordinate number 

of detention slips. Not me! I ruled the classroom as a “benevolent despot,” remembering 

the words of Dr. Mc Carthy, one of my education prof’s at Iona: There is only one 

captain of a ship. Remember that when you go out into the world of teaching. 

Those detainees were required to report to the auditorium or a large classroom where they 

were required to stand in silence for one hour on the day of the infraction – They also 

serve who only stand and wait.

THAT FIRST YEAR 

I learned what it was like to be a bi-state commuter that first year at Essex Catholic. 

Fortunately, homeroom did not begin until 9AM and the 118 Newark bus was going 

against the traffic leaving the Lincoln Tunnel that avoided traffic jams. Yes we even had 

traffic jams back in 1958. On the return trip home from Newark, I tried to get a few 

winks on the bus. I was tired. Even my youthful legs were tired, for I was a “standing” 

teacher and remained so the rest of my teaching life. 

The school itself was in a state of transition with workmen all over the place. We were 

building a 1,000-seat cafeteria in the basement, a chapel on the first floor that was bigger 

than most area churches, and converting the vast void of the fourth and fifth floors from 

cubicles to classrooms. The brothers’ monastery on the sixth floor was partially complete 

and lay next to what was the former employees cafeteria back in the insurance company’s 

days. It was from this sixth floor cafeteria that we would feed the masses. 

At lunchtime, each teacher was to transport his class from the third to the sixth floor by 

way of one of the several functional elevators. No elevator operator’s license was 

required for this task. Each teacher was given a one-minute instructional briefing on how 

to operate a manually run elevator. I was a “pro,” having operated the elevator at the 

Harvard Club for several years. It usually took me four trips to make the delivery of 

famished freshmen to the temporary cafeteria. 

One day while transporting a group of about twelve students to the cafeteria from the 

third floor, one student hollered down. Trying to be a crowd pleaser (mistake! mistake!), I 

threw the throttle into reverse without bring the elevator to a complete stop. The net result 

was that the fuse blew and I was left with a dozen students and myself stuck on an 

elevator between the unoccupied fourth and fifth floors. What was I to do? 

Like a good captain of a ship, I kept the boys calm. Actually, they were having a ball in 

this close-quartered unique experience. I needed to devise a plan, an SOS, a Mayday, an 

APB, or whatever. Then, as if inspired by the Holy Ghost, I said: Boys, at the count of 

three, we will holler at the top of our voices: W e are stuck! We are stuck!, We are stuck! 

After continuing the litany of the abandoned for about twenty minutes, we heard someone 

tapping on the top of the elevator. It wasn’t Nevermore but rather Brother Cotter who 

lowered a ladder down from the elevator’s trap door to rescue the stranded students. Once 

atop the elevator they would climb another ladder, which they would ascend onto the 

fifth floor landing. Being the good captain, I was the last one to leave the car of fools. 

Brother Offer was on the fifth floor landing to greet me, or should I say reprimand me for 

my childish prank. It really was a fun experience, a precursor to the survivor television 

shows.

Brother Offer was the ultimate captain steering the ship of school through its maiden 

voyage. At our first faculty meeting he admonished the faculty to take a hard line at the 

beginning of the school year. Don’t crack your first smile until April. We were led to 

believe that classroom management would become so much easier if we followed his 

dictum. Some of us did; others of us didn’t. I didn’t. 

For a school in its second year of existence, it offered many extra-curricular activities to 

students. Besides the school newspaper and a modified yearbook, we had a pretty good 

Glee Club led by Brother Joyce and were beginning a band program that I would 

moderate. We held our first joint concert ever in the late fall of 1958. Why we even had a 

rifle club that would have made Charlton Heston proud. 

My Newark “home away from home” was the boarding house run by Agnes Mc Tigue 

and Tom Tobin’s cousin, Noreen Ahern. Located in the fashionable Forest Hills section 

of Newark, it provided dinner, a private room, and breakfast the next morning for a very 

reasonable price. It was so convenient, especially after a stressful parents meeting. I got 

to know the three “regulars” of 183 Ballantine Parkway. They were gentlemen up in 

years, or so I thought. I was only twenty-four at the time and we all know how a person 

in his twenties measures persons over forty. I always addressed them as Mr. King, Mr. 

Mackey, and Mr. Flanagan. Mr. King often shared a bowl-full of his aromatic pipe 

tobacco with me. That was rather nice of him, I thought. During the summer of 1959, 

Tom Tobin decided to vacate his cousin’s house upon finding a nifty studio apartment at 

425 Mt. Prospect Avenue. It was within walking distance to the school, provided a 

private bath and privacy. 

One of my first extracurricular activities was to coordinate a UN Day display on October 

24, 1958. Presented in the massive rotunda area of the main floor, the exhibit featured 

student-designed models and posters, flags of the UN member states, and the yet 

incomplete scrapbook on UN General Assembly President, Dr. Charles Malik. 

This same rotunda was the setting for a Christmas display featuring a fresh eight-foot tree 

in the center of this large space. Blazoned in multi-colored lights and seasonal 

decorations, it was the focal point of the main floor. This would remain a tradition until a 

fire caused the tree to go up in smoke, and for that matter, the use of fresh trees from that 

day on. A large manger scene lay off to the side. One year a clandestine group of students 

kidnapped the Christ-child and held the baby Jesus for ransom. He was returned to his 

manger after threats of reprisals from the principal and dean. I thought the prank was 

hilarious but Brother Offer did not share my views. Christmas carols blared forth from 

the school’s p. a. system to get the students in a festive mood as they entered the building. 

Playing alternately with the noel’s, Yuletide songs like Jingle Bells and a new entry, the 

Chipmunk Song, with David Saville. Jingle Bell Rock was released not too long 

afterwards. Yes, rock and roll was here to stay – even at Christmas.

However, rock and roll did not prevail at our Christmas concert. A combined effort of the 

Glee Club, the Band and the Drama Club was most impressive. After the concert the boys 

were dismissed for the Christmas holidays. See you next year, Mr. Murray. Ho! Ho! Ho! 

The Spring Hop of 1959 was held in our grand ballroom and the white bucs seemed to be 

a favorite among boys. The brothers chaperoned this and other dances and the services of 

the lay faculty were not required. The brothers lived in the building so Brother Offer felt 

why drag the lay faculty from their homes to chaperone dances. Some of the hop 

favorites were Queen of the Hop by Bobby Doria, Lonesome Town by Ricky Nelson and 

Sixteen Candles by the Crests. How romantic! One Night by Elvis Presley was another 

popular tune. A student survey was taken on student musical preferences by the school 

newspaper. Rock and Roll dominated the field. Connie Francis won as most popular 

female singer and Ricky Nelson as best male singer. Dion and the Belmonts was voted 

the best vocal group while Duane Eddy took home the accolades as best instrumental 

group. There were four votes for Leonard Bernstein and seven votes for Maria Callas. 

There are always those who taste’s does not reflect the mainstream, be it music or 

anything else. Let’s hear it for Leonard and Marie! 

A SCHOOL FIELD TRIP TO MEET DR. MALIK – AND ELEANOR TOO 

I began my teaching career at Essex Catholic High School in Newark, New Jersey, the 

day Dr. Charles Habib Malik, the Foreign Minister of Lebanon, became President of the 

UN General Assembly. What better way to jumpstart my neophyte career in education 

than by proposing to Brother Offer, the principal, that I be allowed to organize a field trip 

to the United Nations on December 8, 1958. It would be the first field trip in the school’s 

short history, and I reminded the good brother that December 8 is a holy day in the 

Catholic Church and a day off in Catholic schools. With permission granted, I wrote to 

Dr. Charles Malik requesting that, if his schedule permitted, he receive a group of 

students and chaperones from Essex Catholic at the world headquarters in NYC. He 

responded affirmatively on November 4 th and I was now in a position to organize my first 

school field trip. The all-boys school was only two years old. All my students were ninth 

graders. Organizing my first field trip was a piece of cake. 

On December 8 th some thirty students, mostly freshmen, met with my colleagues Tom 

Tobin, John Ennis and John Flood in the information area of the Port Authority Bus 

Terminal. This was the first time that several of my students had ever set foot in New 

York. I advised the chaperones of this fact and told them to keep an eye on the group. 

Even in the fifties, the City could be overwhelming. We divided into groups and took the 

42 Street cross-town bus to the United Nations. The relatively new glass and steel 

structure was quite imposing to both my students and their teachers.

As we arrived considerably early for our 10AM appointment, I took the group for a walk 

in the immediate area. As we ascended the steps across the street from the UN on 44 th 

Street and First Avenue, we read the inscription chiseled into the wall: Let your swords 

be turned into plowshares… This biblical quote from Isaiah set the tone for the day. 

About 9:45 we crossed the street and proceeded through the gates of the visitors’ entrance 

onto the UN property. I told the kids that they were no longer in New York City, or the 

United States for that matter, but rather on international soil. I told them it was like a city 

within a city, with its own laws and law enforcers. A few photos were taken outside the 

landmark building and then we proceeded to the reception area in the northernmost end 

of the GA building. I told the lady at the desk that we, nearly forty of us, were here to see 

the president. She did a double take for it seemed that entertaining a large group was not 

an everyday occurrence at the UN, at least not in the Office of the President of the 

General Assembly. She dutifully phoned Dr. Malik’s office and a security person 

escorted us to the elevators and on up to the 38 th floor. 

The 38 th floor housed the offices of the top UN executives including the Secretary 

General and the President of the General Assembly. We were ushered in to a conference 

room where our meeting with Dr Malik would take place. His secretary advised me that 

our meeting would be delayed by about half an hour. The secretary showed us where the 

sanitary appointments were located and to make ourselves at home. Some of the kids did 

meander through the halls of the 38 th floor. Kids love halls. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps 

water fountains; perhaps they thought that they were back in school. I stayed with the rest 

of the students and the chaperones in the conference room. I could have kicked myself for 

this decision, however proper it was. Several of the boys while roaming the hall ran into 

Eleanor Roosevelt and engaged her in conversation, albeit briefly. When they returned to 

the conference room and told me of their encounter, I was elated but sorry I wasn’t with 

them. It was almost appointment time and too late for me to go chasing after Eleanor. 

Opportunity missed! Darn! 

Dr. Malik entered the conference room about 10:30AM and welcomed each student and 

chaperone with a handshake. The first order of business was the presentation of a plaque 

that was etched for the occasion. It was rather large, with a bronze symbol of peace in the 

upper portion and an inscription etched in the lower portion. In the name of Essex 

Catholic High School, I presented the plaque to Dr. Malik in recognition of a life 

dedicated to the cause of peace with justice throughout the world. He followed the 

presentation with a response and a brief address to the group. A photo session followed 

and then Dr. Malik returned back to his office to pursue the affairs of the world.

After leaving the UN, we stopped in for lunch at the Automat on Third Avenue and 42 nd 

Street. This was a treat for the kids as they looked to the expert advice of this New 

Yorker for instructions as to the operation of the nickel devouring machines. After lunch, 

we walked back to the Port Authority, and en-route I pointed out some of the sites along 

the way including the 42 nd Street library. 

PCQ28: What are the names of the two library lions as they serve as sentinels atop 

their perch, guarding this venerable New York institution? 

Tom Tobin, John Ennis and John Flood returned to Newark with their charges while I 

walked home to 363 West 57 th Street. My first field trip was a success in every way. It 

was the first of many, many field trips to follow. 

MORE PLAYING THE JUKEBOX AND BOWLING WITH A BUD 

Mc Hugh’s Tavern will remain embedded in the minds of many of my former colleagues 

forever. This gin-mill was located three blocks north of the school on Broadway, across 

the street from Newark’s Mount Pleasant Cemetery 

It was a dive of the first order. Roaches parading on the countertop were commonplace. 

The Men’s Room reeked with an unbearable stench. If you were one of the few who 

didn’t loose your appetite, pigs feet were available from a gallon jar to whet your 

appetite. Many a tin of sardines I ate there to calm my hunger pangs, with a side of 

crackers, of course. Disgusting! 

The Bud on tap left much to be desired. Refrigeration problems, I guess. I often 

wondered how often Buddy or Jack, the owner and bartender at Mc Hugh’s, cleaned their 

pipes. Frequently cleaned pipes contribute to a tastier brew. 

In spite of all the negative things about Mc Hugh’s, it was a stone’s throw from the 

school and offered some members of the lay faculty of Essex Catholic a place to unwind 

and relax after a challenging day in the classroom. Weekdays saw the usual crowd led by 

Tom Tobin and myself imbibing in the nectar of the gods. On Friday’s, as many as a 

dozen faculty members joined the “TGIF” Club and railed on about the state of the 

school – its administrators, faculty and students. In some cases it was a “bitch session,” 

but for the most part it was good-natured banter.

At the beginning of my drinking days at Mc Hugh’s, I ordered draught beer. I was a fast 

learner and soon switched to bottled beer. It was colder and I didn’t have to worry about 

unclean pipes. Within a couple of years, my drink of choice became J&B Scotch with 

plenty of ice and water in a tall glass. Yes, I acquired a taste for Scotch. Besides, I didn’t 

have to go to the Men’s Room as often. The less trips to the Men’s Room the better. 

One fun feature of Mc Hugh’s was its bowling machine. Similar to shuffleboard, the 

object was to slide the metal puck down the slick, sanded lane and hope that you would 

hear the bells indicating that you scored a strike. I became quite adept at this game, 

banking the puck off the lane to pick up a 7 – 10 spare like a pro. Sometimes we formed 

teams and bowled for a “Bud.” My team almost always won. Anyone for a game? 

To enhance the experience, the jukebox played on. It was still three selections for a 

quarter. So let’s play Sailor, Your Home is the Sea sung by Lolita (hmm!), Winchester 

Cathedral with the New Vaudeville Band and Dominique performed by the Singing Nun 

(not to be confused with the popular TV show at the time, The Flying Nun). 

DBQ28: Do you remember the name of the Oscar-winning actress who played the title 

role of Sister Bertrille in “The Flying Nun?” 

Every neighborhood bar has its own resident “characters.” Two of these were highly 

middle-aged ladies named Cora and Lu. Neither one was a cure for concupiscence. After 

a few belts of whiskey, Cora would play Barbra Streisand’s Second Hand Rose and 

would lip-sync the lyrics as the record was playing. However, that wasn’t enough for 

Cora. She went down the whole length of the bar singing: 

I’m just a second hand rose, second hand rose, 

nobody knows where my second hand goes… 

I’m just a second hand rose… from Second Avenue. 

It seemed that Cora let her second hand roam all over the legs of the male patrons seated 

on the barstools. It seemed too, that the more we drank the better she looked. Oh well! 

Buddy Brooks, the proprietor of the establishment, was an outgoing, friendly guy who 

always treated the faculty well. As the catalyst for the group, I coordinated many soiree’s 

in Buddy’s back room be they end-of-marking-period gatherings or election night parties. 

I’d convoke a conclave of the faculty at the drop of a hat. Buddy was very generous and 

never charged us for the use of his back room. We usually ordered pitchers of beer at a 

fair price and I made sure that the brew kept flowing. I wanted happy campers, or 

teachers as the case might be. At one of our Essex Catholic Teacher Fest’s, a weighty 

physical ed. teacher climbed atop a table and proceeded to do the hula to the singing and 

clapping of his colleagues. Did I ever pray that the table wouldn’t collapse under the 

weight on my pal Sal.

An alternate bar for the faculty was Ryan’s. It was located much further away than Mc 

Hugh’s, but it was worth the drive. Even colleague, John Ennis, loved the atmosphere as 

he sipped his Vodka Collins on a warm spring day. Jim Ryan was an Irishman who ran a 

tight ship. Cora and her ilk would be personae non grata in his bar. It was a pleasure to 

go into the Men’s Room with the urinal laced with ice and perfumed by cakes of 

camphor. Above all, Jim Ryan cleaned his pipes. 

THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS 

No, not those mamas and papas, but rather the mothers and fathers who sent their boys to 

the care of the brothers and lay teachers at Essex Catholic High School. Parents made 

sacrifices to send their children to a parochial school. Tuition was no small sum even 

back then. Essex Catholic parents represented a cross section of the economy from the 

blue-collar workers from Newark, Harrison and Kearny to the white-collar workers from 

the Caldwell’s and the Orange’s. 

Unlike most public schools and many parochial secondary schools, Essex Catholic did 

not have a PTA per se, but rather a Father’s Club and a Mother’s Club, each with its own 

set of objectives and each with its own brother-moderator. Both helped the school in 

many ways, primarily fundraising-related. They worked in concert for special events such 

as parent dances. I seemed drawn to the Father’s Club meetings where I got to know 

many of the fathers on a first name basis. Perhaps it was the perk and pop (no pun 

intended) of a frothy “Bud” that was served at the Father’s Club that induced me to attend 

their meetings. 

The parent’s dances were the best. They were held in the school’s ballroom – how 

appropriate. One couldn’t find a better venue anywhere in the City of Newark. The 

brothers and lay faculty were invited and encouraged to attend as guests of the Fathers 

Club. I didn’t need any encouragement. Pitchers of beer from a cold keg and setups were 

included in the price of admission. Otherwise, it was a BYOB. The faculty table-hopped, 

telling the parents exactly what they wanted to hear about their son’s progress. 

Schmoozing was the order of the evening. Inasmuch as I didn’t dance, I had to 

compensate by doing more table-hopping. The more I hopped, the more I…No way did 

the dances break up at midnight – two o’clock in the early morning was more like it. 

Many a night did I close down the ballroom singing Good Night Ladies with the few 

remaining parents and faculty members. No wonder the spirit of Essex Catholic High 

School students was so great. It mirrored their spirited parents.

On a not so spirited level were the Parent-Teacher conferences held after each of the first 

three marking periods. The mothers came attired in their long dresses; the fathers with 

their wide ties. The parents waited outside the classroom of the respective teacher with 

report card in hand. It was like a Confession line at Easter. I always tried to be upbeat 

when meeting with the parents. A seasoned brother gave me a caveat that I should never 

let a parent put me on the defensive. I followed his advice throughout my teaching career. 

Courtesy was the hallmark on both sides of the desk. There were ways of telling a parent 

that their child was not exactly an intellectual heavyweight – more study, an extra report, 

after school help, etc. Invariably the parent sided with the teacher. I’ll have a talk with 

Johnny when I get home. Much less is this the case today in our very litigious society. 

The first meeting always was very well attended and usually didn’t break up until after 

10PM. Attendance at the second and third meetings dwindled as the year went on. Many 

of us wet our whistle in Mc Hugh’s after the meeting. We needed it! 

STUDY HALL BLUES 

Study halls are anything but that. Here, assembled in one room for one classroom period, 

are a cornucopia of students. Some were there because they were not taking gym 

(physical education) for valid reasons; others hated gym and concocted a cockamamie 

excuse just to get out of it. Others were there because they had a free period during that 

time slot. So many times, the Dean of Discipline used the Study Hall as a dumping off 

place for unruly students who were ejected from the classroom by a frustrated teacher. It 

looked like the cantina scene from Star Wars. 

Although I had developed the reputation as a no-nonsense teacher discipline-wise, 

nonetheless, I had to utilize all the energy at my command to contain an overly active 

student. ADD was unheard of back then. The “Ritalin” of the day was to make an 

example of the first student who acted up. That usually set the tone for an orderly Study 

Hall. 

Yes, there were some serious students in Study Hall who set about doing their academic 

tasks. Some students used the period for creative pursuits. I would like to share a couple 

of these from my Subversive Activities File.

Dated October 20, 1959, a young man was in the process of writing a letter to his 

girlfriend. It read, in part: 

Dear Carol, 

Well it’s Tuesday again and I’m in Study Hall…I have Mr. Murray 

today. He keeps walking around the room and I have to hide the 

letter. Boy, is he sneaky. I never know where he is. He’s gone now… 

With that, I picked up the letter, read it aloud in class (how embarrassing) and as a further 

punishment required that he write me a letter explaining why he should not write love 

letters in class. His response: 

Dear Mr. Murray, 

I guess no one should write letters in school. One reason is that you 

should be studying or doing your homework. I really don’t blame you 

for stopping me, but I wish you would have given it back to me, 

because I had to start all over again, that is when I got home. 

Another young man tried his skill at writing a parody of The Battle of New Orleans, a 

song made popular by Johnny Horton. The following is a sampling: 

Chorus: 

We beat up the teachers, but they kept a comin’, 

but there wasn’t half as many as there was awhile before. 

We beat them up again and they began a runnin’, 

down the halls of Essex High to Brother Offer’s door. 

Verse (one of many): 

In comes Mr. Murray who teaches history 

but what he talks to us about is still a mystery. 

With knowledge and with wisdom, his brain is really full; 

Each day he stands before the class and really throws the bull. 

1-2-3-4- Keep the beat- repeat the Chorus-1-2-3-4.

PLAYLAND TIME 

Playland, Rye is an amusement park on Long Island Sound administered by the 

Westchester County Dept. of Parks. It is a well-policed park and the “riff-raff” element is 

not welcome. Although they do have a Dragon Coaster, the rides are tame compared to 

the “Kingda Ka” of nearby Great Adventure, billed as the tallest, fastest roller coaster in 

the world. It was to Rye Beach that several of the Irish Christian Brothers’ schools took 

their end-of-year day trip by way of boat from South Ferry. I have been there several 

times since my initial counter as a senior in high school and loved it then and still do. 

So I was elated to find out that Essex Catholic High School was having their first end-of - 

the year outing to such a fun destination in June of 1959. I was still living in New York, 

so it meant a simple forty-minute train ride by the IRT from Columbus Circle to South 

Ferry. A short walk through Battery Park took me to the pier at the tip of Manhattan 

Island. The Rye Beach boat made its first stop at Exchange Place in Jersey City, then 

continued on the South Ferry to pick up the New York passengers. It would be from 

Exchange Place that the Essex Catholic boys and faculty would board the boat. I was 

cutting my arrival time at Battery Park very close. However, New Yorkers do tend to cut 

things close. 

As soon as I left the subway station, I made a “bee-line” for the boat, cutting through 

Battery Park with historic Castle Clinton on my left. I heard the bellow of the boat’s horn 

and double-timed it. I had no intention of missing the proverbial boat. As I emerged from 

the park, I heard the roar of the Essex Catholic boys who had gathered on port side, 

cheering me on as I rushed to make the boat. I felt like Lindbergh in the “canyon of 

heroes.” The sound was almost deafening. The kids welcomed me as I ascended the 

gangplank and one of the Brothers directed me to the Captain’s cabin where Brother 

Offer was holding a reception for the faculty. 

Cruising northward on the East River is quite an experience; passing the UN, the New 

York Hospital where I was born, Roosevelt Island, Gracie Mansion, and then navigating 

the treacherous waters of Hell’s Gate onto Long Island Sound. Before noon, we spotted 

the familiar tower of Playland. Four hours of fun awaited us. After a banana split, I 

headed for Rye Beach Lake where I rented a motorboat for an hour. Its top speed was 

about 5 mph but it provided a nice opportunity to take a leisurely trip around the lake and 

its islets. A few rides were in order, especially at the invitation of my playful freshmen. 

Afar, one could hear the horn of the boat summoning us that it would depart Rye at 16:00 

hours. By that time, we were dragging and the hospitality in the Captain’s Cabin for the 

hour and a half return trip was most welcome. It was so good to finally see the Statue of 

Liberty. We had arrived, just as Delia Murray and countless numbers of immigrants had 

arrived decades earlier. 

PCQ30: What was the name of the movie in which Tom Hank’s character seeks advice 

from a fortune telling mannequin in the Playland Amusement Park?

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N 

It was countdown time. My first year as a teacher had flown by and the same would be 

true of my other thirty-seven years of teaching. It seemed that no sooner than I welcomed 

a new class to my course, it was final exam time. Then came summer vacation, usually 

commencing a week earlier than the public schools. This two and a half month break was 

considered too long by many people’s standards. My friend, Ed D’Ascoli, in latter years, 

often teased me, remarking that teachers worked only a half a year. He had a point, 

technical as it may be, for the school calendar is 180 days. However, he may have 

forgotten that the stress factor is among the highest of any profession and that coupled 

with preparation and mandatory attendance at school events, the workday of a teacher far 

exceeds the workday of the average laborer. So it was with anticipation that teachers 

everywhere looked forward to VACATION. 

Connie Francis, the “sorry” girl, was a product of Essex County, having lived in Newark, 

Belleville and, during most of my Essex Catholic years, in upscale Essex Fells. She was 

the idol of so many Essex Catholic students – and teachers too. Being in the same age, I 

couldn’t help but see her as of my favorites. I loved her songs and have a Connie 

collection of tapes in my home. One song that struck a chord was Vacation in which 

Connie spells out the letters of that magic word. It remained an end-of-year favorite for 

many students and teachers throughout the sixties – 

V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N – Go Connie! 

The brothers usually stayed around the month of July to teach summer school or go to 

summer school as the case may be. In August they closed down shop and headed for a 

month’s vacation “down the shore” – Ventnor to be precise. 

The lay faculty went their separate ways. Some pursued advanced academic degrees. 

Some went on family vacations. As for myself, I returned to the Cowhey Camps, often 

inviting Essex Catholic teachers to serve as counselors at Camp Rip Van Winkle. 

By the feast of the Assumption in mid-August, I was getting “antsy” to get back to 

school. What courses would I be teaching in September? What would my new classes be 

like? Would any of my students from previous classes be in my courses during the 

forthcoming year? Who were the new faculty members? Were any of the brothers I knew 

from previous years returning to Essex Catholic after a tour of duty in another school? 

Questions and anticipation of the new school year consumed me during those late August 

days. I looked forward to the opening day of school in September, 1959, with great 

anticipation.

Chapter 13 – WHO SEZ I WOULDN’T MAKE A GOOD TEACHER? 

FAREWELL TO HELL’S KITCHEN 

It was difficult bidding farewell to the City where I spent the first twenty-five years of my 

life. I have never forgotten my humble roots, and even as a septuagenarian, whenever I 

am in NYC, it is deja vu all over again. Hell’s Kitchen was good to me. Thanks, a hell of 

a lot! 

MOVING TO THE ‘BURBS 

Having completed my first year of teaching at Essex Catholic High School in Newark, 

New Jersey, in June of 1959 and having been offered a contract for the following 

academic year, I felt that it was time to move across the Hudson River to the Garden 

State. Not that I minded the bus commute too much but I felt it was time to upgrade my 

life. It was now time to leave the tenement that was home to both mom and myself for 

over twenty-one years. It was time to leave the greatest city in the world and move to the 

suburbs. 

During the summer of ’59, John Ennis, a colleague of mine from Essex Catholic, drove 

me around the greater Newark metropolitan area in search of a suitable apartment for 

mom and myself. We put many miles on his trusty Renault in search of a new home. 

After much apartment hunting, we finally found a garden apartment complex in North 

Arlington that I really liked. Unfortunately, the management of Riverview Gardens did 

not have any one-bedroom apartments available at the time. A two-bedroom would have 

been ideal for mom. With my annual salary now up to $3,500.00, the rent was out of 

range for this Catholic schoolteacher. I filled out the application and was advised that my 

name would be placed on a waiting list. At the end of August I received a call from 

Riverview Gardens advising me that a one-bedroom apartment would be available on 

October 1, 1959. I’ll take it! 

The next step was a letter to the management of 363, Mr. Eugene Zagat in particular. In it 

I informed him of our intention to vacate the premises on the first of October and thanked 

him for his kindness and patience over the twenty-one years. He was most tolerant of my 

mother’s occasional delinquency in rent payments. Another landlord might have given us 

the “heave ho.” The last month’s payment in this rent-stabilized building was under 

$50.00. The rent in the Riverview Gardens would be $90.00 per month.

Connolly’s Express and Van Company was one of the more recent storefront tenants in 

our building. Perfect timing! Arrangements were mad for the big move on October 1. The 

total bill for the interstate move came to $31.50. I reluctantly decided against taking the 

upright piano as the cost of moving it was triple the moving bill. Besides, I hardly tickled 

the keys anymore. 

Unlike me, mom was a little apprehensive about leaving the city that was so good to her 

and countless numbers of other immigrants who called New York home. I reassured her 

that it was a move upward and that we were moving to a town where one could leave the 

front door open and not have to worry. The noise and pollution would be a thing of the 

past. I had to build up her confidence for the big move. 

It was October 1, 1959 and all our few household goods were packed. We were ready to 

leave our city dwelling. We bid our “good-byes” to several of the neighbors who were 

there to see us off. Uncle Mike was there to supervise the movers from his end. We made 

the sign of the cross, thanked God for the many years in our humble abode and descended 

the three flights of steps of 363 for the final time as residents. A taxi to Port Authority 

and a bus to North Arlington and we had arrived. Voila! 

As we entered the complex, I pointed to Apartment 5N and said: That’s our new home, 

mom. I went to the office to pick up the apartment key as mom anxiously awaited her first 

look at her new residence. The second floor apartment had its own private entrance with a 

mail slot in its front door. Mom didn’t seem to mind the walk up the one flight of stairs. 

As mom wasn’t getting any younger, one flight was certainly better than three. 

We awaited the arrival of the moving van in our bare apartment. With only a few worldly 

possessions and a few sticks of second-hand furniture, the unloading process took only a 

few minutes. Within a few months I would replace the old furniture with new, 

contemporary pieces including a red and white Formica dinette set fitted with chrome 

legs. 

I chose North Arlington and the Riverview Gardens for several reasons. The complex 

itself had beautiful lawns where, in good weather, mom could sit on her beach chair, get 

some sun and chat with the neighbors. It wasn’t too long before this outgoing mom of 

mine met our new neighbors. Frank Dalesso, a North Arlington policeman, and his wife, 

Lil, lived below us in Apt. 5M. Frank was constantly cruising the area in his motorcycle 

and dropping in to his apartment for coffee and doughnuts. This gave mom a feeling of 

security. Murry Matlin, a postal worker, and his wife Ruth, lived in Apt. 5P. Ruth and 

Murry were the best neighbors one could possibly have. Another reason that I chose the 

Gardens was the proximity to shopping – just around the corner. Green’s Supermarket 

was a block away and featured home delivery that made mom ever so happy. Thirdly, 

inasmuch as North Arlington was not an Essex Catholic feeder community, the chances 

of routinely running into any of my students were remote. It is my contention that a 

teacher should not live in the district in which he teaches.

We now had, in effect, a mini-home with a layout that more than doubled the square 

footage of 363. Seven windows provided cross ventilation. We even had a bathroom 

window. The day of the airshaft was gone. The apartment included a separate kitchen and 

dining area, a commodious living room and a 12 by 12 bedroom. As in 363, Delia would 

sleep on the studio couch in the living room. I only wished that I could have given mom 

her own private bedroom. 

Convenience to public transportation was great. To get to work, I walked down the 

Belleville Turnpike and over the North Arlington Bridge to Washington Street in 

Belleville where I took the #13 Public Service Bus directly to my school. If the weather 

was inclement, I could take a bus directly from the Riverview Gardens to Newark and 

from there, catch a second bus to Essex Catholic. 

The morning after my first night’s sleep in the burbs, I awoke to the sound of silence, 

perhaps except for the chirping of the birds. It was such a strange sensation. As I looked 

out my bedroom window that first morning I saw a rabbit hopping across the lawn – 

another strange but pleasant feeling. A few days later, the foulest of odors was emanating 

from the Meadowlands. An easterly wind was blowing from the garbage dumps, pig 

farms, or wherever. I hit the panic button. What have I gotten myself into? Fortunately, 

easterly winds were the exception and so I settled back and enjoyed my residence in the 

Riverview Gardens for the next seventeen years. 

FORSAKING MASS TRANSIT 

Taking mass transit from North Arlington to Essex Catholic was good for a while but 

then car “fever” set in. Rationalization began. If I had a car, it would cut the trip to the 

school from my home by twenty minutes. If I had a car, I could explore, not only my 

immediate environs, but the entire Garden State. I could prove to my friends in the City, 

that New Jersey is more than garbage dumps and turnpikes. The die was cast as I 

proceeded to purchase, for a minimal amount, a 1951 gray, two-door Pontiac. The next 

steps were the driver’s written test and the road test. Both were administered at the 

Bureau of Motor Vehicles headquarters on Route 3. I passed the tests and became a duly 

certified driver in the state of New Jersey at the age of twenty-five for it appeared that I 

was one of the oldest applicants taking the driver’s test. I now had wheels; I now had a 

license. Now I know how seventeen year olds feel. 

My first car didn’t last too long. It seemed that I was constantly bringing it to the Esso 

Service Station near the school for mechanical problems. I graduated to a 1955 black and 

white Olds 98. It, too, was a heap and cost me a small fortune to run. It, too, was brought, 

usually by tow truck, into my somewhat reliable Esso dealer on Broadway. The fact that 

the service station was opposite Mount Pleasant Cemetery should have told me 

something.

By 1964, I had saved up enough money to put a down payment on a new car. I saw a 

Ford in my future. It was New Jersey’ tercentenary year and I wanted a new car to reflect 

my upward climb in historical circles, as well as a reliable vehicle to bring me to and 

from the many state-wide meetings I was attending. I felt like a new dad as I got behind 

the wheel of my two-door, black Ford Fairlane for the first time. Nothing like the smell of 

a new car! The car had a manual choke that was great in cold weather. In keeping with 

the tercentenary spirit, my new license plates were ACM 300. I only wished that it could 

have been TCM 300 but the Motor Vehicles Bureau informed me that it would be a while 

before they reached that far in their alphabetical sequence of plates and went out of their 

way to get me a “retired” plate with the numerals “300.” 

My Ford served me well, but alas, it was totaled in a snowstorm as mom and I were 

driving on the West Side Highway in New York City on our way to visit Aunt Mary for 

Christmas. A Cadillac rear-ended us. Fortunately, neither mom nor I were hurt. After 

filling out the police report and arranging for towing, we took an expensive cab ride to 

Rockaway, but who cared. It was only money. It was Christmas. We had our lives. What 

more could one ask for. 

A GROWING FACULTY KEEPS UP WITH AN EVER-GROWING SCHOOL 

The 1960 crop of faculty members was memorable, as several became my life-long 

friends including George Cluff and John Lonergan. George Cluff, like John Flood, was 

going to Law School at night while teaching during the day. Both became lawyers and 

George serves as a judge in Passaic County, New Jersey. Another life-long friend, Don 

Sullivan, joined the faculty in 1963, as a member of the ever-growing Business 

Department. Don would become our computer whiz and remain at Essex Catholic for 

some forty years, thus becoming the dean of the faculty. 

That year saw the addition of Brother Arthur A. Loftus to the faculty. This PhD. was a 

past president of Iona College and had just stepped down from serving as Provincial of 

the Irish Christian Brothers in the United States and Canada. Now he was in the field 

with the troops and he loved every minute of it. In 1966, Brother Loftus would be the 

first American to be elected to be Superior General, the highest position in the brother’s 

officialdom. In this role, he would move the world headquarters from Dublin to Rome 

and change the provincial name of the Irish Christian Brothers (FSCH) to that of the 

Congregation of Christian Brothers (CFC).

Of course, the law of averages dictated that occasionally Brother Offer and his successors 

would hire teachers that were, shall we say, different. I can remember during my first 

year a World History teacher who flunked a kid on his one and only test during the 

marking period. His parents complained and the former public school teacher responded 

that their son had not drawn enough parapets on his medieval castle. Another pious 

person, “Ichabod Crane”, so nicknamed by his students for obvious reasons, always 

began his lunch with the sign of the cross. He abruptly departed the faculty table 

whenever an off-color joke was told. Why are faculty members in a Catholic high school 

telling dirty jokes? Shame! Shame! Another faculty member came to school one day 

wearing two different shoes, that’s shoes, not socks. Give me a break! Brother Offer was 

impeccably dressed at all times. He expected the same of his teachers, and that included 

shined shoes. And this dress code worked its way down to the students. Two different 

shoes? Come on already! 

NO PROSELYTIZING IN THE CLASSROOM, PLEASE 

From day one as a teacher of social studies, I firmly believed that it was not the position 

of a teacher to use the classroom as a bully pulpit to convert his students to his political 

beliefs. Let’s hear from the students. Independent thinking is to be promoted in the high 

school classroom. 

Toward that end, I coordinated my first classroom presidential debate in the 1960 

Kennedy-Nixon election and encouraged all my classes to watch the live presidential 

debates on television. I did contradict myself once during that campaign season. While 

stumping in Newark, Senator John Kennedy’s motorcade passed right underneath my 

window at Essex Catholic High School. In jest I took a piece of loose-leaf paper and 

rolled it into a ball. As the motorcade passed bye, I feigned throwing the ball at the 

Senator’s limousine. Tsk! Tsk! 

I, too, watched the debates, and audiotaped the proceedings. Naturally, I felt Richard 

Nixon had more substance to his arguments that did John Kennedy. Many of my friends 

and colleagues were going to vote for the Massachusetts Senator because of the “Catholic 

factor.” As for myself, Nixon’s Red-hunting background more than offset Kennedy’s 

Catholicism and I went for Dick when I entered the voting booth in November of 1960. 

I was saddened to learn of Kennedy’s victory in the election and felt that he stole it from 

Nixon, thanks to a crooked electorate in Cook County. America’s Age of Camelot was 

about to begin but it would be short lived.

NOT THAT I LOVE ENGLISH LESS, BUT I LOVE HISTORY MORE 

During my first three years at Essex Catholic, I taught English 1 and 2. In both, freshman 

and sophomore courses, usage played an important role. I surely hoped that my former 

students of English remembered all the rules of grammar and style that I taught them. I 

don’t! So often, while I am writing the pages of this memoir, I have to consult Strunk and 

White’s, the Elements of Style, or other reference books. Both British and American 

literature compensated for the rather tedious teaching of grammar. I was in my milieu 

teaching literature and put my heart and soul into the prose and poetry that I rendered. 

Foremost among the poems from English I was Rudyard Kipling’s, “Gunga Din.” The 

kids loved my rendition, replete with British accent. “Frankie and Johnny”, a ballad of 

two star-crossed lovers, was another favorite. At one reading, a student asked me: Mr. 

Murray, the first line mentioned “Frankie and Johnny were lovers.” Were Frankie and 

Johnny both boys? At times when I substituted for an absent teacher in a class that I did 

not teach, a common request was to read the aforementioned poems to them. They loved 

every bit of it. So did I. 

It was in sophomore year that students were first introduced to Shakespeare. I knew that 

this introduction had to be appetizing. If not properly presented, I could turn students off. 

I didn’t want them to hate Shakespeare for the rest of their lives. Motivating students is 

such an important attribute of the teaching profession, sadly lacking by far too many 

teachers. Assigning the roles in Julius Caesar was a challenge. Which student was best 

fitted to fill each respective part? Playing the role of a coach, I stood in the wings as the 

young thespians went on to perform the Shakespearean play. Actually, I was pleased and 

so were the kids. 

From day one, I encouraged originality in writing. Prior to Halloween 1959, I assigned 

each boy in my freshman English class the task of writing an original short story or poem 

on the eerie. It could be a ghost story. It could relate to science fiction. How about giving 

Edgar Allen a challenge and write a macabre poem? The assignments were submitted the 

day before Halloween so I would have a chance to read them and ask some of the 

students to share their presentations with the class on October 31. I was astonished at 

what I read.

Highlighting the All Hallow’s Eve class was a poem entitled “The Conquest of a Wife” 

written by one of my freshmen, Casimir Kroll. It tells of a guy who winds up searching 

for a wife in a Transylvania cemetery. As he goes looking for love in all the wrong 

places, he is smitten and bitten. The final stanzas for your undead pleasures are: 

But soon the sun began to rise, 

and a call came over the hill: 

‘All vampires back in their graves,’ it said 

‘till another midnight still.’ 

Now I’m a vampire just as she 

And have no mortal life, 

We’ll always share our graves together 

for, at last, I’ve got a wife. 

The poem was so well done that I suggested that Cas mail a copy to the television ghoul 

of the day, Zacherlee. Not too long afterwards “The Conquest of a Wife” made it to the 

nationally syndicated television show and with proper credit given to Cassie Krol from 

Nutley, New Jersey. I still have the original poem, as well as the audiocassette of the 

Zacherlee rendition of it. From that Halloween Day and from every Halloween Day 

thereafter, until my retirement, I have read Cassie’s poem. Even the “X” generation loved 

it. 

At the beginning of my teaching career, World History was my first love. The second 

semester covered from the Reformation to World War II. Like so many history teachers 

who spent longer than expected on a particular era, I had trouble finishing the course. For 

me, the Enlightenment, the causes and results of the French Revolution, and the 

Napoleonic era, was my milieu. I studied those areas with the ardor of a PhD. candidate 

and employed motivational skills in presenting these areas to my students. 

History, by nature, can be boring. If a student has a boring history teacher, the problem is 

compounded. The students may be left with an aversion for history the rest of their lives. 

How many times have I met people who told me that history was their least favorite 

subject in high school. Why? Invariably the answers were the same. I went to sleep in Mr. 

Murray’s class. It was such a bore. Assuming the presenter is knowledgeable in his 

subject area, one very important key to being a successful history teacher is motivation. 

The teacher must be motivated; his students must be motivated. History must be made to 

come alive. Indeed, history can be fun. 

History is more than names and places. Causes and effects seem to take a back seat to 

generals and battles. There is a time and place for the “gung ho” charges in the front of a 

classroom, but at what cost?

The president of IBM had a nameplate on his desk. It had only one word on it - 

“THINK.” Part of the teaching process is to foster independent thinking among your 

students. Was the Protestant Reformation truly a reformation? THINK about it!!! Access 

the validity of that statement. Is one proposition right, the other wrong? From when and 

where go on to how and why. 

While covering the Enlightenment, I stressed Voltaire’s adage: I may disagree with what 

you say, but I’ll stake my life on your right to say it. I encouraged my students, not only 

to practice that in classroom discussions, but throughout their lives. 

Whenever I concluded the Napoleonic era, I gave my class a treat and played an audio of 

Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. I gave them some background about the composer and the 

Russian campaign of Napoleon in 1812. As the piece was played, I requested that each 

student write down on a piece of paper what he thought was going on. Some 

interpretations were right on the historic button. Naturally, they all loved the ear-piercing 

finale, replete with cannons and bells. One student from my first class, Jack McKenna, 

apparently was so moved by the music of the Russian composer that many years later I 

ran into him at a Tchaikovsky summer concert in Central Park. We chatted for a while 

and I asked him what brought him to the concert from Kearny, New Jersey. He confessed 

that his love for the music of Tchaikovsky all started that day the music played in my 

World History class during his freshman year. I see Jack, now a sexagenarian, at least 

once a year. And, yes, he still loves Tchaikovosky. 

At the beginning of my fourth year at Essex Catholic, I was asked to teach all history. I 

reluctantly moved out of English but now I would be teaching United States History 1. In 

some cases, I would be moving up with Jack McKenna and others whom I taught World 

History as freshmen and English 2 as sophomores. 

PREPPING FOR THE PROVINCIALS 

The Provincial Exams, administered each June in the schools conducted by the Christian 

Brothers of Ireland, served as a barometer of both student and teacher performance. They 

were three-hour subject area exams and covered the entire year’s work. I took them while 

a student at Power Memorial Academy, except in those subjects that were covered by the 

New York State Board of Regents Exams. The Provincial’s were quite comprehensive 

but not as demanding as the Regents. A teacher’s future depended upon how well his 

class fared in these exams, as very little formal classroom observation was done at that 

time.

Behind the desk, I had to prepare the students for the World History and English 

Provincial Exams. The Education Department of the State of New Jersey did not 

administer statewide exams, as was the case in New York. Nothing like gearing a class 

for the end-all, standardized US-Canadian Provincial Exam. Ugh! 

In the early fall of 1961 I received a letter from the Provincial Office in my mailbox. It 

was mailed first class and looked rather official. I opened it up and read it. It was a letter 

from the Provincial, Brother William Penney, inviting me to write up the 1962 Provincial 

Exam in World History. I was elated and taken aback at the same time. Here I was, only 

three years in the profession being afforded the opportunity to write up an exam that 

would be administered in brothers’ high schools all across the United States and Canada. 

I accepted this honor and went about drafting the exam. I was not to share it with any of 

my colleagues. Secrecy had to prevail if the integrity of the exam was to be kept intact. 

The day of the lay teacher had arrived, for I was later told that I was the first lay teacher 

invited to write up a Provincial Exam. I did so with pride and pleasure. 

To this day I do not know who recommended me for this honor. I think that Brother 

Offer, in his role of principal, had a part to play, as well as Brother Dick Kelly, whose 

classroom was next to mine the previous year and who, himself, was a history teacher. 

Back in those days, there were no classroom observations by administrators. No one, but 

no one, had ever observed any of my classes in my first three years of teaching. So who 

recommended me to the Provincial Headquarters in New Rochelle? 

Pride nearly got the best of me. I thought of the meeting with my Guidance Counselor, 

Brother Egan, during my senior year at Iona College, who discouraged me from entering 

the teaching profession. He stated unequivocally that I would not make a good teacher. I 

was thinking of taking the letter that I had received from the Provincial up to Iona 

College and showing it to Brother Egan, my former guidance counselor. Here’s what 

your boss thinks of me as a teacher, Brother Egan. I gave the matter consideration and 

wisely decided against committing a deadly sin. Who sez I wouldn’t make a good 

teacher? 

NOVEMBER 9, 1965 – THE DAY THE LIGHTS WENT OUT 

A group of us including Tom Tobin were at McHugh’s Tavern when the east coast 

suffered a major power failure. Jack O’Connor, the day bartender must have served in the 

World War, the first World War, that is. He was a pleasant enough guy, but was easily 

agitated, stuttering out expletives at a mile a minute.

The five o’clock news had begun on November 9, 1965, when, about fifteen minutes 

later, the television stopped transmitting. Jack went on a rampage. We just spent twentyfive 

“f’___in” dollars to get the “g__ damn” thing fixed. He banged the television with 

his hand, again using some choice expletives, and still no picture. What had happened 

was that New York City and the entire northeast had experienced a blackout and at that 

time all the television signals were transmitted from the Empire State Building. Where 

were you when the lights went out on that November 9, 1965 evening? 

THE D’ASCOLI FAMILY – SPECIAL FRIENDS, SPECIAL PARENTS 

Bart D’Ascoli entered Essex Catholic as a freshman in September 1963. A resident of 

West Orange and a member of St. Joseph Parish, he was the older of two sons of Edmund 

and Catherine. I taught Bart American History in his junior and senior years. He was an 

average student who had to work hard to obtain better grades. It was at a Parent-Teacher 

Conference that I first met Bart’s parents, Ed and Catherine. I would meet them again at 

various functions including school dances. Ed was a carpenter by trade and, at the time 

was a homebuilder. Catherine was a housewife taking care of Bart’s younger brother, Ed, 

and her daughter, Kathy. Ed was a first generation Italian-American; Catherine had a rich 

heritage, part of which went back to the days of the Mayflower. Both parents felt strongly 

about sending Bart to a Catholic high school. Although it meant an hour’s travel and two 

buses each way, Ed felt that the local public schools were lacking in spiritual and moral 

values. He felt his son needed regimentation, needed discipline. Catherine, aware of the 

high rating of Essex Catholic, believed that a Catholic high school would best serve 

Bart’s needs. 

A chemistry developed between the teacher and the parents. 

Before too long, Ed invited my mom and myself up to his West Orange home for Sunday 

dinner. It was an Italian feast, the likes of which neither of us had ever experienced. 

Catherine’s culinary expertise was second to none. Mama mia! I said to myself – 

antipasto, pasta, meatballs and sausage, chicken – I thought the dinner would never end. 

And wine! What’s an Italian dinner without red wine? This would be the first of many 

visits to the D’Ascoli residence. 

Mom was a good judge of character and thought very highly of Ed and Catherine. Shortly 

before her death in 1968, mom asked Ed and Catherine to watch over me should she pass 

on. And they certainly have done that. Both Ed and Catherine are among my closest 

friends today.

A TEACHER GROWS IN AN EVER-GROWING SCHOOL 

The first ten years of my tenure at Essex Catholic saw an astronomical growth in the 

student body. Upon my arrival in 1958, the population was under six hundred. Ten years 

later we reached our height with some twenty-eight hundred students. The riots that tore 

Newark asunder in 1967 would contribute to the steady decline of the school population. 

In 1980, the renamed school relocated to East Orange. It closed its doors in 2004. 

The glory years between 1958-1968 saw a noticeable diversity in the school’s population. 

Black students, like Student Council president, Larry Schumaker, and Forensics Team 

member, Elliot Moorman, made for a more integrated student body. Larry went on to 

Notre Dame while Elliot elected Princeton. By the turn of the decade and into the 1970’s, 

a strong Portuguese presence at the school was evident, and today a graduate of 

1976,Victor Saraiva remains a good friend of mine. 

Essex Catholic’s cultural achievements were second to none in the State of New Jersey. 

Brother Martin, a belated vocation with Broadway experience, directed our first musical, 

The Boyfriend, in 1963. Noted Paulist and editor of The Catholic World, Father John B. 

Sheerin, addressed an evening program for parents and students on the impending 

Vatican II Council. Fr. Sheerin was a member of the US Press Corps covering this 

historic conclave and gave quite an insightful presentation. Our school newspaper, The 

Eagle, soared to new heights under the moderator-ship of English teacher, John King, and 

year after year took home the coveted Columbia Scholastic Press Association national 

awards. 

There was no shortage of SAT finalists and semi-finalists during those glory years at 

Essex Catholic. Appointments to the service academies were commonplace, as were 

admissions to the better institutions of higher learning. 

The Eagle’s of Essex Catholic was a state powerhouse, not only in the more popular 

sports of football and baseball but in some of the less popular sports as well. Track coach, 

Fred Dwyer, who was the first Jerseyman to clock a four minute mile, was the mentor of 

Marty Liquori . Marty was the third high school runner in history to run a sub fourminute 

mile. Brother Tony Naclerio coached Mark Murro in the javelin. Both 1967 grads 

went on to represent the United States in the 1968 Olympics held in Mexico. In the same 

league were the Krause brothers, Walt and Wayne, who under the able coaching of Dr. 

Sam D’Ambola, took Essex Catholic to new heights in fencing. Many a beer I quaffed 

with Walt Sr. in Ryan’s Tavern. It was there that I found out the difference between an 

epee, foil and saber. Brother Marty Germain from Dominica coached our soccer team and 

found tough competition from the nearby schools of Kearny and Harrison.

As Essex Catholic High School grew, so too did I. Learning from my mistakes, I became 

a better teacher. I was not satisfied with being restricted to the traditional ways of 

pedagogy. By no means was I a pedagogic iconoclast but rather I believed that the 

process of the science of teaching was an evolutionary one and such evolution involved 

innovation in the classroom. I wanted to better myself and better my students, and to do 

so meant being an innovative teacher. 

I did not pursue a higher degree, as did most of my colleagues. I didn’t even obtain 

certification from the State of New Jersey. Did this make me a lesser teacher? I don’t 

think so. My life as a highly successful master teacher is proof enough. I started the 

certification process by taking a couple of Education courses at Seton Hall University but 

never did complete the program. I wasn’t turned on by these unchallenging, pedagogical 

classes. If I wasn’t stimulated, how could I expect to enthuse my students? 

A PRINCIPAL FOR ALL SEASONS 

In late August of 1966, a tall well-built man in his late thirties entered the main office of 

Essex Catholic High School. He was unshaven and casually dressed. Mrs. Moritz, the 

school receptionist, alone in the office, was nervous. I’m sure she asked herself: Is this 

guy a local derelict who had come in out of the heat for a handout? The stranger in a 

deep, resonant voice commented: I just got in from Chicago. Whew! What a drive! The 

man, extending his hand outward toward Nettie Moritz said: I’m Brother Dennehy; 

Brother Dennehy, the new principal? 

Welcome to Essex Catholic, Brother! Mrs. Moritz said in a much relieved and confident 

tone. 

Where is the brother’s residence so I can clean up and deposit my luggage?

Brother William Vianney Dennehy had arrived. Essex Catholic, still soaring in its glory 

years, awaited his arrival. Would he be a good administrator? Would he be a traditionalist 

or would he work in tandem with progressive faculty members like Brothers Donald Paul 

Dwyer? How would he get along with the lay faculty? Questions and more questions. 

Time would tell. 

The principal’s term was three years. Brother Offer had served two terms. Brother Loftus, 

less than one term. Would he be a one-termer? 

Brother Dennehy was a very personable individual intent on shepherding Essex Catholic 

to its greatest heights. This he would do in spite of many obstacles along the way. He 

moved into the large oak paneled office on the second floor that once housed the 

president of Mutual Benefit Life Insurance Company. Whether from the command center 

or the classroom, he evaluated the needs of our ever-growing school and within a few 

months, began to implement dramatic changes. It became clear that we had a progressive 

principal within our midst. 

He worked closely with the faculty and had a great rapport with the Parents Clubs. He 

was a hit at the dances. The man with the rich baritone velvet voice didn’t need much 

prodding to sing: What kind of Fool am I and other Goulet favorites to the acclaim of the 

mothers and other dance attendees. 

He presided over his first graduation in June of 1967 in Sacred Heart Cathedral. It was 

the “class of journalists.” Joe Bakes became a Feature Editor at the Newark Star-Ledger, 

Jim White a News Editor at the Wall Street Journal, and Michael Redmond, who for 

many years was the chief music critic of the Newark Star-Ledger. All are my friends 

today, as well as Jim Ruffalo, who became a successful Wall Street strategist. Many 

members of that class went on to become successful doctors and lawyers. This was true 

of virtually every graduating Essex Catholic class in the 1960’s. 

Shortly after the conclusion of Brother Dennehy’s first year as principal, civil 

disturbances broke out in the City of Newark in July of 1967. The fortress structure called 

Essex Catholic was a safe haven for the brothers and was sealed shut during the riot. 

Fortunately, the riot did not affect that area of North Newark and both the building and 

the brothers remained unscathed. 

When school reopened in September of ‘67, the City of Newark had been dazed. But life 

goes on and so, too, did Essex Catholic.

There was one “surprise” in terms of new faculty at the opening staff meeting held in the 

commodious school library. A smiling, Irish-American lass, Peggy Conway, would now 

be part of the faculty (now we had better watch our off-color jokes in the faculty room). I 

think that the hiring of a female teacher in an all-boys school, coupled with the 

announcement that he was appointing a number of laymen to departmental 

chairmanships, signaled that the day had arrived when lay teachers were no longer second 

class citizens, at least not in the eyes of Essex Catholic’s new principal. 

A number of “firsts” took place during Brother Dennehy’s tenure as principal. Among 

them were: 

1. the appointment of layman, John Lonergan as assistant principal, a first in any of the 

brother’s schools or the Archdiocesan secondary schools; 

2. the creation of an Office of Public Relations with myself as Director; 

3. the creation of an Alumni Association with Tom Tobin as Director; 

4. the appointment of black layman, George Mc Dougald, as a Religion teacher; 

5. switching the graduation from the Sacred Heart Cathedral to Symphony Hall; and 

6. the beginning of student rotation to classes. 

I was so delighted when I heard the news of John Lonergan’s appointment. I had gotten 

to know John and his family well. His wife, Mary, a Polish-American from Wilkes-Barre, 

Pa., was part of my “inner circle.” His son, Ronnie, was a student at Essex Catholic and 

his three daughters, Siobhan, Maureen, and Kathleen were all born during their dad’s 

Essex Catholic years. I had hoped that John’s appointment wouldn’t interfere with 

frequenting our favorite watering hole after school. It didn’t, even though he may have 

arrived a little later than usual. 

Essex Catholic was now in its second decade. The previous year (1967), I coordinated a 

daylong program of festivities to celebrate its tenth birthday. It was now time to organize 

an alumni association. I approached Brother Dennehy with the idea and suggested that 

Tom Tobin would be the ideal candidate to lead such an organization. No sooner 

suggested than done. 

Poor George Mc Dougald was another story. One day this man of the classics announced 

to a select few of his colleagues that he was about to become a man of the cloth. Tom 

Tobin, Bill McCrystal, and myself were taken aback when he invited us to attend an 

ordination ceremony one Saturday morning in a storefront church in downtown Newark. 

He even prevailed upon Tom Tobin’s generosity to help him financially in his 

ecclesiastical escapades. Several of us attended the ceremony in what was clearly a 

schismatic church. Now, he was Father George, at least in the eyes of his church 

members. The following Monday, Brother Dennehy called Father George into his office. 

He asked the newly ordained for his blessing and promptly proceeded to fire him.

Certainly the Symphony Hall move was a good one. We had outgrown the cathedral, 

much to the chagrin of Archbishop Boland. His Excellency now had to deliver his 

address from the secular stage of Newark’s largest indoor theatre. How hedonistic! The 

class of ’68 was Essex Catholic’s largest graduating class. Clad in their white tuxedo 

jackets, nearly eight hundred graduates sat in the front rows of the hall. Brother Dennehy 

asked me to be in charge of the faculty procession. For the first time, the faculty would be 

clad in cap, gown and hood. As dean of the faculty, I lined up my colleagues on the basis 

of their seniority at Essex Catholic and then lead them down the center aisle and up onto 

the huge stage to the strains of Pomp and Circumstance. The valedictorian address was 

delivered by one of my proteges, Robert Tortoriello (I have the original address in my 

archives). With the subsequent decline in enrollment, the graduation would be moved 

back to the cathedral a few years later. 

One of the highlights of Brother Dennehy’s last year as principal was dynamite. Yes, 

dynamite. A typed letter with a Newark postmark of September 26 and marked 

“confidential” and “urgent” was received in the Principal’s Office the following day. 

Brother Dennehy opened the letter, which read in part: 

I am a member of a white militant organization and my conscience 

compels me to write to you. For the last year or more five sticks of an 

explosive material called gelenite have been stored in the basement of 

your school near some air ducts (vault area). Don’t try to trace this note. 

It is written on a store’s demonstration typewriter. 

Brother Dennehy sprung into action, calling John Lonergan into his office to read the 

unsigned letter. Maybe it’s a hoax, they thought. The two administrators proceeded to the 

subterranean area of the vault. It was dark in the duct area and neither party thought to 

bring a flashlight with them. John, a former physic teacher, struck a match to see of he 

could find anything. BOOM! Well, not really. They did find the sticks all wrapped in 

paper as the note specified. Back to the office. A call to the Emergency Squad. Newark’s 

Finest arrive for inspection of the sticks. Building must be vacated - without hysteria – 

police brass tell principal. 

A terse statement from the principal came over the public address system to the students 

saying: Everyone will please leave the building as we are having a routine police 

inspection. The school’s 2,650 students, as they waited on the street before they were 

dismissed, were told that there was a gas leak. Soon one student was saying to the other; 

Did you smell it? Yeah, me too.

The Newark Emergency Squad sandbagged the sticks and called the demolition experts 

from Fort Monmouth to address the emergency. The students were dismissed, as were the 

faculty. Brother Dennehy, John Lonergan and I watched the proceedings from across the 

street. The administrators, tired of waiting for the Army, decided to pass some time in Mc 

Hugh’s Tavern. The historian in me prevailed. I stuck around and watched the Army 

demolition team remove the explosives from the school and onto an awaiting truck. The 

escorted motorcade sped off into the sunset. I was informed by my friend, Captain Irving 

Moore, head of the Emergency Squad, that there was enough dynamite to level the 

granite six story building. God must have been watching over us. 

I rank William Dennehy as one of the two best principal’s with whom I have had the 

honor of working, the first being Brother Francis Offer. Brother Dennehy had to 

overcome many obstacles – a riot, a strike, accusations of racism in his school, discontent 

and suspicion within his own community, as well as disconcerting remarks from some of 

the faculty – and he rose to the occasion to address each and every obstacle. Brother 

Dennehy was the principal of Essex Catholic during the latter part of the sixties when the 

youth revolution and growing discontent against the war in Vietnam was swelling. We 

even had our own underground newspaper at the school. In spite of the negatives, he led, 

he inspired, and he brought Essex Catholic High School to heights that it had never 

before seen. In 1969 Brother Dennehy left Essex Catholic to become principal of 

Catholic Memorial just outside of Boston. Upon completion of his tenure in 1972, Bill 

Dennehy left the brothers and went on to pursue a career in public education. He married 

a colleague, Elaine, and moved into a home in Westwood, New Jersey, where they raised 

their two children, Michael and Erin. 

PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR 

I accepted the challenge as Director of Public Relations for Essex Catholic High School 

when Brother Dennehy appointed me in the late fall of 1966. It was the first such 

appointment in any Catholic school in the area and felt honored that I was chosen to fill 

the position. The position came with a period off, a stipend, a large office with my own 

private telephone line, and a well-stocked cabinet with supplies – and a bottle of Scotch, 

of course. One never knew whom I might have to entertain in this position. 

Speaking of entertaining, I suggested that Essex Catholic host a luncheon for the local 

press in our impressive, oak paneled Board Room. It seemed that all the official rooms in 

the building were oak paneled. We pulled out all the stops with a cocktail hour; you 

know, those three martini power lunches, and a buffet that would delight even the most 

demanding of Epicureans. I believed that sports coverage to be a given. Not so, however 

with the social and cultural activities of a school. It was my job to see that this was done.

The luncheon paid off for shortly thereafter the editor of a local weekly newspaper, the 

Newark Record invited me to write a weekly column of the life and times at Essex 

Catholic. I called my column “The Eagle’s Eyrie” and couldn’t help being elated when I 

saw my first article in print on December 22, 1966. A history of Essex Catholic is 

chronicled in the earlier columns of the newspaper, as well as the day-to-day activities of 

the school. This was an experience that taught me the importance of observing deadlines 

while enhancing my writing skills. The column ran for two years. 

As far as the Public Relations Office was concerned, it ceased to function at the end of 

the 1969 school year. The Superintendent of Schools, Monsignor Joseph P. Tuite, did not 

approve it in the ‘69-’70 Essex Catholic budget, because of fiscal constraints and the fact 

that such an office did not exist in other archdiocesan schools. So much for the Office of 

Public Relations! So much for logic! 

FADING “GLORY DAYS” AT ESSEX CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL 

The departure of my close friend, Tom Tobin, from Essex Catholic affected me 

adversely. The faculty gave him a big sendoff as he sailed for Europe on the Queen 

Elizabeth (I). 

I have often been asked what were the “glory years” of Essex Catholic. The answer can 

only be moot, but my answer is from 1960-1970. Some faculty use the Bicentennial year 

of 1976 as their benchmark. Few go beyond that point. 

In any case, the Newark riots of the summer of 1967 had a devastating effect on the 

Broadway high school. After reaching its zenith, enrollment-wise in 1968, it went into a 

free fall. Exacerbating the situation was the fact that parents from suburbia were 

apprehensive about sending their kids to what was fast becoming an inner-city school. 

Students were assaulted as they walked to get their bus on Bloomfield Avenue. 

Polarization was another factor that contributed to the decline and it was not an 

uncommon sight to witness a black-white altercation. The school was rapidly changing in 

its ethnic makeup with a greater increase in the black and Latino population, as well as a 

heavy presence of Portuguese from the Ironbound section of Newark and the towns of 

East Newark, Harrison and Kearny. 

With the departure of Brother Dennehy in June of 1969 and the entrance of Brother 

Bernie McIlmurray the following September, a new era at Essex Catholic had begun. 

Long hair, checked pants, and bow ties would be the dress of the day for many 

Essexmen. By the mid-1970’s, a decline of the academic quality of the school was 

becoming noticeable.

In September of 1968, I took over as Director of the Alumni Assn., replacing my buddy, 

Tom Tobin. Bert Tobia, from the class of ’63, was the foremost of its leaders. He remains 

to this day, the driving force behind the Alumni Association. At the end of the academic 

year, I was relieved of my command, and my position was taken over by a brother. I was 

a little bitter, as I helped found the association. Politics! 

~ 

In 1971, former Guidance Counselor, Brother Eugene O’Brien, took over the reins as 

principal. It was during this time that I took my first graduate course – a three credit 

institute on “Crime and Violence in Urban Schools” at Fordham University at Lincoln 

Center in NYC. It was an intensive all-day, two-week course. I wondered if I were up to 

the academic challenge. Seated in the main auditorium for the first session, someone 

tapped me on the shoulder from the row in back of me. It was my boss, Brother O’Brien. 

Each morning, the students assembled in the main auditorium for to hear a keynote 

speaker, followed by a question and answer session. During the morning break I chatted 

with Br. O’Brien. He was there completing work on his Pd.D., while I was there for a 

taste of higher education and perhaps to start my long-overdue masters degree. There 

were about two hundred educators in attendance and, following the break, each of us in 

groups of twenties, was assigned a room in one of the upper floors. Br. O’Brien as not 

assigned to my room, so there went my “brownie points.” However, we did meet each 

morning during the break where we chatted and compared our respective classes. 

It was here that I met my mentor, Dr. Renee Queen. She broke the ice and in round robin 

fashion asked each student to tell a little bit about himself. 

Hi! My name is Tom Murray, a social studies teacher from Essex Catholic High School 

in Newark. I think that I am the only student in this room to have attended grammar 

school on one side of your building (as I pointed to St. Paul the Apostle) and high school 

on the other side of the building (as I pointed to Power Memorial Academy). Yes, I was 

back in my old neighborhood again. 

A term paper was required and was due the following Wednesday. She would have them 

returned to us on Friday of that week, the last day of class. One term paper due in a week 

was too challenging for this neophyte graduate student 

The topic I chose was one based on a morning lecture by the Superintendent of Schools 

of the Archdiocese of New York. Having dealt with two superintendents in the 

Archdiocese of Newark, it was a breeze. However, I handed it in a day late, giving her 

only twenty-fours to correct it.

The two weeks went by quickly and I thoroughly enjoyed Dr. Queen and the educational 

experience. Two things happened the day before the last class. First, I invited “OB” to 

dinner after class on Friday. Secondly, a student mad a motion to end the final class with 

a wine and cheese party with each student bringing the cheese and libation of 

contributing to the kitty. Although I thought the idea as absurd in a Catholic institution, I 

went along with it – but then again, it was a Jesuit institution. 

The last official act of Dr. Queen was to return the term papers, noting that if you 

received one grade that was the grade for both the paper and the course. If your paper had 

two grades, the upper one was the paper grade and the lower one was the grade for the 

course. Slowly the good professor handed back the papers. Having submitted a day late, I 

knew my first graduate course grade would be dismal. 

Tom Murray! 

I went to the front of the room, picked up my paper and returned to my desk where I got 

up the courage to open the cover and look down at the first page. There were two grades. 

The top one far the term paper was a “B+” while the lower grade as an “A” for the 

course. Needless to say, I was in a celebratory mood and made haste to the table 

containing the wine and cheese. By the time I met “OB” in the lobby, I was in a “happy” 

mood. On our way to the Casa Del Monte Restaurant on west 72 nd Street, I mentioned to 

him that I received an “A” in the course. We knocked off a few drinks at the bar and than 

sat down to dinner. I next met Br. O’Brien in September at Essex Catholic when school 

opened. Privately, at our back-to-school reception, he said, Tom, you got me “bombed” 

that last night at the Casa. I felt like saying only you can get yourself “bombed.” 

In spite of a wonderful letter of encouragement from Dr. Queen, I never did pursue a 

master’s degree at Fordham or anyplace else, for the Bicentennial was fast approaching 

and plans for an appropriate observance in my school had to be made. 

~ 

The former dean, Brother Dick Kelly took the head job in 1974. In his new office he 

placed a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus – a black featured Sacred Heart. I couldn’t 

help but to think of one of the modern Catholic hymns, “What Color is God’s Skin.” 

It was during this time that Essex Catholic took statewide leadership in the Bicentennial 

movement and its Social Science Federation was the school’s most popular club. Many 

new ethnic clubs were being formed at this time, so I jumped on the bandwagon and 

founded the “Gaelic Society” and one didn’t have to be Irish to join the club.

During the 1975-76 academic year, I took an unpaid leave of absence to hopefully take a 

paying job as the Executive Director of the newly formed, Newark Bicentennial 

Commission. Once again, politics played a role, and I was denied the job that was 

virtually assured to me (see “Bicentennial Fever”). I eked my way through the year, 

barely subsisting on spaghetti and wine. One of the brothers was hospitalized and I was 

called in by Brother Kelly to fill his position from Easter until June. It was good to see a 

paycheck once more. 

Being unemployed, gave me much time to cogitate about my future. I remembered the 

words of Tom Tobin, Never grow old at Essex Catholic. Those words were sinking in. 

The school was continuing its rapid freefall, with enrollment ever- declining. The 

possibility of Essex Catholic shutting down remained a very real factor. Was there any 

future for me at Essex Catholic? 

An altercation between Brother Kelly and myself would help decide the answer. 

The spark that ignited the fire beneath my feet was a confrontation I had in early April 

1976 with the school principal, Brother Dick Kelly. The Monday morning following the 

Diocesan History Fair, he came storming into the school’s ballroom and in front of 

several of my Club members, demanded that the “junk” be removed forthwith. Victor 

Saraiva, a senior, and State President of the New Jersey Historical Society’s “Jerseymen” 

program, witnessed the public “tongue-lashing” and promptly took the “hyper” principal 

to task in a private setting outside the ballroom. Fortunately for Victor, he wasn’t 

expelled for his tete-a-tete with Brother Dick. 

John Lonergan, an Essex Catholic veteran of thirteen years, was principal of Mater Dei 

High School in New Monmouth, and he invited me to spend a few days with him and his 

family at their Eatontown home. The timing couldn’t have been better. I needed a few 

days to compose myself after the Kelly confrontation. During those days in Eatontown, I 

made the difficult decision to leave the city school and move to the New Jersey shore, 

taking a position at Mater Dei High School. One of the best decisions I ever made, for, 

indeed, I did not want to grow old at Essex Catholic.

Chapter 14 – BOTH SIDES OF THE HUDSON 

OUR TOWN, NEW JERSEY 

North Arlington was the typical New Jersey bedroom community bordered by Lyndhurst 

on the north, Kearny to the south, the Passaic River to the west, and the Meadowlands to 

the East. It was the southernmost Bergen county community. The Belleville Turnpike to 

the south separated Kearny from North Arlington, Bergen County from Hudson County. 

Ridge Road, the main shopping street, lay atop the crest of the hill, as did the Riverview 

Gardens. The town had little industry and consisted of one and two family homes. About 

one quarter of the town consisted of cemeteries. The largest, Holy Cross, is the last 

resting place for crime boss “Richie the Boot” Bioardo and Metropolitan Opera diva, 

Maria Jertiza. The “Boot” lived to the ripe old age of 93 while the diva did him one better 

and died at the age of 94. It must have been the good living. Property taxes were high 

because of the tax-exempt status of the church-owned cemeteries. 

North Arlington had good public and parochial school systems. North Arlington and 

Queen of Peace were the town’s high schools and traditional rivals in sporting events. 

Convenience was the hallmark of my newfound home. A bank, drug store, bakery, and 

other shops were just around the corner. 

Mom got to know Millie, who along with her son, Frank, operated the luncheonette. Her 

luncheon specials were mouth-watering and her meatballs among the best that I had ever 

tasted. Here, mom continued to pick up New York’s Picture Newspaper while I preferred 

reading the Newark Evening News and the Newark Star Ledger. 

People from all around north Jersey came to the North Arlington Diner for lunch or 

dinner. This spiffy chrome wonder was located at the bottom of the hill on the banks of 

the polluted Passaic River. I could be found at the diner on any given Friday, having fish 

cakes and macaroni while listening to Nat King Cole singing Chances Are on the 

counter-top jukebox. I always saved room for dessert as the diner was noted for their 

tempting, calorie-rich, post-dinner offerings – cheesecake, mountain-high lemon 

meringue pie, and rice pudding. Their rice pudding did not contain raisins and soon 

became my after dinner diner favorite. I hate raisins!

SOUTH OF THE BORDER – KEARNY, NEW JERSEY 

Across the Belleville Turnpike lay the town of Kearny, largely inhabited by first and 

second generation Irish and Scots-Irish. It was a town that I often frequented because of 

its proximity to my home. Ridge Road became Kearny Avenue once you crossed the 

turnpike and like its, North Arlington counterpart, was filled with shops and other places 

of business. 

Nothing like taking mom out for fish and chips at the Argyle Restaurant on a Friday 

evening or taking her to the more upscale Lyle’s Restaurant on the banks of the polluted 

Passaic River. I often brought mom here for an evening out as “Murph,” the maitre ‘d, 

escorted us to our river view table. A Manhattan cocktail, while munching on some 

cheddar cheese and crackers, was a ritual as I pursued the menu. The food was good and 

the prices reasonable. 

Lyle’s was not too far from “Two Guys,” one of the area’s earliest discount stores. It was 

founded by two guys from Harrison (the town below Kearny) and was a shopper’s 

paradise. I purchased my first “expensive” camera here in 1967, a Minolta 35mm for 

under fifty dollars. It’s still operational today – and so am I. 

Kearny had a sizeable library that paled in comparison to my town’s library. It was 

sizeable, endowed by Scotsman and philanthropist, Andrew Carnegie. 

It was on Kearny Ave., across the street from St. Cecilia’s Roman Catholic Church, 

where the office of our family doctor, John Kobes, was located. He was also the doctor of 

Marguerite Cowhey; thus the connection. Not too far away was the West Hudson 

Hospital on Bergen Avenue. 

Butcher shops and bars also contributed to the character of Kearny Avenue. I did not 

frequent the latter – at least, not in Kearny. Catering to the tastes of Irish, the butcher 

shops carried Irish sausage, Irish bacon, and both black and white puddings. Mom was 

the one who introduced me to black pudding or blood pudding as it is sometimes called. 

While it may sound repulsive because the pudding is marinated in pig’s blood, it is, 

nonetheless, very tasty when sauteed in bacon fat. One needs no lunch after a full Irish 

breakfast of eggs, bacon, black and white pudding, grilled tomato, Irish soda bread (less 

the raisins, of course), and a cup of strong Irish tea. Belch! Excuse me! 

Many of the old family’s of Kearny still remain. A new wave of immigrants from 

Portugal has made inroads in what was once a bastion of Irish and Scots-Irish. That is the 

story of Kearny. That is the story of America.

~ 

Unfortunately, North Arlington did not have a movie theatre. However, fortunately for 

this cinephile, the Lincoln Theatre on Kearny Avenue was less than two blocks from my 

home. I must have been a premiere patron. 

My first motion picture at the Lincoln was Darby O’Gill and the Little People. This 

Disney featured Leprechauns galore. The luck of the Irish was with the then unknown, 

young Scots actor, Sean Connery. A couple of years later I would again see Connery on 

the big screen in the role of Bond, James Bond, battling the evil Dr. No. I became an 

immediate convert to the Ian Fleming spy thrillers, for lest we forget, we were in the 

middle of the Cold War. We needed those villains and good guys. And what better place 

for them to fight the good fight than the silver screen. I loved Lotte Leyna as the Soviet 

officer in the second Bond movie, From Russia With Love. I’ve seen them all, the 101 

portrayers of James Bond, but Sean Connery remains my favorite 007. 

Alfred Hitchcock scared the heck out of me in 1960 with his Psycho. Even seasoned 

Director, Gus Van Zant, couldn’t come close to replicating the original classic a few 

years ago. The Birds had yet to fly from this master of suspense. A couple of years later, 

Janet Leigh, less her Psycho screams, starred in one of my favorite all-time thrillers, The 

Manchurian Candidate. It also starred one of my favorite actresses, a younger Angela 

Lansbury who portrayed a Machiavellian mother of a McCarthy-like senator. What 

brainwashing! 

I went over to the City to see the extravaganza-type movies including How the West was 

Won in Cinerama and Cukor’s delight, My Fair Lady. My favorite play light up the silver 

screen and it was “déjà vu” all over again for me. However, I was somewhat disappointed 

that Julie Andrews did not get to reprise her stage role of Eliza. 

Naturally, teacher motion pictures piqued my interest. A rather light Up the Down 

Staircase based on Bel Kaufman’s best -seller was released in 1967 with Sandy Dennis 

playing the role of the struggling New York City public school teacher. That same year, 

To Sir With Love was released and starred Sidney Poitier as a novice teacher in a troubled 

London school. It seemed that Poitier relished roles portraying public school teachers. 

Who can ever forget him in the much earlier film, The Blackboard Jungle. Sir appealed 

to me because of its realism – a minority teacher dealing with an unruly bunch of kids 

from blue-collar homes. Naturally, he wins their confidence and even dances with one of 

them in the closing moments of the film. In some senses, it was a film ahead of its time. 

Catch a young Patricia Routledge of Keeping Up Appearances fame, as one of Poitier’s 

colleagues and enjoy “student” Lulu singing the title song. 

Today, like so many movie houses, the Lincoln Theatre has been partitioned into several 

smaller theatres. Ugh!

NEW JERSEY AND ME, PERFECT TOGETHER 

I took to New Jersey as a duck takes to water. New York was only a half-hour bus ride 

away, so I had the best of both worlds – the Garden State and the Empire State. 

No sooner than I acclimated myself to suburban living, I began my love affair with the 

Garden State. The history of my newly found, and yet to be explored, State of New 

Jersey, would propel me into a new dimension of academia. In a matter of a year or so 

after moving to New Jersey, I would involve myself in many New Jersey- related projects 

and organizations, both civic and historic. The spark that lit the fire was the Tercentenary 

observance of New Jersey in 1964 and the subsequent 300 th anniversary of Newark in 

1966. The New Jersey Historical Society and its Jerseymen program also played a key 

role in my early development as a student of state and local history. In a matter of a short 

time, I had become an organizer of historic events and a researcher of the history behind 

these events. Executive Director of the New Jersey Historical Commission, Bernard 

Bush, New Jersey author, John T. Cunningham, and former dean and chairman of the 

History Department at Rutgers University, Dr. Richard P. McCormack, were but three of 

my associates in history circles. As the sixties decade progressed, I was recognized as a 

budding historian and made many appearances on the lecture circuit, speaking, not only 

on the Tercentenary movement, but on New Jersey History, as well. 

Dr. Edmund Tink, the Supt. of Schools of the Kearny public schools district, invited me 

to speak to the Ivy Circle, an organization that represented the entrenched, well-to-do 

families of Kearny. Dr. Tink picked me up at my home, met mom and then drove me to 

his elite Bellgrove home where the event was being held. Apparently, I impressed the 

good educator as he said to me upon dropping me off at the Gardens: Tom, if at any time 

you feel like leaving Essex Catholic and would like to come over to the Kearny system, 

we’d love to have you. It was an offer I did refuse. 

I often took mom on excursions, sharing my love of the Garden State with her. One of 

our most memorable experiences was a weekend trip one summer to Atlantic City. We 

stayed at the Claridge Hotel that billed itself as the “skyscraper” by the sea. We had a 

great vista of the city from the rooftop promenade as I pointed out to her many of the 

sites including Absecon Lighthouse and the great municipal auditorium that was the site 

of the Democratic National Convention in 1964. She opted to walk the world-famous 

boardwalk rather than to be wheeled in the comfort of a roller chair. It was pre-casino 

Atlantic City and the great hotels of a bygone era had not yet fallen to the wrecker’s ball. 

We bought a box of Fralinger’s salt-water taffy for Aunt Mary and sent out the 

mandatory Wish you were here postcards to our friends and neighbors. 

Unfortunately, New Jersey suffers from an “identity crisis” and has been the butt of many 

jokes for as long as I can remember. Even in the new millenium, television psychiatrist, 

Dr. Laura Schlesinger, referred to New Jersey in a derogatory manner shortly after the 

attack on the World Trade Center alluding that the terrorists should have singled out the 

Garden State, and not New York, for its attacks.

Yes, we are sandwiched in between New York City and Philadelphia. North and Central 

New Jersey is proliferated by the New York media; South New Jersey, from the air- 

waves of Philadelphia. Up until recently, the Garden State had but one New Jersey News 

program, thanks to PBS. Now News 12 fills that void to some degree. People driving 

down the turnpike from New York to southern destinations do not get an accurate 

portrayal of what New Jersey is all about. As the most densely populated state, we have a 

lot to be proud of; our contributions to history are many; New Jersey was and is a 

microcosm of our great country. Look around, as there are “acres of diamonds in our own 

backyard.” We do not have to travel to Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, to see where 

Washington and his troops encamped one winter. We have only to drive to Morristown 

and visit to the Ford Mansion that served as Washington’s headquarters, and nearby 

Jockey Hollow, that housed his troops, not one but three winters of the Revolutionary 

War – one of which was said to be the coldest. How often have I taken my students to 

visit this site – and so many more. 

KEEPING THE FAITH 

1962 was a year of great importance in the history of the Roman Catholic Church. It was 

the year of the first session of Vatican II, an ecumenical council of historic proportions, 

took place. General councils of the Church are a rarity and only twenty had previously 

been called in the nearly two millennia preceding Vatican II, mostly to combat schism, 

heresy and the like. Calling the bishops of the world to Rome, Pope John XXIII felt it 

was time to renew the Church, bring it into the modern world and end the division of 

non-Catholics who the pope referred to as our separated brethren. Change? Reform? 

Ecumenism? Allow non-Catholic observers at the Council? The ultra-conservative Curia 

wanted none of these things but the humble Angelo Roncalli would prevail. He thought 

that many fallen away Catholics may have had good reason to leave the autocratic 

Church. Collegiality, a sharing of leadership between the Bishop of Rome and the 

bishops of the world, must now be the new order of the largest single religious body in 

the world. 

The results of the first session of Vatican II would see visible changes in the way 

Catholics worshiped. No longer would the celebrant of the mass have his back to the 

people, but now would face his congregation. In the spirit of collegiality, the local bishop 

would make decisions regarding using the vernacular at rituals. Pope John XXIII called 

for a greater role of the laity in the role of the Church. His call would be implemented in 

short order. The groundwork for ecumenism had now been firmly laid.

I remained a conservative and, to a lesser degree, a traditional Catholic. However, being 

taught not to question papal authority, I embraced the reforms proposed by John XXIII. 

Yes, I would miss the Latin masses, especially the solemn high masses. I would miss the 

Gregorian chant of the “Credo” being sung by the choir in the universal language of the 

Church, but now the entire congregation would understand the language being spoken or 

sung. 

No more fasting from midnight in order to receive Holy Communion the next morning. 

Abstaining from meat on Friday’s never bothered me, but now I could have meatballs 

with my spaghetti instead of fish cakes. The penitential season of Lent now accentuated 

positive actions rather than depriving one’s self of worldly pleasures. I liked that, for now 

I would not have to give up drinking for Lent but rather practice “love of neighbor.” No 

more Dies Irae funeral Masses with the priest wearing black vestments but rather a 

liturgy of the Resurrection with the celebrant wearing white vestments. No longer a 

condemning God but a God of love and mercy. Perhaps, I wouldn’t burn in the fires of 

hell for all eternity, after all. While the C.G.C. – the Catholic Guilt Complex approach 

and the “fire and brimstone” sermons, now called homilies, may have abated in some 

parishes, they remained alive and well in others. They still do. 

Within a short period of time, I had come to fully embrace the reform movement. 

I thought, too, of my baby boomer students, many of whom were not practicing 

Catholics. What was turning them off? Perhaps a breath of fresh air in the stodgy 

atmosphere of the institutional church might bring them back to the sacraments. 

There were some who said that when the pope opened the door of the Church for a breath 

of fresh air, they did not expect a gale to blow in. Nothing like inhaling fresh air, 

especially with a stiff wind blowing in your face. How refreshing! 

~ 

Queen of Peace was a rather large New England-style church with its spire dominating 

the skyline and clearly visible from the New Jersey Turnpike. Its stained glass windows 

were quite unique inasmuch as they depicted scenes from American history that were 

influenced by Catholics. The golden gilt main altar with its blue curtain backdrop 

reminded one of a throne room befitting a queen. It was at QP that I registered as a 

parishioner upon moving to North Arlington in the fall of 1959.

My initial introduction to my new parish in North Arlington, Queen of Peace, was not a 

favorable one. Monsignor Peter B. O’Connor, QP’s pastor, believed in silent collections – 

bills only. Often, he went around with the basket himself and if a parishioner deposited 

any coins, he would soundly reprimand him in front of the entire congregation. While I 

agree that parishioner contributions are vital to the parish lifeline, there are ways and 

there are ways to accomplish the financial goals of the parish. Browbeating parishioners 

is not one of them, nor is use of the “bully pulpit.” So I left QP Parish and worshiped at 

St. Stephen’s in nearby Kearny until the passing of the “Tweed-type” monsignor. 

It was in the spirit of Vatican II that Queen of Peace moved forward in the mid-1960’s 

announcing that the laity would be playing a larger role in the liturgy. Laymen were 

invited to be lectors at the Sunday masses. Women would come later. Could altar girls be 

in the offing? It was at this point that I reactivated myself in the life of the parish and 

volunteered to be a lector. I remained a lector at QP until the early 1970’s while keeping 

the faith of my baptism. 

SUBURBAN OASIS 

Every town has its own unique watering hole. North Arlington was no exception. Tom 

and Sonny’s Cocktail Lounge lay on Ridge Road across from the National Community 

Bank. It was within easy access from the Gardens, only a two-minute walk, from door to 

door. The neon sign in the window beckoned all thirsty souls to enter. However, neon 

signs can be misleading, as the inert gas is usually sectionalized within the various 

compartments of the sign. So it was not uncommon to see Tom and Sonny’s Cock Bar or 

Tom and Sonny’s Tail Bar. 

Tom and Sonny were co-owners of the spacious bar. Tom was a large, well-built jovial 

guy while his partner, Sonny, was short and somewhat stocky. Tom had a personality to 

match his massive frame and was quite generous in his free drink policy. Sonny had 

neither. A patron could be sitting on the barstool all night and Sonny would pour the 

drinks and take the cash. 

Within the center of the wooden bar was a mini-stage on which stood a spinet piano. 

Every Saturday night Ted, the piano man, would play the golden oldies from his fake- 

book. His piano playing wasn’t bad but his singing left something to be desired. Sing-alongs 

were incorporated into the evening’s activities and some of the older husband and 

wife couples really did a “heart of my heart” job.

For some patrons, it was a matter of the more he played, the more they drank. I guess that 

was the idea of having a piano player on a Saturday night. After a few drinks, I was 

known to ascend onto the raised platform and with a certain amount of bravado, would 

proceed to present my limited repertoire to an even more limited number of weekday 

patrons. Occasionally, a local mainstay who was feeling no pain, would buy me a drink. 

Shortly, thereafter, I would step down from the platform and return to the drinker’s side 

of the bar and resume my quaffing. Before long, I too, was feeling no pain. 

Like the “pied piper,” many of my colleagues, some with their spouses, were joining me 

at Tom and Sonny’s on Saturday nights. John and Mary Lonergan usually came over 

from Newark with their neighbors, Lt. Jerry O’Connor of the Newark Police Department 

and his wife, Beryl. Tom Tobin, George Cluff, Pat Hoey – they all were there. 

I was nearly knocked off my barstool at our annual St. Patrick’s night get-together for 

Essex Catholic faculty in1968 when our new vice principal, John Lonergan entered the 

premises with Brother Dennehy, and Brother Mc Adams tagging along. It was almost 

unheard of to have a man of the cloth frequent a place such as Tom and Sonny’s. It would 

be one of many trips that “Big Bill” Dennehy would make to our North Arlington oasis. 

He was now one of us. 

One Saturday night our group closed up the place at 2AM in the morning. It was 

snowing. What was a mature bunch of educators to do under such circumstances? Engage 

in a snowball fight, of course. I can set it now – the principal, vice principal, brothers, lay 

teachers – some twelve or so grown men and women, all engaged in a snowball fight 

right in the middle of a quiet and desolate Ridge Road. We had a ball, no pun intended, 

on that most unusual, carefree, memorable night. Let it snow! 

GOING COLORED DURING THE GOLDEN AGE OF TELEVISION 

One of my first major expenditures upon arriving in my new home was the purchase of a 

Sylvania console colored television set. The days of a black and white, small screen 

monitor were history. Now I could relax from the living room couch and view television 

during its finest hour. I could choose from seven New York-based channels, the largest 

selection in the country at the time. 

Variety ruled! I’m not only talking about the variety type show but the variation of types 

of shows presented.

Variety shows still held their popular appeal. Bob Hope was going strong with his 

Texaco Star Theatre, as was Perry and the rest of them. Ed Sullivan facilitated the British 

invasion of America to the delight of screaming Beatle fans. As with Elvis, I rejected this 

type of entertainment as ludicrous, lewd and loud. If I had my way, I would have sent 

these four longhaired hippies back to Britain on the next boat. However, the passage of 

time would allow me to lesser deprecate the invading troubadours. 

We had quite an espionage menu: The Avengers with versatile Diana Rigg; I Spy with 

Bill Cosby; The Man from U.N.C.L.E. with Robert Vaughn; and my favorite, Secret 

Agent with Patrick McGoohan. I love that “Secret Agent” theme. Let’s not forget Mission 

Impossible. 

World War II comedies were popular with Hogan’s Heroes set in a POW camp in Europe 

and McHale’s Navy set aboard a PT boat in the Pacific. I gave the edge to Col. Hogan 

and his boys and loved their madcap adventure. Commandant Klink, portrayed by 

Werner Klemperer, was my favorite bad guy, with Sergeant “I Know Nothing” Schultz 

not far behind. 

In 1966 the “Caped Crusader” made his television debut. Adam West was the new 

“Batman” and Burt Ward his young crime fighter, Robin. Some top actors played roles of 

Batman’s adversaries. “POW!” - take that, Penguin. 

PCQ30: Who played the role of –“ quack, quack, quack” – the Penguin? 

Fred Gwynne abandoned his Car 54 to become Herman, patriarch of The Munsters. For 

me, it was the Addams Family, far ahead of the Munster family – more innovative, more 

diverse (characters and plots) and more fun. Thank you, Thing. 

I Dream of Jeannie went spell to spell with Bewitched. Both were entertaining. 

If I left our any of your favorites, please forgive me. I am limited in terms of space, be it 

Star Trek or whatever. It was the Golden Age of Television. 

BREAKING UP THAT OLD GANG OF MINE 

Within a decade, three of my closest friends tied the knot while the fourth would leave 

the area. The first to “take the plunge” was my longtime friend and Essex Catholic 

colleague, Pat Hoey. Take the plunge? 

I returned to my old parish church of St. Paul the Apostle on Saturday afternoon, August 

6, 1960, for the wedding and Pat and Maureen Hoey and served as an usher for the 

wedding party. I remember watching them from my 363-window many years before, 

walking hand in hand. It seemed like a match made in heaven.

The reception was held in the upscale Tavern on the Green in Central Park. 

Pat and Maureen eventually wound up buying a home in Lyndhurst where they raised 

their three children, Marguerite, Patrick and Daniel. I have the honor of being Daniel’s 

godfather. 

Pat retired in 1995 after some thirty-six years as a teacher at Essex Catholic and although 

he lost Maureen a few years ago, Pat and I remain steadfast friends today. 

~ 

Joe Rodriguez was working for ATT as an engineer when he met Pauline Smith from 

Wayne, Michigan. Joe asked me to be best man the Congregational Church on December 

9, 1961 and I immediately accepted this honor without thinking that I could be 

excommunicated from the Roman Catholic Church for participating in a non-Catholic 

ritual. As best man, I coordinated a bachelor party for Joe at Gilhouly’s on 47 th and 8 th . 

As the date drew near, this conservative Catholic was beginning to have qualms about 

taking an active role in this non-Catholic wedding. If I were to die in the wilderness of 

Michigan, I could be denied the last rites of the Holy, Roman Catholic Church and spend 

eternity in hell. Ouch! However, loyalty to my friend Joe prevailed and so I flew out to 

Michigan to be best man at my friend’s wedding. 

Since the wedding, I have made several trips to Michigan and picked up some of the 

Midwestern vernacular. I drank a “pop” instead of a soda and found out that Wednesday 

was “hump day,” if you’ll pardon the expression. 

Joe and Pauline had two children and provided for his parents final years in a nearby 

apartment. No nursing home for my parents, said Joe. His dad, Ramon, lived into his 

nineties while his mom, Irene, passed away at the age of one hundred and six, at which 

time I flew out to Detroit to deliver the eulogy at the funeral mass. 

~ 

On April 4, 1970, my friend and mentor, Tom Kostka wed Mary Elizabeth Flaherty, a 

devout Irish-Catholic from Boston. A few years earlier, he got laicized after serving 

twenty-eight years as a Christian Brother of Ireland. Afterwards, he complained about the 

“politics” in the Congregation. He wound up as a public school teacher at Westbury High 

School on Long Island thanks to the efforts of my former colleague, John Flood, who was 

chair of the Social Studies Dept. 

I was elated when my idol asked me to be his best man at the Roman Catholic ritual and 

had met his bride-to-be, Mary Flaherty, on previous trips to “Beantown.”

They settled down on Brentwood where they would raise their one and only child, Mary 

Beth. I was further honored when Tom asked me to be her godfather. Many a night I 

spent in Brentwood frolicking in the large living room that my friend, Ed D’Ascoli, 

helped build. Many a night I spent making a fool of myself trying to dance to the tune of 

Lassie Come and Dance with Me or a fast moving polka. 

Tom, I need another drink. 

Mary Beth, is now in her mid-thirties and has followed in her father’s and godfather’s 

footsteps and is an elementary school teacher out on the Island. 

Sadly, Tom passed away from cancer the day after New Year’s in 1986. I attended his 

funeral and recollected the happy days that we spent together both in and out of the 

classroom. 

~ 

Tom Tobin was a confirmed, celibate bachelor. As my closest friend and colleague at 

Essex Catholic High School for some ten years, I was taken aback when he announced 

that he would be leaving the States for England in June. I was saddened when I joined 

John Ennis and other friends and colleagues aboard the Queen Elizabeth (I) for a bon 

voyage party. Perhaps he was taking the advice that he once gave me: Never grow old at 

Essex Catholic. 

While attending a London reception of the Ministry of Education for the Province of 

Quebec, he was offered and accepted a teaching position in at MacDonald-Cartier, a 

Montreal suburban high school. He would spend twenty years there until his retirement. 

Over the years, we would develop the ultimate platonic relationship. I visited Tom at his 

Greenfield Park apartment on the south shore of Montreal several times a year. I would 

think nothing of making the eight-hour drive as the crow flies from Red Bank to 

Montreal. Often I took the less than an hour flight from “EWR.” Oftentimes, during the 

Christmas holidays, Tom visited me here in Red Bank before leaving to visit his sister, 

Sister Ethelenda, in Baltimore. 

It was like losing a brother when Tom passed away from cancer on June 2, 1997. And, 

yes, I delivered the eulogy at his funeral too.

MY WEST SIDE STORY 

There was much ado in the old neighborhood a few months before I made the move to 

New Jersey. On May 14, 1959, President Eisenhower, accompanied by New York City 

Mayor, Bob Wagner, broke ground for what would become the Lincoln Center for the 

Performing Arts. Even Moses was there to give his “blessing” to the event. The new 

center would stretch from 62 thru 66 Streets and from Broadway to Amsterdam Avenue. 

It would be a world-class cultural mega-center, second to none. An opera house, a 

philharmonic hall, theaters for ballet and smaller concerts, a performing arts library, and a 

school of music – all housed in the four square block area. A piazza was the centerpiece 

of the complex and would rival Europe’s finest. It took ten years for the grand plan to be 

completed, the Metropolitan Opera being the first to open its doors in 1966. 

PCQ31: The works of what modern artist adorn the wall of the Metropolitan Opera 

House? 

In a way, I was saddened to see some of my favorite venues demolished and some of my 

friends forced to move away by right of eminent domain but New York sorely needed a 

performing arts center. After all, we were the capital of the world – and still are! 

Prior to the demolition, the site was the setting for some of the scenes of the film version 

of Leonard Bernstein’s West Side Story (1961). However, in real life, it was the Panthers 

Who claimed part of the Lincoln Center turf and not the “Jets” or the “Sharks.” 

In the early 1970’s, I made my first trip to the new Met at the invitation of Joan Hull, the 

Executive Director of the New Jersey Historical Society, to see Aida. Although I was 

never a big fan of opera, I accepted and joined Joan and Florence Athay of Butler High 

School for the performance. It was a jacket and tie event. Entering the foyer from the 

piazza was a most impressive sight – the Chagall murals, the starburst chandelier and the 

red-carpeted grand staircase. Wow, what opulence! 

Naturally, the Triumphal March was stirring. Upon its conclusion, I started to clap 

enthusiastically but was immediately restrained by Joan. Proper etiquette demands that 

applause is given only after each scene. Sipping champagne overlooking the piazza was 

exhilarating too. 

In 1976, I went alone to see Turandot, after I was informed that Marc Verzatt, a former 

student from Essex Catholic’s class of ’66, was performing. Marc was with the 

Metropolitan Opera Ballet Company and his role in the opera was an important one. It 

wasn’t that I enjoyed the opera as much as seeing one of my former students performing 

in it. Afterwards I met Marc at the stage door, gave him a congratulatory hug, and then 

proceeded to a local watering hole for a drink. His role as a ballet dancer was only the 

beginning of a stellar career in the performing arts. 

~

Carnegie Hall was only a few blocks from Lincoln Center and three blocks from where I 

lived. The concert Hall reigned supreme as one of the world’s greatest, one with 

impeccable acoustics. Sadly, I never attended at concert when I lived at 363 West 57 

Street. That was to change. As a Garden Stater, I received my first invitation to attend a 

benefit performance of Joey Alfidi on Saturday evening, October 6, 1962. Joey, in his 

late teens, was a composer, conductor and pianist. The piano concert with an orchestral 

background was worth every bit of the $3.00 admission price. While playing the Piano 

Concerto # 1, I’m sure Joey thought of the Russian composer, Peter Tchaikowsky, who 

opened the famed concert hall well over six decades earlier. I returned to Carnegie Hall 

several times since that 1962 concert. I wonder what ever happened to Joey? 

~ 

Part of the Lincoln Center redevelopment program included the building of a midtown 

campus for Fordham University between 60 and 62 Streets. It was immediately south of 

the Performing Arts Center and across the street from the Church of St. Paul the Apostle. 

The new campus would incorporate the university’s law and education schools. The 

Rams now would be proliferating the midtown area of Manhattan. 

During the summer of 1973, I enrolled in my first graduate course at the Fordham School 

of Education. Entitled, Crime and Violence in Urban Schools, it was a two-week, all day, 

intensive course. Each day started with a keynote speaker in the auditorium followed by a 

Q&A session. After a break, it was lunch and then the students broke down into smaller 

groups where they met with their respective mentor in the classrooms of the twelfth floor. 

On the opening day as I sat in the auditorium pondering my academic fate with the Jesuitrun 

intellectual community, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. It was 

Brother Eugene O’Brien, principal of Essex Catholic High School. Brother was a 

doctoral candidate and was taking a course toward that end. Me? I told him that I was 

contemplating starting on a Master’s degree program and wanted a taste of what a 

graduate course might be like. Nothing like scoring a few “brownie points” with your 

boss! So every morning we chatted in the auditorium before the presentation. More 

“brownie points.” 

Every afternoon, it was up to the twelfth floor where Dr. Renee Queen mentored twenty 

other students and myself. At the first session she asked that each student give her a brief 

bio as went from desk to desk. I remarked: I think that I am the only person in this room 

to have attended grammar school on one side of this building and high school on the 

other. A decade or so later both buildings would be razed in the name of gentrification. 

Dr. Queen required a pre-approved term paper the following Tuesday and noted it would 

be returned on Friday, the last day of class. I opted to write the paper based on remarks 

delivered by the Deputy Supt. of Schools of the Archdiocese of New York. In order to 

build up those “brownie points,” I slated Brother O’Brien for an interview. I handed in 

the paper a day late and feared the consequences.

The two weeks flew by and on the next to last day one of the student’s proposed that we 

end classes on Friday with a wine and cheese party. The Age of Aquarius had arrived in 

this bedrock Catholic institution of higher learning. It was fierce; it was worse than 

fierce! However, I did relent and contributed a couple of bucks to the kitty. 

I sat nervously in my desk on the last day of class as Dr. Queen returned the term papers. 

She noted that if only one grade appeared on the last page of the paper, it was your term 

paper grade and the grade for the course. If two letters appeared, the upper letter was your 

term paper grade and the lower letter your course grade. My stomach began to churn. My 

angst began to show. Tom Murray? I sheepishly went to the desk and picked up my 

paper. I cautiously opened to the back page and observed that there were two grades – a 

“B+” for the term paper and an “A” for the course. Let the party begin! 

Dr. Queen made my commute to daily commute to Manhattan well worthwhile and I 

proceeded to write her a note of appreciation while inquiring about a degree program at 

Fordham. She was very supportive of this “unorthodox” teacher, replying: We need 

teachers of your caliber in the program. For whatever reason, I deferred entering the 

Master’s program. 

An ecstatic and well-fortified Tom Murray met Brother O’B in the lobby and from there 

we walked up to 72 Street, the home of the Casa Delmonte Restaurant. We had a few 

drinks at the bar and after two Scotch’s Brother was putting on a happy face. After a nice 

dinner and scoring a few more “brownie points,” we took a cab to Port Authority to catch 

our respective bus back home to New Jersey. When I saw him back at school in 

September, he said: Tom you got me bombed that night at the Casa Delmonte. Tsk! Tsk! 

Tom. 

CRUISIN’ AT THE CASA 

Located on Manhattan’s upper west side at 72 Street, the Casa Delmonte had been a 

revered eatery for years. Although living in New Jersey, it remained my favorite City 

restaurant. It was one of the most vibrant areas in the City and a bastion of the 

Democratic Party. Verdi Square near Central Savings Bank on Broadway was earning its 

name, Needle Park. Massage parlors and adult bookstores began to appear in the early 

1970’s. None of these things prevented men from meeting my friends at the Casa. 

The Casa had the best reasonably priced Italian food on the upper west side. In 1970, one 

could get a complete Veal Parmigiana dinner, including appetizer, soup, entrée with 

potato and vegetable, dessert and coffee, for only $5.70. Wine, tax and tip were extra.

Al Gamache was the bartender and quite a mixologist. Invariably, I had a Manhattan at 

the bar and another when I sat down for dinner. The locals were quite interesting 

characters and made for good conversation. One local was Carolyn Bennett, the Pink 

Lady, who usually sat unaccompanied at the bar. Pink seemed to be the in color of this 

trend-setting neighborhood and, I’m sure abounded with commies and pinkos back in the 

fifties. Carolyn, an executive secretary for WOR Radio, and I became bar mates. Later 

she invited a couple of students and myself for a visit to the famed broadcasting studio. 

We were introduced to John A. Gambling, Patricia McCann, John Wingate and the cigarpuffing, 

Howard Cossell. It was fun watching broadcasting at its best. 

Located only blocks from Lincoln Center, opera singer dishes were among my favorites: 

Spaghetti Caruso with chicken livers mushrooms and tomato sauce or Chicken 

Tetrazzini, baked with a cream sauce, mushrooms, thin slices of chicken and topped off 

with cheese. If one had room for dessert, there was always Peach Melba. 

Lil and Joan were other steadies at the Casa. One evening while I was having an after 

dinner drink with them at the bar, they invited me to join them for a nightcap at a bar 

across the street. As Lil put in a quarter in the jukebox, she invited me to dance with her. 

Ray Price was singing, For the Good Times, as I made a feeble attempt at dancing, 

fumbling with each step taken. I didn’t do too well, prompting Lil to say: Tom, you 

should spend more time dancing and less time drinking. 

And then there was the madam. From my table, I espied a gray-haired (non-tinted), 

middle age lady enter the bar area accompanied by several young ladies of various 

cultural backgrounds. My first thought was that the older lady was a madam from a local 

massage parlor and the girls were her masseuses. What else could I think? Several weeks 

later, I had just returned by my first ever, trip to Ireland, and sitting at the bar when the 

madam walked in and sat next to me. Normally, I would be too shy to open a 

conversation. However, I was well fortified and broke the ice, saying: Hi, I just got back 

from Ireland earlier in the week. What a beautiful country. Responding, the madam said: 

Really? I was born in Roscommon. So was my mother, Delia, born in Roscommon. The 

ice was broken and a long conversation ensued. Angela was not who I thought she was 

but rather the proprietor of the Hair Clinique, a beauty salon across the street, and she 

and her girls usually stopped in the Casa for an after-work drink. In time, I go to know 

the girls and soon I was going across the street for a treatment – shampoo, blow dry 

styled haircut – the works. What a difference blow drying makes! 

My all-time favorite restaurant is long gone. It closed its doors in 1977 and was replaced 

by Palsson’s Supper Club. In January 1982, an unemployed actor, Gerard Allesandri, 

showcased Forbidden Broadway in its upstairs room. It ran for years.

BITTEN BY THE TRAVEL BUG 

It was during my early years of teaching that I was bitten by the travel bug. While I loved 

my newly adopted state, I jumped at every opportunity to travel from without its borders. 

Five decades later, I’m still a traveling man. 

~ 

My first trip outside the borders of the United States was an auto trip to Montreal during 

the summer of 1960 with my friend, Joe Rodriguez. He was not yet married and was 

bringing home a hefty paycheck from his job with AT&T. He could well afford the black 

Thunderbird convertible that he purchased the previous year. 

It was an extended weekend trip with on overnight stop at Plattsburg, just south of the 

border. This college town is one of the coldest spots in the country during the winter. We 

crossed the border without any problem, bidding a bonjour to the immigration official 

and receiving a bienvenue in response. 

Upon checking into our hotel on Dorchester Boulevard, since renamed Rene Levesque 

Blvd. as part of the Francophile movement, we were free to explore the world’s second 

largest French-speaking city. Joe had won the French medal at Power Memorial 

Academy but fortunately for both of us, Montreal was a bilingual city. Oui! 

Montreal was not yet gentrified. The great modern skyscrapers and the metro had not yet 

been built. Mayor Drapeau had not yet arrived. 

Religious sites abounded in this very Catholic city. We drove up the Cote Des Neiges to 

St. Joseph’s Oratory that lay atop the Royal Mountain. We walked down St. Catherine 

Street perusing the shops, had a smoked meat sandwich at one of the many delis found on 

this main thoroughfare, and saved room for a Molson’s at the men only, Peel Pub. 

On Saturday, our second night in town, we explored Montreal’s nightlife. In this spirit, 

we wandered into the Chez Paree Nightclub on Stanley Street. The drinks were pricer, 

very revealing; the entertainment revealing, very revealing. Two of the entertainers 

visited our table after they finished their erotic performance. That was quite a treat, I 

thought. 

Would you girls like a drink? 

Oui, they responded in unison.

They both ordered a piccolo of champagne, one of the most expensive drinks in the 

house. I guess this is why they call the “B” girls – “B” for buy. 

I was now twenty-six years old, still a virgin, and darn proud of it. However, I would be 

tested to the limit that night in the Chez Paree. Both girls were doing their thing with Joe 

and me. My girl was fondling my private parts, a first for me. I’m not sure whether or not 

I rose to the occasion but Joe seemed to be enjoying the erotic adventures. I felt very 

uncomfortable being manhandled, if you’ll pardon the expression. Accordingly, I put my 

hand into my pant’s pocket and started fingering the beads of my rosary while saying at 

silent prayer: Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me. Sanctifying grace prevailed and the Holy 

Ghost gave me the courage to push away my lap dancer and, subsequently, excuse myself 

from the table. I returned to my hotel while Joe opted to stay at the club. 

We headed back to New Jersey the next day. I drove Joe’s state of the art car once we 

passed the border as Joe was drained from the night before. 

That was the first of many trips to Montreal. 

~ 

Come on down, said Jim Dooley, a television spokesperson for a national airline (no pun 

intended) promoting tourism in Florida. During the Christmas break of 1964, I took his 

advice. Miami was my first choice for December 26 or27 but Miami was booked and the 

travel agent suggested that I choose another destination. Although Connie Francis had 

made Fort Lauderdale at hit with the song and title movie, Where the Boys Are, I wasn’t 

in the mood to go to a college kid’s Mecca. The agent suggested Palm Beach, a 

playground for the rich and famous, and that was fine with me. Besides, my friend from 

the Harvard Club, Joe Murphy, spent part of the winter there. 

I found a reasonably priced motel on the south end of Palm Beach close to the Lake 

Worth Pier and rented a car to get around. PB did not have the hustle and bustle of Miami 

and was so much more sophisticated. While I had use of a car, I walked to so many 

places in the area including the Lake Worth Pier and the City of Lake Worth. Once I 

circumnavigated PB heading north on AIA, passing the baronial estates on the way to 

Palm Beach proper, over the bridge to West Palm Beach and the Dixie Highway (Route 

1) where I headed south to Lake Worth, over the bridge and was back in the afternoon for 

a tall, cooling drink. 

Often, I drove down to fashionable Worth Avenue, did window-shopping, fancied the 

poodle drinking fountain, and treated myself to dinner at he Petite Marmite restaurant on 

my birthday. Being the good Catholic that I was, I attended Sunday mass at St. Edward’s 

Roman Catholic Church – the church of the Kennedy’s, and many others on the Irish- 

American “A” list. I don’t think that I ever saw as many Rolls Royce’s automobiles than 

I did at St. Edward’s. Many of the worshippers walked down the street to O’Hara’s Pub 

for a tall brew or something stronger; some, I’m sure, for a taste of the hair of the hound 

that bit them the night before.

One day, I drove down to Fort Lauderdale to have dinner with a former Essex Catholic 

colleague who had move there with his wife. While driving back to Palm Beach along 

Route 1, I decided to see the movie, Goldfinger, as I was a diehard Sean Connery fan. It 

is today my all-time favorite James Bond flick, replete with its unforgettable characters: 

Goldfinger, Odd Job, and, of course, Pussy Galore. 

I returned to Palm Beach the following year with mom in tow. We took one of the silver 

trains from Newark to West Palm Beach and occupied a roomette during the twentyseven 

hour journey. Both of us loved the long train-ride. 

Delia and I stayed at an the same resort that I stayed at in 1964 except that I booked an 

efficiency so there would be more room for mom and the opportunity to do some light 

cooking. The Holiday Inn was a short walk and we often had dinner there while listening 

to the Jay Lee Trio playing Cabaret. Mom sunned herself on the beach while I went 

down to the Lake Worth Pier to watch the anglers’ cast their rods. It is a scene to watch a 

pelican swoop down and try to steal a fisherman’s catch. It can become a very entangled 

situation. 

Mom loved Florida so much that Aunt Mary and I decided that she should spend most of 

the winter of 1967-68 there. Aunt Mary sold off some of her stocks to make the trip 

possible and accordingly, reserved a one-bedroom apartment for mom and herself. I 

joined then at Christmastime heading south by train in our own private apartment. Dinner 

at the Petite Marmite and a meeting with Joe Murphy enhanced the holidays. 

I flew down twice while they were there, once on a long weekend that allowed me to visit 

the Nova School in Fort Lauderdale, and the second to return home with mom and Aunt 

Mary in March. I’m glad that things worked out the way they did. 

~ 

Vocations to the priesthood and the religious were still plentiful in the early 1960’s. So it 

was not surprising to see a dominance of clergy and religious when I attended the 

National Catholic Education Association in St. Louis in1963. Fully clad nuns with their 

fully starched collars, as well as fully clad priest and brothers in their fully starched 

collars, were in a clear majority on the convention floor. That would change as the 

stormy sixties progressed. It was my first-ever convention and like a good conventioneer, 

I picked up all the free samples that I could carry; textbooks were mailed to me at Essex 

Catholic High School. 

In the pre-arch days, this city of song offered the visitor several diversities. One was a 

tour of Anheuser-Busch, one of America’s largest breweries. Especially enticing was its 

new brew, Michelob. A sampling was in order.

One night, I discovered Dixieland Jazz in this Gateway City. A convert was made over a 

pitcher of Michelob. I loved the heavy brass and as I sung and clapped: Oh When the 

Saints Go Marching In. 

~ 

Many of us who have landed at Newark Airport (EWR) have noticed from our seat on the 

right side of the aircraft, the Anheuser-Busch plant on Route 1. Atop the roof of the plant 

is a huge, illuminated “flying” eagle. It is such an impressive sight as one approaches the 

airport due south, descending from the evening skies with motors decelerated and only 

seconds from touchdown. 

For me, I know that when I see the Big A’s “Flying Eagle” that I have arrived back home, 

safe and sound, from yet another trip. Since bitten by the travel bug, I have seen most of 

the fifty states and have made nearly fifty, round trip, trans-Atlantic crossings. That said, 

I find that there’s no place like New Jersey – be it ever so humble. 

NO MORE PUTTING DOWN NEW JERSEY 

New Jersey, sandwiched in between New York and Philadelphia, has been the butt of so 

many jokes. Initially, I laughed too. It was like hearing a good dirty joke. But no more! 

I take exception to anyone belittling the Garden State and will let him know so. 

New Jersey has been very good to me and I have gotten to know it very well. It is my 

home and I love it.

Chapter 15 – HISTORY CAN BE FUN 

THE SOCIAL SCIENCE FEDERATION 

At the suggestion of my colleague, John Flood, I founded the Social Science Federation 

of Essex Catholic High School in the fall of 1961. After submitting its charter for 

approval by the principal, Brother Offer, I called the first meeting on October 3. The 

turnout was terrific with some sixty Essex Catholic students in attendance. From this 

group I would choose the leadership team, headed up by senior, Sabino T. Iovino, as 

president. Under his capable leadership, the SSF would grow into one of our school’s 

most active clubs and for many years I would serve as its moderator. 

The first event of the new school club was the observance of UN Day on October 24. 

Unlike similar observances in previous years that I coordinated on my own, this one 

would be under the SSF banner and dedicated to the memory of UN Secretary-General, 

Dag Hammarsjold, who was killed earlier that year in a plane crash in Africa while on a 

peace mission in the Congo. UN Day was observed with a modest display in the rotunda 

and a panel discussion on the world organization. 

One of my first acts as moderator of the newly formed history club was to introduce 

myself to our neighbor, the New Jersey Historical Society. Located at 230 Broadway, this 

private institution was founded in 1845 and was the depository of artifacts and records 

that went back to New Jersey’s founding roots. I was introduced to Howard Wiseman 

who was the assistant to the Society’s Director, Robert Lunny. Howard proved to be an 

amiable gentleman and was an executive member of the Sons of the American 

Revolution. I had never met a SAR before. Soon, some of my students were doing 

projects that involved research at the Society and found Mr.Wiseman to be more than 

helpful. On the other hand, Mr. Lunny seemed standoffish and quite WASP-ish in dealing 

with that Catholic school up the block. I was delighted when I found one Papist on the 

staff. Yola Crawbuck, a parishioner from nearby Good Counsel Church, was the 

Membership Secretary of the Society and had a great sense of humor – about the only one 

in this staid institution.

Our first major presentation was held on December 7, 1961commemorating the centenary 

of the Civil War. It consisted of a student poster and model contest and an exhibit of Civil 

War artifacts on loan from the New Jersey Historical Society. The student works and the 

memorabilia were viewed in the school ballroom from 7:30 – 8:30PM. This was my first 

SSF ballroom presentation. Many more would follow. Highlighting the evening was a 

talk in the auditorium by Brother Thomas P. Kostka entitled: Lincoln’s Hero – General 

Grant. Senior, Joe Pietropinto, took to the three-manual pipe organ to play The Battle 

Hymn of the Republic at the conclusion of Brother Kostka’s presentation. I love that song. 

It rouses me unlike no other. Afterwards I received many positive comments from the 

parents who had gathered for the program. 

On the evening of May 21, 1962, the SSF presented an anti-Communist program in the 

school auditorium and featured John Lautner, a double agent and the character on which 

the television show, I Led Three Lives, was based. In addition, the House UnAmerican 

Activities Committee (HUAC) documentary, Operation Abolition, was shown to the 

audience 

I felt a loss when Sabino graduated from Essex Catholic the following month. He was a 

leader extraordinaire and I would miss him. After graduating from Seton Hall and a year 

of post-graduate work, he applied for a teaching position at Essex Catholic in 1967. 

Needless to say, I was happy to recommend him unconditionally to Brother Dennehy. A 

few years later he would assist me with the SSF, take the club over for a year, and remain 

at Essex Catholic until the late1970’s. Four decades later, we remain close friends 

VISITING OUR NEIGHBOR TO THE NORTH, EH! 

Man and His World was the theme of the international exposition held in the City of 

Montreal from April thru October 1967. Built on two manmade islands located on the St. 

Lawrence River between Montreal and the south shore, this World’s Fair was called Expo 

67. I had read and heard a lot of good things about Expo 67 with critics saying how much 

better it was than the 1964-65 World’s Fair held in Flushing Meadows. I had to see for 

myself, as well as find out how Jean “I am the Mayor” Drapeau had transformed 

Montreal the sleeping city that I remembered from an earlier visit into a thriving hub of 

commerce. With this in mind, I dropped the annual Washington trip during Holy Week 

and put a five-day Memorial weekend trip in its place. 

The trip was well received by the students as some two De Camp buses were chartered 

with Hap Donovan as our navigator. Tom Tobin was among the several chaperones 

accompanying us on the trip. I urged the boys to hone their high school French skills and 

brought along, Marty Germain, a French-speaking brother from the island of Dominica, 

to be our “official” interpreter.

We departed Essex Catholic on a Thursday morning for the eight-hour ride to the largest 

French-speaking city outside of Paris. Soon we saw the impressive skyline with the 

newly built Place Ville Marie, and St. Joseph’s Oratory in the background. In order to get 

to our final suburban destination, Ville LaSalle, we had to drive through Montreal. The 

kids intently looked out the bus windows and began playing a “game” of trying to find 

papers and other refuse in the streets as we drove through Canada’s largest city. They 

were amazed at how clean this city was, in comparison to larger cities in their area. Upon 

arrival at Ville LaSalle, we checked into a large four-story apartment complex, one of 

many apartment buildings, built especially to house the expected throng of fairgoers. 

Most of these complexes remain active today for yearly renters. However, their 

soundproofing left much to be desired. 

Next day, it was off to Expo 67. 1967 commemorated the one-hundredth anniversary of 

the Canadian Confederation - something like our 1776, but without the war. Before we 

crossed over the bridge to the two Expo islands, we passed a state-of-the-art apartment 

complex, “Habitat,” that was built especially for the event, and it too, is still standing. As 

a matter of fact, it is one of the most desirable river view residences in Montreal with 

prices to match. 

Once there, we purchased our day pass and broke into groups for ten hours of education 

and fun. Naturally, I headed first for the USA Pavilion. Housed within a geodesic dome 

created by Buckminster Fuller, its design stirred controversy in some architectural circles. 

Visits to the British, French, Belgian and USSR pavilions followed. Then it was over to 

the Irish Pavilion for lunch and a pint of Guinness with my colleagues. Sitting down 

never felt better. During the late afternoon, many of the kids could be found in LaRonde, 

an amusement park at the northern end of Ile Ste. Helene. As for me it was more 

pavilions and more walking. My poor feet! 

On Saturday our entourage took a day trip to Quebec City. En route, one of our two buses 

broke down and we pulled into a gas station for assistance. We were in the Laurentian 

boonies and the gas station attendant did not speak English. Fortunately, Brother Marty 

Germain came to the rescue. While we alit the bus and waited until the problem was 

fixed, Brother Germain chatted with some pre-pubescent children and even rode one of 

their bikes. After an hour delay, we were now back on the road to Quebec. I still 

remember my first visit to the historic Plains of Abraham, high atop this citadel city. 

Apparently spring had sprung, as a young couple madly in love, were frolicking on the 

green grass of the plains. Close your eyes, boys! Naughty, those French-Canadians. We 

quickly learned that Quebec City was not quite as bilingual as Montreal. Oui! After 

lunch, we headed north to the Shrine of St. Anne DeBeaupere. The basilica was quite 

impressive with crutches of the cured prominently displayed. I had to pick up some holy 

water for mom. This I did after purchasing a St. Anne’s bottle from one of the many 

shops in the commercial zone. About 3PM we headed back to Montreal.

Sunday, we visited more shrines and basilicas. There are more churches in Montreal than 

there are bars in Hoboken. The Basilica of Mary Queen of the World, a miniature St. 

Peter’s, lay diagonally across from Dominion Square Park in Centre-Ville (downtown). 

We drove up the Cote des Neige to the Oratory and the Shrine of St. Joseph for a 

commanding view of the area. Some of the pilgrims were going up the many, many steps 

on their knees. Because of the time factor, we did not opt to do this. However, we did 

fulfill our Sunday obligation by attending mass at the Oratory. The afternoon was spent 

in Old Montreal with lunch and a visit to the Basilica of Notre Dame. It too, is modeled 

after the real thing. The interior is absolutely beautiful with a pulpit carved from a single 

piece of wood and the sanctuary was the closest thing to a throne room that I had ever 

seen, truly befitting a queen. With all the basilica visits and prayers, I must have gained a 

dozen plenary indulgences on that day alone. 

On Monday, Memorial Day, we bid adieu to Montreal and headed home, for the next day 

it was back to school. 

Essex Catholic returned to Montreal the following year for the Expo that reopened for its 

second year. In 1973 I took a smaller group up for a four-day trip, staying at the 

Laurentain Hotel (long since demolished) overlooking Dominion Square. Led by 

Essexman Jimmy Keane, our group hiked from Centre Ville up to the top of the mountain 

where St. Joseph’s Oratory is located. Whew! Downhill was a breeze. T. C. Murray was 

building up his reputation, among students and faculty alike, as the quintessential walker. 

PROJECT 300 

From March 30 thru April 8, 1964, Essex Catholic High School held a unique observance 

of New Jersey’s three-hundredth anniversary – Project 300. 

The State of New Jersey had set up a Tercentenary Commission, headed by David S. 

Davies, in 1960. It had its own distinctive triangular logo and its theme was: People- 

Purpose-Progress. It coordinated state events, as well as a network among the over five 

hundred New Jersey municipalities. 

Essex Catholic was probably the first secondary school to hop on the Tercentenary 

bandwagon when it announced plans in the fall of 1962 for an appropriate school 

celebration. I wanted to put Essex Catholic “on the map” as a state leader in cultural and 

civic endeavors. Project 300 started out as a three-day, small space observance and by 

January 1964 had grown into one of the state’s biggest celebrations; the acorn and the 

tree all over again – the story of my life in terms of coordinating events.

Initially, the Social Science Federation, was the sponsor but as time progressed and the 

plans grew, it was decided to create a separate school club, Project 300. The principal, 

Brother Offer, gave me carte blanche in running the show and I was named Director of 

Project 300. Immediately, I proceeded to name John Boyno, student chairman, with 

Michael Santangelo and Kevin Prendergast, rounding off the three-member Executive 

Board. Within a year the committee had grown in size to sixty students. We incorporated 

the tercentenary logo into our own student-designed logo with a Celtic cross as its 

centerpiece and the numerals 300 within the cross. The original artwork was presented to 

Mayor Hugh J. Addonizio of Newark in City Hall ceremonies after he agreed to be 

Honorary Chairman of Project 300. My student team and I would have a very close 

working relationship with City Hall. 

In a letter of October 1962, I invited Governor Richard J. Hughes to “horror” us with his 

presence at the Essex Catholic 1964 event. Not having formal typing skills, I picked up 

the word “horror” in the proofreading of the letter and was quickly changed it to honor. 

Wanting to be there but not wanting to commit himself at this early date, the governor 

wrote to me in November of 1962 stating that Project 300 was remarkably thoughtful and 

logical and I congratulate you… He saw very little in my initial proposal, for the best 

was yet to come. The Tercentenary Commission’s Executive Director, David S. Davies, 

visited Essex Catholic for the official kickoff in January 1963. He too was amazed at the 

depth of the school’s planned celebration and pledged his support in any way possible. 

And so my team of super-active students and myself, we worked and planned throughout 

1963. Too many eyes were upon Essex Catholic; we could not afford a flop. 

Essex Catholic opened the tercentenary year with a five-piece jazz combo band that 

performed at the New Year’s Eve festivities at the State House in Trenton. A huge 

twenty-one foot cake adorned the rotunda. I got to meet the chief of the Delaware 

Indians, who had donned his tribal attire for the occasion. Meeting an Indian chief was a 

first for me. Ringing in the New Year in the State House also was a first for me. 

On January 2, 1964, a large tercentenary flag was attached beneath the American flag and 

raised from our school rooftop. The countdown to March 30 had begun. Essex Catholic 

had now become known as the “tercentenary school.” 

On January 25, the school hosted a meeting for teachers and librarians sponsored by the 

New Jersey Historical Society. Seemingly, the spirit of ecumenism prevailed between a 

WASPish historical society and a Catholic high school.

However, this was not the case when in early March when Brother Dick Kelly rejected 

Episcopal bishop, Leland Stark, as the already invited clergyman to deliver the 

benediction at the premiere of Project 300 on the evening of March 30. Bishop Stark had 

consented to deliver the benediction and now “Dick’s dictum” put me in a difficult 

position. I wrote a letter to the bishop stating that: at the time of our telephone 

conversation, I was unaware that the administration of the school had already invited 

someone to deliver the benediction on the opening evening of “Project 300.” I was now 

the “fall guy,” stating that: I personally regret any inconvenience that I may have caused 

you and for the lack of consultation with my school’s administration on my part. Bishop 

Stark responded to my letter in the true spirit of Christianity and encouraged me not to 

feel any awkwardness about this matter. I did what I had to do under the circumstances 

but I doubt that I would ever circumvent the truth again. 

What exactly was Project 300? It was a ten-day exposition held at Essex Catholic High 

School during the two-week Easter break saluting the state of New Jersey on its 300 th 

birthday. 

The rotunda space held a NASA Manned Space Flight exhibit that included one-quarterscale 

models of Apollo, Gemini and Lunar Excursion Module; a full size manikin with 

Space Suit; and a one-third-scale Project Mercury Spacecraft. The spirit of JFK was alive 

and well at Essex Catholic. The New Jersey Air National Guard displayed a 15-foot jet 

engine. Seton Hall University had a display case filled with artifacts of the early Lenni- 

Lenape native-Americans. 

The spacious ballroom on the third floor was called State Hall and featured displays from 

many of the state agencies, as well as a model of the New Jersey World’s Fair Pavilion 

with a huge diorama of the State’s capital serving as a backdrop. Fifteen of the third floor 

classrooms were filled with displays from banking, industry, law enforcement, the 

Catholic Church in New Jersey, municipal government and historical society displays, 

The Jerseymen Room, and two other rooms were devoted to Essex Catholic High School 

student History Fair exhibits. The “Edison Room” featured exhibits on the Wizard of 

Menlo Park, which included a student-made replica of the Black Maria (Edison’s original 

motion picture studio), as well as periodic showings of Edison’s first major movie replete 

with actors and a plot – all twelve minutes of it. 

PCQ32: What was the name of Thomas Edison’s first movie? 

My office was at the closed-end of the third floor and was also used as a security station 

where Newark’s Finest could relax and have coffee and donuts during the exposition. 

Speaking of security, the National Guard of New Jersey had placed two light tanks, one 

armored personnel carrier and several jeeps in the back yard – for display purposes only.

The evening of Monday, March 30, 1964, had finally arrived. The opening night of 

Project 300 was like a Broadway premiere in every sense of the word. Located at 300 

Broadway (Newark), the lower set columns on the façade of our neo-classical building 

were draped in red, white and blue bunting and highlighted by special floodlights. It was 

most impressive, reminding one of the Acropolis on the Pantheon. Across the street was a 

Hollywood-type searchlight that lit up the evening skies. The Fire Dept. had its cherry 

picker out in front of the building and barricades manned by the police were set in place. 

On the front steps, the Essex Catholic Band played on. Our honor guard dipped the 

Vatican flag as Archbishop Boland arrived and the New Jersey State flag was lowered as 

Governor Hughes arrived with a police escort. Hundreds of people who were waiting on 

the street applauded the dignitaries as they entered the building. Meanwhile, nearly a 

thousand invitees awaited the opening ceremony in the auditorium. The event also 

premiered the opening of the1964 edition of the New Jersey Historymobile, which was 

parked in front of the school. Governor Hughes officially opened this museum on wheels. 

Naturally, mom was my very special guest, accompanied by Nan Cowhey of Camp Rip 

Van Winkle, Tom Tobin and English Dept. Chairman, John Ennis. They had first row 

seats. 

The stage was filled with luminaries, with the largest tercentenary flag in the state of New 

Jersey as a backdrop. Congressmen, mayors, college presidents, and other leaders from 

all walks of life; they were all there. Also seated on the stage were the three student 

members of the Project 300 Executive Board. The first of the two keynote addresses was 

delivered by Governor Hughes and entitled: A Quiet Awakening. It was reprinted in the 

July 1964 issue of the Proceedings of the New Jersey Historical Society. Archbishop 

Boland delivered his address on the role of the Catholic Church in New Jersey. 

Two receptions followed – one in the Board Room for the distinguished guests; the other 

in the cafeteria for the less distinguished guests. My first stop was in the basement 

cafeteria. My next stop the second floor Board Room where Vinnie Otskey, president of 

the Fathers Club, awaited the Project’s Director with a hefty glass of Scotch. The usual 

glad-handing and slaps on the back occurred – the usual compliments were not in short 

supply either. The Project 300 Committee made the rounds too and got their welldeserved 

plaudits. What a night! 

I awoke the next morning somewhat tired and a little hung-over from the night before. 

However, like a play director, I still endeavored to read the New Jersey papers that 

morning and Essex Catholic received quite extensive press coverage, replete with photos. 

I then drove over to the school to open up the exposition to the general public. Upon 

opening the ballroom doors, alone in the school, I checked everything out. The 

Department of Conservation had a live exhibit with a number of caged animals. I tried to 

make friends with a raccoon and in the process nearly lost a finger. The doors opened at 

noon, and as the crowds filtered in, the various students and display tenders were all at 

their assigned stations. The Department of Motor Vehicles had a driving simulator and I 

bravely decided to take my “driver’s test.” I failed! Let’s blame it on the night before.

Nearly ten thousand people visited Project 300 and it stands as the largest single event in 

the history of Essex Catholic High School. In appreciation, Brother Arthur Loftus and 

Brother Dick Kelly took me out to dinner. How nice. 

David S. Davies, the Executive Director of the New Jersey Tercentenary Commission, 

noted that: Mr. Murray has done an amazing job. From an absolute standing start, and 

without support from anyone, he has, while carrying a nearly full teaching load, built a 

celebration program unequalled by any Tercentenary program in any school, anywhere 

in the State. He is a hard worker with the tenacity of a bulldog and he does it all quietly 

and without fanfare. (Grrr!!!) 

NEWARK 300 

No sooner than Project 300 concluded, I started preparing for Newark’s 300 th anniversary 

in 1966. After consideration and consultation, I decided to make this less dramatic and 

more academic. Yes, there would be an exposition but minimal in terms of scope and run 

for five days (Feb. 18-22, 1966), half of Project 300’s duration. 

The main thrust of Newark 300 was a student-written, edited and published history of 

the City of Newark. 

I had a full bullpen of underclassmen from Project 300 with whom I worked for our next 

undertaking. The senior class of ’66 would assume the leadership positions: Bob 

Harahan, chairman; John Christell, vice-chairman; and Tom McDade, secretary. Bern 

Hartman headed up a Historic Landmarks Committee, while Nick La Rocca was named 

editor-in-chief of the proposed book, Newark 300. 

A staff of would-be student writers, mainly from my United States History II Honors 

class, undertook the unprecedented and difficult assignment of writing the history of 

Newark. Those staff members were exempted from their summer reading assignment and 

the September test on those readings. Nothing like a little incentive! 

The actual writing was completed in the late fall of 1965. The thrust of the burden now 

fell upon Nick La Rocca who was working with deadlines. The book had to be edited and 

published by early February, just in time for “Newark 300’s” opening night premiere – 

and it was.

The 50,000 word, 112 page topical history of Newark, replete with photos, was dedicated 

to Miriam Studley, Director of the New Jersey Room at the Newark Public Library. 

Student editor, Nick La Rocca, presented the first copy to Miss Studley at the opening 

night ceremonies. Archbishop Boland and Mayor Hugh J. Addonizio delivered the 

keynote addresses. Former Executive Director of the New Jersey Tercentenary 

Commission was on stage and presented me with a long overdue Tercentenary medallion. 

Mom, Tom Tobin and Nan Cowhey were again in the audience – first row, center. 

At the conclusion of the ceremony, I read a letter from John T. Cunningham, noted author 

on New Jersey and president of the New Jersey Historical Society. In his concluding 

paragraph, he states: The greater challenge now is to sustain the high level of interest 

without the stimulus of a state or city birthday, Take up that challenge, men of Essex 

Catholic: we in New Jersey will be watching! That was a “gung ho” letter if I ever read 

one, especially in view of the fact that Brother Loftus decreed that all classes in junior 

and senior years were required to attend the event. Attendance was taken in the respective 

homerooms beforehand. Teenagers, even back in the mid-60’s, did not like to be coerced. 

The letter, that I read with gusto, served to rouse their esprit d’ corps and the kids rose to 

their feet and gave me a thunderous ovation – or was it for me? Perhaps it was in 

absentia, for Mr. Cunningham. 

Unlike the leaders of Project 300, several of the Newark 300 Executive Board members 

still keep in touch with me, but none more so that Bob Harahan. Over the years since 

graduation, Bob and I have maintained a very special friendship. Like Tom and John, he 

studied for the priesthood (my good influence, naturally). I attended his ordination and 

first mass. Although Bob is a Doctor of the Church, (STD, Lateran University of Rome), 

he has never lost his sense of humor. He served as Rector of Immaculate Conception 

Seminary and is currently pastor of St. Therese of Avila Church in Summit, N.J. 

Hopefully, Monsignor Bob will be a concelebrant at my mass at St. Anselm’s when I go 

to that very special mansion in the sky reserved for me. Tom, too, is a monsignor and a 

former pastor here in New Jersey. Jack left the seminary and tragically took his life a few 

years ago. I asked myself: Was there anything that I could have done? 

Two student contributors to the book, Joe Bakes, an editor at the Newark Star-Ledger and 

Jim White, an editor of the Wall Street Journal, remain friends of this writer today. 

Bern Hartman and Nick LaRocca are both psychological therapists. I must get their office 

hours. Recently, I heard from Nick, who is currently the Executive Director of the 

National Multiple Sclerosis Society. 

Like Project 300 two years before, the modest five-day exposition of Newark 300 

attracted its fair share of crowds. It, too, was a success thanks to the hard work and 

motivation of so many of my students. Student power, baby!

THE JERSEYMEN 

One of the more lasting things that evolved from the Tercentenary era was the founding 

of a program designed for the young historians of New Jersey – The Jerseymen. Under 

the umbrella of the New Jersey Historical Society, the new organization was created 

following a conference of junior historians coordinated by Eleanore Shuman at 

Hightstown High School on March 30, 1963. The Jerseymen was founded by Joan C. 

Hull, a former social studies teacher from Butler High School. Joan was a protégé of 

Florence Athay, a master teacher and chairperson of that school’s Social Studies Dept. 

and together, the dynamic duo took the leadership in promoting the “5 R’s” of the 

Jerseymen program – Researching, Reading, Restoring, Reproducing, Rendering. 

Basically, The Jerseymen was a club for junior historians, grades 7 thru 12, with 

membership established on a chapter (school) basis. Yearly dues were only $1.00 a 

student and this entitled the cardholder entrance to all of the statewide and regional 

events sponsored by the organization. The dollar also entitled the member to a 

subscription to the Jerseymen publications – The Crossroads and The Cockpit. All 

students (don’t I wish) in New Jersey can tell you that New Jersey was alternately called 

the Crossroads and Cockpit of the American Revolution. 

Butler High School was the first school to receive its charter. Essex Catholic was the 

second, and from that day in 1963, both schools vigorously competed for the spoils of the 

Jerseymen program. Both schools, public and parochial, were mutually respective of the 

other. 

~ 

Florence Athay pioneered the concept of the history fair, perhaps, to offset the post- 

Sputnik science fair momentum. Accordingly, she and her students held the first history 

fair at Butler High School in 1961. Projects were judged on the basis of research, 

authenticity, originality and construction and no part of the project was to be 

commercially manufactured. A judge would be more inclined to look favorably on 

soldiers made from pipe cleaners that were used to recreate a battle scene than those 

shiny tin-men bought from FAO Schwartz. An outside panel of judges was invited (to 

prevent in-house subconscious favoritism) to judge the student-made projects, neatly 

divided into areas of history and located in classrooms throughout the school. Jerseymen 

aides were there to assist the judges in helping them find their allocated projects and to 

answer any questions that they may have had. Each project was judged by a panel of at 

least two educators/historians and rated superior, excellent, high merit, and merit in 

descending order. Best in Fair exhibits were awarded at the discretion of the judges.

With the advent of The Jerseymen program, the History Fair concept spread throughout 

the state, with Essex Catholic being the second school to attempt such an undertaking. 

Soon I was invited to be a judge at Butler High School and reciprocated by inviting 

Florence Athay to judge the Essex Catholic projects. That tradition was carried on for 

many years. Joan Hull, the Director of Education for the New Jersey Historical Society, 

held the first State History Fair in the mid-1960’s and it met with success, incorporating 

the Best in Fair from chapter schools, as well as independent entries. The State History 

Fair was usually held during Easter week and incorporated the “best of the best.” By the 

mid-1970’s I was coordinating an annual History Fair for high schools of the 

Archdiocese of Newark and holding it in the spacious ballroom of Essex Catholic High 

School. I continued holding History Fairs at Mater Dei High School from 1977 on 

through 1991. 

~ 

In concert with the state agency responsible for granting landmark status to historic sites, 

the Jerseymen launched a Defense Brief program whereby a student would present a well 

–documented, written paper stating why he felt the state should give his site official 

recognition. A selected paper would be recognized at the annual Jerseymen Convention 

and its author and teacher would receive appropriate accolades at a later date during 

ceremonies designating his entry official landmark status. Some years, more than one site 

was recognized, as was the case with Butler and Essex Catholic High Schools in 1974. 

That year an extra bonus was added when the two students, Marie Richardson and Ricky 

Stefanelli, and their teacher’s, Florence Athay and myself, were given a trip to 

Washington, D. C., where we were feted by the head of the National Trust for Historic 

Preservation, as well as elected officials. The trip included a visit to Virginia to see Frank 

Lloyd Wright’s Pope-Leigh House. I was amazed as to how successfully this master 

architect was able to blend his glass and wooden structure into the natural habitat. 

Ricky Stefanelli was the student who did the Defense Brief for Sacred Heart Cathedral in 

Newark. For reasons that I’ll get to at a later chapter, I had an ongoing feud with 

Archbishop Thomas A. Boland on labor-related matters. His Excellency was starting to 

get up there in years and I felt that it was time that I extend my “olive branch.” Having 

Sacred Heart Cathedral declared an official landmark of the State of New Jersey would 

be my ticket to restoring normal relations between myself and the Archbishop. Ricky was 

a superior student in my US History II Honors class and said he’d be honored to answer 

his school’s call and went on to write a brilliant paper. Both our dreams of establishing 

Sacred Heart Cathedral on the State Register of Historic Sites were to come true.

The Archdiocesan officials now had six months to prepare for the dedication ceremonies 

– and prepare they did. On December 1, 1974, a solemn high mass was held with the new 

archbishop, Peter Leo Gerety, as the principal celebrant. Archbishop Boland and Bishop 

Costello, were co-celebrants, along with a host of lesser clerics. It was a colorful event 

with over 2,000 people in attendance. Even non-Catholic religious leaders were invited 

including Episcopal Bishop, Leland Stark (It took a decade, didn’t it). The plumed 

Knights of Columbus, in full regalia and with swords drawn, served as a bridge under 

which the procession marched to the anthem emanating from John Rose’s mighty organ. 

It gave me goose bumps marching down that center aisle next to Joan Hull and Ricky. 

All three of us would speak from the marble pulpit later in the ceremony. Both Ricky and 

I were to do the two readings that preceeded the gospel. He was to do the first reading; I , 

the second. However, at the last moment, I made a switch. My reading (the second) 

referred to drunkenness and debauchery and I felt rather uncomfortable with the topic. 

Instead, I read: They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into 

pruning hooks… Much more appropriate, wouldn’t you say? 

Joan, the first non- Catholic and woman ever to ascend to the great pulpit of Sacred 

Heart, delivered remarks and read the proclamation from the state historic marker: 

SACRED HEART 

Towers soaring toward heaven, 

Sacred Heart represents the 

European tradition in Newark. 

Begun – 1898, Completed – 1954 

French Gothic in style, it is 

365 feet long, 260 feet high, 

Fifth largest in the nation. 

Or as Ricky so aptly wrote in his Defense Brief: A cathedral is not built for a day, nor for 

an age; it is built for all time. A cathedral happens once in a lifetime; a cathedral like 

this may never happen again. 

The following landmarks, both in Newark, have been accorded official state recognition 

because of their participation in the Defense Brief program: the Sydenham House 

(George Davidson - 1966) and Mount Pleasant Cemetery (Michael Gorney - 1975). 

~

The Jerseymen calendar called for seasonal outings. 

Fall saw the young historians visiting the Batsto State Park near Atlantic City or the 

Village of Allaire in Monmouth County. Then, too, there was the Transportation Outing 

to the Bohemian town of New Hope on the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River. 

This trip made history come alive to my students and me as we rode on a mule-drawn 

barge down the Delaware Canal, or as we traveled on a vintage train drawn by a steam 

locomotive – windows open, horn bellowing, beholding the vistas of the fall foliage – our 

magic carpet taking us back to another century. After breakdown into small groups, the 

students were free to have lunch and peruse the many quaint shops of New Hope. This 

was the most popular of Jerseymen trips in both my schools, and even though I am retired 

from the “noble profession,” I still enjoy jumping in my car on an autumn day and 

spending a few hours in New Hope. 

In early December, The Jerseymen sponsored a Crafts Mart and Victorian Christmas 

celebration. I played the role of a white-bearded “Victorian Santa” and descended the 

main staircase of the New Jersey Historical Society clad in a black frock coat and high 

top hat with jingle bells ringing. After doing the customary ho, ho, ho, I lit the large tree 

in the auditorium and distributed presents from the grab bag. I loved the role and played 

the part for many years. 

The most popular wintertime outing was held in High Point State Park in the 

northwestern corner of New Jersey. High Point is a little more than 1,800 feet above sea 

level and is the tallest “mountain” in the Garden State. An obelisk dedicated to the 

memory of those who lost their lives in wartime crowns the top of the mountain. From 

the lookout one may see the Pocono’s to the west and the Catskills to the north. Some 

kids brought their sleds for riding the slopes while others brought ice skates for fun on 

Lake Marcia. Picture a nun in full habit sledding down the slopes of High Point – that 

was Sister Theodora, OP, the sponsor of Pius X High School from Passaic. God bless the 

Butler Jerseymen, for they provided the hot dogs, burgers, hot chocolate and 

marshmallows for their hungry peers. One year I thought I spotted a flask on the person 

of a sponsor. Tsk! Tsk! 

The spring highlight was the annual Jerseymen convention, the first, held at Montclair 

College in 1964. Essex Catholic had a clean sweep of Tercentenary-related awards. The 

ensuing years saw the convention held on a weekend basis from Friday evening thru 

Sunday afternoon and venues varied from Cape May to Asbury Park and other shore 

points in between. The 1968 convention held at the Berkeley-Carteret Hotel in Asbury 

Park remains fresh in my mind. Essex Catholic had some seventy students, the largest 

delegation at the convention, with a host of teacher/chaperones. There Essex Catholic 

was awarded the “Best in State” trophy, while I was presented with the Senator James F. 

Murray Jr. (no relation) Citation by the officers and trustees of the New Jersey Historical 

Society: in recognition of his singular contribution in encouraging among students 

enthusiasm for the learning of and achievement in New Jersey and local history.

While the students danced the night away, I hosted a nightlong celebration. It wound up 

at dawn as John Lonergan and I took a walk on the boardwalk to watch the beautiful 

sunrise. Essex Catholic would add two more “Best in State” trophies in the years that 

followed and the members of the Jerseymen would elect Essex Catholic students, Bill 

Juelis(’66), Victor Saraiva (’76) and John Kiss (’78) to the office of the presidency. 

History would repeat itself during my years as a teacher at Mater Dei High School. The 

Jerseymen proved, indeed, that “History can be fun. 

THE NEW JERSEY HISTORICAL SOCIETY’S ADVISORY COUNCIL 

One year after my school’s participation in the Jerseymen program, I was asked to serve 

as a member of The Jerseymen Advisory Council. I was only too happy to sit as a 

member of such a distinguished body of my peers. Bernard Bush, Executive Director of 

the New Jersey Historical Commission and Dr. Ken Job, a social studies professor at 

William Paterson College, were among the Council members. I’m in contact with both 

retirees and often exchange stories about the glory years of The Jerseymen program. 

This august body, present company excluded, met quarterly, at various locations around 

the state, usually followed by cocktails and a Dutch treat dinner. 

The fall meeting was held concurrently with the New Jersey Education Association 

Convention in Atlantic City. Besides getting a couple of days off from school, it gave me 

an opportunity to meet with my public school colleagues. It was an opportunity to walk 

the famed boardwalk while admiring the long gone Traymore and the Marlborough- 

Blenhiem hotels, as well as the other grand dames of this “City on the sea.” The 

programs were usually quite good and every sponsoring organization including the New 

Jersey Historical Society had a reception after their presentation. I was called upon to be 

the official “mixologist” for our reception. I did this “fun”job for a number of years and 

learned the ABC’s of bartending. It seemed that the same faces returned to our suite in 

the Claridge year after year which caused me to wonder whether it was for the program 

or for the free drinks. I always made a stiff drink and after drinking three of my 

Manhattan’s, you’d be stiff too. Paraphrasing Dorothy Parker: 

Manhattan, Manhattan, the drink I love most 

Two I’m under the table 

Three I’m under the host.

Summer meetings were casual. Such was the case when Joan Hull had the meeting on a 

one hundred and ten-foot yacht that once belonged to Louis Prima. It was chartered for 

the summer by her construction tycoon brother, Milton, and came equipped with a 

captain, mate and cook. It was the biggest boat docked at the Kings Grant Marina in Point 

Pleasant. Our meeting took place on the open deck in the stern of the craft, followed by a 

cruise into the Atlantic. As we dropped anchor and headed for the open sea, we passed 

many pleasure craft and each, without exception, was so much smaller than ours. 

Looking downward, I gave those boats for the gentry a Victorian wave as we passed. 

Florence Athay commented to me: Now you know how that one percent lives, Tom. How 

mundane! 

In the early 1970’s, the Advisory Council was incorporated into the Education 

Committee of the New Jersey Historical Society and I was invited to serve on the newly 

reconstituted body. This I did and served until 1979. 

DON’T TARRY, VOTE FOR BARRY 

Starting in 1964, I coordinated school-wide simulated (mock) elections at Essex Catholic. 

They were preceded by an after school debate among the major candidates in each case. 

One of the Brothers served as coordinator of the Lyndon B. Johnson while I opted to lead 

the Barry Goldwater supporters. 

One of the highlights of the Essex Catholic Students for Goldwater Committee was a trip 

to the West Orange Armory to hear the Senator from Arizona. The kids enjoyed the 

experience, as did I. 

An evening program, “Political Night at Essex Catholic,” was held in the auditorium in 

October of that fall and featured two incumbents from two of the Congressional districts 

within the geographic borders of the Essex Catholic student population – Peter W. 

Rodino Jr. (Dem.) and Frank Osmers (Rep.). 

Otto De Franza, an Essex Catholic senior and President of the Social Science Federation 

presided. Otto was a wonderful young man who drowned while swimming at a lake only 

a month after his graduation from Essex Catholic. Upon hearing the news, I was 

devastated. 

Unfortunately, the audience was sparse and I let this be known in my welcoming 

remarks. There was a disinterest in politics, even back then. 

Congressman Rodino banged the drums of the Democratic Party loudly citing the passage 

of the Civil Rights Bill of 1964, the accomplishments of the “Education Congress,” 

President Johnson’s “War on Poverty” and LBJ’ s visions of a “Great Society. Rodino 

assured the passage of the stalled Medicare Bill in the next Congress.

Congressman Osmers articulated the three basic principles of the Republican Party: faith 

in the individual, limited government, and free enterprise. Regarding our federal taxes he 

said “New Jersey sends the ‘mostest’ and gets the ‘leastest.’” I loved it! 

Between the two speakers we had a political fanfare that rivaled a real political 

convention. Balloons were dropped from the balcony as our band played stirring Sousa 

marches. Each delegation was called to the stage. Electricity filled the air as the students 

ascended the steps to the stage bearing placards reading “AuH2o in ‘64” while the 

Democrats yelled out “LBJ – LBJ – LBJ.” At one point I thought I heard an “LB Gay” 

emanating from the Goldwater group. Mudslinging at such an early age, and coming 

from the Republicans, no less. Tsk! Tsk! 

As for myself, I voted for the Arizona Senator on Election Day. “Mr. Conservative” lost 

the national election to LBJ as he did the mock election at Essex Catholic High School. 

I REPRESENTED SEGREGATIONIST, GEORGE WALLACE, IN 1968 

The 1968 election was less colorful but much more controversial. That year I wanted to 

stay impartial As the moderator of Essex Catholic High School’s Social Science 

Federation, I had planned to stay “neutral.” I was successful in getting faculty members 

to represent Richard Nixon and Hubert H. Humphrey. No faculty member wanted to 

moderate the Essex Catholic High School Students for George Wallace because of his 

past history on segregation issues. Perhaps it was because the City of Newark’s black 

population was ever growing and some white students felt threatened. Some of these 

same white students, affected by the riots in Newark a year earlier, wanted a voice and 

felt that Essex Catholic should have a Wallace Committee, and that his American 

Independent Party should be represented at the school. I agreed and accepted the task 

myself. Wallace won by a plurality in the school mock election and set off a controversy 

as explained in an earlier chapter. I went for Dick on Election Day – naturally! 

My last hurrah as moderator of the Social Science Federation was the mock election held 

at Essex Catholic in November 1972. Incumbent Richard Nixon was running against the 

United States Senator, a Democrat from South Dakota, George McGovern. I moderated 

the Essex Catholic Students for Nixon while Sabino T. Iovino, the first president of the 

Social Science Federation (1961-62) and a teacher at Essex Catholic at the time, agreed 

to moderate the underdog student committee of McGovern. This was nice of Sabino 

because he was, and is today, a registered Republican. Essex Catholic went 

overwhelmingly for Richard Nixon as he garnered over 70% of the student vote. I voted 

for Dick yet a third time. I wanted nothing to do with McGovern, the pacifist and 

bleeding heart liberal.

Sabino (Sal) Iovino agreed to serve as co-moderator of the SSF the following year and 

would continue to serve in this capacity until I left Essex Catholic in the mid-1970’s. He 

was the perfect man for the job. Perhaps it was time to share the reins of power with a 

younger person. Besides, something was going one in my inner self and I wasn’t too sure 

what it was. Did I need a change of venue or a different job? Was I having an early midlife 

crisis? What was happening to me in the prime of my life? 

AN UNDERTAKER, A PUBLISHER AND THE KEARNY JUNIOR MUSEUM 

By the second half of the decade of the sixties, I had established myself as a doer in the 

field of history and historical projects. Some of the good citizens of Kearny were trying 

to establish a junior museum and invited me to be a consultant and museum director. 

Bob Batson, the director of Brierley Funeral Home, was one of the leaders of the museum 

campaign. I often met at his home above the funeral parlor to discuss the project while 

sipping a glass of Jack Daniels. Besides the museum questions, I also learned a lot about 

the funeral industry including the Batesville “sealer” casket. Is there a difference between 

an undertaker and a funeral director or between a casket and a coffin? 

The “angel” of the project was Harold S. Latham Jr. His was a Horatio Alger Jr. story, 

when he started in a menial position in Macmillan Publishing and working with pluck 

and a little luck, went on to become Vice-president in charge of publishing. One day, he 

invited me over to his house where he told me about his life as a publisher, with an 

anecdote I will now share with you: While visiting Atlanta, Georgia, in the late 1930’s, a 

colleague suggested that he read a manuscript and meet with its author. A meeting was 

set up and the author, a southern lady, told Mr. Latham that her manuscript, based on the 

Civil War, reflected the south from a southerner’s point of view. He insisted that he 

would be the judge and took the manuscript back to his New York office. Her name, 

Margaret Mitchell; her manuscript Gone with the Wind; and the rest is history. This and 

similar stories are told in Harold Latham’s memoirs, My Life in Publishing. It was 

awesome to see Mitchell’s classic adorning the shelves of his bookcase in so many 

different languages, so many different bindings and editions. 

Unfortunately the Kearny Junior Museum did not meet with similar success. A 

permanent home for the few artifacts that we collected did not materialize. It was gone 

with the wind.

YOU’RE ON THE AIR 

I have always been a great believer in “student power.” I had seen, through my various 

projects, both in and out of the classroom, what students can accomplish if properly 

motivated. 

One such endeavor was Youth Forum of the Air. The half hour long monthly program 

began airing on WSOU – 89.5, the Seton Hall University radio station in 1966 and 

continued for several years. It was student run, both from the college and high school 

perspective. The moderator was an Essex Catholic student and it was he who, upon 

consultation, selected the topic for the respective month. Guest panelists were invited 

from public and parochial schools from the north Jersey area. Not only was it a lot of fun 

but it gave young people a media voice on the issues of the day. 

SING OUT AMERICA! 

My conservative tastes carried over to the music world. I stated earlier that I was not 

enthused with either the “King,” or the British invasion groups for that matter. I spurned 

the rock groups of the sixties just as I had spurned the beats of the fifties. 

However, one group appeared in the mid-1960’s that really turned me on. The group was 

called “Up With People” and their “sing-outs” were sweeping America. “Sing-out” 

ensembles consisted of neatly groomed boys (clean-shaven) and girls, multi-cultural, and 

niftily dressed. A band that consisted mostly of brass, guitars, and drums accompanied a 

well- balanced chorus of male and female singers. Their music and lyrics were original, 

their songs upbeat and their message, positive. They received the imprimatur of both the 

right and the left. The groundswell was enormous. Attending a “sing-out” made for a 

fast-paced evening and its interactive nature left all singing the chorus of Up With People 

as they left the concert venue. Besides, it was a refreshing change from the anti-war 

protests that were taking place across the country during the “stormy sixties.” 

I attended my first “sing-out” performance at the Fourth of July celebration in Saugerties, 

New York and was so impressed that I would later attend several more, during the ‘60’s 

decade, at various locations.

When I learned from an Essex Catholic student that nearby Nutley had just formed a 

“sing-out” group, I was ecstatic. He was a singer in the cast and asked me if Essex 

Catholic would sponsor a show at our school. There could only be one answer, and with 

the help of John Lonergan, the Vice Principal, arrangements were made to present Singout 

Nutley from the stage of Essex Catholic on Feb. 27 and 28, 1970. A good attendance, 

an enthusiastic audience, and super performances made for two great evenings of 

interactive entertainment at the Newark school. 

Do you remember the refrain of the theme song? Let’s try it: 

Up! Up with people! You meet ‘em wherever you go! 

Up! Up with people! They’re the best kind of folks we know. 

If more people were for people, 

All people ev’rywhere, 

There’d be a lot less people to worry about, 

And a lot more people who care! 

(repeat last two lines) 

Damn, that was good! Let’s do it again! Come on, let’s hear it!! Up! Up! With 

People… 

TEA PARTY 

Plans were now in the making for the bicentennial of the United States in 1976. Already 

pre-200 celebrations and observances were taking place. One such event was the 

December 16, 1973 Boston Tea Party 200 th observance held in the birthplace of the 

American Revolution. Having activated myself in Bicentennial matters, I was invited to 

the weekend festivities in Boston. Upon checking my calendar, I found that I was 

scheduled to play the Victorian Santa at the New Jersey Historical Society on Saturday 

afternoon, December 15, 1973. Not possessing the gift of bi-location, I felt that I had to 

carry on the tradition that was started years earlier and show up, dressed in my Victorian 

attire, at the Historical Society the afternoon of the 15 th . But, darn it, I wanted to 

participate in the Boston festival in the worst way. Idea!!! Inasmuch as I could not get up 

to Boston, why not bring the Tea Party to Newark??? 

Once again, my US History II Honors Class would answer my call. They wrote, 

produced, directed and would star in a three scene, historical fictional, short play that 

reenacted Newark’s own tea party. Appropriately, the play was called Tea Party.

While the play was being written, I explored possible venues. Thanks to the City Fathers, 

we were allowed the use a municipal wharf in downtown Newark. The setting was 

perfect. All I needed now was a boat. Idea!!! I approached my friend, John Caufield, who 

was the Fire Director for the City of Newark and asked him if he would be willing to let 

us use his fireboat, the John F. Kennedy, for the final act. That he did. The play was now 

in a go mode, scheduled for presentation at the Municipal Wharf at 11AM on the 15 th . 

My friends and colleagues tell me that I have a tendency to make a tree out of an acorn. I 

confess that I tend to embellish projects as they develop – works in progress, one might 

say. Don’t knock works in progress, lest we forget Casablanca. 

I decided that the student demonstration would be in order starting one hour before the 

play and this would be staged in Military Park, right in the heart of downtown Newark. 

Students from public, private and parochial schools were invited to “walk the line.” And 

over a hundred did. Many carried picket signs of a serious nature reading “Boycott 

British Tea,” and “Taxation without Representation is Tyranny.” A less serious sign read: 

“Taxation without Representation – that’s the Story!” An effigy of King George III was 

carried by one of my students. The Christmas shoppers stood aghast before they entered 

the department stores across the street from Military Park wondering what was going on. 

A police presence contributed to the suspense. 

At 10:55AM, the demonstration, led by fife and drums, made their way to the wharf, only 

a few blocks away. 

There at the wharf, the students, clad in homemade colonial costumes, presented Tea 

Party. The play lasted all of thirty minutes, ending with a simulated dumping of tea into 

the Passaic River from the fireboat. 

The only “hitch” was the dumping of manure onto our staging area from one of the 

horses ridden by a mounted policeman. Plop, plop, get the mop. 

Later, I had a party for the kids, as well as the faculty, who assisted me, in the back room 

of the “Liberty Inn,” known to Newark residents as McGovern’s Tavern. I looked at my 

watch and it was time to go the New Jersey Historical Society where my next role 

awaited me – Santa Claus. 

NO NEED TO BE IRISH 

In the early 1970’s I founded the Gaelic Society of Essex Catholic High School. 

Inasmuch as we still had a large, though diminishing Irish-American population, at the 

school, there still were those who felt strongly about their Irish heritage. We did have 

“Uhuru” and the Italian Club, so why not an Irish Club open to any and all Essex 

Catholic students. After all, you don’t need to be Jewish to enjoy Levy’s (bread).

Founded through the inspiration of one of my colleagues, Brother Patrick Cathal 

Fleming, the club was both historical and cultural in nature. Presentations included the 

Easter Rebellion of 1916 to the then current ones as the “troubles” and the Bobby Sands 

hunger strike. Trips to concerts in New York to hear the Clancy Brothers, the Irish 

Rovers, or the Chieftans were always a cultural experience. Usually the concerts were 

followed by dinner at Molly Malone’s at 23 rd and 3 rd . Watch that pronunciation! It’s 

Twenty-third (Street) and Third (Avenue) and not “Twenty-toid and Toid.” Later we 

switched venues to a more centrally located restaurant, O’Lunney’s Pub located on 44 th 

Street across the street from the Harvard Club. Hugh O’Lunney from County Cavan 

always gave our group a break on dinner and sodas. Up Cavan! 

FIELD TRIPS AND OTHER THINGS TOO 

“Club 21” was a club within a club. Its objective was the visitation of historic sites in 

each of New Jersey’s twenty-one counties. Its members were a bunch of diehard Social 

Science Federation stalwarts who traveled with me by van across our state during the 

1975-76 academic year. Never did I realize the diversity and beauty of the densest state in 

the country. By May of ’76 we had accomplished our goal. 

Visiting the “greatest city in the world” was always high on the priority list of my 

students. They lived in their world of the greater Newark metropolitan area and always 

jumped at the opportunity to visit New York. For the most part, field trips into the big 

city were centered in and around my old neighborhood whether it was to take in a play or 

visit Central Park. In Vaux and Olmsted’s greensward, history abounded. Liberty and 

union, now and forever, one and inseparable was etched in stone at the base of the 

monument of Daniel Webster. Poet’s Walk near the Mall was another favorite spot, as 

was sitting around Bethesda Fountain. Hey guys, how do you like this bastion of an 

apartment house? The exterior was used for the filming of Rosemary’s Baby, I said, 

pointing to the edifice on 72 nd Street and Central Park West. 

PCQ33: What is the name of this baronial residence and home to celebrities like 

Lauren Bacall and Yoko Ona? 

~ 

I held mock elections, Sight and Sound festivals, a Memorabilia Fair, and so much more. 

I did it all, proving indeed, that HISTORY CAN BE FUN.

Chapter 16 – MR. MURRAY GOES TO WASHINGTON 

LOOK OUT, WASHINGTON, HERE WE COME! 

Prior to the founding of the Social Science Federation, Brother Offer was approached by 

Bill Groux of Groux Catholic Tours to consider a three-day “pilgrimage” to Washington, 

D.C. The principal steered Mr. Groux to me and after reviewing his proposal and with 

Brother Offer’s blessing, I decided to coordinate the three-day trip. The trip would be 

held during Holy Week when school was closed and the brothers were on retreat. The 

cost was $49.00, quad occupancy, and included meals, tours, a side trip, and our private 

coach. 

Our first trip in March of 1961 had only twenty-two students, as well as Pat Hoey and 

myself as chaperones. Bill Groux’s son, Paul, accompanied us on our first trip. I’m sure 

that both father and son looked at it as a half-full coach rather than a half-empty coach. 

Being businessmen, they saw a potential market of what was destined to become of the 

largest schools in the State of New Jersey. His optimism paid off, for in 1962 we had two 

buses and by the mid-1960’s over 200 students were coming on the three-day trip. 

The group stayed at the four-star Shoreham Hotel in Washington’s upscale northwest, not 

too far from Rock Creek Park. The rooms were nice size and I stayed with the quad 

occupancy concept rather than to have the rate increased. It must have been 

uncomfortable for two boys sleeping together in the same bed, especially if one’s 

bedmate was twisting and turning or had a surge in hormonal activity. As Director of the 

trip, I always had my own private room and Bill Groux had a bottle of Johnny Walker 

Red Label (cheapskate) awaiting me in my room upon arrival. I wonder what made him 

think that I drank. Chaperones were assigned on a double occupancy basis in twin bedded 

rooms. I don’t think that the quad occupancy would go over too well with them. 

On the first evening, Paul Groux invited Pat Hoey and me as his guest to the Shoreham’s 

famous Marquis Lounge. As we approached the lounge, I was drawn toward the upbeat 

rhythm of what, in the distance, seemed to be patriotic lyrics. We were seated at a small 

round table, and as I sipped a Scotch and water, I listened to this fantastic piano player 

who satirized the Washington political scene with his original parodies and one-liners. 

Year after year I returned to the Marquis Lounge to hear this Buffalo native. Age has 

made him a little bolder and no one is spared from his irreverent wit and stinging satire. 

He’s my age and that’s what happens when you are a septuagenarian, you grow bolder. 

Although he’s been long gone from the Shoreham, he makes the concert route and 

appeared in my hometown recently. 

PCQ34: What is the name of this bow-tied political satirist who played for years at the 

Marquis Lounge of the Shoreham Hotel and is currently a PBS “regular?”

Meals from luncheon of the first day thru luncheon of the third day were included in the 

price of the trip. While in Washington, the group ate at the Hot Shoppes, a restaurant 

chain founded by Willard Marriott who became a hotel magnate. There were several of 

these cafeteria-style restaurants located throughout the city and the food was quite good. 

While in our Nation’s capitol, we did the usual tourist thing: guided tour of the Capitol 

Building, several of the Smithsonian Institution’s buildings, Arlington National 

Cemetery, and because we were on a “pilgrimage,” the group visited the recently 

completed National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Inside the cavernous church, 

the kids marveled at the red and gold mosaic of Christ the “wrestler.” Not too far from 

there, was the Franciscan Monastery replete with its simulated catacombs. 

In order to receive the hour-long tour of the FBI facilities, each visiting school had to 

write a letter on school stationery to the FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover, requesting a tour 

on a given date. Many a letter I received confirming the date of our school’s visit to the 

hallowed halls of “Hooverland.” Mr. Hoover signed each letter personally. Don’t I wish 

that I kept those letters; they would command a few dollars in today’s memorabilia 

market. The FBI tour was a perennial favorite with the boys from Essex Catholic. It guess 

it was the rat-a-tat from the blazing Thompson fired by the demonstrating special agent. 

Having a bus driver that got along with kids was very important. Groux Catholic Tours 

contracted with DeCamp Bus Lines of Clifton, New Jersey. Harold “Hap” Donovan was 

one such bus driver. He had a rapport with both the chaperones and kids, and has a sense 

of humor as well. As our program grew, Hap became the lead bus driver and I worked 

with him very well. Later, while administrator of Camp Adrian, I used DeCamp buses 

and always requested “Hap.” While in Washington, he always dropped the group off at 

the same souvenir shop, year in and year out. I’m sure that you’re thinking “kickback,” 

“commission” or whatever. Maybe so, but it’s true whether your driver stops in our 

Nation’s capitol or the Dutch clog and cheese shop outside Amsterdam, he receives a 

“favored driver” treatment from the souvenir shop. 

During the second year (1962) I added a visit to the office of Peter Rodino, the 

Congressman who represented the Essex Catholic district. This was the first of what 

would become an annual rite of our Washington trip and the beginning of a four-decade 

friendship with “Uncle Pete” that lasted until his passing at age 95 in May of 2005. 

Some trips were more memorable that others. The 1965 trip was the largest Washington 

trip with some 250 students attending. The caravan of six buses with twenty chaperones 

departed from Essex Catholic at 7:30AM on April 12, 1965. I was in the lead bus with 

Hap Donovan. Because of its size, we were rarely together as a unit. We broke the 

entourage down into three divisions with two buses in each division. For meals at the Hot 

Shoppes, we staggered our eating times; the same was true for visiting the usual sites. 

Even FBI Director, J. Edgar, preferred the staggered visitation.

Because of the large volume of business that I was giving Bill and Paul Groux. I 

requested a suite at the Shoreham. No problem! On the second evening I held a reception 

for the Congressional delegation that represented Essex Catholic High School. The 

Honorable Pete Rodino, Joe Minish and Paul Krebbs made themselves available to the 

students. On the second morning, the solemn moment arrived as the six-bus caravan with 

a police escort, thanks to Congressman Rodino, traveled to Arlington National Cemetery. 

There, the president of the Social Science Federation, senior, Otto De Franza, and I laid a 

wreath on the grave of our slain president, John F. Kennedy. Sadly, Otto De Franza 

drowned a few weeks after graduation and I was devastated. 

During the second half of the decade, I decided to hold an annual banquet at the Hotel 

Mayflower on the second evening of the trip. It was in this hotel that J. Edgar Hoover 

lunched with special agent and special friend, Clyde Tolson. He always sat at the same 

reserved table each time he visited the restaurant. A paneled wall was at his back as he 

and Clyde faced the dining room. If an assassination attempt was to occur, as least he’d 

be facing his attackers and dispatch them with haste. Having a banquet in the grand dame 

of Washington hotels was to become the highlight of the trip. The students wore jackets 

and ties and behaved impeccably in the private banquet room. We were an Irish Christian 

Brothers’ school, after all. Each year a distinguished speaker keynote delivered the 

keynote address. 

One year we had two speakers: the Director of the Joint Committee on Atomic Energy 

and one of the top men in the Central Intelligence Agency. Did I have clout inside the 

beltway or what? Actually Uncle Pete arranged for the CIA agent and because of protest 

possibilities, I was informed that I was to keep him “in the closet” until the evening of his 

actual appearance. I had a chat with the CIA rep after the banquet and being a movie 

buff, I asked him about hi-tech equipment of the agency and how it compared to what we 

see in the James Bond movies. He said its division of “clandestine operations” was far 

ahead of what was presented on the big screen. Take that 007! 

With the decline of Essex Catholic in post bellum Newark, so to came the decline of 

student participation in the Washington trips. By 1970, we were back to one bus. Because 

of the overhead, I dropped Groux tours and made all the arrangements myself. 

AN EAGLETON FELLOW, REALLY! 

From my teen years to the present time, I always have had a fascination with politics. My 

many trips to Washington in the 1950’s introduced me to life in our Nation’s capital. 

Through Essex Catholic High School’s annual trips to Washington, D. C., and the 

school’s political forums, I got to know Peter Rodino, the Congressman from our 

school’s district, as well as other politicians from Capitol Hill.

A program administered by the Eagleton Institute of Politics of Rutgers University caught 

my eye in the fall of 1962. Each year the Institute selected high school teachers from the 

fifteen respective New Jersey Congressional districts to attend a two-week internship 

program in our Nation’s capital that was sponsored by the New Jersey State Society. 

Those who were chosen received a stipend of $300.00 for the two weeks and would be 

based in the office of his home district Congressman. Living in North Arlington, my 

representative was the veteran Congressman, Frank Osmers. Being a good Republican, I 

voted for him in both 1960 and 1962 and envisioned myself happily ensconced in his 

office for a two- week period during the summer of 1963. 

I applied for the 1963 fellowship program but was rejected. I was used to rejections but 

really wanted to go to Washington. My recommendations from my Essex Catholic High 

School principal and dean of discipline were quite favorable. What went wrong? Being a 

persistent person at times, I decided to try again the following year. After all, 1964 was 

the year of New Jersey’s Tercentenary and I was leading the largest secondary school 

celebration in the State. The gods had to be with me this time. 

Accordingly, I applied again, this time requesting letters of recommendations from New 

Jersey’s foremost popular historian, John T. Cunningham; the Director of the New Jersey 

Historical Society, Bob Lunny; and the Executive Director of the New Jersey 

Tercentenary Commission, David S. Davies. Each was a heavyweight on the State scene. 

I received a “happy to inform you” letter from the Eagleton Institute of Politics in March 

1964 advising me that I had been accepted into the summer program and was awarded 

the fellowship. An introductory meeting for the recipients was held at Wood Lawn on the 

Rutgers campus. It included a dinner preceded by a cocktail hour. That cocktail hour sure 

sounded good. 

It was an eventful spring, all in all, what with Project 300, and being the recipient of a 

fellowship. At the end of the academic year of 1964, I packed my bags and was ready to 

jump into my new Ford Fairlane and head south to Washington. 

THE ARRIVAL 

I said “goodbye” to my proud mom the morning of Saturday, June 20 th and headed to the 

New Jersey Turnpike for my drive to Washington. My diary indicates that it was as “hot 

as hell” as the temperature soared to 97 degrees that afternoon. The fact that my Ford 

lacked air-conditioning didn’t help the matter.

The headquarters for the Eagleton summer program was the Congressional Hotel located 

on Capitol Hill at 300 New Jersey Avenue – 300 New Jersey Avenue. The gods surely 

were with me. After showering, unpacking and calling mom, I headed out for dinner at 

the Hot Shoppes. Upon the walk back to my hotel, I heard the bells of the new Robert 

Taft Carillon on the Mall. It had an ethereal sound, a sound one would not expect 

emitting from the center of a merry-go-round city. It stilled the Saturday night air. I did 

manage to drop in for a nightcap at the hotel’s bar, appropriately called the “Filibuster 

Lounge.” Yes, we do tend to filibuster when we have a few drinks, don’t we. 

The next morning I attended Sunday mass at St. Peter’s Church. I then drove out to 

Tacoma Park, Maryland, and had dinner with John Harkins and his wife. John was a coworker 

back in my Harvard Club days and had become a lawyer based in Washington. 

The weekend gave me the opportunity to meet with the program director, Mark Ferber 

and a few of my fellow-fellowship winners. Jack Fay, a teacher from Linden High 

School, was there with his wife, and the three of us did the Botanical Gardens together. 

For Ann, a teacher from Jersey City, it was her first trip to Washington. I offered my 

services to show her around – in her car, of course, because it was air-conditioned 

A reception was held Sunday evening at the hotel to prepare for the two weeks on the 

Hill that lie ahead. 

WASHINGTON, TOO, IS A HELLUVA TOWN 

Many changes had taken place since my earlier trips to Washington in the fifties. Gone 

were the trolleys. Some were sold to the City of Newark to be used as an integral part of 

their subway system. Riding the subway in Newark, as I did so often, kept alive the 

memories of my “Cabin John” trolley rides out to Glen Echo Amusement Park. 

Ike’s Interstate Highway network was becoming a reality. One could bypass the busy 

D.C. metropolis by what became known as the “beltway.” Washington traffic is almost as 

bad as New York at times. That is why government civil servants arrive at and leave from 

work at alternating times. Change! Change! Change! That’s what life is all about. 

It was during my free time during the program that I explored more of our Nation’s 

capital.

Historically, the many museums administered by Smithsonian Institution, were, and still 

are, one of Washington’s major attractions. Many tourists think of the castle-like 

administration building as the Smithsonian Institution. However, it is so much more. 

Whenever I’m in the area, I always make time to stop in the Archives Building, passing 

the great documents written by our Founding Fathers and giving thanks to God for our 

“more perfect” union. I find time to visit the Natural History Museum and behold the 

“Hope Diamond.” Now that’s a piece of ice, if I ever saw one - a blue piece, of course. At 

the time, the Medical Museum was in the Mall area and it featured “blood and guts” 

displays that would make one’s hair stand on end. The Aerospace Museum was now 

including artifacts from the Space Age. The Museum of History and Technology was 

being built and would be opened in time for our Country’s bicentennial. So too would the 

John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. 

I explored the Georgetown area and discovered what became my favorite restaurant, the 

“1789” on Prospect Street. The property is owned by Georgetown University, and 

beneath the restaurant is the Jesuit University’s own pub – the “Tombs.” Prospect Street 

had some upscale homes including that of Georgetown English professor, William Peter 

Blatty. Blatty used that area as a setting for a novel, and included in it was the house 

across the street (3600 Prospect Street), from “1789.” A huge flight of steps led from 

Prospect Street to M Street below. 

PCQ: What was the name of Blatty’s eerie novel as described above? 

Washington is a city of culinary delights. Besides “1789,” there was the “Four Georges” 

Restaurant located in the Georgetown Inn - expensive but good. O’Donnell’s in 

downtown D.C. was my favorite seafood restaurant. An evening on the town might 

include a visit to the Marquis Lounge in the Shoreham Hotel to hear Mark Russell; the 

“Capitol Steps” had not yet arrived. In order to wet my whistle at Matt Kane’s “Bit of 

Ireland Pub,” I had to ascend a flight of stairs in the brownstone building on M Street 

NW and literally plant my feet on Irish soil that was contained in a box in front of the 

pub’s entrance. Pour me a pint, Matt! Here’s to Foggy Bottom! 

BEAN SOUP HEAVEN 

The workweek had now begun. We kicked off the week with a luncheon in the Speaker’s 

Dining room in the House of Representatives. Most of New Jersey’s Congressional 

delegation was in attendance including my new friend, Peter Rodino. We chatted briefly. 

Up to this point, I had not yet met my home district representative, Congressman Frank 

Osmers, and was anxious to do so.

The Speaker, John McCormack from Massachusetts, sent his regrets that he could not 

join us – even in his own dining room, at that. “Mr. Speaker” is second in the line of 

succession to the presidency and one of the most powerful people on the Hill. Even the 

President of the United States acknowledges that whenever he addresses Congress in the 

House chamber. It is always “Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President…” 

Shortly after the turn of the nineteenth century, the then Speaker of the House, Joseph 

Cannon, one hot summer day entered the House Restaurant and ordered a bowl of Bean 

Soup. Bean soup in the summer? Bean soup in pre-air conditioning days? Was the 

Speaker losing it? Washington D. C. can be a hot, humid, stifling city in the summer and 

serving a heavy soup was out of the question – at least up until that point in time. Not 

having Bean Soup on the menu was deplorable to the Speaker. He exploded like a loose 

cannon (no pun intended) and thundered: I had my mouth set for Bean Soup and from 

now on, hot or cold, rain, snow or shine, I want it on the menu every day. And so, from 

that day in 1904 until the present time, Bean Soup is served not only in the Speaker’s 

Dining Room and the House Restaurant and Cafeteria, but on the Senate side as well. I 

guess all that Bean Soup gives our Congresspersons all the protein they need to represent 

us effectively, as well as some gassy meeting rooms. 

After dessert and some brief speeches, each teacher met with his or her Congressperson. 

It was at this point that I met Congressman Frank Osmers. He was impressive, outgoing 

and had a good sense of humor. I felt that I would enjoy working with the representative 

from southern Bergen County in New Jersey…and I did. 

THE BRIEFING 

After lunch, Congressman Osmers accompanied me to his office located in Room 407 of 

the House Office Building where he would brief me on the workings of Capitol Hill. 

Like so many Americans I had a preconceived notion that here in the Political Mecca of 

America, I would find a town-full of politicians, some of whom were full of themselves. I 

pictured the typical Congressman sitting behind a desk smoking an imported, sic illegal, 

Cuban cigar. I pictured the Congressman as a world traveler going off on a junket at 

taxpayer’s expense to Hawaii for the sole purpose of determining the effect our new 50 th 

State was generating on our Gross National Product. I pictured the same Congressmen 

bringing along their wives, secretaries, and/or both and getting “leied” in Hawaii on the 

same junket. Tsk! Tsk! Were these 435 Representatives and 100 Senators really working 

for us, their constituents? I would soon disabuse myself of the notion that our delegates in 

Washington were “do-nothings,” for the most part anyway. As one of a half million 

constituents of Congressman Osmers, I was in for quite a learning experience.

Our briefing lasted about an hour. He explained that his duties were tri-fold. Firstly, as a 

member of the legislative branch, he and his colleagues in Congress, made the laws that 

govern our country. Secondly, his rapport with his constituents was of paramount 

importance. It was they who sent him to Congress. Thirdly came Public Relations. 

He went on to say the for the most part, Congresspersons can classified based on the 

district that each is representing. A city Congressman may be machine-controlled and 

usually is liberal on voting issues. A rural Congressman, usually from the south or west, 

represents conservative ideologies and holds his seat for a number of years. Because of 

the importance of the seniority system in Congress, many southerners hold key chairs in 

both the House and Senate. Suburban Representatives may combine traces of both 

conservative and liberal ideologies. He said that most New Jersey Congressman including 

fell into this category, including himself. 

After the briefing, Congressman Osmers introduced me to his Legislative Assistant, 

Administrative Assistant, and members of the clerical staff. Each Congressman has his 

own suite of offices and the location of each is determined on a seniority basis. He even 

has his own door leading from his personal office in the event he has to make a quick 

exit. 

WASHINGTON’S HIDDEN CITY 

Not too many people are aware of Washington’s “hidden city.” It was after the briefing 

that I was officially designated as an “unofficial” member of Congressman Osmer’s staff 

– at least for the two weeks that I would be working in his office. 

One of the first things that happened after the meeting was that I was given a tour of 

Capitol Hill by one of his seasoned staffers. 

We were in the Longworth Building, one of two House Office Buildings, the other being 

the Cannon H. O. B., named after “Uncle Joe” Cannon, the autocratic Speaker from 

Illinois. A third temple to a former House leader, Sam Rayburn of Texas, was being built 

at the time of my internship program. The cost overruns were astronomical in true 

Washington fashion and the building was completed way behind schedule. 

In order to get to the Hill from the Longworth H. O. B. (House Office Building), one had 

to follow a series of labyrinth passages. In case a person might get lost upon his return 

from the Hill, signs marked “Old HOB” and “New HOB” were placed along the 

cavernous route. I chuckled when I read the signs on the Senate side “Old SOB” and 

“New SOB.”

Yes, there is a subway (tram) system beneath the Capitol that links it with the various 

“HOB’s” and “SOB’s.” Unfortunately, there was no such connection between my 

building and the Hill, so I had to foot it every day. I didn’t mind for walking is man’s best 

exercise. 

There were shops galore in this subterranean city – a bank, barbershop, drug store, etc. It 

was like a “PX” on a military base, and like a “PX” there were no taxes. It took full 

advantage of my newly found status. I even cashed a check or two at the Capitol bank. 

What convenience for members of Congress and their staff’s. Even the elevators and 

subway are off limits to the public at certain times. Cushy! Cushy! 

THE BEGINNING OF THE LONG HOT SUMMER OF ‘64 

Summer had begun shortly after my arrival in Washington. At the time, lawmakers in the 

House were trying to wrap up business so that they could avail themselves of the summer 

recess. Congressmen, like teachers, like to have the summer off. 

Most of the Congressman’s life is spent in a committee. Very little of that life is spent on 

the floor of the House. Have you ever watched C-Span and notice how few members of 

the House are present? It seems, at times, that the legislator is speaking to himself. In 

fact, his fellow legislators are busy working in their respective committees. Frank Osmers 

was assigned to the Armed Services Committee probably because he was a combat 

veteran of the Second World War. Committee assignments are doled out by the Speaker 

and other key House members who represent the majority party. Seniority plays an 

important role in the process. It is the dream of every Congressman to be re-elected every 

two years so that one day he will become a chairman of a powerful House committee 

such as the House Ways and Means Committee. He who wields the gavel, wields power. 

It is in his or her committee or subcommittee that bills are introduced, usually with cosponsors, 

and which, one day, will hopefully wind up on the House floor for debate and 

vote. It you were the prime sponsor of a bill, wouldn’t you want it to reach the president’s 

desk for a signing ceremony? After all, you would get a free pen used in the signing 

ceremony for your efforts. 

Very few bills get that far; most die somewhere along the way. Many bills never make it 

out of committee and get laid on the table indefinitely. Such was the case of the “Truth in 

Lending” Bill that, at the time, was still languishing in the Banking and Currency 

Committee. In June of 1964, after four years, it was still stalled in committee. During his 

first months as president, John F. Kennedy sent over a bill to the Hill that would provide 

medical care for the aged through Social Security. The Medicare Bill too, was stalled in 

committee at this time.

Before his tragic assassination, President Kennedy sent over a Civil Rights proposal to 

the Hill for consideration. Getting it though the conservative Senate was problematic and 

threats of a filibuster prevailed. It took the death of JFK to gain the momentum it needed 

for passage. Public sentiment was increasing and many church groups were now actively 

backing the bill. In February 1964 the House passed the Civil Rights Bill and with some 

amendments from Senator Everett Dirksen added to Senator Humphrey’s bill, the Senate 

approved the revised version. From there to the Conference Committee and from there to 

the desk of President Lyndon Baines Johnson for a Rose Garden signing on the Fourth of 

July 1964. As an observer in Washington during those crucial last days of the Civil 

Rights Bill, it was awesome to watch the behind the scenes maneuvering on such a 

critical piece of legislation. It would be the first major piece of civil rights legislation 

passed since the days of Reconstruction. It was sorely needed. 

At the time, some 900 students were preparing to depart for Mississippi. The objective of 

their Freedom School project was to provide blacks in that state with recreational and 

educational facilities, unknown to them up to this time. Some would help with voter 

registration. Unfortunately, the summer that lay ahead was to be the bloodiest in the 

struggle for civil rights. All hell was about to break loose. Three volunteers would not 

return. 

In a statement issued by Congressman Osmers on June 23, 1964, demanding that 

President Johnson assure the students full protection while on their quest in Mississippi, 

he warned: 

The imminent passage of the long delayed Civil Rights Bill is final proof that 

the Nation will no longer permit certain states to deprive citizens of their 

rights under the Constitution. We must bargain no longer to secure the 

blessings of liberty for all Americans. 

PCQ36: What movie, starring Gene Hackman, depicted the volatile summer of ’64? 

THOSE LETTERS KEEP COMING 

Each morning was spent in the office of the Congressman. I reviewed the “Congressional 

Record” making note of remarks or extension of remarks that Congressman Osmers may 

have made the previous day. In addition, I reviewed the “CR” listing of committee 

hearings that were to be held that day, hoping that one or two might pique my interest.

By 10AM, I was sorting the Congressman’s huge amount of mail into legislative and case 

files. Today, e-mail correspondence would be included. The legislative files included 

letters of a general nature while the case files included letters of a more personal nature. 

Each and every letter a constituent writes to his Congressperson is answered, although it 

may be signed with an automatic signature device. One of the perks of a Congressman is 

that he is allowed to use his signature in lieu of postage on all envelopes mailed form the 

Capitol Post Office. He uses his frank to its fullest extent. 

Letters that I put in the legislative file included the escalating war in Vietnam, the civil 

rights struggle, and other matters that one might find on the legislative docket. A formula 

response with variations was devised by the Congressman’s legislative assistant and sent 

out in the same afternoon’s mail. 

The case files, however, took time and in many instances personal input from the 

Congressman was necessary for a response. 

I enjoyed reading letters arriving from high school juniors and seniors stating that wished 

to be considered for an appointment to one of the military academies. Most receive a 

negative reply but with words of encouragement. Some students have a 2.5 GPA and still 

write to their Congressman asking to be considered for the academies. Give me a break!!! 

If a student meets the rigid standards for an academy appointment, an interview with his 

Congressman follows. I see on your application that your father is a Republican Gold 

Club member. How very nice. It should be noted that if the student is one of the elect, a 

copy of his academy report card is sent each marking period to his sponsoring 

Congressperson. 

While some seek to enter the service of Uncle Sam, others seek to get out. This was the 

case of a case file letter from a young recruit in the U. S. Marine Corps program in Parris 

Island. Apparently the physical rigors were too much for him and claimed that his drill 

instructor used inappropriate language saying to him: Boy, I ought to bore a hole in your 

head and f___ some brains into it. How utterly repulsive! Whether or not the 

Congressman was able to get a discharge for him, I do not know. 

One constituent suggested a reduction on the tax of wine bubbles. 

Jobs seemed to be big on the list of case file requests summer jobs for younger 

constituents and full time jobs for older ones. Transfers from one civil service job to 

another were quite common requests. If a new constituent had just moved into your 

district from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and had a federal job, it would be up to his district 

Congressperson to facilitate the transfer. The quid quo pro principle is well used in the 

halls of Congress.

Have you ever received an American flag that has flown over our Nation’s Capitol? If 

you have, so too have thousand of other Americans, including myself. If each 

Congressperson receives one flag request per day, that equals 435 flags. Add that number 

to the number of U. S. Senators (100) and the figure becomes 535 requests per day. How 

can this be, you ask. On the roof of one of the many buildings that make up the Capitol, 

two federal employees hoist up a 3 by 5 American flag on the flagpole, let it fly for less 

than a minute, then lower it, fold it and put it in a box for shipping to one of the folks 

back home. So your flag, my flag, is not the one that has flown atop the dome of the 

Capitol building but, indeed, it has flown over the Capitol. 

One of the weirdest letters that I perused came from a constituent complaining that bugs 

were crawling up the drainpipe of her kitchen sink. I don’t know how Congressman 

Osmers answered her, but I’m sure that it was a diplomatic response. I might have said: 

Turn on the faucet and drown the damn things. 

I felt like Santa Claus reading these letters. Perhaps the American people envision their 

Congressperson as their own personal Santa Claus. So much for letters! 

PORKING THE FOLKS BACK HOME 

I soon found out that another aspect of a Congressman’s life is to “bring home the 

bacon.” Legislation to accomplish this purpose is called “pork barreling.” 

And like so many other things on the Hill, the more seniority a legislator has, the more 

bacon, pork, or whatever, he is able to deliver. Today, Senator Robert Byrd of West 

Virginia has the undisputed title as the “King of Pork.” 

Pork barrel legislation is usually accomplished through amendments or riders to a bill 

being considered. Once again, the “quid pro quo” or “log rolling” principle comes into 

effect – “you vote for my pork, I’ll vote for yours.” 

Highway improvement, shoring up the shore, green acres, are but a few examples of 

using federal monies to help a particular legislator’s district. Now more of his 

constituents are put to work in the creation of the projects, the housing and retail markets 

increase, and more people benefit either directly or indirectly through his efforts. On the 

other hand, he fights to stop plant closings or the closing of federal properties such as 

military compounds. He must keep the folks back home happy. More pork legislation, 

Frank.

In the old days, a representative of a special interest group would meet the legislator in 

the lobby of the Capitol and there, bend his ear, promoting his cause. Today lobbyists are 

highly paid professionals, some earning seven-figure salaries, and meet with the 

legislator in a more formal setting – campaign contributions graciously accepted. It was 

interesting to find out how lobbyists operated in the 1960’s. The chemical and insurance 

industries here in New Jersey were an important part of Congressman Osmers’ life. The 

once mighty national labor unions were ever so important. Virtually every industry and 

organization is well represented in the Capitol. Even the Catholic Church has a powerful 

lobby in Washington. Pragmatically, the “third house of Congress” is an important group 

and must be reckoned with. Lobbies are a political life force for every politician. Did 

someone mention campaign finance reform? 

NO SMOKING PLEASE! 

On Wednesday, June 24, I attended a hearing conducted by the House Committee on 

Interstate Commerce. Testifying before the Committee on that day was Commissioner 

Dixon of the Federal Trade Commission. His objective before the Committee was to 

warn of the perils of smoking cigarettes. Inasmuch as I did not smoke cigarettes, I felt his 

visionary message did not apply to me; nonetheless, I sat in rapt attention as he proceeded 

to make his case, or carton, or whatever. 

Mr. Dixon stated that all cigarette packages should be labeled with a message of caution 

that cigarette smoking could be health hazard to the smoker. He proposed that Congress 

enact “labeling legislation” and that it go into effect on cigarette packages on January 1, 

1965 and on cigarette advertising on July 1, 1965. Because of the powerful tobacco 

lobby, Commissioner Dixon felt there would be court challenges and that the proposed 

legislation would be delayed. The FTC prepared a detailed report and each member of 

Congress would receive a copy of same. The Commissioner’s words rang true and 

eventually were realized as the law of the land, the tobacco lobby notwithstanding. 

I must make a confession at this time. From my college days to the early 1990’s, I 

smoked a pipe. Not only did I find it professorial looking but relaxing as well. My 

favorite tobacco for many years was “Mixture 79,” an American blend. Later on I 

switched to “Sail,” a Dutch tobacco. A bowlful after school just hit the spot. I didn’t 

inhale.

AND THE RACE IS ON 

The presidential election was now less than five months away. Lyndon Johnson’s 

nomination at the Democratic National Convention held in Atlantic City that summer was 

assured. Not so with the Republicans who were divided between to forces of 

Pennsylvania Governor, Bill Scranton - like in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and Senator Barry 

“Mr. Conservative” Goldwater. They would meet later that summer in San Francisco’s 

Cow Palace to determine their standard bearer. Mississippi wasn’t the only place ablaze 

during the summer of 1964; Washington, D. C. was a hot place too. 

Afternoons and evenings in the fellowship program were set aside for attending 

scheduled events. One such event was a visit to the “Scranton for President” 

headquarters. At the briefing a rep outlined Scranton’s program for a better America, 

more mainstream than that of Goldwater, and it was clear that they wanted to “stop 

Goldwater” before Convention time. Their aim was to swing the uncommitted convention 

delegates into the Scranton camp. This proved to be easier said than done. A stop at the 

“Goldwater for President” office was also slated, and Barry’s boys were confident that 

their king would be crowned at Cow Palace. They were right. 

We met with both our U. S. Senators from New Jersey, Clifford Case and Harrison 

Williams. At the meeting with Senator Case, one of the few liberal Republicans in the 

Senate, I posed two questions to him. 

Q:Senator Case, it appears likely that Senator Barry Goldwater will receive the 

Republican presidential nomination when the Republican National Convention 

meets in New Jersey. If this is the case, what effect will Senator Goldwater’s 

nomination have on the Republican Party? 

A: The Republican Party would work for unity within the Party and would not 

engage in a “Stop Goldwater” effort. 

Q: To what extent will you, Senator Case, support Senator Goldwate, if he is 

nominated? 

A: (Silence)…I don’t think that I can answer that question at this time. 

Barry lost the race to LBJ in the general election but continued to be a vital force within 

the Republican Party for years. However, with the passage of time, the Arizona Senator 

swung to the left on some issues, including that of gay rights and was considered an 

apostate by some of his former reactionary Republican colleagues.

A HEARING HERE AND A BRIEFING THERE 

My afternoons and evenings were filled with hearings, briefings and presentations. There 

was very little free time to write postcards from the seat of democracy. 

One speaker that impressed me was a former eight-term Congressman from Arkansas, 

Brooks Hays. Mr. Hays stressed that politics should be a noble profession and that there 

are ways to win on a noble basis. He decried mudslinging and other McCarthy-like 

tactics that some politicians use in an effort to win a political race. He admonished the 

many politicians who follow the Robespierre principle – The crowd is in the street and I 

must follow which way they are going. Politicians should impart ethical standards to 

students, as should teachers. 

Speaking of teachers, another interesting speaker was Sam Halpern of the legislative 

Office of Education. Standardized testing or norms for the entire country was the topic. 

It’s still a hot button issue today. In supporting federal standardized testing, Mr. Halpern 

posed a hypothetical question: If eighth graders from Waco, Texas, had a median score of 

42% on a national test and Holmdel, New Jersey, scored 94% on the same test, wouldn’t 

Waco make every attempt to do better the next year? 

Mr. Halpern did not foresee any measurable federal aid to the humanities in the future, at 

least not to the extent as the science and math programs. He argued that the humanities 

tend to be subjective and this was the reason for the hesitancy on the government’s part to 

fund these liberal bastions. As conservative as I was, I found his logic flawed. We must 

put a man on the moon, perhaps even (sic) two or three. 

Other visits included the Republican National Committee, the A. F. of L. – C. I. O., the 

Democrat Study Group (think tank), the state Department, and many more. All were 

interesting and informative. 

A VISIT TO THE EXECUTIVE MANSION 

A visit to the Executive Mansion on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was among the 

highlights of my Washington experience.

I use the term “Executive Mansion” to describe the residence of the President of the 

United States. This is what the executive residence was called in its earlier history. As a 

result of the British invasion (not that one) of Washington during the War of 1812, the 

Executive Mansion, originally painted a light gray, was burned – but not beyond repair. 

After the War, President James Madison, or more likely, Dolley, summoned James 

Hoban, the Dublin-born architect who designed the building over from Ireland to access 

the damages. In essence, he said in his Irish brogue, put a few coats of white paint on it 

and the building will look as good as new. James and Dolly took Hoban’s advice and 

ecce: The White House. Hail to the Chieftans! 

Our group met on Saturday morning, June 27, at the West Gate of the White House. After 

producing our credentials to security, we were escorted to a conference room in the 

White House where we met Charles Daily, a legislative aide to President Johnson. It was 

a great feeling sitting in a White House conference room. Mr. Daily felt confident that his 

boss would sweep to victory in November and bring as many as thirty new members into 

the House of Representatives on his coattails. Cutbacks in defense were discussed, 

including the closing of the Brooklyn Navy Yard that left thousands of area residents out 

of work. 

Mr. Daily then gave the group a VIP tour of the people’s house. LBJ was off the premises 

for the weekend so it was possible to be escorted to the Oval Office, the Cabinet 

Conference Room, and the Rose Garden. I had been to the White House several times 

previously with my school trip but never had experienced the “inner chambers” of the 

Executive Mansion. This was one of my two VIP visits to the White House. Hail to the 

Chief!!! 

A CONGRESSMAN’S LOT IS NOT AN EASY ONE 

It seemed to me that no sooner than a Congressman was elected to the House of 

Representatives that he was back on the campaign trail seeking re-election. Members of 

the House are elected for a two-year term unlike his brother Senator’s on the other side of 

the Hill who are elected for a six-year term. 

Congressman Osmers staff was gearing up for the November election when I was an 

intern. Getting the incumbent re-elected was now on the front burner.

Back in 1964 a Congressperson represented about half a million people. It took at least 

that number in dollars to wage an effective campaign. Today, Congressional campaigns 

run in the eight and nine figure bracket. $$$, and plenty of it, $$$$$$, is a requisite for 

running for Congress. Money is the mother’s milk of politics. 

Campaign contributions, both “hard” and “soft” money, are vital for election. Party 

loyalty, too, is very important because the machine provides the backing, some of the 

funding, and helps to get out the vote. A maverick politician will find it rough sailing 

without the backing of the donkey or elephant. Usually maverick politicians affiliate with 

a third or independent party and go nowhere – usually! 

Everything from press to parades is carefully orchestrated. Even I was the subject of a 

press release issued on July 6, 1964, from the Office of Congressman Osmers upon 

completion of my internship. The packet included a two-page release and a photo of the 

Congressman and myself on the steps of the Capitol with the impressive dome as the 

backdrop. It was sent to all the major New Jersey newspapers, as well as the local press. 

The release, replete with photo, appeared in many newspapers and gave both of us 

recognition. Every little bit helps, especially if you’re running in a tight race as Osmers 

was. 

Congressman Osmers was fortunate inasmuch as his district was only a five-hour drive 

from Washington. This allowed for personal communication with his constituents at his 

district office or his attendance at wakes and weddings, galas and gatherings, on at least a 

weekly basis. I’ve known my friend, Peter Rodino, to appear at a morning event in 

Newark, take the shuttle plane to Washington to honor his constituent duties, hop an 

evening shuttle back to Newark and arrive in time to be a keynote speaker at a big dinner 

– perhaps two. The more visibility the better. Members of Congress who represent 

districts from far away places such as Hawaii or Alaska do not have this distinct 

advantage. Personal contact with the folks back home is so very important. 

Communication with constituents is a must. Every legislator issues a periodic newsletter 

that invariably features his saga on the Hill. Sometimes, a newsletter incorporates a photo 

of the Congressman with the President at a bill signing or visiting his home district on the 

beginning of a pork project. Timing of newsletter mailings is very important. Invariable, 

a major newsletter must go out in the weeks before the election. The memory of the 

Congressman in the eyes of his constituents must be kept green. Green, glorious green!

THANK GOD, IT’S BIG BONNER TIME 

“TGIF,” is the workingman’s mantra, and the work force of Washington, D. C. and the 

staff on Capitol Hill is no different than the rest of America - thank God it’s Friday. I had 

finished my first full week as an intern on the Hill and I was tired, really tired. Then came 

the good news. 

Staffers on the Hill have their various “in-groups” and it was one such group that hosted 

an after work reception in the venerable House Caucus Room after work on Friday, June 

26, 1964. The event was billed as the “smoked Kokanee salmon and keg beer fest” and 

was sponsored by the Idaho Chamber of Commerce, as well as other Idaho groups. 

Considered a staff member, I was invited to join the regulars at what sounded like a great 

way to end off the workweek. 

The huge oak-paneled room that made history on so many different occasions, once 

jammed with testifiers and television cameras, now was jammed to the rafters with 

staffers from almost every state in the Union. Hey! – a free beer, what do you want 

already. 

After a few beers, I started to mingle with the crowd. Hi, I’m Tom Murray from New 

Jersey and where are you from? I decided against eating the fish on that Friday. There on 

the table lay several thirty-pound salmon with their mouths wide open. The salmon didn’t 

turn me on; the beer did. Hiccup! 

Needless to say, there was plenty of promotional material to go around. One of the pieces 

I picked up was a flier from Idaho’s Bonner Bounty proclaimed as a year ‘round 

wonderland. I bet! As I opened the promotional piece I noticed a colorful banner spread 

across the top of the two inner pages, urging us to “Head for the Fun in “BIG” Bonner 

County.” Hmm! 

Thank God for Friday. Thank God for “BIG” Bonner County. 

~ 

On the following Friday, July 2, I said my “thanks” and “goodbyes” to Congressman 

Osmers and his staff. The two weeks of concentrated exposure to the government at the 

federal level had been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I never realized 

the complexities that confront our legislators each day and had a better understanding of 

the demands made upon our Congresspersons. I did not stay around for the Fourth of July 

festivities and decided to leave for home the next day. Mom was awaiting my arrival and 

was anxious to hear the tales of her son, the intern.

CONGRESSMAN OSMERS, NEW JERSEY’S FALLING STAR 

It was a couple of weeks before Election Day and the Social Science Federation of Essex 

Catholic High School sponsored a Political Night for young and old alike. Congressman 

Osmers was in the political fight of his life. However, out of deference to me, he left his 

district to appear at the Essex Catholic forum alongside Congressman Peter W. Rodino 

Jr. The Congressman from Bergen County had nothing to gain. 

November 3rd arrived and the voters went to the polls. Naturally I voted for my former 

political mentor, Frank Osmers. However, after many years of faithful service to his 

constituents, Frank Osmers was defeated by a razor-thin margin by Democrat, Henry 

Helstoski. LBJ had taken Bergen County by a substantial margin and this coattail effect 

catapulted Helsoski into the Congressional seat held by Osmers for over a decade. 

Unlike so many legislators on the Hill, Frank Osmers was not a lawyer. After his defeat 

in the election, he returned to the business world from whence he came. 

As for myself, I went on one hell of a guilt trip. I rationalized that if Osmers had not 

spent three hours out of his district that night to appear on my behalf at Essex Catholic, 

he might have been re-elected. I still feel that way today forty plus years later. 

THE RISING STAR OF PETER W. RODINO JR. 

During the fellowship program, I had the opportunity to visit the office on a 

Congressman who would later become one of my closest friends in political office – 

Peter W. Rodino Jr. The Congressman from New Jersey’s 10 th Congressional District 

was a product of Newark, New Jersey and never forgot from whence he came. The 

district which he represented since 1948 encompassed Newark and many of its suburbs. 

A veteran of World War II, the Newark-born Italian-American entered the world of 

politics partly to disabuse the public of the stereotypes of the Italian population in 

Newark and elsewhere. Once established on the Hill, he worked to secure Columbus Day 

as a national holiday saluting Italian heritage. 

Peter was first elected to Congress in 1948. There he served honorably for some twenty 

terms, forty years, a good argument against term limits. He rose in the ranks to eventually 

become Chairman of the thirty-eight member House Judiciary Committee.

Throughout his many years as a civil servant, Peter Rodino, fought for the rights of the 

working man and identified with poor and lower middle class Americans. Social 

legislation was his forte. He was a major force behind the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and 

the primary author of the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Medicare, for which I am eternally 

grateful, was one of Congressman Rodino’s pet projects. When he served as Chairman of 

the House Judiciary Subcommittee on Immigration and Naturalization, he authored and 

co-sponsored many bills dealing with immigration reform, for he was a first generation 

American. 

Congressman Rodino came to Essex Catholic many times to address the students, 

invariably during the fall of an election year. After his 1972 appearance at the school, I 

walked him to his car. I was still a registered Republican and planned to vote for Nixon in 

the following month’s general election. I resented, as did many Democrats, George 

McGovern of South Dakota. His anti-war, pro-leftist stance made me sick and I 

remarked: Peter, How could support a candidate like George McGovern? In short order I 

would have to eat my words. In retrospect, perhaps McGovern might have made a fairly 

good president. Perhaps, he should have been given a chance, just as he gave his Vice 

Presidential running mate, Thomas Eagleton, a chance backing him 110%. Sorry for the 

sarcasm. 

~ 

In 1973, the Dean of the New Jersey Congressional delegation replaced the forty-eight 

year veteran of Congress, Emmanuel Celler of Brooklyn, who, in November 1972, lost to 

a relative unknown, Elizabeth Holtzman, in what was thought to be a “shoe-in” primary. 

This left the door open for Congressman Rodino. He had served in key positions on 

several of its subcommittees during the previous decade. Little did the New Jersey 

Congressman who represented so many Italian immigrants and other ethnic groups over 

the years, think that in 1974 he would sit in judgment of the President of the United 

States. 

Democratic Party Majority Leader, Thomas “Tip” O’Neill, announced the appointment of 

Congressman Rodino to Chair the House Committee on the Judiciary. His fellow House 

members gave him a standing ovation as he walked down the center aisle, the “line” that 

divides the representatives of the two major parties. Many House members on both sides 

of the aisle knew that in January 1973, with the opening of the new Congress, that things 

did not look good for the incumbent President, Richard M. Nixon, who had just been reelected 

to the highest office in the land. Senator Sam Irwin was to launch his televised 

Watergate hearings on the other side of the Hill in February of 1973.

A new lexicon of words and phrases emerged during that year: cover-up, hush money, 

dirty tricks, smoking gun; in-house (White House) organizations as CREEP and the 

Plumbers – and, of course, the “Saturday Night Massacre.” Halderman, Ehrlichman and 

Dean became household names. Resignations and falls were the order of the day. 

And despite Nixon’s statement: I am not a crook, it was within the realm of possibility 

that he might be impeached. If so, the onus to begin the process would fall upon Peter W. 

Rodino Jr. and his House Judiciary Committee. The eyes of the nation would be upon the 

distinguished gentleman from New Jersey, as the Chair of the Committee had to be 

beyond reproach. Many years later “Uncle Pete” told me the following anecdote, that as 

he walked down that aisle receiving accolades from his fellow-House members that 

ironically, Congressman Dan Rostenkowski of Illinois, shook hands with the new 

Chairman, saying in his ear: I hope you’re clean, Pete! 

WATERGATE: HIS FINEST HOUR AND ONE OF MINE 

Many of us remember Mr. Rodino presiding with impartial dignity (more than one could 

say about Henry Hyde and his fellow-Congresspersons on the House Judiciary 

Committee during the Clinton impeachment hearings) during the Nixon impeachment 

hearings held in the House Judiciary Committee chambers during the summer of 1974. I 

remember the public hearings well and watched the proceedings with rapt attention on 

my television at my North Arlington, New Jersey home. 

The House Judiciary Committee had some of the best legal minds in the country as 

staffers, including Chief Counsel, John Doar, and Minority Counsel, Albert Jenner, both 

Republicans, I might add. It made room for a brilliant staff member who had recently 

graduated Yale Law School, Hillary Rodham. She helped to prepare the ground rules for 

the impeachment hearings and impressed the Chairman very much. 

It was July of 1974 and the closed hearings were winding down after nearly six months. 

Rodino insisted that the proceedings be thorough for the fate of a sitting president hung in 

the balance. Six months was a long time and the final phase would be open hearings and 

televised nationally.

It was in early July of 1974 that I organized an impromptu three-day trip to Washington, 

D.C. Some eight Essex Catholic boys, along with my colleagues, Brothers Marty 

Germain from Dominica and Rudy Duffy, got in the school van and away we went to 

Washington. We stayed at the Howard Johnson’s on Virginia Avenue. The setting 

couldn’t have been more appropriate as HoJo’s was located just across the street from the 

Watergate complex and one of its rooms was used as a lookout and monitoring setting for 

the “plumbers.” We explored the expansive Watergate complex and I later returned to 

buy a bottle of Watergate Scotch Whisky from its liquor store. I’m sure the Mitchell’s 

shopped there too. 

I told the boys, that due to the impeachment hearings, the chances of meeting with 

Congressman Rodino were nil. However, I did arrange to have them meet another friend 

on the Hill who represented some of our suburban students, Congressman Joe Minish 

from West Orange. Joe and Peter shared an apartment in Washington and were the best of 

friends. 

Did I dare pick up the phone in Congressman Minish’s office and call “Uncle Pete” with 

the hope that he just might be in his office to receive some eight casually dressed kids 

and their chaperones? Was it too presumptuous of me to take the man whose picture had 

just appeared on the cover of Time way from his mandate, if indeed he could spare a few 

moments with us? I phoned Peter’s office and he was there. Apparently, the Judiciary 

Committee had just recessed. His personal secretary, Joyce, informed him that I was over 

in Joe Minish’s office with a small Essex Catholic contingent and that we would like to 

see him. Affirmative! Affirmative! Affirmative! We were now on our way to meet with 

one of the most important men in the country at the time. 

We made our way to the Chairman’s office inside the Rayburn Building. Outside the 

office were reporters, the curious, and a security detail. Once inside the inner sanctum, 

the Newark Congressman warmly received us. 

Atop the large oval office table were documents, many, many documents. Some were 

marked “confidential.” The table contents alone evoked a sense mystery. While the 

Congressman was talking to the standing students, one of them started looking at, and 

fingering the cover of one of, the classified documents. As soon as I noticed the 

impropriety, I gave the kid a discreet nudge. I should have given him a shot in the 

wherever, instead.

Congressman Rodino advised the group that the House Committee on the Judiciary had 

gathered enough evidence to warrant impeachment. Indeed, it was Mr. Rodino’s feeling 

that the Committee would recommend articles of impeachment against Richard M. Nixon 

to the full House in the not too distant future. “Obstruction of justice,” “abuse of power,” 

and other terms were mentioned in the course of the Chairman’s presentation. A couple 

of weeks later, in late July, the Judiciary Committee did exactly that. Before the full 

House could act upon the recommendations of impeachment, Nixon resigned on August 

8, 1974. Here was a friend of mine bringing down the president of the United States. 

After we left “Uncle Pete’s” office, a reporter asked one of my kids, “What did he say?” 

Fortunately, the young man had the good sense not to answer but did a double time walk 

with the group as we made our exit from the Rayburn Building. 

On our way back to Newark, we stopped off at Philadelphia for lunch and a quick “TC” 

tour, and arrived safely back in Newark. To this day, I wonder if those students realized 

that their visit to Congressman Rodino’s office during the Watergate impeachment 

proceedings was living history at its finest and that it far transcended their United States 

History textbook. I would like to think so. 

“UNCLE PETE” AND THE SHADOW OF WATERGATE 

During my first year as a teacher a Mater Dei High School in Monmouth County, New 

Jersey, I organized a school trip to Washington, D.C., in the spring of 1977. My friend 

and school principal, John Lonergan accompanied the groups of over thirty boys and girls 

on the three-day trip. We stayed again at HoJo’s because of its central location and 

proximity to the Foggy Bottom metro train station. Washington had completed its ultramodern 

subway system in time for the Bicentennial, just as it had completed the 

extensive renovations of Union Station. 

I scheduled a meeting with our district Congressman, Jim Howard and he spent the 

obligatory fifteen minutes or so with the group. Naturally, I wanted to have my students 

meet my friend, Pete Rodino, but had not made prior arrangements. Besides, Mater Dei 

High School was thirty miles away from his home district. I phoned Mr. Rodino’s office 

from Jim Howard’s office only to be told that the Chairman was holding hearings in the 

Judiciary Chamber and was about to break for lunch and a television interview. His celeb 

status from Watergate was still very much alive. It would not be possible to see the 

“impeachment chairman,” or at least, so I was told.

Never say never! About noontime, I directed Mr. Lonergan and my students to wait in a 

lobby of the Rayburn Building near the House Judiciary Committee’s chamber. The 

Committee was just breaking for lunch and the members were dispersing from their lofty 

perch. As the chamber began to empty, I approached Congressman Rodino who was 

sitting in the center chair of the two-tiered row. He seemed surprised to see me but 

warmly greeted me. I asked him to just say “hello” to the anxious students and the former 

Essex Catholic Vice-Principal who were waiting in the lobby. Just a simple “hello” was 

all I wanted before he returned to his office for lunch. Instead, he ordered that the 

Judiciary chamber be cleared of the remaining people and instructed me to bring in the 

Mater Dei contingent. 

Mr. Rodino had our delegation be seated in the first couple or rows of the chamber and 

spent about a half an hour with us. He reminded the students that in that very chamber the 

26 th amendment was born. It was an amendment that affected some in the group, for it 

lowered the voting age to eighteen. And, yes, he did discuss the impeachment 

proceedings. The students listened attentively as Watergate was still fresh in their minds. 

We thanked the Newark Congressman as he hurriedly made his way to the awaiting 

television camera that was set up in the lobby where we waited less than forty-five 

minutes earlier. And what about your lunch, “Uncle Pete?” 

MY RETURN TO WASHINGTON FOR THE MODEL OAS 

Having heard of the success of the Mater Dei High School delegation at THIMUN, Edgar 

Maya, the Coordinator of the Model Organization of American States (OAS), extended to 

us an invitation to participate in his Washington, D.C. simulation in December of 1987. 

We accepted and were awarded with the delegation of Brazil. 

I had a great feeling about returning to Washington. Knowing that the simulation was 

held in the Hall of the Americas in the palatial OAS Building on Seventeenth Street and 

Constitution Avenue, Northwest, would give a sense of history to my students and me – 

after all, it was Secretary of State, James G. Blaine, who started the Pan-American 

movement in 1881 

Our eight-student delegation was tired the afternoon of December 8 when we arrived in 

Union Station after the four-hour Amrak train-ride from New Jersey’s Metropark. Most 

of us were up late the night before due to the taping for Morton Downey’s television 

show that involved several of the delegates. So we promptly took cabs and checked in to 

our Howard Johnson’s Hotel across from Watergate on Virginia Avenue.

We were all “bright and bushy-tailed” as we walked from HoJo’s to the OAS. Setting 

foot in the Old Pan-American Union Building for the first time as delegates was quite a 

thrill. The model OAS was so much smaller than THIMUN with a little over four 

hundred students representing some twenty-one countries from the western hemisphere. 

Because of this, delegates participated in committee proceedings to a greater extent and 

got to know one another sooner. Another plus, was that flexibility governed and the rules 

of order were not abused as happened at THIMUN so many times. 

The evenings were ours and I planned activities for them including a visit to the recently 

constructed Viet Nam Memorial. Like the opening scene from Dead Poet’s Society, it 

seemed that the deceased vets were trying to communicate with you in the silence of the 

night. 

I did have a chance to have dinner at the Watergate Restaurant with Mauranna Sherman 

and her husband, Bob. I had known Mauranna from her college days as a girl born in 

Ireland and who, with her mother and father and two younger siblings, moved to the 

Flatbush section of Brooklyn . Her mom, Maud Lynn, a Dubliner, was among my closest 

friends. Mauranna’s first marriage was to a Jewish boy from Greenwich, Conn., Chris 

Saks. Yes, that Saks! Maud objected to her daughter marrying a non-Catholic, one of 

“them,” and did not attend the wedding nor the upscale reception that followed. I opted to 

attend the tented, white glove bash. Ugh! I could never live in “high society.” Mauranna 

divorced Chris and married another Jewish boy, Bob Sherman, a Viet Nam War vet. Mrs. 

Lynn attended her daughter’s second wedding, as did I. They have been married for many 

years and Bob joined his wife and has become a born-again Christian. 

We returned to the model OAS in 1988 where we did out thing at the three-day 

conference. One of our students mother’s had worked for Senator Bill Bradley and set up 

a meeting with the Senator for the group. Aside from a few very brief, un-stimulating 

words, the New Jersey Senator set up a “photo op” with our delegation and that thrilled 

the kids to no end. He posed for a picture with just him and me. I looked so short at five 

foot ten inches compared to the tall former New York Knick star. “Big Bill” for 

President??? 

Highlighting the event was a concluding evening reception in the Hall of the Americas. 

What ambience! 

After a three-year absence we would return for our final time in December of 1991. 

Representing St. Vincent and the Grenadines, Mater Dei was the only New Jersey school 

at the forum. Agenda topics that year included drug trafficking, human rights, 

environmental questions and the impending quincentennial of the first voyage of 

Christopher Columbus to the new world. Inasmuch as Haitian president Bertrand Aristide 

had been deposed shortly before the forum, the delegates voted to add the Haitian issue to 

the agenda.

History came alive one afternoon as the delegates were leaving the OAS Building for 

lunch. They found the grounds cordoned off by helmeted policemen in riot gear and 

mounted policemen in the street. Over a thousand Haitians were demonstrating in front of 

the OAS Building, demanding that the hemispheric organization act to return the Priest- 

President to power. 

The keynote speaker was the Rev. Jesse Jackson. Up to that point in time, I was not a 

great fan of the black clergymen but his speech was stirring in the true Baptist tradition. 

He concluded with his hallmark mantra: Keep hope alive! Keep hope alive! Keep hope 

alive! If that wasn’t living history, I don’t know what is…and the kids enjoyed it, as they 

did the lighting of the National Christmas Tree by President and Mrs. Bush and the 

recently freed hostages the night before. 

Some of the delegates and I were on a guided tour of the Archives Building toward the 

end of the conference week. Other school’s, including one from New York, were on the 

same tour. The guide asked the question, “Do you know what Sunday is?” A silence fell 

over the group of teenagers. Then, Mater Dei’s Alisa Grasso assertively spoke out, The 

200 th anniversary of the Bill of Rights! She was correct and the guide commended her on 

her timely knowledge. I was prouder than the proverbial peacock, lording it over a school 

from New York and other visiting schools. Go Seraphs! 

THE GEORGETOWN EXPERIENCE AND THE VOID 

A one-week government seminar for teachers brought me to Washington during the last 

month of June in 1991. Georgetown University was the springboard of our activities and 

it felt good residing on the Bulldog’s campus. One of the first things that I did was to pay 

a visit to the Georgetown Chapel. The last time that I was there in February of 1980, I 

was a down and out alcoholic at the time and I prayed for help. Eleven years later, the 

demon had been exorcised and I thanked God for helping me regain my sobriety. 

Some things had changed since my Eagleton fellowship experience in 1964. The 

seniority system in Congress had been modified for one thing. For another, my friend 

Pete Rodino was no longer a Congressman. I felt the void without him in this bastion of 

democracy. I could no longer go over to the Rayburn Building and say hello to him. 

However, I did find my week in Washington very informative. It was also an educational 

experience, fulfilling my periodic PIP (Personal Improvement Plan) at Mater Dei High 

School.

I attended briefings at the Pentagon and the State Department, as well as a luncheon at 

the National Press Club at which Congresswoman Patricia Schroeder from Colorado was 

the featured speaker. We heard presentations given by members from both sides of 

Capitol Hill and from both political parties. I found Senator Paul Simon (D-Il) intriguing 

despite his loud bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses. 

Sitting in the Speaker’s Chair at the invitation of the House Clerk gave me a sense of 

empowerment. 

Meeting with Bruce Norton of CBS and his insight into the media and the world of 

politics was enlightening. After the session, I chatted with him and requested that he give 

my regards to Mater Dei High School graduate, Brian Williams, who, at the time, was 

working with CBS News. 

On Friday of that week I managed to meet with Mike Guerra, the Executive Director of 

the National Catholic Education Association. Come Friday evening it was no boozing or 

salmon, but rather, attendance at a “Mostly Mozart Festival” at the JFK Center for the 

Performing Arts. 

The next morning I said my goodbyes and I drove back to a hot Red Bank, New Jersey, 

in less than four hours. 

CONGRESSMAN JOE CROWLEY VACATES THE VOID 

Joe Crowley was a senior from the Irish bastion of Woodside, Queens, when I first met 

him while I was teaching at my alma mater, Power Memorial Academy, during the 1979- 

80 academic year. I regret that he was not a student in one of my two American 

Government elective classes. However, Joe was a mainstay in “Op Search,” the search 

for the 7 Wonders of New York City that I directed. I knew him as a member of Power’s 

elite color guard of which I was moderator. He impressed me as being a convivial young 

man with striking leadership abilities. After my return to New Jersey, I read about Joe in 

the Irish press and to my delight, he was a member of the New York State Legislature 

representing parts of Queens. By the millennium, I read that Assemblyman Joe Crowley 

was now Congressman Joe Crowley representing parts of Queens and the Bronx. I was 

elated. 

Although Power closed in 1984, some nineteen years later, I helped organize the Power 

Memorial Academy Alumni Association (PMAAA) and as a Board member, chaired its 

Remembrance Committee. As such, I arranged for the first annual Mass of Remembrance 

to held at St. Paul the Apostle Church on 59 th Street, Power’s official church and my 

former parish, to be held on Saturday, March 13 at 11AM. Congressman Crowley, his 

family, and brother Sean, a Power graduate from the class of ’84, was on hand for the 

liturgy.

I chatted with Joe Crowley after the Mass, mentioning the void I felt whenever I visited 

Washington without the presence of my friend, “Uncle Pete” Rodino. The young 

Congressman assured me that he would welcome me to our nation’s capital on any future 

visits. That was reassuring. The void had been filled. I now had another friend on the 

Hill. 

WASHINGTON IS STILL A HELLUVA A TOWN 

Even during my last year as a classroom teacher, 1995-96, I was still taking students to 

Washington, D.C. During the fall of 1995, I arranged to take a group of students from my 

American Government class at Mater Dei High School to our Nation’s capitol. We stayed 

for two nights across the Potomac in Alexandria. 

Patrick Kowalczyk, a Mater Dei graduate, class of ’86, and a former student of mine was 

now working on the Hill. Patrick, poor guy, had me as his teacher all four years at Mater 

Dei, including his senior year when he elected to take my American Government course. 

He must have enjoyed the course for he was Press Secretary to liberal Democrat, 

Congresswoman Lynn Woolsey who represented parts of Marin and Sonoma counties in 

California. Patrick coordinated a meeting for his alma mater students with his boss and 

they loved it. She spent more time with us than did our own Congressperson, Frank 

Pallone. 

Have you ever visited the Vietnam Memorial at night? If not, please do so. I brought my 

kids there on one of the evenings of the trip. It is awesome – the sound of silence, the 

flickering candles, the flowers, the sign of the cross being made by Catholic visitors, the 

eerie feeling that one gets while visiting the site. It is as if the dead are in your presence 

and calling out: Thank you for remembering us this night. 

On a brief visit to DC in August, 2003, I stayed at the Irish-owned Jury’s on Dupont 

Circle. This was the first time that I ever stayed in the Dupont Circle area and found it to 

be a very vibrant locale, both day and night. I was told that the Metro escalator for the 

Dupont Circle stop is the longest in the world. The next day I visited the Holocaust 

Museum for the first time. As my time was limited, I just got an overview. However, I 

plan to return and experience the special exhibits.

I returned to Washington on Friday, July 23, 2004, at the invitation of my goddaughter, 

Mary Beth Kostka, who was attending the American Federation of Teachers (AFT) 

convention. As I don’t see her that often, perhaps once a year, I suggested we meet for 

dinner after John Kerry’s keynote speech at “1789,” my favorite Washington restaurant. 

Not only was it good seeing Mary Beth and meeting her local AFT president, Gloria, but 

it was like a homecoming returning to “1789” after nearly thirty years. The thirty-three 

year old Mary Beth loved the ambience, the staff and the food, and treated her 

septuagenarian godfather to dinner in this **** restaurant. 

There are places in Washington that still have not been seen by me. I have yet to visit the 

World War II Memorial. It is on the top of my list on my next visit to Washington. 

Hopefully, that visit will be in the very near future. 

Washington, D.C., is still a helluva town. See it again and again as I have.

Chapter 17 – DELIA AND CAMP ADRIAN – THE SUN SETS 

HELLO DOLLY 

Bridget Delia Murray, a fine Irish name, indeed. My mom Delia preferred to be called 

Dolly. It was better than Bridget which some of her friends thought was “too Irish.” Delia 

was not as “Irish” as Bridget, or so mom thought, but was most comfortable with the 

name Dolly. 

I had seen the play, The Matchmaker, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Thanks to the magic of 

Jerry Herman’s pen, he had transferred The Matchmaker into a smash musical hit on 

Broadway, Hello Dolly. I must admit that I did not see the Broadway production but did 

see the movie version with Walter and Barbra. In 1972, Brother Richard Gray directed 

the Essex Catholic High School production of “Dolly.” Brother Gray’s presentation, 

remains to this day, the finest high school musical production that I have ever seen. 

What, with the play and movie, coupled with “Satchmo’s” single of the title song, the 

name “Dolly” was at the crest of its popularity during the late 1960’s. Wherever mom 

went, she was bound to hear someone singing her song. Even I sung it to her on 

occasions. She loved it. 

Dolly had an effervescent personality, akin to her character’s name in the musical. She lit 

up the room whenever she entered. For a lady with only a fifth grade formal education, 

she was an enamoring speaker, possessing the gift of “Blarney,” and held court with 

some of the best minds of the day. 

ANGEL OF MERCY 

Marguerite Cowhey of Camp Adrian was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1959. As the 

disease progressed, her sister, Nan, turned to Delia for help. Nan called Delia, Dolly, too. 

Mom obliged, serving in the capacity of a practical nurse. 

Mom temporarily resided at the Cowhey’s New York City apartment, the “Riviera” on 

790 Riverside Drive from the fall of 1960 to the following spring. She tended to 

Marguerite with the care of a professional and the compassion of a saint. 

It was a familiar sight to see Nan’s 1954 black Cadillac Fleetwood pull up to our home in 

North Arlington and take mom over to the city for her tour of duty, usually two weeks, 

back to back, without a day off.

I visited mom often on “the Drive,” usually on the weekend. I, too, pitched in, taking 

Nan’s Cocker Spaniel dog out for a walk. The aging dog was appropriately named 

Cockie. It was pre-Koch days in New York City. The pooper-scooper law was something 

that had yet to come. So I didn’t have to worry about picking up Cockie’s “cock-caw.” 

I spent the Easter weekend of 1961 over at “the Drive.” Marguerite was failing fast. On 

Easter Sunday I went into her bedroom and chatted with her briefly. I didn’t think that a 

person in the throes of death wanted to engage in lengthy conversation. Marguerite knew 

that God was going to call her home soon. She pleaded with me, Help me Tommy. I knew 

that I could do nothing but pray. 

Upon returning home to North Arlington the next day, mom phoned me to tell me that 

Marguerite had passed away that Easter Monday. I was devastated. The lady who had 

given so much to so many children, including myself, was now taken from us. 

Nan decided to have the wake in the spacious living room of her apartment. It was the 

closest I ever came to attending an “Irish wake.” The mourners first dropped their goods 

off in the kitchen; then proceeded to pay their last respects to the deceased. It was back to 

the kitchen for food and spirits – the alcoholic kind. While there was no singing of Irish 

ballads at the wake, there was a spirit of levity as the mourners reminisced about the 

“good old days.” 

Dementia was claiming Josephine Cowhey. At one stage, Josephine approached the 

casket of her sister, saying: She looks cold. Maybe we should get her a blanket. 

Marguerite’s funeral mass was from St. Mary’s of the Snow in Saugerties with Bishop 

Scully from the Diocese of Albany presiding. (His Excellency was the “Lord High 

Executioner” of the Legion of Decency at the time.) She was then interred in the church’s 

graveyard. 

Taking care of Marguerite was very stressful for mom. Now, with Marguerite gone, mom 

thought that she could go back home to North Arlington. That was not to be the case. Nan 

asked Dolly to take care of Josephine. Wishing to be a true “angel of mercy,” mom 

agreed. It was her caring nature. As Josephine’s condition worsened, she became too 

much for mom to handle. Nan then called upon the services of a younger Registered 

Nurse. Mom was free at last to come home and was she ever welcome 

DIRECTOR OF CAMP ADRIAN, AT LONG LAST 

The following summer, Nan Cowhey invited Dolly to be her guest at Camp Adrian and to 

serve as overseer. Nan invited me to run the camp.

Sleeping for the first time in this large Victorian home was quite an event for me. Mom 

occupied what was once Marguerite’s room, replete with a balcony. I remember 

Marguerite often appearing on the balcony watching the campers form a circle around the 

flagpole for flag lowering and dinner. Besides, it was a nice upgrade for mom who 

usually occupied one of the four smaller bedrooms. I selected the second master bedroom 

mainly because it overlooked the cabins. From there I could keep an eye on the activities. 

Opening the fourteen-room house that had been shuttered up since the previous 

September was quite a task. Electricity, phone service, water - all had to be turned on. 

Airing out the house, dusting the cobwebs away – all had to be tended to. Coal had 

ordered for the boiler, and gas by the tank for the stoves. Henry Pelham who lived with 

his wife in a small nearby cottage was Camp Adrian’s caretaker. He as a man on in years 

but was a hearty mountain person. Mom always had a shot of whiskey ready for him as 

he finished his chores each day at the camp. He really appreciated Mrs. Murray’s 

kindness as he left Camp Adrian each day in his old Plymouth to go home to “the 

woman.” 

I now took over the reigns as Director of Camp Adrian. Finally, I had arrived at the top 

spot, after starting off as a camper there in 1947, and working my way up the chain of 

command: counselor-in-training, counselor, assistant director, and after fifteen years, 

Director of Camp Adrian. 

The kids still came from the Parish of Our Lady of Esperenza, the Cowhey’s New York 

City parish of West 156 th Street. With Marguerite now gone, the boys of St. Paul’s were 

no longer invited to Camp Adrian. Nan Cowhey had to foot the bill and inviting a parish 

other than her own would cause her to go over budget. The overnight camping business 

was starting to wane. Traditional camps were on their way out; specialty camps, 

especially in various sports and cultural activities, were becoming popular during the 

sixties. Her camp, Rip Van Winkle, saw a decline in enrollment. 

My close friend and colleague, Tom Tobin, served on the staff as Assistant Director. Ron 

Del Mauro, a senior at Essex Catholic High School and one of his friends served as 

counselors. It should be noted that Ron and I have kept in contact over the decades and, 

at the time of this writing, Ron is President and CEO of the Barnabas Health Care 

System, the third largest employer in the State of New Jersey. 

Camp Adrian reopened for a partial season in 1962. However, the loss of campers at Rip, 

combined with the dementia that afflicted her sister, Josephine of Camp On-ti-ora, caused 

Nan to rethink the continued operation of Camp Adrian. It did not reopen as a camp in 

1963 or, for that matter, several years following. However, Nan did invite mom and me 

to spend those summers as her guest at Camp Adrian.

OUR SUMMER ESTATE 

A camp without campers is like a school without students. So, too, was Camp Adrian 

during those years of the mid-sixties. 

Nan Cowhey often stopped in to see Dolly on her way back from Saugerties. She still had 

the 1954 Cadillac Fleetwood that she drove less and less. So, to, did Bertha Simmons, the 

cook at camp Rip Van Winkle. Bertha and mom became very good friends and we often 

visited Bertha at her house in Saugerties. 

Some of my colleagues from Essex Catholic High School came up to see me, as did some 

of my students and former students. I had plenty of room to house them and show them 

the Catskill Mountains. During the summer of ’66, three graduates students came up to 

see me – Jack Christell, Bob Harahan and Tom McDade. One day I drove them to the 

nearby, Catskill Game Farm, and they loved it. Today, Bob and Tom are priests of the 

Archdiocese of Newark and both Monsignors. 

Not having a television, I relied on my trusty record player for entertainment. Vinyls, at 

thirty-three and a third rpm, as well as forty-five rpm were in vogue at the time. So I 

could pass the time before dinner sipping a Manhattan and listening to the sounds of 

Simon and Garfunkel, Ferrante and Tiecher, and other popular groups of the sixties. 

MY FRIENDS UP THE ROAD APIECE 

Tom Tobin was less than a mile away at Camp Rip Van Winkle. Now that Camp Adrian 

was no longer open, Nan had asked him to come up to Rip in the capacity of Assistant 

Director. Tom Tobin and Nan were perfect together, both Victorians in their own right. 

Tom remained Assistant Director of Rip Van Winkle until he left the States in 1968. On 

his day off, he often came down to Camp Adrian for one of Delia’s home cooked meals 

and light up a cigarette after dinner, sitting on a stone wall near the basketball court. 

During July of 1967 I drove Tom into town to the Saugerties bus station. Nan had given 

him two days off and he planned to take a bus into New York City, and then on to 

Newark where he lived. We shook hands, hugged, and said “good-bye.” I waved to him 

as the bus exited the Partition Street terminal and headed toward the New York State 

Thruway. He was off, on his way to the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City.

I then proceeded to go across the street to the local barber for a haircut. While on the 

chair, I heard the news from the radio that mentioned the name of Hugh Addonizio, the 

Mayor of Newark. “Hey, I know him,” I said to the barber. With that, the barber turned 

up the volume and the newscaster went on to say that a riot had broken out in Newark. 

The City was shut down. What was Tom Tobin walking into? Because he lived in 

Newark’s North Ward, Fortunately, he was unaffected directly by the riot. He returned to 

Rip by car the following afternoon. Our mutual friend, Ed D’Ascoli of West Orange, 

negotiated the police barriers to pick Tom up at his apartment and bring him back to the 

safety of the mountains. They were a good place to be during the summer of ’67. 

Peter Lawrence, another Camp Adrian counselor, also moved up the road to Rip. Peter 

not only served as counselor at Rip but served as official chauffeur of the camp, as well. 

He loved driving his 1955 Cadillac limousine, replete with its blue light on top, almost as 

much as he loved Nan Cowhey. He stood in adulation of Nan; to Peter, she could do no 

wrong – neither could my mother. 

Nan relied on me for much of her staff and I was happy to oblige. Many counselors were 

faculty members from Essex Catholic High School. In one instance, we had a husband 

and wife combo, Bill and Eileen Mc Crystal; one was a counselor at Rip, the other, at Onti-ora. 

Nan ruled the roost and was always admonishing Tom to be more assertive with the staff. 

“How dare the counselors come into the kitchen in the morning for coffee before reveille 

when they should be in their cabins with the boys.” Shades of “Hyacinth Bucket” 

dominated Nan’s personality. Keep up appearances was so important. All staff members 

had to park their cars in a parking lot directly underneath her bedroom window. She did 

not want counselors driving off in the middle of the night for a tryst with girls from Camp 

On-ti-ora or driving into in Catskill for a pizza and a beer at Mike’s Restaurant. If a 

counselor was caught in the act, he was summarily dismissed and never again was 

allowed to set foot on the camp property. Once I aided and abetted a counselor in leaving 

the grounds for pizza and a beer but did not get caught. Tsk! Tsk! If you were sending 

your boy to Rip, I’m sure that you would want an effective staff and administration, after 

all, you were paying Nan Cowhey top dollar to send your son to America’s foremost 

Catholic boys’ camp. The same was true for the girl’s camp, On-ti-ora.

THE REALM OF RIP VAN WINKLE 

It was only a two-hour drive from North Arlington to the Catskills. As one drives past the 

New Paltz exit heading north on the NYS Thruway, a vast vista unfolds in the distance – 

the Catskill Mountain chain in all its glory. Crowning its diadem is Round Top, the 

highest point of the Catskill’s. While other branches of the Appalachian chain may have 

higher mountains including its northern neighbor, the Adirondacks, there are none more 

majestic than the Hudson Valley one’s. Washington Irving wrote about them, Thomas 

Cole painted them. 

The Dutch originally settled the area and many place names still remain. Henry Hudson, 

the English explorer who sailed under the red, white, and blue of Holland, has many 

tributes to him including the river and valley that bears his name. The mountain range is 

probably named for Jacob Cats, the keeper of the Great Seal of Holland. A stream was 

named for his honor here in the New World – Cats Kill. Ergo, over the years mapmakers 

began calling the mountain range the Catskills. 

Sometimes I broke up the trip and got off at New Paltz, heading toward the Hudson 

River. At the time the Catholic Church owned much property on the both banks of the 

Hudson. One such property was located in West Park, a house of formation for the Irish 

Christian Brothers (F.S.C.H.) and spent a couple of hours with the brothers. I attended 

several habit reception ceremonies of my former students at West Park. On occasions I 

drove one of my colleagues, Brother Bill Dobbins from Essex Catholic High School to 

West Park. Bill and I stopped off for a Manhattan and lunch at Luigi’s at West Park. He 

had the best Lasagna, that side of the Hudson. His Manhattan’s weren’t bad either. Thus 

began a tradition with Brother Dobbins and myself. Upon leaving West Park, I proceeded 

north on 9W, making my way through nearby historic Kingston, and continuing north to 

Saugerties and Camp Adrian. 

There was a lot to see and do in the Catskills. Besides the Catskill Game Farm, there was 

Hunter Mountain, quickly becoming a premier resort area. Lunch at Deanie’s in quaint 

Woodstock was always a favorite stopping place for me. Further north, there was the 

“Irish Alps,” with towns like Leeds, Cairo and East Durham, filled with vacationers from 

the city. 

Shea’s Irish Center in Leeds was my favorite Irish spot north of Rockaway Beach. I 

brought mom there several times. Once Nan Cowhey accompanied us to this blue-collar 

bastion of fun; Tom Tobin always accompanied us. A live Irish band enlivened the 

Catskill resort as gay couples danced the night away. Oops, the word “gay” had now 

taken on another meaning.

There were many sites of interest in the northern Catskills including the Catskill Game 

Farm, the Shrine of St. Isaac Joques and the other Jesuit martyrs, and Howe Caverns. 

There were some fine restaurants in the area too. The Skyline, just off the Rip Van 

Winkle Bridge on the Catskill side of the Hudson, was among my favorites - and what a 

view at twilight time. I had my first stuffed lobster meal there. Another favorite was the 

Katsbaan Inn. Their Beef Stoganoff was the best I ever tasted. 

In the late 1960’s a French couple, Rene and Paulette Macry, opened LaRive, an upscale 

French restaurant not too far from Camp Rip Van Winkle. LaRive soon became the toast 

of the Catskills and my favorite area restaurant – an epicurean’s delight. Their appetizer 

tray was unparalleled and included a cod pate that was mouth-watering. Rene and 

Paulette signed a menu for me, “To Tom – connoisseur of good food and a good friend.” 

Although Rene passed away some years ago, his wife, Paulette, kept the restaurant going 

until 2001. Paulette then sold the property and retired to her condo in Fort Lauderdale, 

where I have visited her on a couple of occasions while in the area. On both occasions, 

we had dinner at the French Quarter Restaurant, off Las Olas. She still has good tastes for 

quality French food. Vive Paulette! 

RIP’S MAN FRIDAY 

During the intermittent years that Camp Adrian was closed as a camp, I helped Nan 

Cowhey out in any way I could. I did not opt to serve as a counselor at Camp Rip Van 

Winkle for one practical reason; I did not want to leave my mother alone in a large empty 

house a mile away. Secondly, my loyalty to Camp Adrian was so strong that I felt that 

working at Rip would be a betrayal of the camp I loved so well. Besides, being a kid from 

Hell’s Kitchen, the thought of working with “silver spooners” repulsed me. Ugh! 

Driving kids from Rip and On-ti-ora to wherever, relieved Peter Lawrence of some of his 

responsibility and did not present a problem to me. Often I would take a camper, 

accompanied by the nurse, to see Dr.Gifford in Saugerties. The girls from the “mountains 

in the sky” were a lot of fun, giggling all the way as I drove them to the horse farm where 

they would practice their equine skills. Driving the nurses or counselors into town for 

shopping and a beer at the Sportsman Bar or The Exchange was fine with me. I usually 

joined then for a beer…or two.

Mom and I were invited to attend the shows at Rip. Mom usually didn’t go because of the 

steep incline up to The Lodge. However, I always attended, and usually enjoyed, the 

presentation. During Parents Weekend, the boys put on an annual Minstrel Show and put 

on blackface to make the show more effective. Today, such a thing would be politically 

incorrect. The end men usually stole the show with their one-liners. Nan wanted all the 

boys participating in the show. Johnny’s folks would be sorely disappointed if they did 

not see their son in the show and may not elect to send their son back to Rip the 

following year. We did not want this to happen. 

The same held true with the closing night’s Award Ceremony –every camper from the 

youngest (5) to the oldest (18) received a trophy or certificate of some sort. A camper 

was not allowed to return home empty-handed. 

The annual musical, held during the last Saturday of the camping season, was the camp’s 

most elaborate production. Father Bob McMain, a talented priest for Washington, 

directed the shows for many years. Although Father Bob moved on, I did attend a fine 

rendition of Oliver, directed by Don Le Blanc in 1967. I helped out wherever and 

whenever I could. Joe Manzo, a teacher from Essex Catholic High School, coordinated 

building the sets and provided for the scenery. Even the camp nurse got in the act, 

playing the role of Nancy. We had a director’s party after the show in Nan’s residence 

and some of the show tunes were reprised on her living room baby grand piano. An “Old 

Crow” and ginger ale just hit the spot and usually she served a nice buffet. “Food, 

glorious food.” 

THANKSGIVING TIME IN THE MOUNTAINS 

“Food, glorious food.” It was Thanksgiving time in the mountains. 

Josephine Cowhey passed away in 1964 and now there was only one Cowhey sister 

remaining, Anna Marie. The entire responsibility of running Camps Rip Van Winkle and 

On-ti-ora now lay on Nan’s shoulders. Nan relied more than ever on Dolly for comfort 

and companionship and, wherever Dolly went, her son Tommy, was sure to go. 

So it was that Nan invited mom and myself up to the mountains for the long 

Thanksgiving weekend. Usually, we left North Arlington right after school closed on 

Wednesday for the Thanksgiving break and arrived in the Catskills before dinnertime. 

Mom stayed with Nan in the administration building, a rather large building that housed 

the boys’ dining room, as well as several guest bedrooms on the third floor.

My abode, the Gnomes Club, was within a stone house built by the Dutch in 1648. The 

structure was added to over the years to include a library and a game room. The Gnomes 

Club housed the tiny tykes, as well as a resident nurse, during the camp season. Its 

setting, atop a hill overlooking the Kaaterskill Creek, was pastoral. I could hear the roar 

of High Falls as the cataract took its sixty-foot plunge to the pool below. This was my 

favorite property, and if I had a millions bucks I’d buy it today; it sold for that recently. 

Nothing like the Catskills in the fall! Often times I drove up during the Columbus Day 

weekend to admire the turning leaves during the foliage season. I walked down to Camp 

Adrian, which was nearly a mile from Rip, and back again admiring nature’s beauty. I 

only wish that I was writing poetry back then – I would have written an “Ode to the 

Catskills.” On Thanksgiving Day, I took an even longer walk to work up an appetite. I 

hoped that I would not run across any bears en-route. I didn’t! 

Nan Cowhey supervised the preparation of the Thanksgiving dinner with the expertise of 

a seasoned head chef. Ezra, Rip’s caretaker, cooked the turkey in a wood-burning stove 

and what a flavor the bird had when it was cooked. Ezra was a tippler and dashed over to 

his cabin every so often for fortification while the bird was being roasted. Bertha, Rip’s 

cook, prepared some of the side dishes in her Saugerties home and then brought them out 

to the Camp for our dinner. After dinner, Bertha then went home to join her daughters’, 

Kathleen and Ann, and granddaughter, Kim, for family Thanksgiving dinner. 

Preandials usually consisted of a Bourbon and ginger ale high ball, with cheese and 

crackers on the side. Then it was time to sit down in the boy’s dining room, give thanks 

to the Lord, and have our Thanksgiving dinner – usually just Nan, mom and myself. 

CAMP ADRIAN REOPENS, 1968 

It was with delight that Nan informed me that Dr. Victor Garra from Rochelle Park, New 

Jersey, had agreed to underwrite the cost of running Camp Adrian for the 1968 season. 

The good doctor had a son a camper at Camp Rip Van Winkle. My job: Get Camp Adrian 

open and in tip top shape for its opening in mid-July of that year. 

Shortly after the close of the academic year, my best friend and colleague, Tom Tobin set 

sail on the HMS Queen Elizabeth bound for Southampton where he accepted a teaching 

position in London. He was sorely missed by me, especially at the Catskill camps where 

we shared many a summer. Another friend and colleague, Don Sullivan, came up to 

Adrian and helped get the camp ready for reopening. Don was quite a handyman and 

brought the camp up to snuff. He even painted the toilet seats in the washhouse.

Before I left for the Catskills, my good friends Ed and Catherine D’Ascoli presented me 

with a puppy. Their Brittany Spaniel, Tina, had given birth to a liter and they wanted me 

to have one. I proceeded to name the pup, Toby, in honor of my friend, Tom Tobin. 

Ed D’Ascoli was no stranger to Camp Adrian. He had visited me there before and had 

met Nan on a couple of occasions. It’s a matter of fact, Nan gave him permission to use 

her vast estate for hunting during the deer season. Ed and his son, Bart, were seasoned 

hunters and this was a paradise for them. A Brittany Spaniel was the perfect hunting dog 

for Ed and a good watchdog at home. I never chose to go hunting on Nan’s grounds or 

elsewhere for that matter. I could not see myself shooting a deer for the “sporting” thrill 

of it. 

Brian P. Reilly had just graduated Essex Catholic High School and would soon be 

entering the Brothers. When I first met Brian as a student in my American History I class 

during his junior year, he was far from the perfect candidate for the Christian Brothers. 

He was a wiseguy and even the best teacher of classroom management would have his 

patience tested with Brian. One day Brian made an off-color remark in class. That did it! 

I directed the insolent student to leave my classroom and wait for me outside in the hall. I 

needed a minute to compose myself. I left the stunned and still classroom, for the 

students knew that Mr. Murray was on the warpath. I grabbed Brian’s jacket lapels with 

both my hands and threw him up against the lockers saying, If you ever open your fuckin’ 

mouth in my class again, I’ll wipe the floor with you. Unprofessional behavior on my 

part, agreed, but Brain never was insolent again in my class. 

That confrontation marked a turning point in his life. He did an about face as his grades 

skyrocketed and his attitude became positive. Brian had me as his teacher once more in 

his senior year and a friendship was clearly developing between teacher and student. I 

invited Brian to spend a few days at Camp Adrian before the campers arrived. He 

accepted my invitation and we both had a memorable three days. He left the brothers and 

we kept in contact for many years. He married, had a family, operated a successful 

restaurant in Virginia, but sadly took his own life a few years ago.

Camp Adrian was also the setting of a tenth anniversary celebration of teaching at Essex 

Catholic High School. Brother Dennehy, Essex Catholic’s principal, accompanied by 

Brother Donald Paul Dwyer, came up for the testimonial the last weekend in June of 

1968. John Lonergan, the school’s vice principal and his wife, Mary, was also in 

attendance. Brother Dennehy presented me with a beautiful paperweight, inscribed 

“Thomas C. Murray 1958-1968” with a medallion of Essex Catholic High School 

encased. Naturally this called for a party…and what a party it was. 

We chatted, had a nice dinner prepared by mom, and sang the night away. Brother 

Dennehy had a great voice and did a Tom Jones special - oh that “Deliah!” Brother 

Dwyer was chairman of the English Department and a man ahead of his times. As a 

teacher of senior English, he got his classes into writing original limericks. Donald Paul, 

I cut out an ad from the “New York Times” on a book of limericks. I think that you may 

want to order it for the school library.” He proceeded to order the book. The school 

librarian didn’t speak to him for weeks. Apparently the book was not previewed by either 

Brother Dwyer or myself and contained, “There Once was a Man from Nantucket” – type 

limericks. No wonder the straight-laced librarian was in a huff. I am that man from 

Nantucket!!! 

The party lasted until 4AM the next morning. With a few hours sleep and aching heads, 

we sat down for breakfast about 11AM. Brother Dennehy and I were so hung over that 

mom served us each a “Bloody Mary” as a morning-after breakfast “cure.” We then 

proceeded, well hung-over, to mass at Sacred Heart Church in Pallenville.. 

During the preceding spring, I bought myself a second car from my neighbor, Frank 

Dalesso. The Bonneville was a great “run-around” car for camp. 

The 1968 season of Camp Adrian was an abbreviated one. I served as the Camp Director 

and a seasoned George Lawrence served as Asst. Director. John Lonergan’s son, Ron, 

and his friend, Ken Hart, served as counselors. 

I bought a gas heater for the hot water. No longer would aging Henry have to tend to the 

furnace several times a day. 

The brief camp season went well. No problems to write home about. The kids from Our 

Lady of Esperenza behaved well and we had no major incidents. Closing ceremonies on 

the last night were attended by Nan and Dolly who were seated at the head table. It was 

great to see Camp Adrian opened once more. Sadly, neither Nan nor Delia would live to 

see another season at Camp Adrian.

A GLORIOUS SUNSET FOR DELIA 

In an excerpt from my 1968 diary of Tuesday, October 29, 1968, I wrote: 

At 3:35 p.m. I came home from school only to find my mom sitting on the 

side of her couch. About 3 p.m. she had suffered a heart attack and could 

not summon help. I offered her a brandy, which she refused, and then proceeded 

to call Dr. Kobes in Kearny. I drove mom to his office, and from there, to West 

Hudson Hospital. (Having a bed shortage, she was assigned the Presidential Suite 

on the top floor.) She was given an injection, as well as an EKG test, and then 

placed in an oxygen tent. Mom’s condition began to improve, and she ate her liquid 

dinner as I watched. Sensing improvement, I went home and returned to the 

hospital at 7:15 for visiting hours. We chatted, and at the conclusion of the visit she 

requested that I not stop in to “Tom and Sonny’s Cocktail Lounge” on the way 

home. I promised her that I wouldn’t and I didn’t. I kissed her goodnight and left 

for home. That was the last time that I saw my dear mom alive. 

I knew that mom had high blood pressure and had a heart attack once before and that she 

pulled through. With indications that she was recovering from the second attack, I was in 

an optimistic mood. 

That optimism changed to skepticism when Brother Dennehy came to my classroom and 

informed me that mom had taken a turn for the worst and that I should leave Essex 

Catholic immediately for West Hudson Hospital. My colleague, George Cluff, drove me 

to the hospital and was a great source of support. A second call came in to Brother 

Dennehy’s office from Dr.Kobes. That was the call advising him of my mother’s death. 

Dr. Kobes asked Brother to break the news to me. However, as the call came in, George 

Cluff’s car, with me in it, was pulling out of the school’s driveway 

As I arrived on the top floor of the hospital, Dr. Kobes was waiting in the corridor outside 

my mother’s room. She went just like that! was the Doctor’s salutation to me. I was taken 

aback with the shock and was then taken into the darkened room where my mother’s 

body lay. 

A diary entry for Wednesday, October 30, 1968 reflects: 

I was told by Dr. Kobes that the hospital chaplain heard mom’s confession 

about 10:30 a.m. Later that morning Dr. Kobes found mom to be much 

improved. She told Dr. Kobes that she had been to confession earlier in the 

morning and said to him: “Well Doctor, if another one comes, I’ll be all 

ready.” Another one came – a fatal one – at 1:25 p.m. Thanks be to God, she 

was ready. 

Adrenalin coursed through my body. I had to take command of the situation. I had to stay 

strong.

DELIA’S SECRET, A SECRET NO LONGER 

Upon the death of Delia, I immediately phoned my friend, Bob Batson, who was the 

Funeral Director at the Brierley Funeral Home on Kearny Avenue, Kearny. Several times 

I visited Bob’s home, located over the funeral parlor for a Jack Daniels and soda. Over 

time, I became familiar with the lingo of the funeral trade. 

With a quick stop at my North Arlington apartment to draw the blinds, George Cluff 

proceeded to drive me for my late afternoon appointment with Mr. Batson. Making 

funeral arrangements was a first for me and, with the help of Bob, I was able to complete 

the process within a couple of hours. We did all the necessary paperwork including 

providing information to the local press for their obituary column’s. 

After completing funeral arrangements, George and I stopped off at the diner for a quick 

bite and then returned to an empty apartment in North Arlington. The necessary phone 

calls had yet to be made. 

First on the list was Aunt Mary. Because of her age and temperament, I phoned her 

neighbor and friend, Margaret Gaffney, and I requested that Mrs. Gaffney break the news 

to my matriarch aunt. I requested that when Aunt Mary composed herself, that she phone 

me at my home. That she did within a matter of minutes. 

When I informed Aunt Mary that I had taken care of the funeral arrangements, including 

the death notices in the press, she got extremely upset with me. The nerve of putting an 

obituary in the press about my mother! 

You had no right to do that without consulting with me first. What am I going to tell the 

relatives when they find about you? 

I replied that she was my mother and that it was too bad if Delia’s secret was a secret no 

longer. I then got off the phone, as I didn’t need that angst from Aunt Mary. She called 

back later that evening and spoke to me in a much more conciliatory manner. 

GOODBYE DOLLY 

George Cluff stayed with me overnight, sleeping on the living room couch once occupied 

by my mother. George was such an important part of my initial support system that I am 

eternally grateful to him. We still are in contact with each other and at the time of this 

writing, his honor is going strong as a circuit judge in Passaic County, New Jersey. 

On Halloween morning George drove me to the Essex Catholic parking lot so that I could 

retrieve my car. George then proceeded back to his home in West Milford.

After having a light lunch, I prepared my self for the two afternoons and evenings that lay 

ahead. Aunt Mary had arrived from Rockaway Beach and she would be my houseguest 

for the next few days. 

~ 

We entered the funeral home for the first viewing. Bob Batson and his staff had done a 

beautiful job on my mother’s remains. She lay resplendently in her casket, with a 

bleeding heart of red carnations and a ribbon with the words, “Beloved Mother,” placed 

next to the casket. I knelt, wept, and said a prayer for the repose of mom’s soul. 

One of the most impressive floral pieces was a tribute to Dolly from Camp Adrian and 

Camp Rip Van Winkle. It consisted of pine branches from both camps interspersed with 

flowers. The condolence card was signed by the entire camp community. 

Aunt Mary and I greeted the mourners as they filed passed the casket. They included my 

father, Thomas A. Murray and his wife, Sarah. This is the first time that I met Sarah for 

Delia’s secret was now a matter of public record. Neighbors, colleagues, family members 

that I had never met, turned out for the two-day wake. Many students, most of whom 

never met my mother, came to the funeral parlor after school on both days of the wake. 

Assumptionist Fathers, Paulist Fathers, Benedictine Fathers, Christian Brothers, they all 

came to pay their respects to Delia. Father Joseph Irwin, a classmate from Iona, signed a 

“VG” after his name. Did that mean Joe was Vicar General? One of my Paulist Father 

friend’s, Father John B. Sheerin, the editor of The Catholic World, recited the rosary. 

The waking experience was exhausting – two days, too much! 

~ 

It was November 2, 1968, All Souls Day. Saying “goodbye” to Delia for the last time at 

the funeral parlor was very difficult. As the last person to pay respects to my mother, I 

cried as I put my hand on top of hers, and thanked her for all that she had given to me and 

for all the sacrifices that she had made for me. I then joined Aunt Mary for the short ride 

to Queen of Peace Church in North Arlington. A motorcycle police escort led the cortege 

through Riverview Gardens where mom had spent her remaining years as a resident of 

Apartment 5N. 

A solemn high mass was said at QP with Father Quinlan as the principal celebrant. I did 

the readings before the gospel for I was a lector at the church. One of my relatives told 

me later that when Fr. Quinlin announced to the congregation that the readings would be 

done by Delia’s son, Tom, she remarked to the person sitting next to her, I didn’t know 

that Dolly had a son.

In the congregation were so many friends of my mother. Bertha Simmons, along with her 

daughter Kathleen and her son-in-law Charlie, had driven all the way down from the 

Catskills to pay their last respects. 

~ 

The ride from Queen of Peace Church to the Gate of Heaven Cemetery in the rolling hills 

of Westchester County in Peasantville, New York, took about an hour. 

At the internment site, Monsignor Charles O’Connor Sloane, the Rector of St. Joseph 

Seminary in Dunwoodie (Yonkers), said the final prayers before mom was laid to rest. 

This Irish-born cleric had been a chaplain at Camp Rip Van Winkle for many years and 

had known my mom for many of those years. 

Fortunately, Aunt Mary had purchased a gravesite accommodating six decedents some 

years earlier. It overlooked a pond in this beautiful cemetery. Mom’s other “cemeterymates” 

included politicians Jimmy Walker and Al Smith, actors Jimmy Cagney and Sal 

Mineo, and “Dutch” Schultz, the gangster. It was said that shortly before he died of 

gunshot wounds, a priest heard Schultz’s confession and administered to him the last rites 

of the Catholic Church. He, like the “good thief” on a cross next to the cross of Jesus, 

stole his way into heaven. If mom wanted a spirited discussion she could call upon union 

leader, Mike Quill, or Yankee legend, Billy Martin. Yes, they’re all there in Gate of 

Heaven Cemetery. 

After the final farewell, we made our way back to New Jersey where I tendered a 

luncheon for our guests at Lyle’s Restaurant in Kearny. 

~ 

A number of Delia’s friends could not make the wake or services due to the distance 

factor. John Ennis was pursuing an advanced degree at Notre Dame wrote a beautiful 

letter of condolence. Letters arrived from unexpected people as Dr. Edmund Tink, the 

Supt. of Schools for Kearny. Jeff Behrens, Bob Harahan, and Tom Mc Dade wrote to me 

from Immaculate Conception Seminary. 

In a letter dated November 11, 1968, from Dr. Charles Malik from Beirut, Lebanon, the 

former United Nations General Assembly President wrote: 

Dear Tom: 

I was grieved to receive your cable of October 30 announcing the death of 

your dear mother. I lit a special candle for the peace of her soul before the 

Icon of the Virgin Mary in my church here which is named after the Virgin. 

I also said many prayers in her memory during the last few days. I am sure as 

a believer you will entrust entirely to the mercy of Jesus Christ. May he 

strengthen you and keep you in His service.

AT MY FATHER’S HOUSE 

Brother Dennehy was generous in allowing me to take the following week off. My 

newly-found Aunt Sarah invited me to spend a few days with her and her husband, 

Thomas A. Murray, in their Maplewood home. The question of fatherhood had not yet 

come up. The question remained in limbo. 

I spent from Sunday thru Tuesday at the Murray’s of Maplewood. I invited John 

Lonergan over for a visit to meet my hosts. They were gracious hosts indeed…at least 

before all hell broke loose. 

I returned to the void of my North Arlington apartment on the following Tuesday just in 

time to vote for Richard Nixon. I then went down to Atlantic City for The Jerseymen 

Advisory Council meeting. That was a nice break and I enjoyed it. It took my mind off 

my mother’s passing, at least for a while. 

Aunt Mary still remained in my North Arlington apartment and the death of my mom 

seemed to bond us, somewhat. I drove her back to Rockaway on Saturday and stayed 

overnight. It was back to North Arlington and back to school the next day. 

It was so good getting back to school on the following Monday. The entire Essex 

Catholic community had been so supportive during the entire time of my sorrow. 

THE “WAR OF THE FATHERS’” 

Aunt Mary and her late husband, Michael Waldron, and Tom and Sarah Murray were the 

closest of friends. They went on vacations together and Tom and Sarah often visited my 

Aunt Mary in her Rockaway Beach apartment. The question of Thomas C. Murray never 

came up in Sarah’s mind because Thomas A. Murray never mentioned my existence to 

her. To Sarah, I was a “non-person,” at least, up until Delia’s death. He 

“T.A.” had reasons to keep “Delia’s secret” a most guarded one. 

Now, T. C. Murray was out of the closet in a manner of speaking. It seemed that Sarah 

Murray wanted one question answered, “Who is the father of Thomas C. Murray?” It was 

mid-January of 1969 when the “fit hit the shawn.”

At that time the finger pointing began. Thomas A. Murray told his wife, Sarah, that Aunt 

Mary’s husband, Michael Waldron, was the father of T.C. Murray. When Sarah phoned 

Aunt Mary on the question of that assertion, Aunt Mary replied that it was Sarah’s 

husband who was, in fact, the father of T. C. Murray. The “War of the Father’s” had 

begun. The lifelong friendship between Mary Waldron and Sarah Murray was now in 

shambles. 

I met with my father, Thomas A. Murray in Maplewood on Friday, January 17 th . His 

denial of being my father in front of his wife was disgustingly evident. Maybe he thought 

that he was in a court of law arguing his own defense. 

At that point I became persona non grata in their Maplewood home. 

Thomas A. Murray died a week later on January 25 th from a heart attack. I did not attend 

either the wake or funeral, nor was I invited. I never heard from Sarah Murray again. 

Both my mother and presumed father had died from heart attacks within a three-month 

period. I now went back to “square one” as to my birth father and would later conduct my 

own inquiry. 

A WORLD WITHOUT DELIA 

There is always a big void in our lives after we lose someone dear to us. So it was with 

my mother, Delia. 

Realizing the death of a loved one is like the aftershock of an earthquake - the closer that 

person is to you, the higher it is on the Richter scale. And like an earthquake, it takes time 

to recover and to get your own life back in order. 

Many years later, I still remember my mother in my prayers and thoughts. I can never 

forget the selfless love and dedication that she gave me. I have a colored photo of her on 

the top of my bedroom dresser. The backdrop of the scene is a tree at Camp Adrian – 

perfect together. Her light blue dress contrasts to the brown bark of the maple tree. Her 

smile reserved, like the lady in DaVinci’s masterpiece. I have often looked at that photo, 

for it has given me strength in the days when my spirits are low. We all have those days. I 

have often said a prayer before that photo thanking her for all that she gave me. So may 

times, I have toasted her image especially during a special occasions.

Yes, I miss my mother dearly. Whenever, I hear the song, “Hello Dolly,” I think of her. 

And more so, when I hear the strains of an old Irish ballad: 

A mother’s love is a blessing, no matter where you go, 

Keep her while she’s living, you’ll miss her when she’s gone 

Love her as in childhood, when feeble, old, and gray 

For you’ll never miss a mother’s love ‘till she’s buried beneath the grave. 

A GLORIOUS SUNSET FOR CAMP ADRIAN, TOO – THE SUMMER OF ‘69 

Nan, the last of the Cowhey sisters’, passed away on May 29, 1969. It was obvious that 

neither Camp Rip Van Winkle nor Camp On-ti-ora would be open for the ’69 camp 

season. But what about Camp Adrian??? 

With little time to spare, I approached the executors of the Cowhey Estate, to allow me to 

open Camp Adrian for its final time. John Jiminez and Paul Brenner both assented to my 

request and I was named Administrator, as well as Director, of Camp Adrian. The next 

step was to present a grand plan to Dr. Victor Garra who had agreed to fund the camp for 

a six week period. The same was presented to the doctor to the sum of nearly ten 

thousand dollars. He agreed to funding Camp Adrian for its final season. What an angel! 

Being a Camp Director was one thing; being Camp Administrator was quite another. My 

first duty was to hire a staff. Getting counselors was no problem, as I had a pool of older 

students from Essex Catholic High School at my disposal. Ron Lonergan, the son of the 

vice principal and my friend, John Lonergan, was the first to join the staff followed by 

Essexmen Ken Hart, Tom Ruddy, and Chris Murphy. With Rip closed, Peter Lawrence 

would also come aboard. I hired Rip’s cook, Bertha Simmons, as Adrian’s cook, along 

with a helper. Henry Pelham continued to be our caretaker. 

I decided to create a more diversified camp, inviting boys from not only the dominantly 

Latino and Black parish of Our Lady of Esperenza in New York City, but also St. 

Michael’s, an Irish parish near Essex Catholic; St. Francis Xavier, an Italian parish in 

north Newark; and Our Lady of Czestochowa, a Polish parish in Harrison, New Jersey. 

Next came the letters to the respective pastors inviting their boys to spend time in the 

mountains away from the oppressive city heat. There would be three groups attending 

Camp Adrian, each for a two-week period - Group I (ages 8-10), Group II (ages 10-12), 

and Group III (ages 12-14). Each parish was allotted thirty boys for the season on the 

basis of ten boys per two-week session. 

The camp season opened on Monday, July 14 and closed Monday, August 25, 1969. I 

could hardly wait until I saw the Decamp Bus driven by “Hap” Donovan pull into the 

driveway of Camp Adrian.

On the second weekend of July the staff arrived. Each counselor was assigned a cabin 

and meetings and briefings were held during the course of the weekend. I stressed that 

each and every camper was to be treated with respect and that there was to be no corporal 

punishment under any condition. City kids tend to be more assertive than suburban or 

rural kids. Any major problems, see me immediately! 

On that same weekend a crew of some fourteen people came up from New York City to 

help with the erection of a temporary dam on the Kaaterskill Creek. Nan gave the crew 

hunting rights in return for their time and labor. Foremost among the dam crew was the 

first Mrs. Joanne Carson. Johnny stayed home while Joanne munched on a peanut butter 

and jelly sandwich after completing her task. The dam was dismantled in the fall. 

Each camper was covered with an insurance policy during the two weeks he attended 

Camp Adrian. The staff was covered for the entire season. Paperwork! Paperwork! 

As Administrator, I ordered everything from necessary supplies to food. The Governor 

Clinton Market in Kingston was my chief butcher and grocer. Freihofer’s Bakery from 

the nearby Albany area was our bread supplier (They have grown since then, and now I 

can pick up a loaf of Freihofer’s from my local supermarket here in Red Bank, New 

Jersey). Moon’s was our chief milk distributor. Growing boys needed “Moon’s Moo 

Juice” for their ever-growing bones. 

Everything seemed in order for Monday, the fourteenth. My only regret was that neither 

Nan Cowhey nor my mom was with us for the opening of Camp Adrian ’69. 

~ 

Camp Adrian’s final season went smoothly. The mix of parishes paid off and each got 

along well with the other – at least, after a few days together. Even down to cabin 

assignments, the mix was evident. 

Of the three age levels, Group III, the oldest group, was the most challenging in every 

way. They were competitors in every sense of the word, whether it was in sports, 

extracurricular activities or cabin and ground policing activities. They were entering the 

age of puberty and it showed. 

Brother Marty Germain, the head soccer coach from Essex Catholic High School, came 

up to the camp and held a soccer clinic for the third group. Finally, this sport was 

catching hold in the United States and I loved it.

One of the greatest sport challenges came when Camp Adrian played John Donohue’s 

Basketball Camp. Donohue was head basketball coach at my alma mater, Power 

Memorial Academy, during the days of Lou Alcindor (Kareem Abdul Jabbar) and had 

recently moved up to Worcester, Mass., to coach Holy Cross. The Adrian kids, while not 

winning the game, did put up a valiant struggle. 

The executors allowed Camp Adrian to use the sports facilities of the un-opened Camp 

Rip Van Winkle. We shuttled the boys to and from Rip by car where they played on a 

professional baseball field – a field of dreams, indeed. It was a summer of dreams 

fulfilled for many of those city kids. 

Counselor Chris Murphy was captain of the Essex catholic High School Boxing Team 

and he brought his pugilistic skills with him to Camp Adrian. Friday night was “boxing 

night” at camp and victorious boxers could rack up points for their respective teams. The 

boxing gloves were well padded for the three rounds of two minutes each. If Chris, the 

referee, saw a kid was being pummeled, he would end the fight and proclaim that kid’s 

opponent the victor. 

After taps, when the kids were all snuggled in their beds, the counselors had some free 

time to relax in the barn or have some milk and cookies in the main house. For the most 

past, they choose the barn because it afforded more privacy. However, the Officer of the 

Day (OD) remained on patrol duty near the cabins. 

~ 

I had many visitors during the camping season. Ed D’Ascoli came up bringing gifts of 

Italian salami and a gallon of wine. Brother Dennehy and Brother Vinnie Russo came up 

for a weekend. The Essex Catholic High School principal presented the award to the 

outstanding camper of Group II. Sabino Iovino, than a teacher at Essex Catholic visited 

the camp, as did two former director’s, Brother Damase,A.A., and retired social studies 

teacher, Tom Lovely. 

So too did John and Mary Lonergan. Their son, Ronnie, was an exemplary counselor and 

I was proud of him. One night about an hour after taps, John and I decided to play games 

with Ronnie. His cabin, the largest of a group of six, lay with its back to the woods. John 

and I, using the woods as a backdrop, started to throw pebbles in the direction of Cabin 

Six, while making “weird” noises. The ever-vigilant Ronnie left his cabin, flashlight in 

hand, to determine the source of these unusual events. John and I were well camouflaged 

in the deep forest. Not finding anything, Ronnie returned to his cabin. We mounted a 

second barrage causing Ronnie to leave his cabin a second time. Once again, he was 

unsuccessful in determining the source of the incident and returned to his cabin. John and 

I then decided to call it a night and returned to the main house under the cover of 

darkness. In was the case of the father outwitting the son, the Camp Director outwitting 

the counselor. Nothing like juvenile games played by juvenile-acting adults.

It was in 1955 that a big rift occurred between the Assumptionist Brothers who were 

counselors at the camp at the time and Marguerite Cowhey. She ordered them off her 

property and never to return again. To this day, I do not know the reason for this clash but 

can only guess. One of the dispossessed was Brother William, a certified Red Cross 

Waterfront Instructor. Brother William was ordained to the priesthood and in 1969 was 

pastor of the Church of Our Lady of Esperenza. I got along pretty good with Brother 

William when he was a counselor at Adrian and he helped me to improve my strokes and 

other aquatic skills. 

Accordingly, during the 1969 season, I invited Father William to come up to Camp 

Adrian and say a Saturday evening mass for the boys and staff. He accepted the invitation 

and I received him most warmly upon his arrival at the camp. It had been fourteen years 

since I last saw him and we had a lot to talk about. I assigned him to one of the two 

master bedrooms. He said mass. Then we relaxed with a drink or two and chatted some 

more. Father William retired to his room about 11AM. What happened that night was 

something out of the “Twilight Zone.” 

The next morning about 7AM, Father William came down to the kitchen trembling. 

“What’s the matter, Father?” He then went on to tell me that he had spent a horrific night 

in his master bedroom. He claimed that the bed began to rise. The priest tossed and 

turned all night for he was too nervous to sleep. He claimed that the room had an eerie 

feeling and could hardly wait to leave it in the early morning 

He left the camp in haste, telling me that he didn’t think he’d be returning again. 

What was the cause of his unreal experience? Did he have too much to drink the night 

before? Was Father William hallucinating? Inasmuch as he tried to sleep in the late 

Marguerite Cowhey’s room, was she sending a signal from beyond the grave that she 

meant what she said in 1955? Father William never did return to Camp Adrian. It’s a 

matter of fact, he died a short time thereafter. 

~

The summer of 1969 went smoothly at Camp Adrian for the most part. It was a summer 

of “peace and love” as thousand jammed into the Yasgur Farm in the southern Catskills 

to listen to their favorite singers and instrumentalists. 

The campers listened as I played the radio to hear the voices of the American astronauts 

on Apollo 11 and their impending landing on the moon. 

A slight mishap occurred when a pigeon, a white pigeon at that, attacked Ron Lonergan. 

Pigeons usually don’t attack humans. They just coo and drop. It was like something out 

of Hitchcock. Because Ronnie sustained scratches on his arm, I was worried about the 

possibilities of rabies setting in. I had to take him to the local hospital, bird in hand. 

However, I first had to find the “dove of peace” and blow him away. It was easy to spot 

the albino bird in the trees as I took aim at it with my 22 caliber semi-automatic rifle that 

Ed D’Ascoli had loaned me for the summer. I did some target shooting down by the 

swimming hole and that was the extent of my shooting. My lack of expertise with 

handling a rifle showed. Some thirty-five shots later, I finally felled the bird. I put the 

carcass in a bag and drive Ronnie to the Benedictine Hospital forthwith. I think I 

offended the nurse when I asked her what I should do with my bird. Ronnie tested 

negative and we were on our way back to camp. 

It was a great final season for Camp Adrian. I ran over-budget and had to drive to 

Rochelle Park to get a check from Dr. Garra. The budget was now up to $12,000.00 for 

the season but I’m sure that the good doctor could write off some, if not all, of the 

expenses. In the 1970’s Dr. Garra moved his practice to Atlantic Highlands and 

remarried. I had the pleasure of seeing him and Paula on several occasions at Mater Dei 

High School where their son was a student of mine. After Dr. Garra passed away, his 

wife pursued a law degree and successfully passed the New Jersey bar. I continue to keep 

in contact with Paula and saw her only recently on a legal matter. 

The closing ceremony at Camp Adrian the night of August 24, 1969 was a memorable 

one for me. The event took place in the barn with Carmen Jimenez, a friend of the 

Cowhey sisters since the 1930’s, among the invited guests. 

A number of awards were presented to the campers. The highlight of the evening came 

with the presentation of the impressive “Delia Murray” trophy to the “outstanding 

camper.” In my mother’s name, I proudly presented the award to a fourteen year old from 

Harrison, Albert Stocki. 

The next morning good-byes were said; tears were shed. “Hap” Donovan drove his 

DeCamp bus out of the Camp Adrian driveway toward the rising sun for the last time. 

The doors of Camp Adrian were now forever shut.

BREAKUP OF THE COWHEY EMPIRE 

Nan Cowhey died land poor. When her will was probated, there were many liens against 

her property. No one benefited as heirs, not even the Assumptionist Fathers. Her property 

was broken up and sold off in parcels. Robert Strumpen-Darre, an executive of the 

Berlitz School of Languages, bought the On-ti-ora portion of the estate while his wife, 

Bae, took control of the Adrian segment. The Rip Van Winkle portion of the estate was 

further subdivided and brought in the most money. Recently, the old stone house 

overlooking the Kaaterskill Creek and High Falls sold for over a million dollars. Some of 

the larger cabins in the former boys camp have been turned into residences. Indeed, the 

old order changes. 

CAMP ADRIAN TODAY 

In1977, Joe Williams, a troubleshooter for IBM in Kingston and his wife, Patricia, a 

Saugerties schoolteacher, purchased the former Camp Adrian property from Bae 

Strumpen-Darre. Shortly thereafter I introduced myself to Joe and Pat, and a friendship 

was formed that has lasted to this very day. 

Joe is a natural when it comes to handiwork. Over the years, he has restored the old 1878 

Smith farmhouse to its stately self. The cabins have long since gone with the exception of 

the washhouse. That cabin was merged with a garage and now serves as Joe’s workshop. 

The “Camp Adrian” rustic wooden sign that once stood on the front lawn has been 

restored by Pat and is hung in their new solarium at the far end of the house. One gets a 

commanding view of the Catskills from that glass-enclosed room. They are historic 

preservationists and I feel so good about that. 

I have been the houseguest of Joe and Pat many times and have enjoyed each visit 

equally. Invariably, Pat says, “Welcome home, Tom,” as I cross the threshold of the 

stately home. I spent Thanksgiving, 2002 and 2005 there and it reminded me of the 

1960’s when Delia and I were guests of Nan Cowhey at Camp Rip Van Winkle. Pat 

assigns me to one of two master bedrooms. Yes, that one, which at one time was 

occupied by Marguerite and later on by my mother. And, no, none of their spirits came 

calling on me, as was the case of Father William, the Assumptionist priest, who stayed 

overnight in that room in 1969. Joe and Pat now occupy my former bedroom when I was 

Camp Director in the 1960’s and have broken down the wall into the next small bedroom 

so that a large bath could be incorporated into that master bedroom.

Joe and Pat are cat fanciers and I’ve gotten to know their felines as well. One of Joe’s 

endeavors was to build a Victorian-style outdoor building for their cats. He did so with 

panache. There was even a feature in the local press about Saugerties’ one and only “cat 

house.” 

I try to impart my knowledge of Camp Adrian and its surroundings to my gracious hosts 

and have given them some of my archives of the former camp. Both Joe and Pat are now 

retired and enjoying life in the Catskills. 

During my many visits, I still can see as the sun setting over my Shangri-la, Camp 

Adrian. I’m sure that Marguerite Cowhey and Delia Murray are looking fondly upon me. 

Oh Adrian, Camp Adrian, we’ll always think of thee 

And even though to men we’ll grow, we’ll ever loyal be. 

Thomas J. Lovely

Chapter 18 – DOWN THE SHORE - LIVING, TEACHING 

AND LOVING IT 

NO STRANGER TO MATER DEI HIGH SCHOOL 

John Vincent Lonergan was a native of Belmar, New Jersey, who moved to Newark to 

pursue his career in teaching. Accepting a position as a science teacher at Essex Catholic 

High School in 1960, John and his ever –growing family, lived only two blocks from the 

school on Taylor Street. Like his family, he grew in stature at the Christian Brothers’ 

School, and in 1968 he became the first lay Vice-Principal in the history of the Newark 

Archdiocesan secondary schools. I got to know John and his wife, Mary, real well, and 

often would be their dinner guest. He was part of my family, and I was part of his. Their 

son, Ron, attended Essex Catholic, and served as a counselor at Camp Adrian, while the 

three girls, Siobhan, Maureen and Kathleen, attended St. Michael’s Elementary School. 

Sadly, neither John nor Mary would live to see their children marry. I am the godfather of 

Siobhan’s son, Ian. 

The Newark riots of 1967 caused John and Mary to have second thoughts about rearing 

their three girls in a less than desirable atmosphere. So, in 1973, John answered an ad in 

the Catholic newspaper that was seeking a science teacher at Mater Dei High School in 

the New Monmouth section of Middletown Township. It was part of the St. Mary’s 

Parish complex and accepted students from their elementary school, as well as from the 

surrounding feeder parishes. John applied for the position and scheduled an interview 

with the school’s Director and founder, Monsignor Robert T. Bulman. Noting his 

credentials, the Monsignor advised John that there was also an opening available for one 

of the two Vice- Principal positions. John accepted the administrative post in September 

of 1973 and subsequently moved his family to nearby Eatontown. 

Naturally, I made many trips down the shore to see John and the family, usually staying 

overnight. Sometimes I drove; other times I took the North Jersey Coast Line railroad to 

Little Silver where John awaited my arrival. Back in those days, the train’s engine 

switched from electric to diesel power at South Amboy, and invariably I headed, along 

with countless others, for a train-side tavern for a large can (or two) of beer to bring back 

on the train with me for the balance of the ride to Little Silver. As I had “converted” John 

to be a drinker of Manhattan’s, usually a Manhattan (or two) awaited me, one at a time, 

of course, when I arrived at their bi-level colonial at 12 Windsor Drive in Eatontown.

Proud of his new school, John invited me to visit Mater Dei High School. Later on during 

the academic year I met the principal, Father William Lynch, S.J., and one of the two 

vice-principals, Mr. Frank Outwater. My initial introduction to Frank, who also served as 

Dean of Discipline, was quite unusual. I was sitting in John’s office when Mr. Outwater, 

unaware of my presence, came storming in, using expletives. Some students had spraypainted 

a neighbor’s barn that lay on the perimeter of the school grounds and this irked 

Frank to no end. Apparently, spray-painting the little red barn had become a Mater Dei 

tradition, and the more often the kids did their graffiti art on the structure, the more often 

Frank became irked. 

The Sisters of St. Francis of Stella Niagara staffed the school, and although their numbers 

were depleted, a handful of nuns remained at Mater Dei. Sister Lois was the other Vice 

Principal, and concerned herself with academia. I seemed to miss her during my visits to 

the school. Perhaps, she was over in St. Mary’s Convent, along with the other “belles of 

St Mary’s.” 

Over the years a rapport developed between the nuns and myself. Sister Rosemary 

Weber, a math teacher at the school, often invited me to the convent for dinner. Sister 

Catherine Tronolone and I became good friends as we both like to party. A Latin teacher, 

Sister Catherine was known for her annual “Saturnalia Festival” where her toga-dressed 

students entertained their parents and guests, while the good nun prepared an Italian meal 

fit for the most decadent of Roman emperor’s. Toga! Toga! Toga! 

Because of internal problems, the Jesuit educator resigned as principal in June of 1974. 

Monsignor Bulman invited John to take over the helm of Mater Dei High School. He 

accepted and made more history by becoming the first lay secondary school principal in 

the Diocese of Trenton. Now I would make even more visits to Mater Dei, often bringing 

Essex Catholic kids with me so that they could see how the other half lived. As I 

mentioned in another chapter, I addressed the student body on the Bicentennial in 

November 1975, and continued to further ingratiate myself with the staff and students of 

the suburban high school. No longer was I a stranger at Mater Dei High School. 

It was during my leave of absence from Essex Catholic High School, that I began to have 

second thoughts about returning there in September of 1976. I thought of what my friend, 

Tom Tobin, once told me: “Never grow old at Essex Catholic.” The enrollment had been 

drastically reduced following the 1967 Newark riots and it was continuing on an alarming 

downward trend.

On April 12, 1976, John took me out to dinner at Long John’s Restaurant in Atlantic 

Highlands. After popping one of their delicious popovers, he popped the question. As a 

vacancy would be occurring in the social studies department in September, John invited 

me to fill the position. He knew from his Essex Catholic days, both as a colleague and as 

administrator, that Mater Dei (Latin for “Mother of God”) stood to benefit by hiring me. 

He coaxed me by stating that he would make me the Chairman of the Social Studies 

Department if I would make the move down the shore to his school. He ended his pitch, 

saying …and besides, we need a nut like you at Mater Dei. That nut part sold me and I 

accepted John’s offer to teach at Mater Dei. However, John made one request – that I not 

attempt to unionize the teachers. I agreed to honor that caveat. 

John Lonergan wanted to make this whole process look “democratic” in the eyes of the 

staff. Toward that end, he set up an appointment with Sister Lois, the Vice Principal in 

charge of academics, the following week. He bypassed the other Vice Principal, Frank 

Outwater, because I had gotten to know him socially. I had never met the elusive Sister 

Lois and this would be my first opportunity. 

At the meeting with the good nun, Sister Lois asked me for a little background 

information and then asked me my feelings on discipline. As I proceeded to convey to her 

my philosophy on discipline, I detected an ever so slight smile on her face. The Marquis 

de Sade lives!!! 

Now with the formality dispensed, I looked forward to my new home, my new school – 

down the Shore. Goodbye North Arlington! Goodbye Newark! 

BY THE SEA, BY THE BEAUTIFUL SEA, IN SEA BRIGHT 

Sea Bright is the northernmost costal town on the 127mile stretch of New Jersey 

shoreline. It is bordered on the north by Sandy Hook, part military installation (Fort 

Hancock), part State Park, and the home of the Sandy Hook Lighthouse – the oldest 

continually functioning lighthouse in the country. The State Park attracts thousands of 

urbanites on a given sunny day in the summertime; a nudist beach provides a setting for 

those who wish an all-over tan. Monmouth Beach, an upper middle class bastion for 

generations, lay to the south. Sea Bright is a barrier beach surrounded by the Atlantic 

Ocean on one side and the Shrewsbury River on the other. A protective stone wall keeps 

the wrath of mother nature to a minimum; unfortunately, a nor’easter combined with 

strong lunar tides can wreak havoc upon the small beach community as I found out later. 

Sea Bright was home, at least for the next three years.

Thanks to Mary Lonergan, we drove around the area looking for an apartment that was 

not within the Mater Dei school district. Sea Bright seemed to be the ideal location, and 

only a fifteen-minute drive to school. On the first day of October 1976, I moved into 

Apartment 28 of the Colonial Arms Apartments, later to be called Runaway Beach Villas. 

That particular second floor unit was the closest one bedroom apartment to the ocean. 

Even though the apartment had central air-conditioning, it also had cross-ventilation, with 

each window having an ocean view. Imagine how I felt that first night in my new home, 

opening my bedroom windows of catch the cool October breeze, and going to sleep to the 

sound of the waves crashing on the surf. 

The complex had its own swimming pool and enclosed redwood deck where one could 

enjoy the pleasures, as well as the problems, of summer living down the shore. A 

boardwalk was built over the sea wall, on which was a flight of stairs that led one onto a 

quickly eroding beach (by the time I left Sea Bright three years later, the beach was all 

but gone). However, I would have a nine -month’s wait before I could enjoy the summer 

facilities. 

The town had a population of about 2,000 residents. Its center included the usual things 

found at a town’s center including several good restaurants. Olivo’s became my favorite 

bar and restaurant and would spend many an evening – and many a buck – in Olivo’s. 

In a short time, I got to know some of the neighbors. Bill, a New York stockbroker, lived 

across the court from me. A divorced father of two, I got to know Bill, pretty well, as I 

did, his kids, whenever they visited him. Bill was an avid Yankee fan and was his guest 

to a ballgame at Yankee Stadium. It was great to see Reggie “Mr. October” Jackson and 

Billy Martin doing their thing. With Monmouth Park only a fifteen-minute drive from our 

home, we visited the famed track on one occasion. I dropped at least a day’s wages on 

that visit. Bill, too, discovered Olivo’s, and usually got off the Wall Street bus right in 

front of the restaurant for an after work drink or two. So there you go! 

ON BECOMING “T. C.” 

Mater Dei High School was different than Essex Catholic in many ways. Firstly, it was 

co-ed. I had been teaching boys all my life, as well as supervising them during my years 

at Camp Adrian. This was a new experience for me. How would I react to the girls during 

my first day in class? How would they react to me? Would I have to alter my flamboyant 

style of teaching? Would I have to dispense with any crude humor or the use of strong 

language? How would I be able to reprimand a wayward girl so that she wouldn’t be 

sobbing all over the place and tugging at my heartstrings?

Unlike, Essex Catholic, my new school had a sprawling thirty-two acre campus and its 

athletic facilities including a football stadium. It was great being able to take a walk on 

your own campus without the fear of getting mugged. 

The Mater Dei teams were called the “Seraphs.” Admittedly, it was a rather unusual 

name for a sports team. Because the seraphim are the highest order of angels and the ones 

closest to the throne of God, it may have been the Franciscan connection that gave rise to 

such an ethereal name. The school newspaper was also called “The Seraph.” 

I was now ready for my first teaching day. I had a junior homeroom and waited in the 

hall as the energized 11 th graders entered the room. They seemed to be courteous enough 

and several said “Good morning” as they passed me in the hall. The first bell –ring!!! 

The second bell – ring!!! Damn those loud bells!!! 

There they were, sitting in front of me – boys in their shirts and ties; the girls in their 

Mater Dei blazers and “parochial-plaid” skirts. 

Good morning ladies and gentlemen. My name is Mr. T. C. Murray, and like a good 

teacher I wrote “T. C. Murray” on the green chalkboard (What ever happened to 

“blackboards?”) I wanted them to pick up the “Mr. Murray” part, but kids being kids, 

picked up the “TC” part. And so, on that first day of class, a new Mr. Murray was born – 

T. C. Murray. 

BLOUSES OFF 

The first week went well and by Friday, I was perfectly at home in my new environs – 

girls and all. I had several 10 th and 11 th grade United States History classes, as well as a 

New Jersey Studies elective that I introduced. 

It was on Friday that a Faculty Meeting was held in the Mother Bede Library to iron out 

any kinks that may have occurred during the first week of school. The Library was named 

in honor of Mother Bede, O.F.M., Mater Dei High School’s first principal. She has yet to 

be canonized. 

By Friday, I had started to know my colleagues including the several Franciscan teaching 

nuns, as well as Sister Mary Hugh, a Dominican nun, who had recently replaced Sister 

Lois as Vice Principal in charge of academics. There were quite a few nuns back then; 

today there are none.

At the conclusion of the formal agenda, Mr. Lonergan opened to floor to questions from 

the faculty. Realizing that the dog days of summer had not yet left us, as well as the 

comfort of the girls who were required to wear their blazers, I wanted to pose the 

question: Are the girls allowed to take their blazers off in class? Much to the chagrin of 

Principal Lonergan, the question that emerged from my mouth was: Are the girls allowed 

to take their blouses off in class? That was a “Murrayism” of the first order. The room 

swelled with loud laughter as Mr. Lonergan turned as red as a beet. The nuns were 

probably thinking: Who is this pervert that Lonergan hired? Embarrassing moments, 

indeed. Tsk! Tsk! 

A CASUAL, COUNTRY CLUB SETTING 

The entire atmosphere at the new school was so unlike the brothers’ school in Newark. 

Things were done at a slower pace down the shore. I felt that casualness overwhelming. 

Even the discipline was a far cry from the strictness that was a respected hallmark at 

Essex Catholic High School. However, I planned to continue my teaching career with 

strictness in the classroom as one of my hallmarks. I was still the captain of my “ship.” 

Friendliness toward the faculty and staff was a manifestation that I quickly picked up. 

However, the pervasiveness of cliques was also very evident. The kids from St. Mary’s 

Parish who had attended St. Mary’s Grammar School tended to stay together. More often 

than not, they represented a solid middle class environment. Students from several of the 

feeder parishes, including St. Ann’s in Keansburg, came from blue-collar, working 

families, some of whom lived in winterized bungalows. Some families from the “Burg” 

came down to the Bayshore area from New York or Jersey City – some even came from 

Hell’s Kitchen. So I was in my milieu with these “city” kids. 

During an initial observation, I felt that there were proportionally more pampered “silverspooners” 

at Mater Dei than there were at Essex Catholic High School and this was true 

of teens coming from all socio-economic levels and all parishes. 

The huge school parking lot painted an economic mosaic of Mater Dei students who were 

of driving age – cars of all vintages, from a twenty year old heap, sorely in need of a new 

muffler, that was driven by a Keansburg youth, to a new BMW that a CEO dad from the 

Lincroft or Locust section of Middletown might have bought his son for this seventeenth 

birthday. Some economically disadvantaged seniors still took the bus. Mater Dei truly 

represented the economic diversity of the area that it served.

Sad to say, some of the lay faculty had adopted a county club teaching mentality and 

were part of the “system.” In some cases, this group lacked the professionalism 

manifested by the lay faculty of Essex Catholic High School. As educators, their attitude 

left so much to be desired. They were the first to “bitch” about a minor problem, probably 

of their own making, and the first ones out the door when the school day closed. My own 

profession irks me at times. 

SERAPHS ARE A POWERHOUSE! 

One noticeable thing bothered me, the lack of school spirit at Mater Dei High School. I 

would address the problem in short order. 

It is my philosophy that a teacher should involve himself in the total life of the school, 

insofar as possible. So I attempted to attend as many sports my first year at the school. 

Football seemed to be the dominating fall sport, although we did have a soccer team, and 

a cross-country team for that matter. Being a smaller school, the Mater Dei sports 

program was quite limited, invariably losing more games than it won. But that was fine 

too. “Winning isn’t everything…” (never mind the last part of Lombardi’s quote). 

Then came the winter season. Being a basketball fan, I attended many of the Seraph 

games. Atop the stage stood about twenty boys belonging to the Seraph’s “Derelict 

Squad.” They served as a catalyst to raise the spirits of their team and fans, but also could 

be very intimidating to the opposition. Did we need that negativism at sports events?

One evening, while sipping on a Dewars and water, I penned a parody the Stephen 

Foster’s “Camptown Races,” you know, like in the movie Blazing Saddles. I shortly 

thereafter introduced it to the school, first in a tryout basis in my classroom, then on a 

school-wide basis at a sports rally. It was just what the school needed – its own fight 

song. For nearly twenty years I led the school in “Seraphs are a Powerhouse” at virtually 

every pep rally. Let’s try it…oooooh: 

Seraphs are a powerhouse, Winning! Winning! 

Seraphs are a powerhouse, Winning all the way. 

We are number 1 (gesticulate, pointing index finger toward opposition) 

Second to none 

Seraphs are a powerhouse, Winning all the Way! Yeah! 

I always reminded the fans to gesticulate with the index finger only. Sticking up the 

improper finger while singing, We are number 1, could provoke a stand-clearing brawl. 

We did not want that to happen, did we? Go Seraphs!!! 

THE YEAR DID FLY BY 

My first year at Mater Dei High School went by quickly. Within a few months I had 

gotten to know a majority of the six hundred or so students. 

One of my first extra-curricular activities was to become moderator of the Jerseymen 

program. It was my dream to build up a chapter that would rival my former Essex 

Catholic chapter or even Butler High School. Leadership came from the junior class with 

two of my students, Mari Campanella and Joe Ernst, taking officer positions. Mari was a 

quiet young lady whose parents later said that I brought out of her shell. I have been told 

many times that I have the capacity to convert introverts to extroverts…and then some. 

The following year Joe became club president and Mari was elected Governor 

representing Monmouth County in the statewide Jerseymen program. What a winning 

team! 

My friend, John Lonergan, was ordained a deacon of the Catholic Church on May 14, 

1977 and was assigned to serve as a pastoral assistant in his home parish of St. 

Dorothea’s. I often attended services in that modernistic church in the shape of a “flying 

saucer.” What ever happened to good old neo-Gothic?

John Lonergan was a conservative Republican who had political aspirations. He was 

somewhat saddened when his fellow-Republican, incumbent Gerald Ford, lost the 

presidency to Jimmy Carter in 1976. It appeared that America wanted to put Watergate 

behind it and many citizens felt that Jerry had abused power in pardoning Dick for all and 

any crimes he may have committed. John was both politically and theologically 

conservative, thus provoking many heated discussions with me. By 1976, my political 

pendulum was slowly swinging to the left, although I did vote for Gerald “Whip Inflation 

Now” (WIN) Ford. John’s wife, Mary, was somewhat less conservative and much more 

open-minded than her husband. 

John’s Republican philosophy was reflected in his anti-union attitude, at least insofar as 

Catholic schools were concerned. He felt that a Catholic school was no place for a union. 

At one point during my first year at Mater Dei, there was talk of unionization, and John’s 

response, referring to possible formation of a union at the school, was over my dead 

body! 

I spent Christmas Day, 1976, down the shore. I had modestly decorated my apartment for 

the holiday and put up an artificial tree. The Shore can be a desolate place at times and it 

seemed that Christmas was one of those times. Later that day, I combated that desolation 

by joining John, Mary, and their children, for Christmas dinner at their Eatontown home. 

Nothing like being with children at Christmas, for Christmas is so much about them, as it 

is about the Christ-child. 

There is nothing like the advent of spring down the shore. The Mater Dei campus became 

alive with budding blossoms everywhere. It was a time for me to get outdoors during my 

free period and walk a couple of ovals in the football field. The sleepy borough of Sea 

Bright was awakening with more people driving down for a look at the beautiful sea. 

Summer was not far off. 

Springtime is playtime in many schools throughout our land. Mater Dei’s spring musical 

was Oliver. I attended the event, and although the play was not as professional as those 

performed at Essex Catholic, nonetheless, it was entertaining. Sophomore, David 

Meenan, who played the role of the undertaker, would continue to be an aspiring actor, 

and later formed his own production company here in Red Bank. Senior, Brian Williams, 

was cast in the role of Fagin the pickpocket. Upon graduation from Mater Dei, Brian 

went to Brookdale Community College, and later into the world of television news 

casting. Today, Brian Williams is the anchor for “NBC Evening News.” 

I behaved myself at faculty meetings and only once since September came out with a slip. 

As a teacher, I felt that the Student Council was abusing the school’s public address 

system. There is nothing worse than an announcement coming over the PA system when 

a teacher is in the middle of a lecture or administering a test. We want to wish a Happy 

Birthday to Mary Jones who turned sweet sixteen today. Naturally clapping followed. I 

wanted to put a stop to this type of interruption. Scrooge!!!

So it was at a late fall Faculty Meeting that I raised my hand, and after being 

acknowledged by Mr. Lonergan, wanted to say: Could the administration do anything 

about these Mickey Mouse (PA) announcements? However, it came out: Could the 

Mickey Mouse administration do something … And yet, another embarrassing moment. 

It was toward the end of the school year that John Lonergan informed me on a 

confidential basis that he was thinking of leaving Mater Dei High School at the end of the 

1977-’78 academic year. He felt that there were too many forces in “the system” that 

prevented him from accomplishing his goals at Mater Dei. Then again, his wife had 

recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. This shook up, not only his family, but 

myself as well. Mary was so much a part of my life – a shoulder to cry on, a friend who 

was always there. Often we went clothes shopping together, as I was not the world’s most 

color-coordinated person. John was obviously drained by this whole experience. Perhaps, 

it was time that John opted for another career. 

John wanted his final year at Mater Dei to be a memorable one and requested my help in 

this regard. He asked that I put my creative abilities to work and come up with a program, 

project, or whatever, that would put Mater Dei “on the map.” I did, and during the 

summer, proposed that Mater Dei sponsor a statewide search for the 7 Wonders of New 

Jersey. More of that in my “Wonders” chapter. 

THE SUMMER OF ’77 DOWN THE SHORE 

My first summer as a shore resident was idyllic, fun and sun loving, and to a lesser 

extent, wasted. 

Being a conservationist, I was hesitant to use air-conditioning, but rather let the gentle 

breezes cool off the apartment on a hot summer’s day. With my bedroom window’s fully 

opened, I was often awakened in the early morning by the horn of a party fishing boat 

signaling that the fishermen should pull up their lines. The captain felt that it was time to 

move on to the next school. A unique squadron of flying machines was the order of each 

day. Helicopters of all insignias hovered over the waters above my home. The Coast 

Guard protecting our shores, the Environmental Protection Agency sampling our waters, 

a New York based television crew shooting some footage for the evening’s weather 

report – they all were there contributing to noise pollution with the deafening sound of 

their rotors. Single-engine planes trailing banners suggesting that we use a certain 

sunscreen or listen to a local radio station appeared with the frequency of pop-ups on an 

Internet porn channel. Like city noises, one acclimates himself to summer shore noise - 

and at times they were just as cacophonous.

One of the bad things about shore living during the summer is traffic. It was difficult to 

exit the driveway of my complex to drive. There were very few Samaritans on trafficked 

Ocean Avenue who would cut you a break, you know the kind of driver I mean. No, I 

really wasn’t talking about you. Usually, I found it quicker to walk into town – and, 

besides, it was the healthier choice. 

July was like something out of Rimbaud - a summer in hell, temperature-wise. Record 

after record was broken as the northeast sizzled with temperatures over ninety for nine 

straight days. On Thursday, July 21, the thermometer hit 104 degrees, the highest since 

1936. I did opt for using the air conditioner during the heat wave. The scorching weather 

did not deter me from being the perfect host, inviting many of my friends for a day at the 

shore for cocktails and pool fun. Even if I didn’t have any guests, I still had cocktails and 

pool fun. Sometimes the afternoon martinis or the vodka Collins’s forced me indoors for 

an afternoon nap. 

That first summer down the shore was a lot of fun. I loved walking on the sea wall 

whether it was to the Trade Winds Beach Club or to Donovan’s Reef for a six-pack. I 

loved the beach, not just for sunning or surfing, but also for walking in the shallow water 

just off the shoreline as the Kennedy’s did on old Cape Cod. 

During the summer I did manage several trips to New York City. The Casa Delmonte 

Restaurant had just closed its doors after 35 years. That was upsetting but I always had 

O’Lunney’s Steak House on 44 Street, as well as his east side country music place. 

PCQ40: What was the nickname of the .44 caliber serial killer terrorizing the citizens 

of Gotham at this time? 

The summer was drawing to a close and I was getting anxious to return to Mater Dei 

High School and implement my plans for the New Jersey Wonders Search. I looked 

forward to working with John Lonergan during his fourth and final year as principal. I 

looked forward to bringing glory to Mater Dei High School, the likes of which it had 

never seen before. 

MATER DEI TEACHERS UNIONIZE 

Returning to Mater Dei was bittersweet to me, knowing that my friend, the person who 

brought me there, would be leaving the hallowed halls come June of 1978.

In a cabal-like setting, elements of the lay faculty were successful is organizing a union at 

Mater Dei High School. The administration was caught off guard when a neutral third 

party entered the school one day and requested a private room for use in a representation 

election. And so it was that Mater Dei affiliated itself as a local within the American 

Federation of Teachers, and remains today only a handful of Catholic schools within that 

secular group. I had no part in bringing the union to Mater Dei. However, I voted “yes” 

for school affiliation with the union, although I would have preferred associating with the 

Philadelphia based, National Association of Catholic School Teachers. John Lonergan 

was stunned. Perhaps it was better for him that he was leaving at the end of the year. 

With all his problems, he didn’t need the headache of dealing with the AFT. 

The 1977-’78 school year was a busy one for me what with coordinating the statewide 7 

Wonders of New Jersey project and moderating our school’s chapter of the Jerseymen. 

Our bond with the Essex Catholic Jerseymen chapter was still strong and many trips and 

projects involved joint participation – the 7 Wonders search, the tri-State Convention to 

Gettysburg, and the annual Jerseymen Convention. 

During the year, Mater Dei received an invitation from Bill Hungerford, the coordinator 

of The Hague International Model United Nations, to participate in the conference 

sponsored by the American School of The Hague. Frank Outwater, Mater Dei’s Vice 

Principal, took a team of some fourteen seniors to the five-day simulation in Holland. I 

only wished that I were going with him. No to be outdone, Sister Catherine Tronolone, 

OFM, and Andy Halek, a physical and driver education teacher headed up a spring trip to 

Italy. Both trips were “firsts” for Mater Dei. My Jerseymen leader, senior Mari 

Campanella, brought me back from Italy a two-piece brass corkscrew of a little boy 

peeing. My own Italian version of the “manikin de piss” holds a place of honor in my 

display cabinet, although a few years ago, a mischievous 1990 Mater Dei graduate, 

Bobby Batz, screwed the corkscrew into the body of the figure. Today, it remains, in an 

erect position in my display case. 

WHO STOLE MY WALLET? 

On February 14 th a six-inch snowstorm blanketed the area. However, this did not deter a 

band of some 42 students, along with John Lonergan, Ellen Cox, a guidance counselor, 

and myself, from going by chartered bus to Washington, D.C. to attend a four day 

American Government Seminar that I had arranged. The kids had an opportunity to meet 

their Congressman, Jim Howard, along with a special briefing by my friend, 

Congressman Peter Rodino, in the Judiciary Committee meeting room. We stayed at 

Howard Johnson’s on Virginia Avenue, right across the street from the Watergate 

complex. Naturally, I purchased a bottle of Watergate Scotch and some other goodies for 

a reception that I was having in my room the first night in town.

That evening, I hosted a reception for chaperones, school principal, John Lonergan, and 

guidance counselor, Ellen Cox. Other attendees included a former student, John Kiss, 

who was attending Georgetown at the time, as well as a couple of other “bulldogs.” 

Unbeknownst to me, an African-America figure entered the open-door room. He claimed 

to be the cousin of Dr. Martin Luther King. Thinking that he was part of the Georgetown 

delegation, I paid little heed to his presence. Our “uninvited” guest claimed to be from 

Ghana – or was he? 

I had left my billfold containing a couple of hundred dollars on my room’s dresser top. 

When the man from Ghana excused himself shortly after downing his first drink, I 

discovered that my wallet was missing. I immediately called security and gave them a 

description of the man. One of John Kiss’s friend’s, attended the prestigious Georgetown 

School of Foreign Service and caught the man from Ghana in a couple of geographic 

discrepancies. By the end of the evening it was conclusively established that he was a 

confidence man – son of a gun. How could a kid from Hell’s Kitchen get ripped off so 

easily? 

The next evening at dinner the kids presented me with a new wallet and an amount of 

money equivalent to that which I had stolen from me. My eyes swelled as a student 

spokesman made the presentation. The magnanimous gesture of the Mater Dei kids has 

never been forgotten by me. Teens aren’t that bad after all. Really!!! 

The academic year came to an end quickly. I proudly attended the graduation ceremony, 

for this was my first graduating class, in terms of students that I actually taught. I knew 

many of them well working through the Wonders Search and the Jerseymen. John 

Lonergan entered the business world and became an insurance agent. He later returned to 

his first love, teaching science at Keyport High School, where, I might add, he was an 

active union member. 

A Search Committee was formed to find a successor for John and by early July, it 

announced the appointment of Marie Deegan as the new principal of Mater Dei High 

School. Sister Mary Hugh and Frank Outwater remained on as Vice Principal’s. 

SNOWBOUND IN THE BLIZZARD OF ‘78 

The snow had started falling on Sunday, February 5, 1978. This “nor’easter” would prove 

to be no ordinary snowfall but one of the most devastating to hit the New Jersey shore in 

many years. The snow continued through the night and on into the day on Monday. 

Would it ever stop? I watched the threatening waves from the safety of my second floor 

living room window. By mid-afternoon the ocean water was coming over the sea wall 

and onto the property. At that point I started to feel a little wary about the whole 

situation.

About 4:30PM I fixed myself a Manhattan and played some of my 45 records. I was on 

my second Manhattan about 5:30 when I observed the wrath of Mother Nature. A huge 

wave, at least twenty feet high, broke over the sea wall, taking with it the boardwalk, and 

dumping it into the empty swimming pool like a bunch of matchsticks. Indeed, “man’s 

control stops at the shore.” As the evening wore on, the snow abated. Below my 

apartment lay a stream of water, snow and ice. 

The State National Guard had been dispatched to Sea Bright. It was a Guardsman who 

knocked loudly on my door and asked if I wanted to spend the night at the Recreation 

Center in the town center. Having never been evacuated before, I accepted his kind offer, 

and jumped on the running board of the Army track parked on Ocean Avenue. The 

avenue’s name was particularly befitting that February 6 th evening. 

Arriving at the center, I was greeted by some volunteer workers. They were great, serving 

coffee and doughnuts. I later chose a cot from one of at least a hundred set up for the 

disaster. I did lie down for a while but the din of screaming children and barking dogs 

made me more than a trifle uncomfortable. I decided to abandon the Center and after 

thanking the volunteers, walked the two blocks to my apartment. The snow had now 

ended. 

Upon returning home, I found that there was no heat when I entered my apartment. The 

electric generator was down due to the storm. So I fetched a couple of extra blankets, 

went to bed, and made love to my bottle of Canadian Club. 

It dumped more than twenty inches in the shore area, and coupled with the high tides and 

high winds, was classified as a blizzard. It was the worst snowfall since the blizzard of 

’47, another blizzard I remember well when I was living in New York City. 

EXIT MR. LONERGAN, ENTER – THE MAJOR 

While principal, John made a couple of “fringe” contributions to the life and legacy of 

Mater Dei High School. 

The first was the bonfire in which a pyre was set ablaze the evening before the annual 

Thanksgiving football game, replete with chants and yells that reminded one of a movie 

scene with Indians going on the warpath. 

The second was the introduction of dress-down days or tag days to the life of Mater Dei. 

The dress-down was voluntary and each participating student paid a quarter for Catholic 

Church mission activities. Contributing to the missions is such an important part of 

Catholic school life. Usually homeroom representatives collect for the missions on a 

daily basis and each homeroom vies to be the best in the school, collection-wise.

The first in a series of dress-down days was the annual Halloween Dress-down Day in 

which students came attired in very imaginative and colorful costumes. 

The Halloween Dress-down day was not without controversy. One male student dressed 

in drag as a nun, and his costume was great – and so was he. Immediately the good sisters 

on the staff complained to Mr. Lonergan on the basis of “disrespect and irreverence” and 

from that day forward students were forbidden to dress as religious figures. I thought that 

I saw the once defrocked male nun when I was visiting San Francisco recently. There he 

was, back in the habit, as a Sister of Perpetual Indulgence parading through the streets of 

San Francisco, along with other “nuns.” I don’t think he recognized me and I hesitated 

going up to him/her for obvious reasons. 

Kathy Yaeger was one of my better students, with an effervescent personality. On 

Halloween she came to school scantily attired as a “bunny” waitress. With considerable 

cleavage, she would give competition to the best of applicants in any of Hugh Hefner’s 

establishment’s. Many students felt compelled to feel the fuzzy bunny tail. I thought her 

costume was great but my friend, the principal, didn’t agree and poor Kathy was sent 

home. Tsk! Tsk! 

In the year 2000, some four years after I left Mater Dei, a new pastor arrived at St. 

Mary’s and forbade Mater Dei or St. Mary’s Elementary School from celebrating the 

pagan festival in any manner, shape or form. Give me a break, already! Even St. Patrick 

combined elements of paganism and Christianity – the Celtic cross for one. 

Red, the dominant St. Valentine’s Day color, was not among my favorite hues. For a 

quarter, a boy would purchase a heart-shaped tag and write a verse on it before attaching 

it to his shirt. Some messages were quite romantic: I’m wearing my heart for you, etc. 

Others were quite inappropriate: I’ve got a heart on for you. Mr. Lonergan and Mr. 

Outwater had to look closely to make sure that the latter type of message was not on any 

of the boys’ hearts. Teachers were encouraged to join the “heart on” patrol. 

Envisioning a school without John Lonergan was difficult to do but life goes on. So, too, 

did my career at Mater Dei High School. 

However, I knew that Mary Lonergan’s days were growing shorter and shorter. With this 

in mind, I hosted an “October-fest” party at my Sea Bright home attended by some of 

John and Mary’s closest friends, most of who were from Essex Catholic High School. It 

was a cool, late, September afternoon, when some of the overflow crowd of some thirty 

people spilled out into the new boardwalk, drink in hand. They and I were there to toast 

and honor the life of a good friend.

November 1978 was a bittersweet month for my friend, John. His wife, Mary, finally 

succumbed to cancer on November 2, the feast of All Souls. Three days after he buried 

his wife, John’s political aspirations were realized when was elected to a seat on the 

Eatontown Borough Council, unseating a Democratic Party rival. 

Shortly after Marie Deegan’s appointment as Principal of Mater Dei, I had the pleasure of 

meeting her. 

Good morning, Miss Deegan. I’m Tom Murray. 

Call me Marie. 

Off to a good start, I would say. The 1978-’79 academic year saw me off and running. In 

addition to my Jerseymen extra-curricular activity, I added the National Honor Society to 

my list. I felt so proud wearing the NHS pin at my first Induction Ceremony. Needless to 

say, I did not earn it during my high schools days at Power, but as moderator of the elite 

club I now had the privilege of wearing it. I incorporated the words of Dr. Charles Malik 

on the cover of the Induction Ceremony Program – To lead the leader must inspire, but 

only the inspired can inspire. 

It was during the spring of 1979 that I approached Brother Mike Binkley, the Principal of 

Power Memorial Academy in Manhattan with the proposal to conduct a search for the 7 

Wonders of New York City. He was amenable to the proposal and I would take a oneyear 

leave of absence from Mater Dei High School to conduct a New York City 7 

Wonders Search with my alma mater being the sponsor. I thought that I would love city 

life and live there happily ever after, with no intention of returning to Mater Dei. They 

say one can never return to his roots and live life there again. It seemed to be true in my 

case as I returned to the city of my birth. More on city life and city wonders in the next 

chapter. 

I phoned Marie Deegan from New York in February of 1980 and stated my intention to 

visit Mater Dei. She was most welcoming and a visitation date to visit the school was set 

up. She ended our conversation by encouraging me to circulate in the cafeteria during the 

lunch periods and mix with the students. I did, and that made all the difference. The shore 

and its students were beckoning me to return. 

BACK TO THE NEW JERSEY SHORE 

I returned to Mater Dei on September 2, 1980 and would remain there until my retirement 

from the classroom in 1996.

Nothing much had really changed during my year’s leave of absence. I had not adjusted 

to city living, so it was a great feeling to get back to the Bay Shore area where the pace of 

life was a little slower. I rented a basement apartment in the Highlands from a priest 

friend of mine, Father Steve Duffy. The private home lay atop a hill and abutted the Twin 

Lights of Navesink. The thing that sold me about the apartment was that it had its own 

built in bar and from a barstool one could see (?) the Atlantic Ocean and Sandy Hook. 

Another selling point was that the apartment was furnished. I virtually had no furniture in 

my New York apartment, which is nothing unusual because of the steep rents. I had sold 

my furniture to an Olivo’s buddy of mine, Ken Eckdahl, when I left Sea bright a year 

earlier. Ken is now a priest in the Diocese of Trenton. It must have been my good 

influence. These factors compensated for the dank and damp bedroom that burrowed into 

the side of the hill, giving one a claustrophobic feeling - a la Poe. However, it was 

something, and I lived in that something nicknamed the “Cave,” for three years. 

I continued as moderator of The Jerseymen club and, as usual, went places and did 

things. We even started a spring softball competition with the Student Council. The 

Jerseymen kicked Student Council butt on an annual basis. 

At a faculty meeting in early June of 1984, Marie Deegan announced to a stunned faculty 

that she was resigning as Principal. My eyes filled with tears as I wondered who would 

lead Mater Dei in the exemplary fashion that Marie had led the school. She was not only 

a good administrator but a good principal as well. She had that leadership quality that 

makes a good principal. A person may be a great administrator but an inferior school 

principal. I have witnessed several of those during my many years of teaching. Applying 

the Malik leadership norm to Marie Deegan – she inspired and was inspired. It is my 

feeling that she was Mater Dei’s best principal during my two decades at the school and I 

was very sorry to see her leave the school. 

Sister Mary Hugh, O. P., who served as a Vice Principal, moved up to the Principal’s 

position where she served until 1989. In September, Sister returned to teaching math at a 

Catholic high school in northern New Jersey, as Frank Poleski Jr. assumed the principal’s 

title. During his long tenure, he would twice steer Mater Dei successfully through the 

Middle Atlantic States accreditation process, along with the Steering Committee, headed 

by Ellen Cox of the Guidance Department. He remains principal at the time of this 

writing in 2005. 

T. C.’ S ROD CLUB 

During the summer of 1964, several students and myself to a deep sea fishing trip aboard 

Captain Hal’s “Sea Tiger” in nearby Atlantic Highlands. The trip was highly successful 

with the students bring home the night’s supper. This was the birth of the Mater Dei High 

School Rod Club – “rod” like in fishing rod. One teacher facetiously said that I was 

organizing a gay club on the premises of a Catholic high school.

The Club grew, as did the fish tales that the students brought home to their parents’ – You 

should have seen the size of it (the one that got away). 

By the following year membership had swelled so that we were able to sponsor the 

“Mater Dei High School Bluefish Tournament,” and charter our private boat. The young 

gamblers formed pools and a trophy was awarded to the student who caught the biggest 

bluefish. That honor went to Heidi Eberhard, a diminutive junior girl who reeled in a 

fighting blue that weighed nearly twenty pounds. One of the football players proudly 

showed me his catch, about half the weight of Heidi’s, to which I responded, Fancy 

calling that little thing a fish. 

Whether it was seasickness or the expense of chartering a boat that caused the club to 

fold, I’ll never know, but for three years the Mater Dei anglers and myself had a lot of 

fun casting our rods and catching our fish. You should have seen the size of mine… 

MOVING TO HIP TOWN, NEW JERSEY 

I did not like living in a private home, priest or no priest. To attain access to my 

apartment I had to go through the garage. Ugh! I required a couple of dehumidifiers 

during the warmer months to get the dampness out of my apartment. Whenever visitors 

entered my apartment, they were greeted with a most unusual odor. The privacy factor 

left so much to be desired. So after three years, I decided to split. I did not want living on 

or near a highway with a multiplicity of strip malls on either side of me, and in some 

cases, in the middle. I no longer wanted to park my car at the bottom of a hill during a 

snowstorm and carefully trudge my way up to Ocean Street. I wanted to find a town that 

was really a town – with a main street, within walking distance of stores, and had a good 

mass transportation system – a town with character and community. That town was Red 

Bank, New Jersey. 

The post-war development that I chose as my residence was called Molly Pitcher Village, 

named after the Revolutionary War heroine who brought water, among other things, to 

thirsty soldiers in the heat of battle - the Battle of Monmouth that is, in late June of 1778. 

Red Bank had suffered economically with the building of the Monmouth Mall. Storefront 

property couldn’t be given away and the occupancy rate left a one thriving shopping town 

much to be desired. The same was true of apartments. So it was without too much trouble 

that I signed a one-year lease on a second floor one-bedroom garden apartment. I still 

reside there more than two decades later.

In the early 1990’s a renaissance took place and Red Bank. Not only was it the financial 

capital of Monmouth County, but it also reclaimed its rightful place as the County’s 

premier shopping town. It soon became the “Hoboken of Central New Jersey” with store 

occupancy rates at nearly 100% and apartment occupancy nearly 100% with rents to 

match. Fortunately, I live in a rent-stabilized apartment and the progressive councilmanturned-mayor, 

Ed McKenna, intends to keep it that way. 

SUBURBIA: SUV’S, SOCCER MOMS, AND SILVER SPOONER’S 

For the most part, I have enjoyed my many years living in the suburban shore area. 

However, there are a few things that are annoyingly noticeable. It seems that the older I 

get, the bigger the cars cum trucks get. Today, SUV’s dominate the suburban scene and I 

don’t mean diminutive ones like the “Blazer.” I mean the “biggies” like the “Hummer” 

and the “Excursion.” My poem, “SUV’s,” when read by me at the Red Bank Library in 

2003, caused a spontaneous outburst of applause at its conclusion: 

Charging bulls with blinding lights 

Mammoth maxi’s longer than a limo 

Massive three- ton personnel carriers 

Hogs of the open road 

fed in their sty of upward mobile superiority. 

These vehicles are gas guzzling, status symbols and nothing more. And I loved their 

display of patriotism after 9/11 with huge American flags flapping in the breeze. I 

wondered how they could see from their rear view mirror. 

In suburbia one encounters soccer moms by the scores. Invariably, they drive one of the 

above-described vehicles with a bumper sticker or two proclaiming: I am a Soccer Mom. 

Sometimes I wondered how a five foot two, bleached-blond mom could possibly navigate 

a “Navigator.” On the way to soccer practice or a game, picking up relatives and friend’s 

kids, becomes part of this sacred ritual. I have attended many soccer games and witnessed 

the exuberance of these diehard soccer moms. What a pair of lungs! If the game happens 

to be on a weekend, mom is accompanied by dad, a NASCAR fan who is, equally as 

vocal, at his son’s Little League game. 

Having taught twenty-years at Mater Dei High School, sadly I have seen too many cases 

of “silver-spooning.” Some of their parents came from an urban, working class 

background and have made it in suburbia. As a result of being “deprived” of material 

wealth during their youth, they shower their children with material things that they never 

had while they were growing up. Sometimes, they are too busy “putting on the Ritz” in 

their upscale development that they omit the basic TLC to their children. Some parents 

phoned the school with the flimsiest of excuses to get their son or daughter excused from 

school. I could go on and on. Please parents, be parents!

A UNION ACTIVIST IS REBORN 

I reactivated myself in the Catholic schools labor movement in the 1980’s, serving first as 

President of the AFT local at Mater Dei High School, and later as negotiator. It was good 

to be back as an activist in organized labor once more. 

It was my hope that Mater Dei would disaffiliate the AFT and join the National 

Association of Catholic School Teachers (NACST). However, this was not to be. 

In 1984, social studies teacher, John Anderson was president of the Mater Dei Federation 

of Teachers. John Reilly, national president of NACST, was invited to speak to the lay 

teachers at a special session of the Mater Dei local on the prospect of NACST affiliation. 

John had to cut the meeting short, as some of the teachers acted very discourteously to 

my friend and fellow labor pioneer, John Reilly. It was an embarrassing scene to say the 

least. Even today, Mater Dei remains firmly entrenched in the AFT – probably the only 

Catholic secondary school with AFT affiliation. Even the San Francisco local of Catholic 

teachers disaffiliated with the AFT some years ago. John Anderson, currently Principal 

Former governor, Jim McGreevey, claims St. Joe’s as his alma mater. 

In 1993 a particularly thorny problem emerged, that of the inclusion of a document called 

the Christian Witness Statement (CWS) into the master contract for the following year, 

and all future contracts for that matter, If allowed to be included, it would require the 

signature of all lay teachers as a condition of employment. Upon reviewing the document 

closely, it was the opinion of myself and the other three members of the Negotiating 

Team, as well as the AFT advisor, that this inclusion should be disallowed. Some ten 

negotiating sessions later, on June 15, no progress had been made on the CWS, and only 

1.25% separated both sides on money issues. Other issues included a check-off proposal 

whereby non-union members agreed to pay their “fair share” of negotiating costs. I’ve 

always felt strongly about this one since both members and non-members reap the 

benefits of our union’s negotiations. The very least they can do is to contribute a small 

percentage of the dues a regular member pays. Why should non-members benefit from 

my sweat? A Professional Improvement Plan (PIP) also held things up. The Parish would 

not agree to health benefits for vested retiring teachers. An impasse had been reached, 

and an outside neutral mediator should be called in, come the opening of school in 

September. This would be the first time that Mater Dei teachers would be returning to 

work without a contract.

The Christian Witness Statement (CWS) stuck in my craw from day one. An excerpt 

stated: the teacher in Catholic education “must be a person of prayer, one who frequently 

reflects on the scriptures, and whose Christ-like living testifies to deep faith.” How does 

one measure this? By his contribution to his weekly collection envelope? By his 

participation in parish activities, if indeed, he is officially registered in a parish? Would 

the CWS be creating a “big brother” Orwellian atmosphere? 

On September 14, Mary Ann Livigne, Negotiating Team Chairperson, along with team 

members Mary Lou Grzybowski, Helen Norris, myself, and the AFT Rep, caucused at 

Steak and Ale in Middletown for the mediation session later in the evening. Members 

were getting edgy working without a contract. Some wanted an “inside scoop” and 

acceding to their wishes could hurt the process. I referred to an earlier memo: 

Communications from the Negotiating Team to the Membership will be 

made as warranted. As these negotiating sessions are “closed,” it would 

be out of order, and could be counter-productive, for members of the 

Federation to query individual members of the Negotiating Team on 

matters regarding issues and strategies. I request that this not be done. 

Richard W. Kosten of the New Jersey Board of Mediation in Newark, had been called to 

put out a negotiating fire at Mater Dei in 1988, so he was no stranger to Mary Ann and 

Local 3786 of the New Jersey State Federation of Teachers. Father Gregory Vaughan, 

pastor of St. Mary’s and Frank Poleski, Mater Dei Principal, represented “the school.” 

I was the Team’s principal spokesman opposing the CWS into the master contract and set 

forth my arguments from the opening session. I proceeded by questioning certain 

provisions of the document in the area of “Applications of the Christian Witness”: 

1. Only those persons who support CWS should be hired or rehired. 

2. Support of the CWS must be reflected in public behavior. It forbade taking 

positions contrary to the Church’s teaching, eg. Life style, abortion, and violation 

of same will “constitute grounds for dismissal or non-rehiring.” 

I found the document troubling and voiced my objections: 

1. I didn’t think that the Bishop’s dictum should be arbitrarily included in a 

negotiated contract citing “individual agreements…cannot be modified except by 

a written understanding mutually acceptable to both parties” as stated in the 

contract under Management Rights. 

2. It would affect non-Catholic teachers in an adverse manner. 

3. Right to privacy issues were negated in this proposal. A remarried divorced 

Catholic or a celibate homosexual could be summarily dismissed.

4. Academic freedom, including First Amendment Rights, was stifled by this 

document. Looking Father Vaughan squarely in the eye, I said: How is a social 

studies teacher exploring contemporary issues, to deal with the ‘gay rights’ issue? 

Could the slightest deviation from the Church’s position on the controversial 

issue cost the teacher his or her job? Father Vaughan agreed and saw where I was 

coming from. 

5. The document could be arbitrarily enforced 

The consensus was that the teachers of Mater Dei, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, 

objected to the CWS and they were ready to “walk” if need be. Although the “s” word 

was never used, Local 3786 was gearing up for the possibility of going “to the wall.” 

Like in days of yore, I would head up the media campaign. 

There were three mediation sessions in all. The final meeting of September 27, 1993, 

proved that compromise was the key to conflict resolution. The school budged on the 

salary issue but refused a medical package for retirees. It’s a shame, for today as a retiree, 

I have to pay $170.00 monthly for my Medigap coverage. Dental, Optical, and 

prescription plans were denied by the school. So all these expenses come out of my own 

pocket, forcing me to live a very meager existence at this time. That sucks!!! 

Compromise was also reached on the Christian Witness Statement whereby it would 

apply to newly hired teachers and be presented as an attachment to the contract, while the 

veteran teachers would be grand-fathered in and the CWS excluded from their contract. I 

objected to the compromise proposal and stood alone on this issue, prompting the 

mediator, Mr. Kosten, to say to me in a quiet moment: You must be a very honorable 

man, Mr. Murray. 

THE LOST SOULS CLUB 

One of the most important attributes a teacher has is his ability to reach out to students. A 

teacher is more than a conveyor of a lesson. He acts in loco parentis whether his charges 

are in the classroom, out on the playing field, or in an extra-curricular activity. It is 

important that the teacher impart a compassionate benevolence to the members of his 

very unique family. 

The school is like an extended family with each student contributing in his or her own 

very special way to that family. A teacher must have the intuitive ability to recognize and 

reach out to students that are “different” – the quiet kid sitting alone in a corner desk, the 

boy that appears to have suffered both physical and mental abuse at home, the young man 

who is the butt of homophobic slurs from his classmates, the nerd, the overachiever as 

well as the underachiever – all God’s greatest gifts and made in the image of their 

Creator.

Perhaps a word of encouragement is all that some “lost soul” needs. I choose to think that 

some teachers have made a difference in the lives of students who may be in this 

category. Unfortunately too few teachers today choose to get involved with this type of 

young person. This cannot continue! We must be that colossus in the harbor holding our 

beacon brightly for all who need us. 

I am told that I have reached many a “lost soul” both in and out of the classroom and 

have tried to make life more bearable for those students. Schools can be jungles at times, 

and that includes Catholic schools, with predatory students ready to pounce upon an 

unwary, defenseless, “different” peer. 

Sometimes I have made a difference; other times I have not. As one mother wrote to me 

regarding her son: Thank God for giving a damn. Her son, Glenn, is a priest today. 

Helping even one “lost soul” during my thirty-eight years in the classroom would have 

made those many years in the classroom worthwhile. 

RETIRING FROM TEACHING AT MATER DEI HIGH SCHOOL 

Decisions! Decisions! Remembering my own words, “The only thing worst than a bad 

decision, is indecision,” I made the decision to end my formal teaching career in June of 

1996 at the age of 63. I left on a high note with my Advanced Placement United States 

History class scoring well above the national average, and the outgoing senior class 

presenting me with their “favorite teacher” award (I had previously received Mater Dei’s 

“Teacher of the Year” Award in 1983). Nothing like retiring while you’re still at the top 

of your game. However, I felt that if I were to continue as a classroom teacher my 

effectiveness would diminish, as would my resiliency in classroom management. If I 

were no longer the captain of my classroom ship, I no longer wished to remain onboard. 

When it was found that my replacement lacked in classroom managerial skills, he was 

terminated the following Easter, and I was asked by the principal to return to Mater Dei 

and fill out the remainder of the year. I complied with Mr. Poleski’s request and returned 

to Mater Dei. My return to the classroom reaffirmed that my original decision to leave 

teaching when I did was a correct one. 

I loved my thirty-eight years in the classroom. Although I have little to show for it in 

terms of financial reward, I have certain things that money can’t buy – the satisfaction of 

knowing that I affected the lives of thousands of students, hopefully for the better; of 

knowing that I transcended the classroom with many extracurricular options for so many 

students; and remain a beloved “Mr. Chips” in the minds and hearts of hundreds of my 

former students today. On Father’s Day of 2004, Diana Jauregui of the class of ’96, took 

me out to breakfast, along with her family, and afterward presented me with a small 

pillow inscribed with the following, “To teach is to touch a life forever.”

Chapter 19 – THE 7 WONDERS QUEST AND THEN SOME 

IT ALL STARTED WITH THE SEA WALL 

During my first summer (1977) as a resident of Sea Bright, New Jersey, I ventured out of 

my apartment and explored the sea wall that separated the barrier beach town from the 

Atlantic Ocean. I marveled at the way it was built and how it successfully held back the 

mighty sea, just as the Great Wall of China held back the onslaught of invaders. In a way, 

I compared the Sea Bright wall, constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers to contain 

the might ocean, to the Great Wall itself. Well, not really. Both were man-made wonders 

and both were erected to withstand a foe, man-made or natural. 

As I returned to my apartment an idea came into my head. I recalled the 7 Wonders of the 

Ancient World, a list of prominent manmade structures compiled by the Greeks during 

the second century B. C. I thought of manmade wonders of the modern world including 

the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, the Sydney Opera House, and New York’s 

Chrysler Building. Why not, then, compile a list of the 7 manmade wonders of New 

Jersey, and taking it one step further, include the 7 natural wonders of the Garden State in 

that list. How would I go about determining which wonders would be selected? Easy! 

Sponsor a statewide contest among the youth of the State and the top seven “winners” in 

each category would be proclaimed the 7 Natural and 7 Manmade Wonders of New 

Jersey – the 7 + 7. Why “7” and not 21 as in the counties of New Jersey? From ancient 

times the number “7” was associated with sacred things and appears many times in the 

Bible – the 7 cardinal or deadly sins, the 7 vestal virgins, and so on. And don’t forget 

Snow White and her 7 little people. So “7” would be the operative number in the New 

Jersey Wonders Search. 

I immediately caucused at my apartment with the leadership team of the Mater Dei High 

School Jerseymen Club and my friend, John Lonergan. the school’s principal, The idea 

swept them off their feet. It was the type of thing that John was looking for as he departed 

from Mater Dei at the end of the 1977-78 academic year. I then conferred with Joan Hull, 

the Director to the Jerseymen program of the New Jersey Historical Society. She, too, 

thought that the proposal was quite unique and agreed that the Society should come on 

board as co-sponsor. That was fine with me. Nothing like having the prestigious weight 

of a sacred institution behind you, WASP’s, and all.

PHASE I- THE NOMINATIONS 

In early December 1977, ballots were sent to the nearly eighty Jerseymen Clubs affiliated 

with the Society. In addition to nominating their choices for the 7 + 7 Wonders of New 

Jersey, each nomination had to be backed up by an essay in support of each respective 

nominee. A majority of the Jerseymen Clubs participated in the program, sending in their 

returns to the Society before January 15, 1978. The choices were tabulated and the top 14 

nominees for the Natural and Man-made Wonders were announced at the Society’s 

Professional Conference on February 4, 1978. 

The Man-made Wonders in alphabetical order were: (1) the Atlantic City Boardwalk* (2) 

Branch Brook Park Cherry Blossoms (3) Bell Laboratories (Murray Hill) (4) Cape May 

Victorian Village (5) Edison’s Electric Light Bulb* (6) the George Washington Bridge* 

(7) Greater Port Newark (8) the Holland Tunnel* (9) Lucy, the Margate Elephant* (10) 

Meadowlands Sports Complex* (11) the New Jersey State Hospital (Trenton) (12) Sacred 

Heart Cathedral (13) S.U.M. Historic District (Paterson) and (14) the Twin Lights 

Navesink Lighthouse*. 

The Natural Wonders were: (1) the Delaware Water Gap* (2) Franklin Mineral Deposits 

(3) the Great Falls of Passaic* (4) the Great Morris Swamp (5) the Hackensack 

Meadowlands (6) High Point8 (7) New Jersey Bog Iron (8) the New Jersey Shoreline* 

(9) the Palisades* (10) the Pine Barrens (Pinelands)* (11) Ramapo Fault (12) Roaring 

Brook (13) Sunfish Pond* and (14) Tillman’s Ravine. 

Both the Society and I agreed that bi-state wonders were to be allowed for consideration 

– the George Washington Bridge and the Holland Tunnel in the Man-made category and 

the Palisades in the Natural category. We also agreed that while Edison’s original electric 

light bulb no longer existed, the light bulb itself should be eligible. 

The final 7 + 7 Wonders of New Jersey are represented with an “*” next to it in the list of 

14 + 14 in the Phase I vignette. 

PHASE II – THE VOTE 

A “Wonder Packet” was sent out to every junior and senior high school in the State of 

New Jersey. The packet included a cover letter to the Social Studies Supervisor from 

Joan Hull on New Jersey Historical stationery, the 14 + 14 nominations for the 7 + 7 

Wonders with a brief description of each, a sample ballot to be reproduced for voting 

purposes, and a Tally Sheet to be returned to me at Mater Dei High School. 

The final choices of wonders were made on the basis of the plurality that each candidate 

received. Over 20,000 students from 59 high schools participated in the process.

THE ENVELOPE PLEASE 

The big day finally arrived with the 7 + 7 Wonders of New Jersey Ceremony held in the 

Library of Mater Dei High School with Joan Hull and myself presiding. A number of 

historical and political dignitaries were in attendance. Mari Campanella, Monmouth 

County Governor, The Jerseymen, and Joe Ernest, president of the Mater Dei Jerseymen 

chapter, as well as John Kiss, a former student of mine from Essex Catholic High School, 

who had risen in the ranks of The Jerseymen to become State President of the eightyschool 

organization, were among the younger people participating in the program. The 

keynote address was delivered by my friend, John T. Cunningham, past Chairman of the 

New Jersey Historical Commission and past President of the New Jersey Historical 

Society. Assemblyman Richard Van Wagner read an Assembly resolution commending 

the Mater Dei High School Jerseymen on their outstanding success. 

New Jersey’s popular historian, John Cunningham, later remarked that he felt that the 

Great Swamp of Morris County should have made the final list. John thought that 

Edison’s light bulb was a peculiar choice, and perhaps should have been replaced by 

“Old Barney” Lighthouse. But two lighthouses, John? I would have added Sacred Heart 

Cathedral in Newark to the list of finalists. Certainly this basilica is one of the finest 

examples of French Gothic architecture in America. And what of the Twin Lights of 

Navesink in Highlands? It probably made the final list because of the great concentration 

of ballots from schools in Monmouth County, including Mater Dei High School. I’m sure 

that readers of this chapter probably have their own personal favorites that they feel 

should be included. And that’s fine too. Anything to promote pride in a State with an 

“identity crisis.” 

The breakdown of the ballots was not disclosed to the public. I felt that was a good move, 

after all, we did not want any one wonder having a “superiority” or “inferiority” complex. 

The 7 + 7 Wonders project put Mater Dei High School on the map and far exceeded John 

Lonergan’s wildest dreams. Articles on the quest appeared at three different times in The 

New York Times. New Jersey Business magazine even had a feature article. I have a huge 

file just on newspaper clippings alone. Radio and television interviews soon followed. 

Even if we did not get any media exposure, that would be fine too. My object was to get 

students involved; that they did, some 20,000 of them. I’m sure that the 7 + 7 Wonders 

Search rekindled a pride in their state and that, today, as middle-age adults, those fires are 

still burning brightly.

WONDER-MANIA SWEEPS THE STATE 

Shortly after the announcement ceremony, the Mater Dei PTA jumped on the bandwagon 

announcing that they would fund the monies necessary for the creation of fourteen 

plaques to be placed at the respective wonders located throughout New Jersey. With that 

backing, I went on to order the plaques that had a map of New Jersey on the left side of 

the marker with a gold star designating the location of the newly-found wonder. On the 

right side was an engraved plate stating the co-sponsors ( Mater Dei High School and the 

New Jersey Historical Society), and the wonder’s name as voted on by over 20,000 high 

school students. 

Special ceremonies were set up at each of the fourteen sites for the formal presentation of 

the plaque to respective wonder representatives. I enjoyed traveling throughout the State, 

accompanied by a couple of my Mater Dei students, to each presentation Some were 

formal as in the case of the Port Authority of the State of New Jersey and New Jersey. 

Here, upon presentation of the plaques for the George Washington Bridge and the 

Holland Tunnel to Port Authority officials, two of my students and myself were feted to a 

gourmet lunch in a private dining room at the World Trade Center followed by a trip to 

the 110 th floor observation desk. What a commanding view. 

One of the more colorful presentations was to Lucy, the Margate Elephant. Lucy is a 

Victorian folly that was built by a real estate developer in 1881. Lucy weighs all of 90 

tons, is nearly seven stories high and is made up of wood and tin. Her dimensions…Well 

to begin with, she has 17 foot ears, 22 foot tusks, and has a 26 long foot trunk. Now that’s 

what I call a trunk! A howdah or canopied seat sits atop this gracious lady. Entrance to 

her inner body is gained by walking up one of the two spiral staircases in her rear legs. 

She has had many lives including an office, a hotel, and a tavern. Her life as a tavern was 

a short one as many patrons had trouble navigating the spiral staircase after a few drinks. 

Lucy almost met her demise in the early 1970’s, as her shape left so much to be desired. 

A “Save Lucy” Committee was organized and it was to the new Lucy, complete with 

facelift, that I presented the plaque during the summer of 1978. The noted pachyderm is 

also a registered National Landmark and attracts more than 25,000 visitors annually. A 

visit to Lucy would be well worthwhile if you’re in the Atlantic City area.

And speaking of Atlantic City, Mari Campanella and Mary Caruso, who had just 

graduated from Mater Dei High School, accompanied me to the plaque presentation to 

the Mayor of the “city by the sea” who was accepting it on behalf of the City’s famed 

boardwalk. After the ceremonies, I said, Girls, I’m going to introduce you to your first 

vice. Both tittered with laughter, as I said, No, not that one. As both girls had turned 

eighteen during their senior year in high school, I invited them to visit the recently 

opened Resorts International Casino. Each of us purchased a role of quarters and went on 

to play the slots. After a few minutes on the one armed bandits, the girls came over to my 

machine and told me their tale of woe. The house had won; they were all out of quarters. 

I looked down at my tray and saw that I had a few quarters in it. Immediately, I scooped 

up the two or three dollars that I had won and said to the girls, Quit while you’re ahead. 

If they weren’t with me, I would have played the remaining quarters that I had won and 

gone for broke. Incidentally, it is interesting to note that the builder of the first Atlantic 

City Boardwalk was named Alexander Boardman. 

Mari Campanella, also, shared in the presentation of the Twin Lights of the Navesink 

plaque to the mayor of Highlands and lighthouse representatives. This was an especially 

important day for Mari as she was, and is today, a resident of Highlands. 

Toward the end of August, a plaque was presented to Department of the Interior officials 

at the bi-state Delaware Water Gap. As in each case, students accompanied me and 

shared in the presentation. The plaque now hangs proudly in the National Park Service of 

the Delaware Water Gap – on the New Jersey side of the Delaware River, of course. 

Labor Day weekend saw a plaque presentation to representatives of the Great Falls of the 

Passaic in Paterson, as well as Philippe Petit doing his high wire tightrope over the 

chasm. About a billion gallons of water flow over the 77-foot cataract each day, and the 

water from the falls was harnessed to supply the energy for Paterson – the first planned 

industrial city in America. 

I often took the Mater Dei High School Jerseymen hiking along the Appalachian Trail in 

Worthington State Forest to one of my favorite natural wonders, Sunfish Pond. Thanks to 

the efforts of Casey Kays and his Lenni Lenape League, Sunfish Pond, sometimes called 

the “Walden Pond” of New Jersey, was saved from New Jersey utility companies who 

wanted to purchase it from the State to use as a pumped-storage reservoir for generating 

electrical power. No camping, picnicking, boating, swimming, is allowed. Like a bunny 

in a Playboy Club, it is there to be admired but not touched – enjoyed in its pristine 

beauty. 

On the floor of the State of New Jersey Legislature in Trenton, Assemblyman Richard 

Van Wagner introduced a bill (Assembly, No. 1473) that would make the 7 + 7 Wonders 

the “official” wonders of the Garden State. Sparks flew and tempers flared as the 

Assemblyman’s bill provoked an outcry from those legislators who did not have an 

official wonder in their district. Like so many bills, it was laid on the table and died an 

ignominious death.

MY FIRST BOOK 

At the February 4 Professional Conference, I spoke briefly about the project. So, too, did 

other speakers mention the 7 + 7 Wonders Search. Afterwards at the reception, Ridley 

Enslow, representing Enslow Publishers, chatted with me about the project and 

concluded the conversation by asking me to think about the possibility of writing of book 

on the 14 + 14 Wonders. I told him that I would have to get back to him, stating that I 

was a classroom teacher and not a writer. 

After giving the matter some thought, and being told by a college professor friend of 

mine that they, professors, have to wait, manuscript in hand, hoping and praying that they 

would find a publisher – publish or perish! In my instance, a publisher was coming to me 

inviting me to write a book. Go to it, Tom, Professor Ken Job said, giving me enthusiastic 

encouragement. And so I signed a contract with Enslow Publishers and began writing 

my first book, The Seven Wonders of New Jersey – and then Some. 

I thoroughly disliked my initial experience in professional writing. Because of the varied 

nature of the twenty-eight nominees, research was most difficult. I had to become versed 

in everything from architecture to geology, from science to religion. As a “blue collar,” 

“working poor” professional, I did not have a computer at my disposal. I did not have a 

word processor but wrote the manuscript on large size yellow legal pads. Although I did 

set up a timeline during the summer of 1978, come fall and the opening of school, I found 

myself well behind schedule. I plodded away during the 1978-79 academic year in what I 

found to be an exercise in ennui. Professional writers are disciplined and I considered 

myself neither a professional writer nor disciplined. Besides, I was thinking of returning 

to my roots and doing the 7 + 7 Wonders of New York City. By the late spring of 1979, I 

was ready to request that Mr. Enslow rescind the contract and throw my more than halffinished 

manuscript into the trash bin. Initially he agreed, and I was to return my advance 

royalty payment to his publishing company and that would be the end of my book. That 

was fine with me. However, during the early summer Ridley proposed that he find a 

professional free-lance writer to finished the book off. That he did, a former reporter for 

the defunct Newark News and a contributor to the New Jersey section of The New York 

Times, Valerie Barnes. I promptly proceeded to turn over my research material to her. 

Besides, having a co-authored book was better than having no book at all. We even 

talked about a sequel book for the Wonders of New York City as I had committed myself 

to return to my native New York and pursue the Wonders Search with my alma mater, 

Power Memorial Academy, being the sponsor.

AN ALUMNUS RETURNS TO POWER MEMORIAL AS TEACHER 

Brother Mike Binkley, the Principal of Power Memorial Academy, was an affable, easygoing 

Virginian, who I had known as a colleague from my Essex Catholic High School 

days. After reviewing my proposal, Brother met with me at Neary’s Restaurant on east 

57 th Street where he agreed to Power’s sponsorship of the project with myself as director 

and that I would be placed on the top of the salary scale. Not bad at all! 

I really wanted to return to the city of my roots. I felt that once ensconced, I would never 

want to return to New Jersey. The “Big Apple” was calling me. 

Fortunately, I did not burn any bridges. In the case of Mater Dei High School, I took a 

one-year leave of absence so that I could work at Power Memorial Academy during the 

1979-1980 academic year. It proved to be a good choice, as I did not readjust to City life 

and returned to Mater Dei in September of 1980. 

Teaching at Power was a challenge. I was now dealing with city kids who were quite 

different from the placid suburban student. My classroom management skills were put to 

the test on many occasions. No longer was it the country club atmosphere of Mater Dei 

High School; rather it was a challenging urban school. 

I taught two United States (Regents) classes, a U.S. History (general), as well as two 

American Government classes. The Regents classes were overloaded with forty-six 

students in one of the two classes; the second had a mere thirty-eight students. The 

Government classes were senior electives and one of my Hell’s Kitchen boys, Brian 

Mullen, went on to play professional hockey for the New York Rangers. Another Power 

Panther, Chris Mullins, went on to play professional basketball. In addition to my 

teaching duties, I was moderator of Power’s Color Guard. 

AN APARTMENT IN A HAYSTACK 

Finding an apartment in New York City was quite a challenge, and finding a rentstabilized 

apartment was like finding that proverbial needle in a haystack. John Lonergan 

and I ventured over to the City where we made inquiries to superintendents in several 

apartment building that were within walking distance to Power Memorial Academy. – all 

to no avail. One building struck my fancy. It was a twenty-five story, residential tower at 

330 West 56 Street, just a block away from my former, tenement walk-up at 363 West 57 

Street and only four blocks away from Power. So John and I proceeded to make inquiries 

with Ralph, the Superintendent. Ralph was not reassuring as to the prospects of renting in 

this rent- stabilized building.

A few weeks earlier as I walked down the block I noticed a couple of police cars with red 

lights flashing. My first reaction was Who got killed now? I asked one of the police 

officers the reason for the heavy police presence and was informed that President Carter 

was to pass by in a few minutes en-route to the Park Central Hotel where he was to 

deliver a luncheon address. I decided to wait so that I could catch a glimpse of Smiling 

Jimmy. As I waited on the steps of 330 the motorcade approached within a matter of 

minutes. I went to the curb and waved to the President as his limo passed by. As he was 

sitting on the right side of the auto and I was on the right side of the street, he 

acknowledged my wave and waved back giving me a Smiling Jimmy job. That made my 

day. 

I wanted an apartment in 330 the worst way. A week later I went back alone, telling my 

tale of woe to Ralph and very diplomatically I slipped him a fifty-dollar bill in the palm 

of his hand. His tone changed very dramatically, for the better, as I promised him to 

match that fifty when I signed a lease for an apartment in his building. By the middle of 

October the Greenthal Management Company phoned me at Power, advising me that an 

apartment had become available and to see Ralph. Ralph showed me Apartment 16B, a 

small one-bedroom with a southerly exposure, rent-stabilized at $435.a month. Perfect! I 

signed the lease and awaited the not-so-big move back to the Big Apple. 

Move-in date was November 1, 1979 and Don Sullivan, an Essex Catholic colleague, 

helped me move in. I purchased a few stick of furniture and had a box-spring mattress 

that Catherine had given me. From my 16 th floor bay window, I could see the Empire 

State Building light up as I was sipping my evening drink, appropriately a Manhattan. I 

could see New Jersey over to the right and I felt as if she was my “ex.” I felt badly 

leaving her as she cried, You picked a fine time to leave me TC. 

Cockroaches at my upscale new residence caused consternation. Whenever I put on the 

light, there they were, running freely in my kitchenette. One cannot destroy these 

creatures of the night. We can only contain them. They are part of city life and coexistence 

with them is part of city life. Ugh! 

I really didn’t get to know my neighbors. The man in the apartment over me practiced his 

trumpet during the day and gigged at night. Although he was no Herb Albert or Al Hirt, 

his playing was tolerable. Longer Than and other pop favorites were standard musical 

fare. Zena lived in Apartment 16A, and I wasn’t too sure what she did for a living, as she 

had “unusual” evening hours. On the other side of me in Apartment 16C lived Dr. and 

Mrs. Stead. Dr. Stead appeared to be of British origin and was an administrator at the 

nearby John Jay College for Criminal Justice.

The staff was quite professional. Tony, the night doorman, was very pleasant as he 

greeted me when he opened the lobby door for me. I always tried to beat him to the door 

with my key in hand as I felt “funny” about someone opening the door for me. Of course, 

at Christmas time at least five envelopes had to be distributed by this “Santa Claus.” 

Each day on my way to Power Memorial I passed my old homestead on the corner of 57 th 

Street and 9 th Avenue, for I never wanted to forget my humble roots. 

BACK TO HELL’S KITCHEN AND THE WILD, WILD, WESTIES 

Returning to the city after more than two decades presented me with a culture shock. 

There were very few of the good old boys left; they had moved to Long Island or New 

Jersey. 

One of my first objectives was to re-acquaint myself with my old neighborhood. So many 

of the “institutions” like to Automat and Chuck Full o’ Nuts were gone. I cased the local 

bars and restaurants, with bars coming first. The “Crossroads,” a dark, dingy, all male 

bar, was the closest and most convenient, just around the corner on 9th Avenue. I soon 

discovered that it was a gay bar. Next to the “Crossroads” was “Ralph’s,” an affordable 

Italian restaurant, but a far cry for the Casa Delmonte that had long since closed its doors. 

St. Paul the Apostle Church was still intact. An effort had been made by some moneyminded 

speculators to sell off some of the Paulist property, as it was prime Manhattan 

real estate. Naturally, high rises with rents to match, would be erected in its place. 

“Gentrification” was now the operative word among developers. Fortunately the 

speculators did not prevail. However, later on, the school and convent would be razed 

and a fifty-two storied apartment tower built in its place. One of the families that moved 

into the skyscraper condo was the Culkin clan –“Mac,” Kieran, Rory, and the rest of the 

little Culkin’s. 

PCQ42: What real estate mogul is said to have muttered, “Only poor people pay 

taxes!”? 

It was good going back to St. Paul’s to worship again. My friend, Father Frank Desiano, 

was pastor, the youngest to serve in that capacity in St. Paul’s history. It seemed like only 

yesterday that I was teaching Frank how to serve mass as an altar boy. Reflecting the 

spirit of Vatican II, a number of cosmetic changes were made in the huge church, 

including locating an altar in the center of the church, with Stanford White’s main altar as 

a backdrop craving for attention. CHIP’s star Eric Estrada paid for the refurbishing of the 

Stations of the Cross and Regis Philbin, still a household name in television today, has 

never forgotten his Paulist roots. Nor have I. For many years Power Memorial had been 

using the Paulist mother church as the site of its graduation. In June of 1980, Walter 

Cronkite addressed the graduating class in the church that holds more than 2,000 people.

~ 

While I lived at 330 West 56 Street for a brief period in late 1979 and early 1980, I was 

unaware that one of the most ruthless gangs in New York’s history, the “Westies”, were 

plying the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, wantonly killing adversaries by “death through 

dismemberment.” 

The area between 34 to 59 Streets and from the Hudson River to 8 Avenue had been 

inhabited by Irish immigrants and their children since the long before the Civil War. It 

was the Irish who precipitated the Draft Riots during the War Between the States and it 

was the Irish gangs who controlled many neighborhoods of New York during, before and 

after that time. However, we must not forget that it was The Hands (Irish) That Built 

America,” U2’s theme for Martin Scorsese’s, brilliantly directed, The Gangs of New 

York. 

As a kid, I can remember walking southward on 9 th Avenue and noticing a wide array of 

Irish bars. Butcher stores featured Irish bacon as well as black pudding, a favorite of 

mine. Most people are not aware that black pudding is marinated in pig’s blood. 

Disgusting! Then one could order pigs heads, knuckles, feet and other parts of the porcine 

anatomy. Invariably, the Irish bars served pig’s feet. Also disgusting! As I reached 42 nd 

Street, I found myself in the center of “Paddy’s Market.” It, too, was somewhat 

disgusting. 

It was during the waning days of the Vietnam War that the Westies was born. James 

Coonan and Michael “Mickey” Featherstone were among its leaders, and their first order 

of business was to depose Michael “Mickey” Spillane, the West Side gang boss for years. 

After Mickey was dispatched, the Westies took control of the profitable markets of the 

West Side, not only the docks but the building of the Javits Convention Center. Alliances 

were formed, including one with the Gambino crime family; alliances were broken. 

Anyone who competed with, or stood in the way of, the Westies also were summarily 

dispatched by dismemberment. Body parts everywhere. Ugh! 

It was in 1991 that I read T. J. English’s book, The Westies: Inside New York’s Irish Mob. 

Mr. English had covered the R.I.C.O. trial of James Coonan for the Irish Voice, an ethnic 

weekly, in 1988. For almost twenty years Coonan and his motley mob laid siege to the 

Clinton area of Manhattan’s West Side, known to many since the latter nineteenth 

century as Hell’s Kitchen.

Michael Holly was one of my former altar boys from the Amsterdam Houses, aka the 

Projects. Michael had been a camper at Camp Adrian and a graduate from both St. Paul 

the Apostle Elementary School and Power Memorial Academy – three things that 

Michael and I had in common. However, as Michael grew older, he became involved in 

nefarious activities including alleged loan-sharking. This did not set well with the 

Westies and accordingly, Michael Holly was gunned down by a member of this 

despicable band of hoods. I only found out about Michael’s demise when I contacted his 

sister regarding a St. Paul’s reunion in the fall of 2004. In an e-mail, she informed me 

about his death at the hands of the Westies. I was saddened to learn this, and assured her 

that Michael’s name would be included in Power Memorial Academy’s necrology and his 

name read at our annual Mass of Remembrance in March of 2005. 

My friend and former student, Special Agent, Bob McGonigel of the F.B.I. was in on the 

capture of Coonan at an Oceanport apartment on the grounds of “flight to avoid 

prosecution.” warrant. 

The crime spree of the Westies came to an end with the trial of James Coonan in 1988. 

His former second-in-command, Mickey Featherstone turned sates evidence and is today 

in the Witness Protection Program (WPP). It’s interesting to note that Sammy “the Bull” 

Gravano did the same thing to his former boss, John Gotti. He too is in the WPP but 

chose not to lay low and opted to return to a life crime. Coonan is currently residing at 

Leavenworth Penitentiary. 

Several of the families of the Westies have left my old neighborhood and have chosen to 

move to Monmouth County, New Jersey, my current neighborhood. They have gravitated 

toward Keansburg and Hazlet and seem to be leading respectable lives. Actually several 

of my students at Mater Dei High School were children of ancillary Westie figures and 

all were great kids. 

And while dealing with the Westies, I must not forget my classmate from Power 

Memorial Academy’s class of 1952, Jimmy McManus. Jimmy was from nearby Sacred 

Heart Parish, the son of a funeral director and a member of the famed McMani clan. 

Jimmy, at age seventy-two, today remains the last vestige of Tammany Hall, as District 

Leader of the McManus Midtown Democratic Association. He shares that honor with his 

sister-in-law, Denise Spillane, the widow of slain Mickey Spillane. Jimmy reminds me of 

Talleyrand, the able foreign minister of France that survived regime changes from Louis 

XVI and the French Revolution on through Napoloen, the Congress of Vienna and Louis 

XVII. Like Talleyrand, Jim McManus, has had the art of survival over his many decades 

as a West Side leader. He has survived the Westies, gentrification, controversial building 

projects, the drug kingpins and so much more. I met with Jimmy a couple of times in 

March of 2004 and was impressed with his active, dynamic role to better the lives of the 

people he represents in Hell’s Kitchen. I was honored to attend his 71st birthday bash at 

Sacred Heart Church Auditorium on Sunday, September 11 th, 2005 as the guest of another 

classmate, Terry McAdams. Classmate, Jim McManus, is a true “Westie.”

“HELL’S BEDROOM” IN THE SEEDY SEVENTIES 

The area to the east of Hell’s Kitchen between 40 th and 50 th Streets, bordering on Eight 

Avenue, was called “Hell’s Bedroom” during the 1970s and 1980s. It reeked with drugs, 

prostitution and other sordid activites. Mayor Ed Koch and later, to a greater degree, 

Mayor Rudy Guliani cleaned the up strip. Eminent domain, gentrification, and 

neighborhood groups and churches were all factors in bringing about the 

“Disneyfication” of the 42 nd Street and “Minnesota Strip” (8 th Avenue) area. It was good 

to see that the streets that I once walked as a kid from Hell’s Kitchen were changing for 

the better. 

Because of liberal court decisions, porn houses and X-rated bookshops abounded, both on 

the “Street” and the “Strip.” It was not always the sleazebags who were patrons of these 

venues but many neatly dressed businessmen entered these “forbidden” domains – 

looking over their shoulder, of course, to make sure no one around them witnessed them 

entering these vice houses. 

As a movie buff, if you’ll pardon the expression, I entered at one of these fleabag 

emporia to see an “X-rated” low budget film. I forget the name of the “skin flicks.” It 

could have been Deep Throat or the Devil in Miss Jones. One forgets inferior, plotless 

movies. 

Not too long after, in 1973, I met Jackie Mason, comedian par excellence. Being active in 

the Bicentennial movement in Newark, I was invited to the set where he was shooting a 

low budget movie, The Stoolie. 

Our off-the-set conversation evolved about the making of the movie, as well as X-rated 

movies that were so prominent and bold in the early 1970s. I mentioned that I had 

recently seen one such movie and was subsequently admonished by Mr. Mason: 

Do you know why these movies are so successful? 

No, Jackie, why? 

Because its schmucks like you who go to see them! 

Did I ever learn a lesson – a lesson that I taught my students in my American 

Government class in subsequent years. Not only did I relate the Jackie Mason anecdote to 

them but I cautioned them by saying: If you’ve seen one X-rated movie, you’ve seen them 

all.

THE OFFICE 

Brother Mike Binkley made every effort to accommodate me at my “alma mater.” He 

assigned me an office with my own telephone. It had an interconnecting door with the 

main office and was the principal’s office back in the days when I was a student. It’s a 

matter of fact, as a senior, when I left the building for lunch and was caught upon my 

return, I appeared before Brother Hennessey in that same office. I’ll never forget his 

words: “If you ever come into this office again, you will be dismissed from the Academy 

and you won’t return.” Now as coordinator of the 7 + 7 Wonders Search, this was my 

office. And, yes, it gave me a sense of empowerment. 

HUGH O’LUNNEY AND THE ADVISORY COUNCIL 

I set about forming an Advisory Council of adults and asked my friend, pub owner, Hugh 

O’Lunney, to host the meetings. The man from County Cavan, Ireland, was the prefect 

host and besides he linked me up with people who could help me on the project. New 

York is a tough City and I needed all the help I could get. 

“Op Search,” a contracted form of “Operation Search,” was the name given to the New 

York City Wonders Search. 

Council member, Jack Ehn, designed the logo –an eye with a red apple in the center. The 

words “Op Search” appeared over the eye in bold letters, while its sponsor, “Power 

Memorial Academy” appeared below the searching eye. Dan Kellams helped me in the 

area of Public Relations. Several members of the Advisory Council were media people 

and included Frances Ming of WABC Radio and Larry Kenney, former host of the 

television show “Bowling for Dollars,” and at the time a DJ on New York’s Country and 

Western Station, WYNY. I listened to Larry every morning as he said to his listeners, 

“Come on! Get out of bed! You’re no better than the rest of us.” It was an awful earlymorning 

commentary, especially if I was suffering from a hangover. However, the 

beautiful voice of Crystal Gayle singing Half the Way more than compensated for Larry’s 

“get out of bed remarks.” Between Hugh O’Lunney’s “Country Music City” and Larry’s 

Kenney’s radio show, I had quite an introduction into country and western music.

Like the New Jersey Wonders Search, “Op Search” would be a two-phase project lasting 

over a period of the 1979-1980 school year… and then some. Phase I was the nomination 

process, and because New York City abounds in man-made wonders, it was decided by 

the Council that nominations be selected from the following categories: (1)Recreation 

(2)Institutions (3)House of Worship (4)Transportation (5)Commercial (6)Residences and 

Residential Areas and an (7)At-large category. This prevented a lopsided sweep in one 

particular area. It was also decided that Phase I should be extended over an eight-month 

period with each of the first seven months set aside for nominating the man-made 

wonders at a category per month. The top seven choices in each category, a total of fortynine 

man-made wonders, would appear on the final ballot. The eighth month would be 

devoted to natural wonders with the top fourteen placed on the final ballot. The final 

balloting took place in May of 1980, followed by the 7 X 7 Awards Ceremony in late 

June. 

Thanks to the several media people on the Council, “Op Search” received more than a 

fair share of free publicity. 

Hugh O’Lunney was always the gracious host, offering the “Op Search” Advisory 

Council Members complementary drinks and dinner. What a wonderful human being. 

Although Country Music City no longer exists, nor does O’Lunney’s Pub on west 44 th 

Street, his children have followed in his footsteps. Today, a sexagenarian, Hugh may 

found greeting customers at his new O’Lunney’s Times Square Pub, a rather large twostory 

establishment on west 45 th Street, just off Times Square. Stop in for a pint. 

THE “OP SEARCH” STUDENT LEADERSHIP TEAM 

I had an outstanding team of juniors and seniors. Two seniors, Denis Fitzgerald and Paul 

Brisson, were the student coordinators. Ed Cofrancesco, a senior from Sheepshead Bay in 

Brooklyn and a student in my American Government class, was a spirited young man. At 

the time, the Ayatollah Khomeini was holding American captives in Iran and President 

Jimmy Carter was trying his best to get them released. One day as Ed was about to enter 

my classroom, I spotted a badge on his black leather jacket. It too was black with white 

letters stating “F_ _ _ Iran.” I ordered him to take it off before he entered my classroom. 

But, Mr. Murray, he said, Brother Binkley didn’t say anything to me when I passed him in 

the hall. I responded firmly, stating that this was my classroom and I set the ground rules 

for deportment within its walls. He took it off!!! Another vibrant “Op Search” leader was 

Joe Crowley. Joe, a member of Power’s Band is today a Congressman representing his 

native Woodside, an Irish-American enclave as well as other sections of the boroughs of 

Queens and the Bronx. He sits on the powerful House and Ways Committee. Included in 

the mix was Gene Jaromsky, was an energetic junior, who would succeed Denis and Paul 

as student coordinator.

AND WE’RE OFF 

I had big plans for the Big Apple Seven Wonders Search. However, we all know that 

sometimes “the best laid plans of mice and men sometimes goes awry.” That seemed to 

my case with the NYC Wonders project. 

At the kickoff press conference held at O’Lunney’s Restaurant on August 22, 1979, I 

announced that this “could be the biggest election since Miss Rheingold.” The “Op 

Search” logo was on display and the theme was to prove once and for all that “New York, 

New York is a Wonder-filled Town.” It was my initial hope to not only involve the youth 

of the City, but the senior citizens as well. 

A letter from Mayor Koch, included in the press packet stated: 

Congressman Rodino has written me of your idea for a search for the natural 

and manmade wonders of New York City. I have also read with great interest 

of your successful program in New Jersey. I am sure that the civic pride your 

project generated made your efforts all the more worthwhile… 

Thank you for your interest in the City of New York, and I wish you the best of 

luck in your project. 

Soon other endorsements would be received. A sampling included: 

“Op Search” is just the sort of community program that will involve everyone 

…in a positive search about the most wonderful things of New York City. 

Peggy Bendell 

Special Projects Coordinator, 

I Love New York 

…congratulations for what is clearly a superior program. 

Thomas D. Nicholson 

Director, American Museum of Natural History 

This project captures the essence of the City of New York: a city of excitement 

and myriad wonders…We are proud to be part of this project. 

John W. Mazzola 

President, Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts

The letters of commendation on the “Op Search” project represented leaders from 

virtually every area of the diverse New York City community. Indeed, it was that 

diversity that made New York City in the capital of the world and the center of the 

universe. 

DEFERRED DREAMS 

As the academic year progressed, I found myself being unable to cope with the demands 

of this rigorous program. Classroom management was a daily problem. City kids were 

harder to deal with that I had thought. Often I relied on Brother Pete Costa, the Dean of 

Discipline, for support. The support was always forthcoming. I was not adjusting to the 

City, and the adage one can never go back was proving true in my case. 

I was psychologically and physically drained by Christmas. Some mean-spirited kids 

were referring to the project as “Op Flop,” because, through my own fault, I was forced 

to revise the timetable several times. Words hurt and contributed to compounding the 

problem. 

On February 8, 1980, I submitted my resignation as a teacher at Power Memorial 

Academy, effective February 15. I was coming close to a nervous breakdown and the 

ever-increasing amount of alcohol that I was consuming, only worsened my condition. 

My life was out of control; my sanity was being compromised. However, I did agree to 

return to Power to complete “Op Search” at a future date. The following month I broke 

the lease on my high-rise apartment, took the security loss, and moved out at the end of 

March. No longer being gainfully employed, I “camped out” from April thru September 

in the homes of Ed and Catherine D’Ascoli in West Orange, John Lonergan in 

Eatontown, and Maud Lynn in Flatbush, Brooklyn. Thank God for friends like them. 

How I made it through six months, unsalaried and without savings, I’ll never know. My 

assets in August amounted to $6.00 – that’s six dollars. Fortunately, I did pick up some 

construction work from Ed D’Ascoli and that was enough to keep me afloat until I 

returned to Mater Dei High School in September.

THE 7 X 7 MANMADE WONDERS OF NEW YORK CITY 

The nominating phase of “Op Search” concluded with ceremonies held at Power 

Memorial Academy on Monday, June 23, 1980. Soon-to-be Power senior, Gene 

Jaromsky, replaced the outgoing senior leadership. A dynamic young man, Gene presided 

over the ceremony attended by representatives of many of the wonder sights. 

Certificates were presented, not only to the 7 X 7 manmade wonders representatives, but 

to the nineteen private and public schools that were part of the nominating process in 

Phase I of “Op Search.” Over 5,000 students participated in Phase I. 

At the ceremony I presented a check for twenty cents to the Deputy Director of the Staten 

Island Ferry named as one of the Transportation Wonders of New York City. Several 

years earlier when a ferry ride was a nickel, or a dime round trip, a friend and I wanted to 

avail of New York City’s “best buy” a few days before the fare would be raised to a 

quarter. Unintentionally, my friend and I entered through the vehicle entrance and 

casually walked to the passenger deck of the ferry. We looked at each other and asked 

each other “Where do you pay?” We didn’t! The round trip “free ride” was just great! 

Some four years later, with conscience prevailing, I related the anecdote to the 

Transportation official and gave him the check. He politely declined and made a kindly 

comment about my character. 

Copies of the lyrics of the official “Op Search” theme song were given to those in 

attendance. I had written the words and music on winter night as I overlooked the New 

York City skyline from my apartment’s bay window. Let’s try it - Wonder-filled Town.

Chorus: 

WONDER-FILLED TOWN 

(AN ODE TO NEW YORK CITY) 

New York, New York, city of many wonders; 

Five boroughs great and each a jewel in your crown. 

Your people sing out, all in one mighty chorus: 

New York! New York! You are a wonder-filled town! 

The 7 Verses, each representing a Manmade Wonder Category: 

Broadway theatres and cinema too, 

Places of leisure – your parks and the zoo; 

Sports fans assemble to cheer on their teams: 


Museum exhibits, the fine arts abound, 

Halls filled with music, the finest in sound 

U. N. headquarters and City Hall too: 


Houses of worship for people to pray, 

For the Lord’s blessing to keep us this day. 

Faith of our fathers abides in us still: 


Bridges and tunnels connect this great town; 

Subways and buses, uptown and down. 

Ferries and trams transport people too: 


Buildings of commerce rise clear to the sky, 

Centers of shopping where people do buy. 

Wall Street stock market and Fifth Avenue: 


Mansions and walkups where people reside, 

Coops and brownstones, all side by side. 

Neighborhoods offer a melting pot view: 


Wonders at-large are plentiful too – 

Your statues and arches for people to view. 

Liberty beckons with torch shining bright: 

New York! New York! You are a wonder-filled town!

The nominees for the 7 X 7 Manmade Wonders of New York City, and not listed in order 

of finish, were: 

RECREATION: TRANSPORTATION: 

1. Bronx Park Zoo/Botanical Gardens 1. Verrazano-Narrows Bridge 

2. Central Park 2. Roosevelt Island Tram 

3. Yankee Stadium 3. N.Y.C. Subway System 

4. Radio City, Music Hall 4. Staten Island Ferry 

5. Broadway Theatre District 5. J.F.K. International Airport 

6. Madison Square Garden 6. Grand Central Terminal 

7. Coney Island 7. Brooklyn Bridge 

INSTITUTIONS: COMMERCIAL: 

1. Metropolitan Museum of Art 1. The Plaza Hotel 

2. American Museum of Nat. History 2. Citicorp Center 

3. Library System of N.Y.C. 3. R.H. Macy’s (Herald Square) 

4. Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts 4. The Empire State Building 

5. Carnegie Hall 5. Fifth Ave. Shopping District 

6. The United Nations 6. Wall St. Financial District 

7. City Hall 7. World Trade Center 

HOUSES OF WORSHIP: RESIDENCES/RESIDENTAL AREAS 

1. Trinity Church 1.Greenwich Village 

2. Church of St. Paul the Apostle 2. Gracie Mansion 

3. The Riverside Church 3. Starrett City 

4. St. Paul’s Chapel 4. The Dakota 

5. Temple Emanu-El 5. Chinatown 

6. Cathedral of St. John the Divine 6. Park Slope 

7. St. Patrick’s Cathedral 7. Brooklyn Heights 

AT LARGE: 

1. South Street Seaport 

2. N.Y.C. Skyline 

3. The Statue of Liberty 

4. The Unisphere (Flushing, Queens) 

5. Grant’s Tomb 

6. Washington Arch (Greenwich Village) 

7. Rockefeller Center 

Please choose your favorite in each category. Any write ins? See how your final list 

compares to the actual finalists.

Gene Jaromsky was especially proud of one of the at-large nominees – the Statue of 

Liberty. Gene was born, well not in the statue of Liberty, but on Bedloe’s Island, today 

called Liberty Island. Gene’s parents were caretakers of the Statue of Liberty and gave 

birth to their son, Gene, on the historic island. 

PHASE II OF “OP SEARCH” 

Phase II of “Op Search” was deferred indefinitely due to personal problems that I will 

address in the next chapter. 

It was over a year later, that as a “reborn” person, I began to execute Phase II of the “Op 

Search” program. During the fall of 1981, a letter went out to the secondary schools of 

New York City requesting that their social studies department participate in the vote for 

the 7 + 7 Wonders of New York City. The mailing included a sample 7 X 7 ballot, as 

well as a section listing 14 natural wonders. It was requested that that tally sheet should 

be submitted by mid-November, 1981. 

Teaching at Mater Dei High School allowed me to come to the City only on Saturday’s 

where I would check the returns and record the tallies. 

I decided that the final ceremony of “Op Search” should be held on Tuesday, December 

8, 1981, at O’Lunney’s Restaurant in the Turtle Bay area of the east side. The program 

was hyped to some degree and both the New York Daily News and Channel 5 television 

sent reporters to the event. I was “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” for the event as I 

announced that over 17,000 high school students from 42 high schools voted for the final 

7 + 7 Wonders. Several students were on hand for the event. 

Unfortunately, Brother Mike Binkley who was scheduled to be with us was not. In a 

letter to me dated December 9, 1981, Brother Binkley wrote: 

Congratulations on the successful completion of “Op Search.” 

I was ready to leave Power to go over to O’Lunney’s when I got word that 

two of our hockey players had been mugged and stabbed on the way home 

after hockey practice on Tuesday morning… I spent until three o’clock at the 

hospital with the two boys, the doctors, the police and the boys’ parents. 

These are among the trials and tribulations of being a principal in a city school. 

Fortunately, the boys recovered and resumed their roles on Power’s Hockey Team.

AND THE WINNERS ARE 

The moment arrived, albeit, much later than originally anticipated. The finalist in each of 

the Seven Man-made Wonders categories were announced as follows: 

1. Recreation: Madison Square Garden 

2. Transportation: J.F.K. International Airport 

3. Institutions: the United Nations 

4. Commercial: the World Trade Center 

5. Houses of Worship: St. Patrick’s Cathedral 

6. Residences/residential Areas: Chinatown 

7. At- large: the Statue of Liberty 

As for the Seven Natural Wonders of New York City, they are: 

1. the island of Manhattan (geologic makeup) 

2. Todt Hill, Staten Island (the highest point on the eastern seaboard) 

3. the New York City shoreline 

4. the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge 

5. the primeval forest in the Bronx Botanical Gardens 

6. the swirling waters of Hellgate 

7. New York Harbor 

Martin King, the reporter who covered the project since its inception wrote in the 

December 9, 1981 issue of New York Daily News: 

The list resembles a tour guide of the city’s landscape, and is must reading 

for any visitor who wants to get a look at New York as seen through the 

eyes of its teenage residents… 

My personal man-made choices were: Central Park (Recreation), NYC Subway System 

(Transportation), The United Nations (Institutions), the World trade Center 

(Commercial), Cathedral of St. John the Devine (Houses of Worship) Greenwich Village 

(Residential Areas) and everyone’s favorite At-large Wonder – the Statue of Liberty. 

I might have added an “architecture” category at the expense of one of the others. While 

the World Trade Center is now a memory, sad as it may be, I agree it was the best 

commercial wonder nominee. However, I would have liked the Empire State Building as 

one the seven finalists and this omission has prompted my “architecture” category. St. 

Paul the Apostle Church was my sentimental favorite in the Houses of Worship category 

but the Cathedral of St. John the Divine stands out as my practical favorite, albeit a work 

in progress.

It was a good feeling to know that “Op Search” was brought to a successful conclusion 

after a delay of a year and a half. It was also a good feeling to know that my first book 

was published earlier that year. 

A BOOKFUL OF WONDER-FILLED WONDERS 

Like “Op Search,” the projected publishing date of my book, The Seven Wonders of New 

Jersey…and the Some, fell behind schedule, thanks to a personal problem at that time. 

The publication release date was late January 1981. Enslow Publishers had printed 3,000 

copies of the 130-page paperback. The bright yellow cover was eye-catching and sold for 

$6.95 a copy. The forward was written by, Joan Hull, the Executive Director of the New 

Jersey Historical Society. 

There were two book parties held – one in Sea Bright and the other in West Orange. Both 

were my “strongholds.” The book was one sale at most bookstores in New Jersey, as well 

as the Mater Dei High School Bookstore. 

Inscribing the book for friends and students was a novelty for me. Like history, signing 

one’s own book was a lot of fun. 

Today my book is out of print and I possess only one copies. It didn’t quite make the Best 

Seller list of The New York Times. 

Recently the son of one of my former student’s was doing a New Jersey-related project 

for his fifth grade class. David Stillings of Mater Dei’s class of ’83 had managed to find a 

copy of my book through the net and purchased a copy for $30. He took me to lunch, 

along with his son, Jake, and a copy of my book in hand. After lunch, David took photos 

of me signing the book and presenting it to Jake. It made Jake’s day, and certainly made 

mine. 

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER 

Some twenty-five years later, the Seven Wonders of New Jersey project lives on. Within 

the last few years I have given slide presentations with commentary at several of the local 

libraries and to many community groups. Of all the presentations, the one I enjoyed most 

was the one I gave at the Sea Bright Library, for it was only yards from the library where 

the 7 + 7 Wonders Project was born twenty-five years earlier.

Chapter 20 – SIGHTS, SCHOOLS AND STIMULATING 

SIMULATIONS 

EDUCATION AND RECREATION, PERFECT TOGETHER 

There are some who think that one of the perks of being a teacher is having off for the 

summer. Its probable the same people who think that the teacher’s job is from 8 a.m. thru 

3 p.m.; the same people who say teacher’s work only half a year – 180 days. To a true 

professional educator, we know that this is not true. Countless hours are spent in 

preparation for classes, correcting papers, attending meetings, and contributing to their 

professional growth. It is on the last point that I wish to dwell. 

Professional growth programs, especially summer ones, aside from degree matriculation, 

are not something new. We can go back to the last quarter of the nineteenth century and 

find that the Chautauqua Movement (CM), a summer program for adults held in the town 

that bears the name of the famous upstate New York lake. There, poetry readings, 

dramatic presentations, lectures, concerts and other educational endeavors were held – 

some in tents; others, outdoors. Many educators were among those who made the annual 

pilgrimage to their Mecca by the lake to hear such famous personages as Mark Twain. 

They combined education and recreation. I decided to take this approach for my own 

personal, professional improvement and found, that like the CM, the two were perfect 

together. 

~ 

During the spring of 1987, I came across an ad in an educational journal that promoted a 

weeklong intensive workshop for teachers in International Relations – or should that be 

International Affairs – at the University of Southern California (USC) in Los Angeles. It 

piqued my interest, especially as I was director of the Model United Nations program at 

Mater Dei High School. Besides, it was many years since I last pursued my professional 

advancement. I received approval from my principal, Sister Mary Hugh, who agreed that 

the school would pick up the tab for the program. Anything else would be on my own. 

Shortly after the closing of school on June 29, I was winging my way over the continental 

United States bound for San Francisco where I would start my holiday cum education. 

~

I have been to the fabled city of song several times. “San Fran” is one of those cities 

where you can return time after time and still enjoy its romantic, cosmopolitan flavor. 

Like Rome, it is a city built on seven hills, the most famous being Nob Hill. “San Fran” 

“Frisco” is a no-no) is a walker’s paradise – great for one’s cardiovascular system. I have 

walked its streets and climbed its hills. It’s a great city in the summer, with high temps 

sometimes in the sixties and a breeze blowing in from the bay. Many visitors from the 

northeast are not prepared to deal with the cooler weather, and are forced to buy a 

sweater in one of the stores near Union Square. Mark Twain said: that the coldest winter 

he ever spent in his life was the summer he spent in San Francisco. 

A ride in a cable car is must. Nothing like riding on the outside, holding on to a railing 

for dear life and feeling the breeze of a cable car going in the opposite direction as it 

swoops by. And for historians, it is an officially designated National Landmark – and the 

only moving one, at that. 

The sights of San Francisco area abound. Go over to Alcatraz and get locked in for a 

minute in a pitch-black solitary confinement cell; take the ferry or drive over the Golden 

Gate Bridge for shopping and lunch in Sausalito; visit Chinatown on Grant Avenue and 

stop in a say a prayer at the Paulist Church of Old St. Mary’s; browse the City Lights 

Bookshop on Broadway and Columbus, and say “hello” to the aging, Lawrence 

Ferlinghetti, the catalyst for many of the Beat poets. 

The smells of San Francisco are equally as tempting in this truly cosmopolitan Bay City. 

Have breakfast at Sears on Powell St., the only four star (New York Times) restaurant in 

the country, and order up a dish of eighteen mini pancakes and a side of sausage; lunch at 

O’Doul’s for a hot pastrami sandwich and a beer; dine at one of the many Italian 

restaurants in North Beach, or go down to Fisherman’s Wharf for the best seafood in 

town. And speaking of smells, I bought myself a curved Petersen’s pipe at Mate’s Smoke 

Shop and broke it in slowly with a half bowlful of Sail tobacco. 

After a hearty breakfast at Sears, I left “San Fran” on the morning of Wednesday, July 1 

for an exploratory trip down the California coastline. 

PCQ43: What musical group brought fame to California with songs as “California 

Girls,” “I Get Around” and many others with surfing themes? 

Using public transport, Pismo Beach was my first stop where I spent a couple of days. I 

met the proprietor’s of a fish and chips restaurant who were from The Hague. Naturally 

we struck up a conversation about Den Haag.

Then it was on to Ventura for a three-day stay. Originally Ventura was a mission site, San 

Bonaventura, founded by the Franciscan missionaries long before the establishment of 

the Bear Flag Republic. While a colony of Spain, Father Junipero Serra and a band of 

Franciscan priests founded missions throughout California. It was “God, Glory and 

Spain” back in those early days. The present-day state abounds with place names 

dedicated to the saints of the Catholic Church – San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Mission 

Street are but three examples. The highlight of the Ventura stay was a visit to the Mission 

of San Bonaventura. 

Next stop was the “City of the Angels” for a quick stopover before boarding my Amtrak 

train, the “Southwest Chief,” for an overnight trip to Flagstaff, Arizona. I would return to 

LA for my USC course five days later. 

Using Flagstaff as a base, I took a tourist bus for a day trip to the Grand Canyon. When I 

flew over the Colorado River and saw the Canyon from 30,000 feet that cold, clear 

March day in 1972, I promised myself that one day I would return and see it from the 

ground level. Words cannot express the awe that I felt when I saw the Canyon for the first 

time. Its immensity was overwhelming, its beauty, unequaled. It reconfirmed my faith in 

God and the power of Mother Nature. Here I was at one of the great natural wonders of 

the world and planned to make the best of. No helicopter ride for me but rather a hike 

down part of the Bright Angel Trail. On one of the lookouts, I met a fellow from Newark, 

New Jersey, and we chatted awhile. I prevailed upon him to take a picture of me near the 

rim of the Canyon with my modest 35mm Konica “Tomato” camera. During the four 

days in Flagstaff, I toured most of the area including Oak Creek Canyon, the Holy Cross 

Church with a Frank Lloyd Wright influence, and Sedona. I even had lunch, one day, at 

Betty’s Ore House. On Friday, July 10, I boarded the “Southwest Chief” for my 

overnight trip back to LA. Now the formal, educational part of the trip was about to 

begin. 

Checking in at USC on Saturday, I spent the day exploring the huge inner-city campus. 

We were told not to wander too far off campus for obvious reasons. I noticed buildings 

named in honor of Stephen Spielberg and George Lucas and surmised that USC must 

have quite a film program – if I were only thirty years younger (sigh). A Trojan was to be 

found in the center of the college quad, for, indeed, the Trojans are a sports powerhouse. 

I called it an early night and retired to my own, private dormitory room. On Sunday, I 

went to Mass at St. Vincent DePaul Church, had lunch, and then this kid from Hell’s 

Kitchen got more brazen in his off-campus adventure. I took in a movie, Dragnet, 

filmed on location in Los Angeles. A highlight in the film came when St. Vincent’s 

Church appeared in the backdrop of one of the scenes.

Professor Steven Lamy coordinated what was a wonderful five-day intensive program in 

International Relations and it really reinforced my knowledge of word events and better 

prepared me for The Hague International Model United Nations. There was flex time 

built into the seminar and this allowed me to visit L.A. and its environs. 

~ 

I completed my International Relations Seminar at USC on Friday, June 17, 1987, and 

took the bus to Palm Desert where I would be the guest of Maggie McNellis for the 

weekend. 

An unanticipated “perk” in this upscale community came when Maggie set up a meeting 

for me with Ruby Keller. As Miss Keeler was steeped in the Catholic faith, our meeting 

was held after Sunday mass in Palm Desert. I had seen her in the revival of No, No, 

Nanette on June 20, 1972 with my friend, Brother Offer. Ruby was sixty at the time and 

never lost a beat. Shortly after the revival she suffered a stroke and needed the aide of a 

walker to make her way down the aisle at the liturgy. When the musical opened in 1925, 

she tapped danced her way to stardom, thus earning her the reputation as the “queen of 

hoofers.” In 1933, she starred in the first of the great movie musicals, 42 nd Street. 

She was apprised of our post-liturgy meeting and knowing that I was from New Jersey, 

she opened the conversation: 

Back in the days when I lived in New York City, I visited the Jersey shore quite often. 

Immediately, my mind went to work. A star of her prestige most certainly would have 

visited Atlantic City or Cape May. She then interjected: 

Highlands and Keansburg. 

I almost keeled over, for today these are blue-collar towns and not fashionable resorts. 

However, back in the 1920’ and 1930’s, many New Yorkers took the ferry to these 

destinations for a day of fun and sun at the shore. Others, rented cottages for a week or 

longer. 

As she was standing with her walker, I did not want to “push the envelope,” so I thanked 

her for her time and gave her a kiss on her cheek – the only actress I ever kissed in my 

life. Ruby died in 1993 at the age of 82. Whenever I see her on film, I flash back to that 

day in the desert. 

~

Do you know the way to San Jose? One way was to take the Greyhound Bus and that’s 

what I did on Monday morning, to meet my friend Father Billy O’Connor. Father Billy 

was a cousin of Tom Tobin and I had met him earlier on a visit to see Tom in Montreal. 

He was a down to earth priest who believed in practicing the social gospel in his rounds 

as chaplain at Good Samaritan Hospital in San Jose. San Jose had a large influx of 

Vietnamese who were thankful for finding the “land of the free.” After an overnight stay 

at the rectory, I hopped into Fr. Billy’s car and headed for the coast, Pacific Grove, to be 

specific. 

Pacific Grove was a largely residential community adjacent to Monterey. Father Billy’s 

friend, Norman, had given him the use of his house located on the top of a cliff 

overlooking the Pacific Ocean. What a vista! Monterey was within walking distance, so I 

made my way into the former fishing town, now a tourist bonanza. The new aquarium 

was quite exciting and many restaurants now filled the streets of the once-dead ghost 

town. 

PCQ44: What was the name of John Steinbeck’s novel was set in Monterey? 

I took Fr. Billy to dinner at Neal Vaughan’s, an upscale seafood restaurant in 

appreciation of his efforts on my behalf. The two days was filled with interesting sights: 

the Santa Clara campus of UC; Santa Cruz and its famous amusement park by the sea; 

San Juan Batista Mission; and Castroville, the artichoke capital of America (So who 

cares, already?). It was my turn to drive and enjoyed the ride back to San Jose through 

the beautiful Santa Clara Mountains. On Thursday, I returned back to New Jersey and felt 

that this educational-recreational experience was most rewarding. To me, the travels 

before and after the USC seminar were just as educational as the seminar itself. I would 

do more combos before I finished my career in teaching. 

~ 

Mater Dei’s new principal, Frank Poleski, encouraged teachers to pursue professional 

improvement. Meeting with me in the spring of 1990, he stated that he wanted to include 

an Advancement Placement (AP) United States History course in the fall. With this in 

mind, I requested that the school underwrite the cost of a one-week training session to be 

held at LaSalle College in Philadelphia. So during the summer of ’90 I drove down to 

Germantown and checked in my dormitory room. I was pleased to find that two other 

MUN Directors were also attending the institute that was taught by the dynamic Eric 

Rothschild of the Scarsdale High School Social Studies Dept. in September I taught AP 

US History and would continue to do so until my retirement in 1996. 

The following year (1991), I attended a Political Seminar at Georgetown and this unique 

experience is described in an earlier chapter.

My final program, held at McGill University in Montreal during the summer of 1995, 

was cooperative learning in the classroom. I drove up to Montreal from Red Bank in less 

than eight hours. It is an easy drive, due north as the crow flies. It is a scenic drive, 

passing both the Catskill and the Adirondack Mountains. 

Like New York and San Francisco, Montreal is a very cosmopolitan city. You have your 

Francophones and your Anglophones, but for the most part, Montreal is bilingual. It is a 

city that combines the old and the new and is the largest French-speaking city, second 

only to Paris. Oui! 

THIMUN - A WORLD CLASS MODEL UNITED NATIONS PROGRAM 

Education and recreation was so important in my life as a professional and now would 

become the operative concept when Mater Dei High School entered the model UN 

program at The Hague and other programs that I coordinated. My students, too, soon 

found that education and recreation worked perfectly together. 

Founded by Paul Sand, a teacher at the American School of The Hague (ASH), in 1968, 

THIMUN has become the largest and most prestigious forum of its kind in the world. 

William F. Hungerford, a social studies teacher at ASH, succeeded Mr. Sand as 

Chairman of The Hague Model United Nations in 1974 and served as its Chairman for 

nineteen years, bringing the simulation to its greatest heights. Under Mr. Hungerford, the 

forum would become increasingly diverse in representation and changed its name to The 

Hague International Model United Nations (THIMUN). Today the five-day THIMUN 

conference attracts more than 3,000 students and teachers worldwide. 

Mater Dei High School was first invited to participate in 1978 as a result of efforts of 

Frank Outwater, the school’s Vice Principal. It was quite a memorable experience for the 

first delegation and arrangements were made to house the senior students in the homes of 

students attending the American School of The Hague. Side trips were made to different 

European destinations in the succeeding years, for it was Frank Outwater’s philosophy 

that inasmuch as each student spent quite a bit of money to attend the conference, why 

not take off an extra week of school and visit other European destinations.

In the fall of 1981, Mr. Outwater called me into his office and invited me to come along 

as an observer with the Mater Dei delegation and himself for the January 1982 THIMUN 

conference. With side trips to London and Paris, how could one refuse? Upon returning 

to school in February, Frank Outwater invited me to take over the school’s MUN 

Program. He stated that, in spite of our past feuds, I was the best-qualified teacher to take 

over as MUN Director. I was only too happy to oblige with the caveat that I be allowed to 

hold classes to better prepare the students for their trip. I found that our students’ 

performance at the 1982 conference was less than desirable when compared to the 

participating European schools, especially those from the United Kingdom and Ireland. 

Thus began my European odyssey that would last nearly twenty years. Frank Outwater 

came along on most of the trips as chaperone and, as a result, a friendship that was once 

foundering, was now flourishing. In 1994, Theresa Deschenes was added to complement 

our chaperone detail. Having a woman on the trip was a definite plus, especially insofar 

as the girls were concerned. Semper partus was her motto and she affectionately earned 

the title “Mama D.” 

Selection of Hague Team members became very competitive under my directorship of 

the Mater Dei MUN Program and I included underclassmen as well as seniors on the trip. 

I built up a strong sophomore base and if they performed well at the conference, they 

would be invited back the following year. Some were not. By senior year, our team 

would have some “seasoned diplomats” giving competition to the most able of European 

schools. Hague Team members were selected in the spring preceding THIMUN, were 

required to do summer readings including the U. N. Charter, and attend two mandatory 

all day sessions every other Sunday during the fall and early winter. A delegate had to 

keep abreast of current international relations. Preparation was the keystone for an 

enlightened delegation. 

By the middle of October of each year, we were assigned the country that we would be 

representing the following January and in earlier years we were allowed to bring two 

delegations or have an official observer position. At times, over twenty Mater Dei 

delegates made the trip to Europe. Delegation selection was done by a drawing in which 

each school submitted its top 45 choices in order of preference. The THIMUN Board 

would determine the outcome in some instances, making sure that a neophyte school 

would not wind up with a “high power” delegation such as the USA, Israel or the USSR. 

Over the course of twenty-four years the Mater Dei Hague Team has represented such 

diverse countries and the Ukraine SSR and Cape Verde. In 1988 Donna Brown, who 

went on to Yale, led our delegation representing the USA. That was probably my best 

delegation. Among my favorite delegations were Canada and The Netherlands. Mater Dei 

twice represented Portugal, Costa Rica, Australia, Thailand, and Rwanda. It is ironic that 

Thailand was our first delegation in 1978 and our last delegation in 2001. It was expected 

that each student became an “expert” on the country that we were representing, as well as 

on the committee on which he served.

Parliamentary procedure, resolution writing, debating and consensus building were 

among the many skills developed over the preparation period. By mid-January our team 

was ready for both the midterm exams and THIMUN. 

~ 

It was “kissie-bye” time as the students bade farewell to their parents and classmates in 

the school parking lot and boarded the bus to take them to JFK International Airport for 

the seven-hour flight to Amsterdam. By the early 1990’s we were traveling out of the 

more convenient Newark Airport. 

Upon arrival in Holland we usually stayed overnight in Scheveningen, a resort town on 

the North Sea outside of The Hague. 

During the weekend, registration took place at The Netherlands Congress Center (the 

Congressebouw). For some students, it was their first glimpse of their base of operations 

for the next five days. The Congress Center rivaled Jacob Javits Convention Center 

(NYC) in size and held two thousand people in its main hall that was often a venue for 

concerts and plays. Some years later (1991), we saw one of Mater Dei High School’s 

own, David Meenan, starring in the musical, 42 nd Street, and performing from the stage 

of the Congress Center’s “William Alexander Hall.” 

After registration, the students would meet their home-stay family where they would be 

taken to their new “home away from home.” During our earlier years in the THIMUN 

program, our students were housed with families whose children attended the American 

School of The Hague (ASH). In 1986, three of our girls were housed in the residence of 

William Paul Bremer III, the US Ambassador to The Netherlands. It must have been a 

thrill sleeping in the same bedroom as astronaut Sally Ride or former president, George 

H. W. Bush. 

On Saturday evening, February 1, Frank Outwater and myself were invited by 

Ambassador William Bremer and his wife for drinks at the Ambassador’s residence. It 

was quite an experience and I just happened to have a copy of my “Wonders” book, 

originally intended for presentation to the ASH Library. I could bring The American 

School a copy the following year. So, it was with pleasure that I presented a copy of my 

book to Ambassador Bremer. We chatted over drinks (a soda, for me, of course) and 

appetizers. About an hour later he and his wife left for a dinner engagement, and after 

biding “goodbye” to his guests, left the residence in a high-security three-car motorcade. 

He later served as an anti- terrorism expert for the State Department and was appointed 

by his fellow-Republican, President George W. Bush, to be the civilian head of the 

reconstruction government of post-war Iraq (2003).

In 1990, Mr. Hungerford announced that all schools from the United States would be 

required to seek home-stay from the ever-increasing number of Dutch schools in the 

program. This was the result of the dramatic increase in Dutch and other European 

schools joining the program through the 1980’s following the visits of Queen Beatrix and 

other Dutch royals in 1983 and again in 1988. Bill Hungerford comments: 

Getting the royals involved was seen as the turning point of my administration – 

a PR coup - reinforced by the 1993 visit of Crown Price (and former THIMUN p 

participant, William Alexander. 

Fred Entzinger of the Maerlant Lyceum in The Hague agreed to sponsor the Mater Dei 

students for the following year and thus began a great eleven-year relationship between 

the two schools and their respective students. The housing provisions now enabled our 

students to get a greater feeling for Dutch culture – and cuisine – as a result of nearly a 

week under the roof of a Dutch host family. Over the years, many of the Maerlant 

students visited their Mater Dei counterparts in the Garden State. Often I would meet 

with them here in Red Bank and take them out to lunch. 

The five-day forum from Monday thru Friday was a nine to five event. Each morning I 

met individually with my delegates in the lobby of the Congress Center to touch base and 

to make any relevant announcements for a particular day. Invariably, I checked on their 

status with their home-stay family and invariably, each student was savoring his Dutch 

experience. Also I checked their physical appearance and that they were following the 

prescribed dress code, after all, they were young diplomats and I expected them to play 

the role in every respect. Later I issued a dictum that prohibited the use of electronic 

equipment such as mobile phones and disc recorders on the premises of the Congress 

Center. 

The first day was a hub of activity as delegations lobbied with other delegations with the 

hope of gaining support for their respective resolutions. A delegate was expected to read 

each resolution submitted thoroughly before signing it, and to make sure that it was in 

line with the foreign policy of the country that the delegate was representing. At times, 

resolutions were merged. Consensus building was the order of the day. 

Day two was the opening session of the General Assembly held in Prince William 

Alexander Hall. Each “ambassador” or head delegate gave a one-minute opening speech 

highlighting his country’s views on world issues. This was the ambassador’s “moment in 

the sun,” as he addressed more than 2,000 of his peers from the stage of the main 

auditorium, as his fellow-delegates snapped photos for the “folks back home.” Three 

“rights of reply” were allowed after every five speakers. For me the day was one of 

ennui. Other UN organs, the Security Council, the Economic and Social Council, and the 

International Court of Justice, held their meetings concurrently in smaller venues. 

PCQ45: What Scottish- American philanthropist endowed the International Court of 

Justice, also known as the Peace Palace, located in The Hague?

On the third and fourth days committee meetings are held for delegates. Among the 

issues dealt with by these committees are: human rights, the environment, decolonization, 

disarmament, legal, budgetary, social and economic, and a special conference that deals 

with a different topic each year. 

The final day ends with the General Assembly meeting in plenary session, and votes are 

taken on the resolutions that had made it out of committee. The closing ceremony is one 

of hoopla and, in the eyes of some, out of character. But kids will be kids. 

Evening activities are held for delegates, including the showing of two recent movie 

releases during the weekday evenings. The climax of the event-filled week came at the 

dance on Friday evening. The music blared from the amplifiers as chaperones made sure 

their charges were relatively behaved. When in Europe do as the European do, after all, 

the minimum drinking age in Holland is sixteen. So I’m sure that many kids, including 

my own, had a beer, or two, or more at the dance. “Goodbyes” were often said at the 

dance as tears flowed down the cheeks of many youngsters who would be departing for 

far and distant lands the following morning. Some youths with a high testosterone level, 

carried their “goodbyes” to post-dance activities. Ecstasy rules! 

~ 

Our side trips were a time of unwinding after months of arduous preparation stateside and 

five demanding days at THIMUN. 

Amsterdam was a given where we usually spent three days lapping up the culture of the 

“Venice of the North.” A canal ride to give us an overview of Holland’s capital city was 

followed by a walking tour led by me with a stop at the Rijksmuseum. A’dam is a 

walkers paradise, although one has to be very careful to avoid being run over by an 

enthusiastic cyclist. Holland has been called the “land of bikes and dikes.” The city’s 

concentric layout had me taking the kids over many bridges and canals en-route to the 

Ann Frank House from our hotel near the Leidesplein. We usually stopped along the 

Kalverstraat to do some shopping and buy a broodjie (sandwich on a roll) or a toasti 

(sandwich on bread, usually toasted) for lunch from one of the automated machines along 

the way. If a boy has had too many sodas, he might opt to use one of the many green 

pissoirs usually found at major canal intersections. Phew! What a relief!

Hopping “Amsterdammers” (stanchions/standpipes) marked with the XXX of the 

municipal seal was a favorite pastime of mine, although the kids thought I was a little 

ridiculous and too old to be engaging in such antics. Usually our visit to the Anne Frank 

House (and new Visitors Center) was on a Sunday morning, followed by a visit to the 

Western Church, where Rembrandt is said to be buried, and the adjacent “homo 

monument.” A city of contrasts, a solemn high Latin mass at 11:15AM at a nearby 

Catholic church was also included in the Sunday morning’s itinerary. A’dam is eerily 

quiet on a Sunday morning and the best time for a morning stroll. At times, I have taken 

the kids to a cat houseboat where, for a small contribution, one may pet the purring 

pussies. Needless to say, the red light district is off limits, for the students, that is. Today, 

Amsterdam is my favorite European city and has been the base for many of my trips to 

Europe over the past two decades. 

~ 

Our side trips took us all over Europe. We walked to the top of Cathedral in Cologne and 

through “Checkpoint Charlie” in Berlin; viewed Paris from the Eiffel Tower and 

Monmarte; lunched at the Grand Platz in Brussels and afterward watched the “manikin de 

piss” do his thing; navigated the cobblestone streets of medieval Brugge and the steps of 

the Trocadero; and visited Versailles as if we were Bourbon royalty. London was a 

favorite of students and chaperones alike. We attended “Mousetrap” and “Starlight 

Express” in London’s West End, had high tea at Harrod’s, visited Poet’s Corner in 

Westminster Abbey, and watched the Changing of the Guard at Windsor Castle. We 

lunched at the Pub of Pubs at the Penta (Forum) Hotel and were served in true Cockney 

style by Lily and June - I can still taste the “bangers and mash” and the succulent 

“spotted dick” covered with pure whipped cream (I put aside the raisins). We journeyed 

to the England’s Salisbury Plain and quaffed with the Earl of Bath in a local pub. We 

visited the mystical Stonehenge long before it was roped off to the public. We have seen 

it all, and so much more. 

Naturally, some side trips were more noteworthy that others. 

~

During the summer of 1989, I took a trip to the divided city of Berlin. I had been to 

Berlin once before, and on the 1989 trip ventured into East Berlin on a tour bus. The 

guided tour was quite a history lesson and both the West Berlin and East Berlin guides 

were knowledgeable in their respective areas. The difference between the two Berlin’s 

was like a difference between day and night. The “Unter den Linden” was a stark contrast 

to the bustling K’dam of West Berlin. The Pergamon Museum on the Spree River in East 

Berlin was fantastic; I couldn’t believe its ancient history section. The soul of Cabaret 

lived on in the Allied Sector of this divided city. After seeing so much of the divided city 

I decided that, divided or not, Berlin would be our pre-conference side-trip in January. 

Between that time and January 1990, history had been made. The Berlin Wall came down 

in November 1989 and Communism in Europe was on its way out. 

Landing at Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport, we transferred to an airport motel for an eight- 

hour layover. It was an overcast evening as we boarded our twin-propeller aircraft and 

reminded me of the closing scene of Casablanca. We transferred to the Penta Hotel and 

were ready for two full days of history and fun. We did the usual tour of what was again a 

united city. Most of the infamous wall was still intact and a stop there was a must. One of 

my kid’s came prepared, and with chisel in hand, hewed away a number of pieces of the 

wall. I opted to buy a piece of the wall from a stand a couple of young entrepreneurial 

East Germans had set up. 

On Monday evening we returned to The Netherlands leaving behind a fantastic adventure 

and keeping with us the memories of visiting Berlin during such an important time in its 

history and reaffirming the freedoms we had as Americans. 

In parallel fashion, I made my first trip to Rome during the summer of 1993. Rome is a 

hot, humid city in the summer. Nonetheless, I navigated its ancient streets and sites. I 

tossed the proverbial three coins in the Fontana D’Trevi and beheld St. Peter’s awesome 

basilica. I had linguine and white clam sauce on the Via Veneto, and was rather 

impressed with “Roma.” The highlight of that summer trip was a visit to the American 

Church in Rome, Santa Susanna. The church had been closed for nearly a decade and its 

official reopening was Sunday, June 27. A Pontifical Mass was to be celebrated by Pope 

John Paul II and it was a “by invitation only” event. Fortunately for me, Fr. Sean Foley, 

the pastor, extended to me a coveted invitation for mass the next morning. 

I arrived at the Church of Santa Susanna well before the 9AM papal liturgy. A U.S. 

Marine Corps Honor Guard stood in front of the church with the U.S. and Vatican flags 

hanging limp from their respective poles. After going through the metal detector, I made 

my way into the church and found a desirable pew midway down the center aisle. It was 

9AM and the time had arrived. As the procession slowly made its way down the center 

aisle, I snapped a few photos of the man in white. As His Holiness neared my pew, I put 

down my camera and reached out to extend my hand to him. He did likewise. Shaking 

hand with the pope made my day.

I decided that Rome should be our side trip destination for the 1994 THIMUN 

conference. Unlike the trip the previous summer, the January trip was fraught with peril. 

Murphy’s law prevailed! We missed our KLM Rome connection plane after having 

arrived late at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam. Rebooking some 25 people is no easy task. 

We took a Luftansa flight to Munich and then an Alatalia flight from there to Rome. 

When we arrived at DaVinci Airport, our chartered coach was not there to meet us, so we 

had to take cabs to our hotel in Rome. We were tried and tired. What a day - or two days, 

should I say. 

On Sunday morning our group went to the 10AM mass at Santa Susanna where Father 

Foley welcomed our group from the pulpit. We then proceeded to catch the number 64 

bus to the Vatican in order to be on time for the noon pontifical blessing from the balcony 

of St. Peter’s Basilica. The bus was like the New York City subway during rush hour, 

jammed. It was after getting off at the last stop under the window of Cardinal Ratzinger’s 

Office that I discovered that my wallet had been picked. Some Italian “Fagin” defiled my 

pants pocket at some point during the bus trip. I was pissed, besides being out nearly 

$400. And no, I didn’t blame it on the ultra-conservative, Cardinal Ratzinger, who was 

not on my “A-list.” That afternoon we had lunch with Sister Christina, a former Mater 

Dei High School principal, who was then Superior General of the Sisters of St. Francis of 

Stella Niagara. That night at dinner, the students presented me with a purse to cover the 

loss earlier in the day. Sometimes kids transcend their adolescent selves and certainly that 

was one occasion. We must have faith in our kids; they’re not that bad after all. 

~ 

Our final, and perhaps our most memorable side trip, was a six-day post conference trip 

to Ireland in 2001. I worked with C.I.E. International Tours to create a special itinerary 

of the Emerald Isle and use a private motor coach for the six-day excursion.

We flew from Amsterdam into Dublin where we were met by our driver and guide for the 

next six days, Paddy Hayes. While in the Irish capital, we visited Trinity College and its 

“Book of Kells” and ended the day with dinner and ballads at the Abbey Tavern in the 

nearby village of Howth. Next day we headed south with a stop at the Rock of Cashel, its 

ruins dating back to medieval monastic days. After an overnight stay at the Jury’s Hotel 

in Cork City, the next morning it was off to the Cobh Heritage Center. Cobh was the last 

port of call for ships laden with immigrants coming to America, including the ill-fated 

Titanic. I arranged with C.I.E. to set up a presentation of early twentieth century 

steamship memorabilia at the Cobh site. At the brief ceremony I recalled the days of my 

mother, Delia, leaving this same port for America so many years earlier. I paid tribute to 

my late friend, Tom Tobin, a native of Cork, whose nieces, Joan and Kathleen, were in 

the audience. After a photo op and a VIP tour of the Cobh Heritage Center, we preceded 

to the Blarney Woolen Mills for shopping and then on to Blarney Castle. The kids loved 

walking up to the parapets of the castle, and as each handed me his camera, I took a photo 

of the student kissing the legendary Blarney Stone. I didn’t opt to kiss it as I’m told that I 

am well endowed with that very unique gift. 

In was into the west, Country Kerry and Killarney’s “lakes and dells” with an overnight 

stay at Randall’s Court, a rectory-turned-hotel. We headed north via the village of Adaire 

and made a brief stop in the city of Limerick. Needless to stay, we didn’t mention the 

name of Frank McCourt while in that city. We arrived at one of Irelands great natural 

wonders, the Cliffs of Moher. Rising a sheer 700 feet above the sea below, it was said 

that Oliver Cromwell’s troops forced many an Irish man, woman and child over the cliffs 

with fixed bayonets. 

Using the Great Southern Hotel in Galway as our base for the next two days, we visited 

the shrine of Our Lady of Knock in County Mayo and the Famine Museum in Delia’s 

native Strokestown, County Roscommon. Our Irish odyssey had come to an end as we 

left Shannon Airport and returned to the USA the next day. 

~ 

As a result of our many years of traveling to Europe for THIMUN and its side trips, a 

friendship developed between Frank Outwater and myself. Many of fun time we had, be 

it at the farewell dinner in “Holland’s Glorie,” or a “horsemeat” steak at “DeKlos” 

Restaurant. Walking through Amsterdam on a brisk winter’s night, or watching the ice 

skaters at the rink that was once in the Leidesplein, were among our favorite pastimes. 

While reading a tourist guide of The Hague, I noticed an advertisement for the S&M 

services of Monique Van Cleef, “formerly of the USA.” I laughed heartily as I made my 

way to Frank’s room to show him the ad of the notorious naughty lady of Lake Street, 

Newark, New Jersey. He remembered all the publicity generated by her arrest. I recalled 

how a friend of mine, John Noonan, an Assistant Prosecutor for Essex County, pursued 

her in court and as a result Monique was deported back to Holland.

A close friendship also developed between Bill Hungerford and myself. The Chairman of 

THIMUN’s Executive Board was a graduate of Syracuse University and holds two 

advanced degrees from Boston University. As a result of his appointing board members 

from non-American schools in The Hague, THIMUN became more continental in stature. 

Unfortunately for Bill, the Board members he appointed, later pulled a “Brutus” on him 

and contributed to his forced resignation as Chairman of the THIMUN Board in 1993. As 

a result of the conspiracy, David Williams of the German School of The Hague replaced 

Bill Hungerford as Chairman of the THIMUN Board. At the end of January 1993, Bill 

was honored at our Hague team’s annual farewell dinner at the “Holland’s Glorie” 

Restaurant in Amsterdam and was presented with a crystal bowl honoring his 19 years of 

service as Chairman of THIMUN. 

One evening while in Amsterdam I suggested to Bill that he meet Frank and myself at a 

non-gay bar, Mulligan’s Pub on the Amstel. As Frank and I entered we heard the familiar 

Irish ballads blaring from the jukebox and caught sight of a rather large German 

(Alsatian) Shepherd dog. He was non-threatening and enjoyed playing catch with bar 

coasters as I slurped my “Spa” from the barstool. Finally, Bill arrived, some twenty 

minutes behind time, and sat next to Frank. I was on Frank’s other side. Hoping that 

Frank would play with him, the dog put his huge paw on Frank’s thigh. A very reserved 

Mr. Outwater jumped off the barstool thinking that the dog’s paw was Bill’s hand. Could 

the distinguished Chairman of the THIMUN Board be making advances on him? Visibly 

shaken, Frank retreated to the dartboard to cool off. One could hear me laughing all the 

way to New Jersey. 

After 9/11, the Diocese of Trenton prohibited any schools under its jurisdiction from 

going on any foreign trips. For eighteen years, I prepared the students to deal with the 

challenges of the world that awaited them more than 3,500 miles away. MUN was FUN, 

both in and out of the conference. Education and recreation, perfect together!

LAST DAYS OF THE JERSEYMEN 

Mater Dei High School continued to excel in The Jerseymen, the secondary and middle 

school program under the aegis of the New Jersey Historical Society. The program 

continued to challenge the young people of the State with stimulating new offerings 

while keeping the time-proven older ones. 

One of these newer programs were Sight and Sound Conferences, both regional and 

State. With the advent of the VCR a new avenue for documenting history was now 

available. One of the earliest and most successful was a documentary, Main Street, New 

Jersey, produced and filmed by two Mater Dei students, Mike Kelleher and Ron Miller. 

The boys set out to capture the historical roots of Middletown, New Jersey, and did so 

through much research, filming and editing. And while it was not a “Blair Witch 

Project,” it did capture regional and State awards and was cited at the 1985 annual 

Jerseymen Convention. 

Among the older things kept was the History Fair. Mater Dei and Butler High School’s 

continued to vie for top honors in the State Fair although master-teacher, Florence Athay, 

sadly had retried from teaching at Butler. 

Both schools’ provided considerable leadership for the Jerseymen program and in 1985, 

Michael Flanagan, a dynamic incoming senior at Mater Dei, was elected the State 

President. 

The Jerseymen of Mater Dei High School continued running its mock elections with 

Democrat, Brendan Byrne besting Republican, Ray Bateman in 1977 and Democrat, Jim 

Florio trouncing Republican, Tom Kean, in 1981. Political nights were held with local 

politicos holding forth. Referenda questions reflected the conservative area from which 

the students came: agreeing with President Reagan’s firing of the air controllers who 

were on strike, his supply side economics and his assertive foreign policy (Reagan 

garnered 277 votes in the 1980 simulated election to 191 for Independent Party candidate, 

John Anderson and 185 for Democrat, Jimmy Carter). Overwhelmingly the students were 

in favor of legalized marijuana use, adopting Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” as the 

official song of the State of New Jersey, and lowering the drinking age in New Jersey 

from 21 to 19 years of age. Go kids, go!!! 

I made history fun both for my classes and myself, from our own trial of Salem witches 

to the courts martial trial of errant Charles Lee, the Continental Army general who 

retreated at the Battle of Monmouth. We transmogrified ourselves to lead a pre- 

Revolutionary War protest against the policies of King George III. We led a statewide 

petition drive to change our national anthem from the “Star Spangled Banner “ to 

“America the Beautiful.”

In 1987, I organized our own “Jeopardy” program and became Mater Dei’s Alex 

Trebeck. I loved both making up the questions and hosting the two round show. 

Eventually the final round was held at an assembly program in the auditorium. The show 

ran for nine years. 

The Jerseymen founder, Joan Hull, by the early 1980’s was the Executive Director of the 

New Jersey Historical Society, while an Assistant Director administered its Education 

Program. I continued serving both in the capacity of Mater Dei High School sponsor and 

on the Society’s Education Committee. The Board decided to cut the appropriations for 

The Jerseymen program, since it was the least of their priorities. It seemed that neither 

the kids nor the program were fitting the stodgy mold of the conservative Directors. The 

same fate that befell my friend, Bill Hungerford in THIMUN, would befall another 

friend, Joan Hull of the Society. She fell victim to the Society’s politics and the Board 

gladly accepted her resignation in mid-1986. Shortly thereafter, I resigned from the 

Society’s Education Committee and withdrew Mater Dei High School from The 

Jerseymen program the following academic year. After free-lancing as a historical 

consultant, Miss Hull moved to Boston where she served many years as the Executive 

Director of the Bostonian Society. Joan is now retired and I see her whenever I am in 

Boston. Sadly, her friend and mine, Florence Athay, passed away at Joan’s residence in 

Boston on December11, 2002. Like Florence, The Jerseymen program is gone, but the 

happy memories remain. 

THE JERSEY DEVIL RAISES HELL 

In Celtic tradition, October 31, was the eve of the feast of All Hallows, or All Saints. It 

was the eve of a “new year.” The trees were barren and winter was not far off. The spirits 

of the dead would be honored two days later – the Feast of All Souls. The autumnal 

festival in the “Land of the Druids” was marked by incanting figures from the 

netherworld to join with them in their rites. Was it not St. Patrick who incorporated the 

circle, the symbol of paganism, into the cross of Christianity? It was immigrants from 

Ireland to America who brought with them many of the secular Halloween customs that 

we know today. 

October 31 was also the birthday of Mother Leeds cursed thirteenth child – the Jersey 

Devil. Born in the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey, legends abound as to the 

makeup of this hideous creature. Some say it has cloven hooves, forked tail, bat-like 

wings, and a much-to-be desired face with horns protruding from his head. I guess that 

this is where they got the expression “horny little devil.” Legends further abound that 

people have gone into the desolate Pine Barrens have never been heard from. And yes, 

it’s the same creature for which our New Jersey NFL hockey team is named.

In the fall of 1981, I thought that it would be a good idea to celebrate the Jersey Devil’s 

birthday on October 30 (school was closed on Saturday, Oct. 31). Celebrating the devil’s 

birthday in a Catholic high school??? Tsk! Tsk! However, Sister Mary High, O.P., Mater 

Dei’s principal, went along with my proposal taking it in stride as just one more of T.C. 

Murray’s “history can be fun” projects. 

With a committee of “devilettes” headed by seniors Alan Payne and Robbyn Oberg, we 

went to work promoting this most unusual birthday party. Students researched their 

State’s famous legend and then went to work reproducing, in costume, what they thought 

the mythological figure looked like. During the lunch periods on October 30, the devils 

did their “thing” in the cafeteria, vying to be declared the best little Jersey Devil at Mater 

Dei High School. Pat Kennedy of the Art Department sponsored a Jersey Devil poster 

contest. At the end of the school day students and faculty onlookers gathered in the 

school lobby for the cutting of the special birthday cake – made with “devil’s food,” of 

course and adorned with thirteen candles. Then came the announcement of the costume 

and poster winners. A photo of senior Alan Payne’s gigantic color poster of his rendition 

of the Jersey Devil, flanked by a “devil” on either side, along with a story of the event, 

was featured in the following Sunday (November 1, 1981) in the New Jersey Magazine 

section of The New York Times. Although the “devil made me do it,” the project was a 

lot of fun. 

THE CITY COMES TO SUBURBIA 

The students at Mater Dei High School were, and still are, “lily white,” with a liberal 

sprinkling of “silver spooners.” Most had never set foot in New Jersey’s largest city, 

Newark, although many had tad taken the train to New York City for the many offerings 

of the “Big Apple.” Having had experienced eighteen years as a teacher at Essex Catholic 

High School in Newark and in 1976, serving as Executive Director of that City’s 

Bicentennial Commission, I felt that it was time to bring the city to suburbia. 

Less than two weeks before the Jersey Devil’s birthday, Saturday, October 17, 1981, I 

coordinated an Urbanology (using both Latin and Greek stems to coin the term) 

Conference at Mater Dei and invited teachers and students from schools in the greater 

Monmouth County area to attend. Its objective was to present the attributes of the city, 

exploring the opportunities and offerings of city life. 

The first of the two morning sessions featured Jack Sheehan that included a slide 

presentation with commentary entitled “Living, Working and Liking It in Newark.” Jack 

was a staff member of the Rutgers Library and Newark’s most noted homesteader. 

Besides, he was a former student of mine, an Essex Catholic ’67 graduate.

Another one of my former student’s and a classmate of Jack’s, Michael Redmond, was 

one of the three presenters on the second panel, “Newark – A Cultural Oasis.” Michael 

was the chief music critic of The Newark Star-Ledger and we remain close friends today. 

Joining Michael were Charles Cummings, Director of the New Jersey Division of the 

Newark Public Library and David Anderson of the Education Dept. of the New Jersey 

Historical Society. Their presentation was insightful and awed many of the students in 

attendance. Wow, Mr. Murray, I didn’t think that Newark had so many cool things! 

The conference ended at noon in order to allow those who wished an opportunity to 

attend the Saturday afternoon sports events. Football rules!!! 

MORT “IN YOUR FACE” DOWNEY COMES TO MATER DEI 

The years 1986-89 saw me without a car. Having wasted so much money during my 

drinking years, I felt not having an automobile with its payments, insurance and upkeep 

would allow me to put some money away in annuities for my retirement years, now that I 

was living a sober life. And while it was a twenty-minute walk from my apartment in Red 

Bank to the bus stop, and then a fifteen-minute bus ride to the school, it was, nonetheless, 

worth it over a three-year period. Sometimes, I was fortunate to get a ride from one of my 

colleagues and would contribute to their “kitty.” Finally, I managed to start the longoverdue 

annuity that today supplements my paltry pension. 

It was during the fall of 1987 as my colleague, Joe Clores, was driving me home that he 

asked me have I heard about the Morton Downey Show on television. I said “no” and 

proceeded to tell him that I had a vinyl album at home with Morton Downey, along with 

Kate Smith, singing some of my favorite Irish songs. Cutting me off at the pass, Joe 

advised me it was Morton Downey JUNIOR and that it was a talk show that he was 

hosting on WOR television. Further, he cautioned me that “junior” was nowhere like his 

legendary father who was married to one of the Bennett girl’s of Hollywood fame. 

That evening I tuned into the “Morton Downey Jr. Show.” I was not overly impressed 

with his confrontational style. However, I thought I should give the guy a chance and 

watched Mort and his antics on several subsequent shows. He humiliated guests both on 

the stage, as well as those addressing him from the special “Big Mouth” microphone on 

the floor – all the while, chain-smoking cigarettes as if there was no tomorrow. He 

seemed to me to be a misogynist, a homophobe, and so many other negative things. His 

crude manner turned off a lot of people, including myself. Although he passed away 

several years ago, he in considered by many television viewers today to have been the 

“father of in-your-face, confrontational television.”

I loved my American Government Class. This senior elective was stimulating as it 

provided the students with an outlet to voice their opinions on the state of the Nation as 

well as participate in more formal debates. Vox populi reigned supreme! I was there to 

shepherd the youngsters but under no conditions would I proselytize, brainwash, or inject 

my opinions in the student discussion. Only after the debate or discussion was concluded 

would I answer the Question, Well how do you feel about that issue, Mr. Murray? 

During November of 1987 I would present to that class a challenge that they would never 

forget. Let’s hear what they think of Morton Downey and his primetime syndicated 

television show, watched by many of our students. Why not have our own, classroom 

Downey-style show? 

I wanted a structured presentation, not a free-for-all. With this in mind, I presented the 

concept to the class and, needless to say, they were enthused – very enthused about the 

project. The more I thought about it, the more structured it became. The following day 

the guidelines were in place and the roles assigned. A simulated five member “Federal 

Communications Commission” would hear arguments from class members representing 

both sides of the issue on November 30. 

Preparation was intense in the two weeks preceding the event. I could tell that this would 

be a “winner” and, with that in mind, I requested that a school-wide assembly be held at 

the end of that week (December 4). Sister Mary Hugh, our principal, was very upbeat 

about the project and gave me a “thumbs up” for the assembly. I requested that I be 

allowed to invite Morton Downey to the assembly, assuring her that the chances of his 

coming to Mater Dei High School was quite remote. I was elated when Sr. Mary Hugh 

gave me an okay to invite Mort. Word spread like wildfire about the Downey Assembly 

and his invitation to the event. Several parents phoned Sister Mary Hugh voicing their 

objection to the assembly and, even more so, to the fact that I had invited such a “dirt 

bag” to the hallowed halls of Mater Dei. The good sister did not back down. The 

assembly would go on and we would wait and see if the host of talk show host would 

acknowledge my letter, let alone, put in an appearance at our school. 

Monday, November 30, 1987, D – Day had arrived. During an extended classroom 

session the “FCC” heard arguments, supported by videotapes of Downey Show, both 

“pro” and “con.” The students conducted themselves in a professional fashion, perhaps 

with the exception of a titter or two when a clip was shown where Downey referred to the 

hookers who were guests on his show as “wide receivers” and “tight ends.” Tsk! Tsk! 

The following day the “members of the “FCC” caucused and came out with their long 

awaited report. While commending the program for bringing to light current issues, the 

report, went on to condemn the inappropriate behavior of the show’s host on national 

television as “totally unacceptable.” The report cited a litany of improper actions by 

Downey including offensive language, degrading of guests, obscene gestures, ejecting of 

guests from the stage, McCarthy-like tactics, and physical assault. Also, it censored Mr. 

Downey’s smoking habits as not setting a good example for our Nation’s youth.

The producers and Mr. Downey were given two choices – either clean up their act or we, 

the “FCC,” will not allow the show to be aired until after 11PM. Committee chairman, 

Matthew McGuire, then adjourned the proceedings, directing that a copy of the report be 

sent to Mr. Downey and that the talk show host be invited to “defend” himself at the 

forthcoming school assembly on Friday, December 4, 1987. We now would begin 

preparing for a second “D Day. 

The school was astir for the long- awaited assembly. 

~ 

On Thursday, December 3, the producers of the Downey Show phoned the principal 

announcing that Mr. Downey would be appearing at Mater Dei the next day and that he 

be allowed to refute the allegations made in the Mater Dei “FCC” report. 

Immediately after school, I was called into the principal’s office where both Sr. Mary 

Hugh and the Vice Principal, Frank Outwater, were awaiting my presence. It was there I 

learned of Downey’s impending visit to Mater Dei. I was elated and jumped out of my 

chair with gusto. 

A caucus followed and it was agreed that the appearance of our very special guest should 

be kept under wraps until assembly time the next day. We did not want uninvited guests 

at the assembly – one crackpot at the event would be one crackpot too many. Because of 

security concerns the Middletown Police would be notified. Then again, Downey might 

pull out at the last minute and that, indeed, would be a downer for the kids. As a PR 

person I felt that the media should be invited and the administrators concurred. Our 

enrollment was down and the school needed all the publicity that it could get – even a 

Downey appearance at the school. Needless to say, I worked my tail off that afternoon 

and evening. D-Day was less than twenty-four hours away. Now all we had to do was 

wait. 

~ 

D-Day was here. I was anxious. A last minute caucus with the school administrators was 

in order. Sister Mary Hugh had decided to wait until just before assembly time to make 

the P.A. announcement that Morton Downey would be at our assembly. 

Mr. Outwater arranged to have my classes covered as I went about busily preparing the 

auditorium for the afternoon assembly. One of my students made up several “big mouth” 

posters, one of which was to be placed on the stage podium; another attached to a floor 

mike podium from which members of the student body would have the opportunity to ask 

questions of either the “FCC” or our celebrity guest. We wanted to make the setting as 

similar as possible to Downey’s studio setting.

My American Government class met me in the auditorium after the first lunch period 

shortly after noon. Shortly after they helped me set up the stage of Memorial Hall, I made 

the announcement. They were ecstatic. One kid said to me: Mr. Murray, you not only 

teach history, you make it! Yes, local history was to be made that December 4 th 

afternoon. An hour later, Sister Mary Hugh got on the P.A. system. The roar of the 

student body could be heard across the soccer field, all that way over to Memorial Hall. 

This prompted a follow-through manifestation from my American government class. 

Within minutes, the classes made their way from the school building to Memorial Hall. 

By 1 p.m. nearly five hundred Mater Dei students sat in their chairs awaiting the presence 

of Morton Downey. The police was there. The media, both print and television, was 

there. Mr. Downey was not! 

~ 

At 1:15 p.m. Downey’s entourage pulled up to the side door of the auditorium. Whew! I 

welcomed him and his two producers to Mater Dei High School. No sooner than I 

finished the greeting, he asked me, Am I allowed to smoke here? No, Mort! I said in an 

authoritative voice, It’s against fire regulations. 

At this point the cheering students were going wild. At that point I escorted the TV host 

down the side aisle and up the center aisle onto the stage. I was shoved and ignored as the 

students adulated him, with some of the girls putting their arms around him and kissing 

him. Ugh!!! 

At least one faculty member boycotted the assembly when she found out that the demon 

of talk show television was coming to Mater Dei. 

Senior and “FCC” chairman, Matt McGuire opened the program as Mort and I watched 

from our off stage position. After the student panelists presented their opinions, pro and 

con, regarding the “Commission’s” decision, Downey took to the stage and defended 

himself against the charges. Apparently the un-sanctioned Mater Dei Fan Club was 

doing its job with boisterous outbursts and delivering the familiar chant – ooh, ooh, ooh. 

Their day in the sun was short lived when seniors, Paul Diomede and Edel Quinn, took to 

the “Big Mouth” podium and delivered an articulate tongue-lashing to the popular night 

show TV host. Their arguments were based on Downey’s violation of first amendment 

rights towards guests on his show and his disregard for common decency. I was taken 

aback when I saw Edel approach the microphone, for she was among the shyest of 

seniors.

I had the opportunity to talk to Mort off-stage. We talked about our commonalities. He, 

too, went to a high school conducted by the Irish Christian Brothers – Cardinal Farley 

Military Academy in Rhinecliff on the Hudson. This was a very ritzy school but his 

parents, a famous Irish singer (Morton Downey) and a famous actress, Barbara Bennett, 

could well afford it. He was very much unlike this television persona. Before he left the 

school, Downey told me how impressed he was with the caliber of the Mater Dei 

students, especially the “Commission” members and those who took to the “Big Mouth” 

microphone. 

Later that day one of his producers phoned me at my home to extend an invitation to the 

“FCC” panel of students from Mater Dei High School to participate in a first ever, high 

school edition of the Morton Downey Jr. Show. A taping date of Tuesday, December 8 th 

was projected. The producer invited me to participate in the show as well. I was floored! I 

also said that I would have to consult with the administration on Monday morning as to 

whether or not they would allow their school’s participation in the controversial show 

and would get back to them at that time. 

I met with Sr. Mary Hugh and Frank Outwater. By allowing the Downey assembly, they 

had aroused the ire of some faculty members and parents. With Downey’s appearance at 

the school, the rift had widened. Knowing that they could exacerbate the situation, the 

administration gave us the green light. They would not be coerced by a small vocal 

minority. I phoned the producer on Monday, December 7th with the positive decision of 

the administration. However, I declined their invitation for my personal participation in 

the show, for as I interpreted it, was to be a teenagers’ show. We went over the ground 

rules as proscribed by the administration ie. abortion was not to be on the topic list and 

that the students would not be subjected to abusive or inappropriate language by the 

show’s host. Concluding the conversation, the producer said: And, by the way, Mr. 

Murray, make sure that Edel comes up to the studio tomorrow night. 

~ 

Tuesday, December 8, was the feast of the Immaculate Conception, patroness of the 

United States and a holy day of obligation. Therefore mass was held in the auditorium 

and the school classes were shortened. Throughout the day there was a flurry of activity 

in preparation for the taping of the Downey Show that evening. A bus was hired to 

transport members of the “Downey Fan Club” and other interested Mater Dei students to 

the WWOR studios in Secaucus, New Jersey. A dress code and deportment guidelines 

were put in place. We had to put on a good face for we were going be one a nationally 

syndicated television show. A meeting was held with the “FCC” members and a pep talk 

given by their teacher. 

Several faulty members accompanied the full bus. I drove up to the studio with a couple 

of my “FCC” team members. It was now show time!

I found myself a well-placed seat in the back of the studio. My job was done. All I could 

do was sit back and enjoy the show. 

Downey and the Mater Dei students debated the issues of concern: drug testing, U.S. 

involvement in Nicaragua, the impending 1988 elections, and other topics of interest to 

teenagers. For the most part, it was a Mater Dei show and its host. Morton Downey, 

walked the kids, both on stage and the two “loudmouth” microphones, through the rocky 

terrain. 

I was proud of my students. Senior, Marc Urbealis, who was seated on stage took issue 

with Mort, while they were talking abut the two network talk show hosts, Oprah Winfrey 

and Phil Donohue. Much to the disapproval of the audience, Marc admonished Downey 

saying: They don’t interrupt people like you do. Another senior, Eileen Butler, claimed 

that the Downey should show a little more respect for people. Appearing toward the end 

of the program, Edel Quinn who was the studio for a “command performance” 

admonished Downey saying, Everybody talks about your right to freedom of speech, but 

you don’t give your guests that same right. Bravo Edel! 

The program was aired in the New York City metropolitan area on Wednesday, 

December 9, 1987. Because of the fact I was in Washington, D.C. with the model O.A.S., 

I didn’t get an opportunity to watch the show. However, I did receive a copy of the 

videotape that I reviewed with delight upon my return. One again, “learning by doing” 

proved successful. And yes, I appeared for a split second in the show, along with my 

former Essex Catholic colleague, Don Sullivan, as the camera panned the audience. 

SO, ON WITH THE SHOWS 

If, indeed, the whole world is a stage, then too, is the classroom. 

With the 25 th anniversary of Mater Dei coming up in 1985, Sister Mary Hugh appointed 

me coordinator of the celebration. Immediately, I took up the task and formed 

committees of parents and students for the implementation of the multi-event celebration 

that I dubbed “Silvercom” – a high tech word for silver commemoration. A mass 

celebrated by Bishop Reiss of the Diocese of Trenton was among the highlights. A 

dinner, hosted by the parents, was held at Gibb’s Hall in nearby Fort Monmouth. 

“Monsignor Bulman Day” was proclaimed on Thursday, May, 9, 1985, honoring the 

school’s founder. For this event, I included a student show that would become the first of 

many.

“Children of the Stormy Sixties,” was presented by the students of my United States 

History classes at a special assembly in Monsignor Bulman Stadium on Thursday 

afternoon, May 9 th . The weather couldn’t have been better. The five scene, studentproduced, 

one hour re-enactment was preceded by a student “demonstration” in front of 

the stadium, while “flower children” in tie-dyed t-shirts gave flowers to the 700-member 

student body as they entered. Earlier, blue and white balloons were released filling the 

skies above and a “capsule” placed in the school vault, to be opened twenty-five years 

later. The pageant featured historical and cultural events of the decade from the JFK 

assassination to the landing on the moon. The students were invited down from the 

bleachers and sit on the grass for the last scene, “Woodstock Re-visited.” There they 

joined a sing-a-long of songs of the sixties. The kids loved it. So did I. Why I even did 

the twist with the psyched-up students. Twist and shout, baby!!! 

In the years that followed, I would coordinate four more shows: The USO and World War 

II (1987); The Truman Years (1988); The Roaring Twenties (1992); and my last show, 

The Spirit of ’69 (1995). Of all five shows, one was outstanding – the USO show. 

As a child during World War II, the War, as people my age commonly call it, I had a 

great admiration for the valiant men and women who fought against the Axis to preserve 

our freedoms. I remember reading the newspapers and listening to the radio of the War’s 

progress. I had heard tales of the War from my friend, Ed D’Ascoli, and I still had my 

hoary scrapbook, filled with clippings and vintage photos. The War was still fresh in my 

memory. 

For many years I worked with Vinny Boyle, and later Charlie Walker, who coordinated 

the Voice of Democracy’s audio-essay contest sponsored by the Veterans of Foreign 

Wars, Post 2179, in Middletown. Both Vinny and Charlie were World War II vets. Year 

after year, Mater Dei ranked highly among the local and regional high schools, and one 

year was a State winner. 

With the success of the 1985 show, Children of the Stormy Sixties, the creative portion of 

my brain began working as to how I could honor the servicemen and women of the 

Second World War. A show – a very special show was the answer. 

During the fall of 1986, I met with my junior United States History classes and presented 

them with the concept – a two-part presentation consisting of a U.S.O. Show, followed by 

a tribute. It would be held on the afternoon of Friday, May 22, 1987, the beginning of the 

Memorial Day Weekend in Memorial Hall and dedicated to the memory of those men 

and women who lost their lives during the War, as well as to the World War II vets who 

would be invited to the event as our special guests. The junior class would do the show; I 

would coordinate the tribute.

A structure was formed when juniors, David Sprouls, was named as the show’s director. 

A team of four choreographers, all junior girls with dance experience, was included. All 

told, nearly one hundred students were involved with the project. Why we even had a 

Clandestine Operations Committee (C.O.C.). 

As winter turned to spring, the cast members were working on their respective parts. 

Costumes had to be made, music selected, press releases sent out and members of the 

community of the World War II era interviewed. For my part, I met with the U.S.O. 

officials in New York City, presumably not too far from the Stage Door Canteen. From a 

list of performers that the U.S.O. gave me, I invited Bob Hope, “Mr.U.S.O.” and others to 

the May 22 show. Why I even invited President Ronald Reagan. Although none were 

able to be with us, I did receive a congratulatory phone call from Celeste Holm, a resident 

of northern New Jersey and the original “Ado Annie” from the 1940’s musical, 

Oklahoma. 

A “thank you” card to the World War II vets was signed by virtually every member of the 

Mater Dei High School student body. It was reduced to an 81/2 by 11 size and was 

included as the last page, front and back, of our five-page program. Each vet received a 

copy as they were seated in the front of the hall in an area that was reserved for the vets, 

their spouses and special guests. 

We had only one dress rehearsal and that was one the morning of the performance. The 

kids were “psyched.” So was I. The Clandestine Operations Committee had done its job 

and inserted “Kilroy was here” fliers into the students’ lockers. In addition, the C.O.C. 

detail painted a huge Kilroy sign on a neighbor’s barn that faced the school. Tsk! Tsk! 

As student usherettes escorted the guests to their front row seats, a muted cacophony fell 

over the auditorium filled with teenagers. Many men were wearing their VFW or 

American Legion caps, while others were in full military dress. The students of Mr. T. C. 

Murray’s United States History classes were about to make history come alive as junior, 

Eileen Petito approached the podium at the far side of the stage. She would walk the 

audience through the three scene tableaux. 

The first scene, “The United States Goes to War,” included a student rendition of This is 

the Army and Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.

Scene II, “The U.S.O. – Over Here,” took place in New York City’s Grand Central 

Station with a U.S.O. welcome wagon greeting the troops as they got off the train. For 

some it would be their first and only night in the world capital before they shipped off for 

Europe on a troop transport ship the next day. For some it would be their last. It is now 

later that same evening in a U.S.O. canteen. The jukebox is playing Glen Miller’s In the 

Mood as volunteer hostess girls dance with the uniformed boys. Another selection is 

played. It is Now is the Hour sung by Vera Lynn. The stage resembles a mini-ballroom as 

the kids dance in a tempo of a different era. Eileen invites the vets and their wives to 

dance along on the floor below the stage. Memories were evoked as some of the men 

started to tear during the melancholy song. Then, the student dancers came down from 

the stage and finished off Vera Lynn’s classic piece. What a beautiful scene that was, 

and, thanks to VCR, it was captured on video. 

Scene III – “The U.S.O. – Over There ” took place somewhere in the Pacific with “Bob 

Hope” (John Kovic) as emcee, hosting a show for the troops. We had Polynesian dancers 

that would rival a Don Ho Show in Honolulu. “Bob Hope” experienced a lei from one of 

the dancer’s, Natale Dowd. She was a knockout! So too were Kathryn Ford who did a lipsync 

of Ethel Merman’s Coming Up Roses; Alfie Faust and Lisa Lyon, who did a Fred 

Astair and Ginger Roger Rogers routine; and Lynn Wilkens, Linda Maxwell and Ann 

Larson were perfect for their role on the Andrews Sisters singing The Bugle Boy of 

Company B. 

Eileen Petito delivered the epilogue. It was followed by a well-deserved standing ovation. 

for my junior history classes for a job well done. 

We were now ready for the second part of the program: Long Ago but not Forgotten – a 

tribute to those who gave their lives and those who are with us today.” 

~ 

A brass ensemble played the anthems of the four branches of service as a color guard 

from the Maritime Academy of Science and Technology (M.A.S.T.) at nearby Sandy 

Hook led a contingent of veterans from the rear of the auditorium to center stage. It was a 

colorful procession with the military brass taking up the rear. 

Senior, Christopher Parkes, president of the school’s Social Science Federation, presided 

and asked the audience to rise for the singing of the National Anthem.

Sister Mary Hugh and Capt. Joe Azzolina, U.S.N. (ret.) welcomed the students and 

guests. Joe, a State legislator and Korean War vet, who led the successful effort to bring 

the U.S.S. New Jersey, back to the Garden State, where it now lies berthed in Camden. 

I felt strongly that two of our school’s maintenance workers, both U. S. Marine Corps 

veterans of World War II, should be honored at the ceremony. Accordingly, they were 

our honored guests on the stage and each received a plaque acknowledging his role in 

America’s fight for freedom. 

The original program was presented to the Post Commander of the local V.F.W. A 

memorial tribute for the servicemen and women of World War II was delivered by 

Monsignor Bulman, followed by Taps, and the singing of God Bless America. Chris 

Parkes adjourned the program. 

The “U.S.O Show” and the tribute to the veterans that followed was one of my most 

successful endeavors with my students. 

~ 

Life as part of one’s education should be exciting and meaningful. I have tried to make it 

just that for my students during the nearly four decades that I have spent in education. I 

wanted them to cherish their experiences that combined education and recreation. I 

wanted them to relive history as part of my stimulating simulations. I wanted them to 

have positive memories of their experiences in Mr. Murray’s classroom, as well as their 

participation in those programs that transcended the classroom. Indeed, History can be 

fun.

Chapter 21 – THE STORMY SIXTIES AND THE SPIRIT OF ‘69 

NOVEMBER 22, 1963 – THE DAY THAT SHOOK THE WORLD 

Friday, November 22, 1963, started off with “business as usual” for millions of 

Americans. However, the day would end, like no other in recent history – an American 

president had been assassinated in Dallas, Texas. 

Friday, November 22, was a half-day for the students of Essex Catholic High School, as a 

faculty meeting would follow in the school’s library. It was at the beginning of the 

meeting, shortly after high noon, that Brother Kelly, the school’s dean, informed us that 

President Kennedy had been shot and prayers were requested for his speedy recovery. We 

were aghast and a solemn tone permeated the meeting. Shortly before meeting’s end, the 

school secretary advised Brother Kelly that President Kennedy had died. I was taken 

aback like never before in my life. How could a thing like this happen in America? 

Normally, my fellow imbibers and I would go to Mc Hugh’s Tavern, where we would 

watch the television reports and drown our sorrows. However, this was not the case on 

that tragic Friday afternoon. We all left for our respective homes. 

As I ascended the stairs of 5N Riverview Gardens in North Arlington, I heard my Irish 

mother, Delia, call out, Tommy, have you heard the news? By that time, the whole world 

had heard. Although I voted for Nixon three years earlier, I asked myself: How could a 

thing like this happen in America? The tragedy hit me like a ton of bricks and I 

immediately went into the bathroom, closed the door, and wept uncontrollably, again 

asking myself: How could this happen in America? 

Upon composing myself, Delia and I watched the events of the day unfold on television., 

Lee Harvey Oswald, the alleged lone perpetrator, had been taken in by the Dallas police. 

Things moved quickly, as Oswald was killed by Jack Ruby en-route to his arraignment. 

America and the world was stunned and in a state of denial. On the plane ride back to 

Washington, Lyndon Baines Johnson was sworn in as the 36 th president of the United 

States with Jacqueline watching as the oath of office was administered. Flags flew at 

half-staff in the month that followed. JFK’s state funeral brought out virtually every 

world leader – and who will ever forget little “John-John” saluting the caisson bearing his 

father’s remains.

For years the assassination was the subject of debate – and still is today. The Warren 

Commission lay the blame on a lone gunman, acting alone, Lee Harvey Oswald. At 

Essex Catholic, the Social Science Federation, under the leadership of its president, 

Michael Belefski, came out with an extensive report of its own, leaving room for the 

“conspiracy theory.” 

The “conspiracy theory” was pursued by New Orleans, District Attorney, Jim Garrison, 

who was brilliantly portrayed by Tommy Lee Jones in Oliver Stone’s movie, JFK. 

LBJ’S WAR PUTS DICK INTO THE WHITE HOUSE 

On January 20, 1969, Richard M. Nixon took the oath of office as 37 th president of the 

United States. Finally, he had made it to the White House some eight years after his first 

defeat. 

It was the beginning of the last year of what some have referred to as the “Stormy 

Sixties.” It would be a monumental year in terms of confrontational history. 

The Tet offensive the year before had taken the Vietnam War to a new level. Americans 

were asking: How many more lives would be lost to win in this no win situation? By 1968 

many Americans were fed up with “Johnson’s War” and wanted our participation in Viet 

Nam to come to an end. There were a number of Johnson’s fellow-Democrats who also 

wanted to end American involvement in the war to end. Robert Kennedy started to rally 

support for the Democratic National Convention in the summer. So, too, did poet- 

Senator, Eugene McCarthy, from Minnesota with his legions of college kids. 

Demonstrations against the war were daily occurrences on campuses all across America. 

Many who initially had supported the war, like myself, were now beginning to have 

second thoughts. To some Americans it was a quagmire. His other war, the “War on 

Poverty,” seemed to be meeting with more success. 

Although a Republican at the time, I was beginning to like Johnson. I was stunned as I sat 

in McHugh’s Bar with some of my colleagues on the evening of March 31, 1968, when 

President Johnson announced to the Nation that he would not seek the Democratic 

nomination from his party. Immediately, I blamed Robert Kennedy for Johnson’s 

decision, calling him a number of choice expletives. It was all over for LBJ. It would be 

all over for Robert Kennedy too, as he was tragically assassinated on June 5, 1968, in a 

California hotel after winning the California Democratic primary. I did not cry upon 

hearing the news. The same could not be said about his brother, John.

The Democrats went on to choose Hubert Humphrey in what has to be the most raucous 

convention of its kind ever held. The National Guard was activated to assist the Chicago 

police deal with the demonstrators. Mayor Daley’s commandos were out in full force and 

barbed wire barricades were placed around the Convention Hall. The nation viewed the 

whole debacle on television – a sad day in American history, indeed. 

On Election Day 1968, Nixon prevailed in the Electoral College, besting Hubert 

Humphrey and third party candidate, George Wallace. Even Comedian, Dick Gregory, 

received a few popular votes. The newly elected president received less than 50% of the 

popular vote. 

Richard Nixon’s day had finally arrived and he was ready to assume the position of Chief 

Executive in January of 1969. 

THE WAR WE LEARNED TO HATE 

In a survey taken by the Social Science Federation of Essex Catholic High School in 

1968, the students, by a better than two to one margin voted in favor of escalating the war 

in Viet Nam. I, too, was hawkish at that time and loved the results. 

President Nixon campaigned on a promise to end the Vietnam War. It wouldn’t be until 

the beginning of his second term that this would be accomplished. 

In the meantime, casualties were mounting as avid defenders of U. S. involvement in the 

war were now changing their minds. Let us extricate ourselves from this non-winnable 

war. 

I taught a number of Essex Catholic students who went off to somewhere in Asia – 

somewhere, over there. Not all came back. The mother of an Essex Catholic graduate 

wrote me the following letter that I had reprinted in February 28, 1969 issue of our school 

newspaper, The Eagle: 

Gentlemen: 

I have asked Mr. Murray to read this thank you note to the group of young 

men who so kindly attended the funeral of our son, Captain John N. Reilly, 

USAF, who was killed flying on an escort mission in Vietnam on November 

19, (1968). 

When I saw all of you, upon entering the church, I was very impressed, deeply 

moved, and proud.

Mrs. Reilly cited the attributes of her late son and encouraged the young men of Essex 

Catholic to emulate him – avoiding drug addiction and alcohol abuse; encouraging 

tolerance and compassion toward others; and a respect for authority, parental and 

otherwise. Perhaps, attending John’s service, coupled with his mother’s letter, impelled 

me to re-examine my own posture on the Vietnam War. Did young John Reilly die is a 

senseless war? 

REBELS WITH A CAUSE 

As the war dragged on, so too did many Americans’ opposition to the war. The 

opposition came from many quarters but was most vocally pronounced by politicians, 

youth, and members of the arts and education communities. 

From California came Tom Hayden and his New Left while Mario Savio was rabble- 

rousing on the campus of Berkeley with his Free Speech Movement. Jane Fonda was one 

of the more outspoken critics of the war but she still found time to do her strip in the 

opening scene of the movie, Barbarella (I wonder what her co-star, Milo O’Shea, was 

thinking). Communes sprung up across the Great Bear State, while the Haight-Ashbury 

section of San Francisco became the Greenwich Village of the west coast. 

The anti-war movement was swelling with each passing day. Campus unrest abounded as 

many of our young people did their thing – drugs, hard rock or whatever. Sit-ins occurred 

in nearly every college throughout the country. Poetry, influenced by Alan Ginsburg and 

other Beats of the fifties, had become another way for the “hippies” of the sixties to 

express themselves on college campuses and in coffee houses. By 1969, the Students for 

a Democratic Society (SDS) had established itself in nearly fifty cities across America. 

The Establishment was not listening. 

Joan Baez was one of my favorite anti-war singers of the time. While I did not buy her 

message, I liked her style in “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” Her concerts 

were often picketed by members of the John Birch Society, the Young Americans for 

Freedom, and other conservative groups. Peter, Paul and Mary also got out the message 

playing at anti-war rallies across the country. Soon I discovered that “Puff the Magic 

Dragon” was a metaphor for other things - want a puff? 

It is interesting to note that Pete Seeger of Beacon, New York, had written songs that 

were made popular by other singers of the Sixties. Joan Baez made “Joe Hill” a popular 

anti-establishment song. Peter, Paul and Mary took Seeger’s, “If I had a Hammer” and 

Bob Dylan’s, “Blowin’ in the Wind” to new levels.

Some of the century’s great bands emerged at his time including Mick Jagger and his 

Rolling Stones, as well as Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead. I preferred the mellow 

sounds of the Beach Boys and the Mamas and the Papas. Mama Cass Elliot’s, “Dream a 

Little Dream of Me” is one of my favorite songs of the sixties. It was sad to read of so 

many of the entertainers of the era who were overdosing on drugs, some dying as Janis 

Joplin did in 1970. 

At the annual Jerseymen Convention for junior historians held in Asbury Park in May of 

1968, some seventy-five Essex Catholic students were in attendance. The weekend event 

was highlighted by an evening banquet at the Berkeley-Carteret Hotel where awards were 

to be presented to outstanding high schools and outstanding students. Essex Catholic 

stood a good chance of receiving the “best history club” trophy. If this were the case, Ron 

Eckel, president of the Social Science Federation of Essex Catholic High School, would 

accept the award. As we sat at a table for ten, I noticed than Ron was wearing a lapel pin 

with the “chicken foot” peace logo on his jacket. To me, this was a political statement. I 

didn’t want Ron going up to the dais wearing that button on his jacket. With that in mind, 

I directed Ron to remove the pin. Being an obedient Catholic high school student, he 

complied with the directive and removed the pin. We won the “best history club” trophy 

and everyone was happy. Looking back, I find that my directive to Ron was wrong, 

wrong, wrong! I should have never deprived a student of a basic first amendment right. 

Here I was preaching one thing and doing another. What a hypocrite, Mr. Murray! 

It is interesting to note that in the same survey I took in 1968 for the Viet Nam War, I 

posed the question: Do anti-war demonstrators have the right to hold peaceful protests? 

Some 1,285 Essex Catholic High School students responded “yes” while only 392 

responded negatively. 

Betty Freidan’s, Feminine Mystique, hit the bestseller charts in 1963. Three years later 

the National Organization for Women (NOW) was founded. In 1969 NOW staged a sit-in 

at the Oak Room of The Plaza Hotel in New York City protesting its male only luncheon 

policy. Political advocates of the cause were appearing on the scene, Bella Abzug, the 

“hat-woman” of Congress, being the most notable. The Equal Rights Amendment was 

still foundering in the state legislatures and it seemed clear that the requisite approval of 

three-quarters of the states was not to be. 

An underground newspaper appeared stuffed through the slits of the boys’ lockers at 

Essex Catholic High School as they returned to school in early January after their 

Christmas break. The four page mimeographed first issue of the “Pigeon” (1969) was 

tame by today’s standards. It included a debate on the right of students to revolt, the Viet 

Nam War, and other issue-oriented topics. The last page contained quips that filled all of 

thirty-two boxes on the last page. They varied from “End the war in Vietnam! End the 

race riots! Support your President!” to “Draft beer, not students.” Others were in poor 

taste: “All you kids in Biafra, eat your hearts out – the Nigerian Victory Committee.” I 

don’t think that the principal ever found out who the editors of this exercise in mediocre 

journalism were. Perhaps, it was for the best.

The Environmental Movement had taken root across America. Even some of the “flower 

children” were active in the movement, thus adding legitimacy to their cause and 

existence. By the turn of the decade “Earth Day” observances were being held in schools 

and colleges throughout America. Ecology courses were included in the curriculum of 

many colleges. It was clearly the young people who were making a difference. Indeed, 

they were rebels with a cause 

PCQ37: What was the name of Pete Seeger’s sloop, launched in 1969, with the hope of 

cleaning up the polluted Hudson River? 

By 1969, a counter culture had established itself in America and I was listening. 

THE WANING POWER OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN AMERICA 

By 1969, the full effects of Vatican II were being felt in America. The Roman Catholic 

Church was no longer the “divine right” institution that it thought itself to be. No longer 

were the dictums of the Church fully accepted without question. 

Lay people, like myself, were starting to play a role in church liturgy. It wasn’t too long 

after Vatican II that my parish, Queen of Peace, in North Arlington, New Jersey, would 

incorporate laymen to be lectors at Sunday masses. Actually, the Church now permitted 

Saturday evening masses to fulfill one’s Sunday mass obligation. Now Catholics could 

“keep holy” on two of the Lord’s days, should they choose. 

Being a male dominated institution, the Catholic Church filled these positions with men. 

Within time, women would fill some of the lesser positions. Progressive parishes, like my 

former parish in New York, St. Paul the Apostle, complemented their altar boys with 

altar girls. To some old-timers, that move was sacrilegious. 

Vocations to the priesthood and religious life were on the decline. The Church had no 

choice but to increase the role of the layman in its affairs. Soon, men were ordained as 

deacons. My friend, John Lonergan, answered the call, was ordained a deacon, and 

served in that capacity at St. Dorothea’s parish in Eatontown, New Jersey for many years. 

John was married and raising three children at the time. If it worked for him, a deacon, 

why can’t it work for priests? My friend and former classmate, John Kelly, is a deacon in 

the Patterson Diocese. Deacon John is an occasional contributor to the diocesan weekly 

newspaper. Celibacy to this day is a thorny issue and the man in white wishes priests to 

continue that way.

There have been other controversial issues arising in the Catholic Church since the days 

of John XXIII – woman’s right to choose, the ordination of women to the priesthood, a 

greater role of the bishops in the decision making process, and the acceptance of 

homosexuals, to name a few. 

The role of the Catholic Church as the “grand censor” had considerably diminished by 

1969. The Legion of Decency, which had brought Hollywood titans to their knees, was 

virtually non-existent. Anti-censorship prevailed throughout the country. Americans were 

tired of their government telling them, as adults, what they could read. Catholics were 

tired of their church telling them what they could see or not see on the silver screen. No 

longer would I be “forced” to take the Legion of Decency pledge in my church on the 

first Sunday in December. What a relief! 

THE NEWARK RIOTS OF ’67 – A STUDENT PERSPECTIVE 

The names of H. Rap Brown, Malcolm X, Stokley Carmichael, Huey Newton are all 

familiar ones as activists in the “black power” movement of the 1960’s. For the residents 

of the greater Newark area, the names of Malcolm Shabazz and Leroi Jones may be better 

known. All of the aforementioned felt that the only way to be heard was through activism 

and confrontational politics. 

During the 1960’s that activism turned ugly in many cities across America – Detroit, Los 

Angeles, and Newark to mention three. 

As Essex Catholic High School reopened in the fall of 1967, the memories of the Newark 

riots less than two months earlier were firmly affixed in the minds of the nearly 2,800 

returning students. Essex Catholic had now reached its population pinnacle. The 

following year an enrollment free-fall for the school would begin. 

Having had the experience of “Newark 300” (the book), I thought that I would give my 

senior United States History II honors class an assignment that was sure to challenge 

even the most brilliant of minds in that class. I chose Robert L. Tortoriello, Dan 

McLaughlin, and Bob Lorenzo as the three co-editors of yet another book. “Newark ’67.” 

It would be a student look at the civil disturbances that tore the City of Newark asunder 

during July of 1967. Like the previous book, it was a total student endeavor with no 

direct assistance from their teacher. Each of the twenty-six students contributed a chapter 

to the book, researching and interviewing everyone from Mayor Addonizio and Deputy 

Mayor Paul Reilly down to Newark citizens directly affected by or involved in the 

disturbances.

On the list of persons to be interviewed was The Honorable James Del Mauro, Chief 

Magistrate of the City of Newark, and a personal friend. His son, Ron, was a former 

student and a counselor at Camp Adrian, a few years earlier. Before entering the 

Municipal Court, I admonished the delegation of students who were to interview the 

judge to remember their courtly etiquette. It was to be “your honor” at all times. 

We arrived at the courthouse early and found out that Judge Del Mauro’s court was in 

session. I thought that it would be a great experience for my students to sit in on the 

proceedings in the judge’s courtroom…and what an experience it was! 

No sooner than we had taken our seats, the bailiff calls out: Leroy Murray. 

Judge Del Mauro looked down at me saying: Is that you, Mr. Murray? 

Turning red, I answered sheepishly, No, your honor. 

Will you approach the bench, Mr. Murray? 

Yes, your honor, I said as I made my way to the bench. As my students looked on I 

wondered what they were thinking about courtroom decorum. 

How’s your mom? the judge inquired, continuing, please give her my best regards. 

At the appointed time the delegation and I adjourned to the judge’s chambers for a 

private conference for nearly two hours. Having sat at the bench in his judicial capacity 

for about sixteen hours a day during the days and nights of the civil disturbance, Judge 

Del Mauro was uniquely familiar with the problems of the riot. After speaking on the 

issues for an hour, he then proceeded to respond to the queries from the attentive students 

providing them with many pertinent and interesting answers. We all had our day in court 

– another day to remember. 

Unlike “Newark 300,” sadly this manuscript was not published. The original document 

was presented to the New Jersey Historical Society for review and was awarded a citation 

from the Society later in the year. The document was then presented to the New Jersey 

Room of the Newark Public Library where it remains today. 

Today, one of the manuscript editor’s, Bob Tortoriello, remains among my closest 

friends. He is considered the “most brilliant kid”(GPA) in the history of Essex Catholic 

High School. This National Merit Scholar was one of the most challenging students I’ve 

ever had the honor of teaching.

One day during his United States American History II class, he prepared a talk on the 

Hayes-Tilden election of 1876. It was excellent! However, upon concluding his 

presentation, the young scholar asked me a question relating to the controversial election 

– one that I could not answer. However, being the quintessential history teacher, I told 

him that I would try to find out the answer. I did! 

Not only was Bob my finest student academically, he was a dynamic leader in our 

school’s Social Science Federation. I relied upon him to carry through many of our 

programs. He was an articulate spokesman and a dynamic leader of the Federation. 

Earlier in the year, Bob came to me with a proposal that I turned down. After the Hayes- 

Tilden speech, he came up with another proposal that I immediately put on the back 

burner. Shall I start asking you questions in class, Mr. Murray? 

Yes, by all means, Bob. Start working on that project, like yesterday. 

Bob was the valedictorian at our commencement exercise in June of ’68 and he gave me 

his original address as a memento – quite an honor, indeed. 

I had hoped that Bob would honor my wishes and go to Harvard. This was not to be. 

Wanting to stay near home, Bob entered the Honor Program at St. Peter’s College in 

Jersey City. He breezed through the curriculum in three years, gave me his honors thesis 

on Senator McCarthy, and was valedictorian of his college class. My wish for him came 

true as he entered Harvard Law School the following September. I attended his 

graduation in Cambridge three years later where he graduated in the top ten percent of his 

class. Today he is among the top banking lawyers in the country. Bob and his late wife, 

Peg (also a lawyer) always made it a point to visit me once a year. Brilliance begets 

brilliance. Only kidding! 

Recently, I renewed e-mail contact with co-editor, Dan McLaughlin. The third co-editor, 

Bob Lorenzo, was an ordained priest when he died in the late1980’s from a new disease 

that affected the immune system of those whose lives it claimed. 

THOSE DEADLY PRIME SOURCE DOCUMENTS 

As a result of my involvement in “Newark ’67,” I obtained some of the prime source 

documents, including fliers that were distributed by “both sides” during the summer of 

’67 in Newark, that the students used in their presentation.

One flier was entitled a “Black Survivor Bulletin.” It lambasted the Newark Police Dept. 

as well as Mayor Addonizio. It stated that Addonizio should be recalled and a black man 

elected in his place. It urged the black people to be prepared and stated: Black man, wake 

up now or these crackers will put you to sleep forever. Another flier gave instructions on 

how to make a Molotov Cocktail (fire bomb): 1. fill one bottle with gasoline; 2. replace 

cap (tightly);3. tie gas-soaked rag around bottle; 4. light rag – throw bottle at Whitey! – 

or Bamberger’s department store. In a flier condemning Addonizio in particular, and the 

Italians as well as the Irish, in general, the banner read “The Wops Want Race War” and 

proceeded to deliver some anti-white diatribes. That same eight-and-a-half by eleven 

page was put on an eleven by fourteen sheet of paper and over the original banner read, 

“Flyer Being Distributed by the Niggers in the Newark Area.” What price “black 

power?” 

THAT’S DYNAMITE – HANDLE WITH CARE 

One of the highlights of Brother Dennehy’s last year as principal of Essex Catholic High 

School was dynamite. Yes, dynamite! A typed letter with a Newark postmark dated 

September 26, 1968, and marked “confidential” and “urgent” was received in the 

Principal’s Office the following day. Brother Dennehy opened the letter that read in part: 

I am a member of a white militant organization and my conscience compels 

me to write to you. For the last year or more (that places it at about the time 

of the July 1967 riots or shortly thereafter) five sticks of an explosive 

material called gelenite have been stored in the basement of your school 

near some air ducts (vault area in the basement). Don’t try to trace this note. 

It is written on a store’s demonstration typewriter. 

Brother Dennehy sprung into action calling Assistant Principal, John Lonergan, to his 

office to read the unsigned letter. Maybe it was a hoax they thought. The two 

administrators decided to check out the subterranean area of the vault. It was dark in the 

duct area and neither party thought to bring a flashlight with them. John, a former physics 

teacher, struck a match to see if could you see anything that resembled five sticks of 

dynamite in the darkened area. BOOM!!! Well not really. They did find the sticks all 

wrapped in paper as the note specified. It was then back to the office and a phone call to 

the Emergency Squad. Newark’s Finest arrive for inspection of the sticks. Building must 

be evacuated – without hysteria – police brass tell principal.

A terse statement from the principal to the students and faculty came over the public 

address system stating: At the bell, students are requested to leave their classrooms and 

proceed to your fire drill positions in the street and back yard. The Emergency Squad is 

investigating the possibility of a gas leak. The school’s 2,600 students waited patiently in 

the street. Soon one student was saying to the other, Did you smell it? with the other 

responding, Yeah, me too. The students were finally dismissed for the day. 

The Newark Emergency Squad sandbagged the five sticks to the potentially lethal 

dynamite and then called the demolition team from Fort Monmouth to come up to 

Newark to address the emergency. With the students and faculty dismissed for the day, 

Brother Dennehy, John Lonergan and I watched the proceedings from across the street on 

Broadway. 

The top two administrators, tired of waiting for the Army, decided to pass some time in 

McHugh’s Tavern a couple of blocks away. The historian in me prevailed and I stuck 

around to watch the Army demolition team remove the explosives from the school and 

onto an awaiting truck. The escorted motorcade sped off into the sunset. 

Captain Irving Moore, head of the Newark Police Emergency Squad, informed me at a 

later date that there was enough dynamite to level the granite six-story building. God 

must have been watching over us. 

A DIVIDED CITY 

The results of the Newark riots of 1967 were staggering. Some twenty-five rioters were 

killed, and for what? The black community suffered irreparable harm because of the 

actions of a few. It has taken years to rebuild the city and, even today, is still recovering 

from the days and nights of the civil disturbances. 

The following year on April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated while 

at a motel in the city of Memphis. Following his “dream” and the principles of other 

pacifists, like Thoreau and Ghandi, King believed that one’s goals might be achieved 

through non-violence. Unlike the militants of the black movement, Martin Luther King 

Jr. has one on Newark’s main thoroughfares named in his honor, as well as a national 

holiday. In my opinion Dr. King ranks as one of the most important men of the twentieth 

century, a man that all Americans should emulate.

In August 1988 on the twenty-fifth anniversary of Dr. King’s March on Washington and 

the delivery of his classic I Have a Dream speech, special ceremonies and another march 

were held in Washington, D.C. Another commitment prevented me from being there. I 

wanted to join the other thousands on marchers in the worse way; something that I did 

not do, nor would have wanted to do, twenty-five years earlier. Times change; attitudes 

change. 

~ 

The racial division that shook the city of Newark in 1967 was just as pronounced, 

although non-violent, in 1969. LeRoi Jones and Tony Imperiale, the great polarizers, 

were still going at it and they would continue to divide the City of Newark well into the 

1970’s with the proposed building of the Kawaida Towers by a black community group 

in Newark’s predominately white North Ward. 

A “white backlash” was taking place in Newark. Corporate Newark was entertaining 

thoughts of moving to the safety of the suburbs. Fortunately, the New Jersey Historical 

Society stated its intention to remain in Newark. Soon other institutions and industries 

followed suit. 

In the meantime, the gulf between the white and black community widened in Newark, 

led by extremists on both sides. Tony Imperiale, whose son Ken attended Essex Catholic, 

led the white forces from the North Ward; LeRoy Jones was the chief spokesman for the 

blacks. Tony went on the run for political office; Leroy converted to the Muslim religion 

and took the name, “Amiri Baraka.” 

~ 

It was not an uncommon occurrence for me to break up a “black-white” fight at Essex 

Catholic High School. On one of those occasions I came out on the losing end of the 

stick. A sports rally was being held in the auditorium. Teachers were stationed on both of 

the side aisles to monitor the boys and any unpleasant situation that might arise. When 

warranted, the enthusiastic student body rose to its feet yelling out cheers for good old 

Essex Catholic. Some black students did not rise to their feet and seemingly did not have 

the proper esprit de corps in the minds of white students in the row immediately behind 

them. So some white boys grabbed the black boys from behind and tried to force them to 

arise. The black boys resented this and a fight ensued. Being the closest teacher to the 

fight, I jumped into the melee in an effort the break it up. Forgetting that the seats were 

theatre-like and had arm rests separating seats, I caught my groin area on one of the arms 

while diving in to the fracas in an attempt to pull the fighting boys apart. Ouch!!! After 

that incident and my personal pain, I said to myself, Let them kill themselves. I will never 

again put myself in a position like that again. Of course, that wasn’t true! Many times 

thereafter, I put myself on the line of fire to break up a student fight but was a little bit 

more careful to watch for protruding objects.

It was not uncommon too, for an Essex Catholic student to get mugged on the way home 

after school to the Bloomfield Avenue bus stop that was several blocks away from the 

school. By 1969, the parents of suburban boys were thinking twice about sending their 

sons to Essex Catholic High School. Was this a valid decision on their part or was racism 

factored into their decision? The continuance of the school was in doubt. Because of the 

declining enrollment and the cost of running the “white elephant” at 300 Broadway, 

Essex Catholic would relocate to East Orange in 1980. 

In 1969, after student demonstrations earlier that year, the Newark campus of Rutgers 

University instituted an African-American History course. Education would prove to be 

the greatest weapon in helping to heal the great divide that was brought about between 

the black and white communities as a result of the civil disturbances a couple of years 

earlier. 

Much to the delight of ECHS social studies teacher, Nick Spooner, the infusion of black 

studies into the social studies curriculum would be mandated by the State Department of 

Education in the early 1970’s. 

“DEFENDER OF THE SCHOOL” 

The greatest challenge to the public’s perception of Essex Catholic High School came on 

January 9, 1969, when representatives of an ad hoc group of clergymen called the “Innercity 

Priests United for Community Action” (IPUCA) presented to Archbishop Boland a 

list of incidents which they claimed substantiated their charge that the Archdiocese of 

Newark had a racist attitude. In their report, the priests claimed that the church had failed 

in its responsibility in the area of education. 

Seven incidents were cited “substantiating” racism. The fifth of these cited the fact that 

“demagogue” George Wallace won a mock presidential election held at Essex Catholic in 

the fall of the previous year. Further, the indictment charged that the Wallace vote at 

Essex Catholic, does not speak well of the quality of the message of Christianity by these 

white Catholic students. 

Somehow, the results of our simulated election were leaked to IPUCA even though the 

administration, over my objections, prohibited me from sending out a press release after 

the school-wide exercise in democracy. They did not want this to get out to the public for 

fear such charges as those leveled by IPUCA, could result in negative publicity for the 

school. When the story hit the press, I said to myself, Serves you right!

After a meeting with Brother William Dennehy, the school principal decided that he 

would not handle the issue, but felt that it should be handled by the Office of Public 

Relations. As Director of that office, Brother Dennehy placed his full confidence in me 

and wished me well in my task of defending the school. 

That evening I read and reread the IPUCA text in the comfort of my North Arlington 

apartment. Before I picked up my pen, I fixed myself a Scotch and water and said a 

prayer for guidance. What followed was an Open Letter from the Office of Public 

Relations at Essex Catholic High School. 

The five page retort included the openness of the white majority at Essex Catholic student 

body in electing a black Student Council president in 1965, and the up front role by other 

black students in the development of the school. It cited the award presented by the New 

Jersey Historical Society for Newark ‘67 as a detailed and objective research paper on the 

civil disturbances that took place in Newark during the summer of ’67. I cited our black 

extra-curricular club, “Uhuru,” and its promotion of black awareness. To the charge of 

low black enrollment and “de facto” segregation, I answered that our school served over 

thirty municipalities, many of which had few black residents. I pointed out that within 

this group the percentage of black Catholics was very small. 

Further, I illustrated the social gospel being practiced by Essex Catholic students. Each 

year on the last day before the Christmas recess, our young men brought baskets of food 

to help bring Christmas cheer to many inner city families. Many of our students who 

were members of the Essex Catholic chapter of the Young Christian Students gave of 

their time every Saturday to teach English and math to children of an inner city parish. 

These were but two examples I cited in presenting the message of Christianity by the 

white Catholic students. 

I concluded the presentation by stating that neither the administration of Essex Catholic 

High School nor I agreed with the allegations of IPUCA and considered them 

“unfounded, unwarranted, and indeed, most un-Christian.” 

This spin-meister’s release paid off. I sent a copy to Archbishop Boland. He replied to me 

in a personal letter dated January 23, 1969, stating: 

It was well done and should help repair the thoughtless damage brought 

about through the unfortunate display of emotional, unfounded allegations 

of last week. 

Upon receiving the letter from His Excellency, I felt vindicated. Now I know how Henry 

VIII must have felt when he received the title Defender of the Faith from the pope. I 

decided against releasing Archbishop Boland’s letter for fear of exacerbating an already 

deteriorating situation. I’m sure that the priests of IPUCA would not have appreciated the 

Archbishop’s comments. It remained sealed in my archives until this writing.

STOPPED AT THE BORDER ALONG CANADA’S WAY 

Good news! My very close friend and former colleague, Tom Tobin, phoned me in the 

late spring of 1969 that he had accepted a teaching position at a high school in St. Hubert, 

a suburb of Montreal. I really missed my buddy, Tom, the year that he was in England. I 

missed him dearly at the time of my mother’s death for I know that he would have been a 

great source of consolation. Once he got settled in his new apartment on Chemin 

Chambly, I flew up to Montreal to renew our friendship in the early summer of ’69. It 

was a grand reunion, indeed. 

As the result of the Newark riots of ’67, I became more wary, walking the streets of the 

city, especially at night. I was often at an evening meeting in the downtown area of the 

city and sometimes would stop in McGovern’s Tavern for a nightcap…or two. To help 

allay my “Newark-phobia,” a police captain friend of mine gave me a police-issue mace 

fountain pen cautioning me not to tell anyone where I got the weapon. It was not legal for 

a citizen to carry a mace gun back in 1969. The pen itself was made of a light metal with 

a safety catch on the opposite of the nib. The metal was so light that it went undetected as 

I walked through the metal detectors so many times at Newark and other airports around 

the country. I carried my trusty pen with me wherever I went, usually in the inside pocket 

of my jacket. If I felt threatened walking down a desolate and unlit city street at night, I 

would have it with the “safety off” position while I grasped the pen-like object in my 

pants’ pocket. Here’s mace in your face, baby! 

It was on returning from Tom Tobin’s, that I was stopped by Canadian Custom officials 

at Dorval Airport. The mace pen was clasped onto my inside jacket pocket, along with a 

real pen and my appointment book. I went through the walk-through metal detector 

without a problem. On the other side of the walk-through machine were two Canadian 

officials, one a Customs Inspection Officer, the other, an armed Customs Officer. The 

Inspection Officer was checking travelers with a hand-held metal detector. I started to get 

uptight. It was my turn. He applied his instrument to my person. His detector went off as 

it passed over my inside jacket pocket. 

Open your jacket, Monsieur. 

I readily complied with the directive. He asked me to take out my mace pen and said: 

What is this, monsieur? 

It’s a mace gun sir, and continued to say, I work in Newark. 

At that point, I began to worry. Would I spend the night in a Canadian jail? I had no 

contacts in Montreal, as I did in Washington, D.C. and Newark, who might be able to 

help me out in a compromising situation like the one I was in. What did I get myself into?

With that, the Customs Inspection Officer conversed in French with the armed Customs 

officer. I heard him say the word “Newark” to his armed colleague. 

Oh, New-ark, he said, as he waved me and my mace pen on through the gate. Did I sweat 

that one! 

~ 

During his visit to CampAdrian during August of ’69, I invited Brother Marty Germain to 

take a drive up to Montreal to see Tom Tobin before the opening of the school year. 

Marty was one of the few black brothers in the Congregation of Christian Brothers and 

had become a close friend of mine. He was only too happy to spend a few days visiting 

Tom in Montreal, and coming from the island of Dominica, he would be able to put his 

French to good use. 

We got in my 1968 Olds Cutlass Supreme and were off to visit our northern neighbor. 

Tom was the perfect host, and a great time was had by all. Before we knew it, it was time 

for the return trip back to New Jersey. 

While in Montreal I bought a box of imported Cuban cigars for my friend, Ed D’Ascoli 

of West Orange. I knew that the United States had an embargo on all Cuban goods and 

that included cigars. What the heck! I stowed the cigars in my large automobile glove 

compartment. Invariably in the past, I got through U.S. Customs and Immigration 

Officials without a problem. I said to myself that this trip wouldn’t be any different. It 

was, however. 

As Brother Germain and I approached U.S. Customs, an agent flagged down our car and 

directed us to get out of the vehicle. There, he searched our luggage that was stowed in 

the trunk. No problem! He then looked in the back seat of the car. Upon noticing that my 

attaché case was there, he asked that I remove and open it for him. That I did. No 

problem! At this point, I was sweating it. Would he ask me to open the glove 

compartment? Sweat! What would be the penalty if he opened it and discovered the 

contraband? More sweat! 

Fortunately, for me as well as my occupant, who just happened to be black, the Customs 

Agent cleared us with a half-hearted welcome back into the land of the free. We were 

back on American soil. No more sweat! 

I later asked myself, Could this have been an example of “racial profiling?”

WE HAVE NO MONEY – THE LIBRARY AND MUSEUM GOTTA GO 

On Tuesday, February 18, 1969, I appeared in the name of Essex Catholic High School 

before the Newark City Council. I was one of many speakers testifying on behalf of those 

wishing to keep the Newark Library and the Newark Museum open. 

A week earlier, the City Council announced that it was deleting an estimated $2.8 million 

from the city budget, and that cut necessitated the closing of the Newark Public Library 

and the Newark Museum. Indeed, Newark had a financial crisis and was slowly starting 

to rebound after the ’67 riots. 

The Council Chamber was jammed with over five hundred citizens mostly in support of 

keeping the facilities open. At times the session turned raucous. Tony Imperiale, now a 

councilman, was derided as a city divider and a “dope.” Tony railed at length and 

challenged the disruptive observer to, come up here and sit with me and see how easy it 

is. The observer did go up to the Council dais but was subsequently removed for 

continued disorderly behavior. 

Fortunately, my presentation went smoothly and was uninterrupted. In my ten-minute 

discourse, I cited the Jeffersonian principle that education is the cornerstone of society 

and that the library and museum of any city is the focal point of that city’s educational 

system. As a teacher, I pointed out how helpful the library was as a resource center in the 

research of Essex Catholic High School’s 110-page history of the city of Newark. I 

remarked that: 

Certainly Newark is no great cultural oasis, but its library and museum do 

provide the citizenry with outlets for its educational and cultural appetite. 

The City Council reversed itself and the Newark Library and Newark Museum thrive to 

this very day. Big Tony went on to serve in the state legislature. 

ROOTIN’ FOR THE UNDERDOG – LET’S GO METS! 

The New York Giants were now out of the Polo Grounds and “Dem Bums” said goodbye 

to Ebbetts Field. During the days of the three teams, I was a loyal Yankee fan. 

In 1962 a new kid appeared on the block. The team was called the New York Mets (as in 

metropolitan) and their new home, Shea Stadium, was to be built in Flushing, Queens, 

adjacent to the World’s Fair grounds- a short subway ride from Manhattan.

Not too many baseball fans were overly optimistic about the prospects of this new 

National League team. One sports pundit wrote that the Mets had about as much chance 

as winning a World Series in the decade of the sixties as the United States had in putting 

a man on the moon. 

I converted to the new team shortly after they arrived in New York. It wasn’t that I didn’t 

like the Yankees but rather I wanted to give this new underdog team a chance, and that I 

did. I attended a few games in the newly built Shea Stadium during the decade of the 

sixties, but more often than not, I watched the Mets from the comfort of my couch at 

home in North Arlington or at one of my local watering holes. On one visit to the ball 

park, I purchased a straw hat with a blue banner proclaiming, Let’s Go Mets! 

As the 1969 baseball season arrived, so too did the “Miracle Mets,” and the rest is 

history. 

FROM GAY POWER TO FLOWER POWER 

I knew very little about Christopher Street in Greenwich Village prior to the Stonewall 

riots of June 1969. I knew it was the first stop on the tubes coming to Manhattan from 

New Jersey. It was the street of the Theatre D’Lys, home of The Three-penny Opera. 

Other than that, it was just another quaint village street to me. Even as a resident of 

Manhattan, I was not a Village person; the same rang true as a New Jersey resident. The 

Village was out there somewhere and that’s where I wanted to leave it – too Bohemian 

for me. 

As I picked up a June 29 th copy of the Daily News, I noticed an article about how a group 

of gay people had rioted on a street adjacent to a bar on Christopher Street in Greenwich 

Village. Apparently the riot was as a result of an earlier police raid of the Stonewall Inn. 

Being a “law and order” person, I was less than sympathetic to the disorderly lot of 

queers on Christopher Street. 

~

Some 400,000 flower children converged at Max Yaskur’s dairy farm near the town of 

Bethel, New York, on Friday August 15 th for three days of peace and music. Of course, 

there were a lot of other things that went on there as well. In what was billed as the 

largest rock concert ever, the problems of a gathering of that size were everywhere 

including traffic jams many miles long on the northbound lanes of the New York State 

Thruway. Sanitary conditions in the muddy fields left much to be desired. The promoters 

were ill prepared to deal with the huge crowd that awaited them. Even Jesus would have 

problems feeding the multitude. Concurrently, I was on the northern end of the Catskills 

welcoming the oldest group of boys to Camp Adrian where things were a little more 

arranged and less chaotic. 

Some of the greatest bands in rock music were present at the Woodstock festival, 

including Janis Joplin, the Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Jefferson Airplane, and 

many others. Folk singers Joan Baez and Arlo Guthrie entertained during the Friday 

segment of the program. Ironically, Bob Dylan, who lived in Woodstock, never made it 

to the festival. 

Ken “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” Kesey and his band of Merry Pranksters arrived 

on the scene where one of the Pranksters served as emcee. Their famous psychedelic van, 

“the bus,” had gained fame in the early sixties and was now in Woodstock for all to 

worship. 

One of the things that peeved me at Woodstock was the playing of a non-traditional 

interpretation of the Star Spangled Banner. The ear-piercing notes of Jimi Hendrix’s 

guitar were too much for me. 

My initial reaction to Woodstock was negative. Didn’t the kids of America have anything 

better to do with their time than to gather in cow pastures, smoking joints, making love, 

and listening to outrageous music – these unkempt, hedonistic, long hair hippies? 

Flower power was everywhere. Anti-censorship was the order of the day. 

On stage, Hair, was one of the hottest tickets on Broadway. The first rock musical was 

widely received, not only because of its book and daring frontal nudity but also because 

of its music and lyrics. Indeed, it was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. 

More controversial musicals were to follow, with Oh Calcutta heading the list. Although 

it provoked an outcry from the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York, it did meet 

with some success on Broadway. I was told by a “theater person” that one of the 

qualifications for cast tryouts could be measured in inches. 

~

On the silver screen Hollywood gave us Alice’s Restaurant, starring folk singer, Arlo 

Guthrie. It was a loosely autobiographical film that combined wit, satire and social 

commentary and was well received by both critics and moviegoers. 

THE SPIRIT OF ‘69 

What was the “Spirit of ’69?” 

It was a newly- elected President of the United States promising to end the war in 

Vietnam and the mass demonstrations against the war that followed. 

It was the New York Jets winning Super Bowl III with Broadway Joe Namath being the 

pride of the sport’s world, and the Miracle Mets winning the World Series 

It was the students at Rutgers taking over a building on the Newark campus and 

demanding the incorporation of minority studies into the curriculum. 

It was the gays on Christopher Street, and the flower children at Woodstock, challenging 

institutional authority. 

It was the Apollo 11 NASA mission landing safely on the moon on July 20th. Who will 

ever forget the words of Neil Armstrong, That’s one small step for man, one giant leap 

for mankind. As I watched the landing on television, it made me proud to be an 

American. We did it! Thank you JFK! 

It was a year that the “Miracle Mets” went on the win the World Series. New York went 

wild, and so did I. 

Those naysayers who said that we’d never put a man on the moon were the same people 

saying that the Mets could never win a World Series. We proved them wrong, didn’t we? 

It was a year of transition when the youth of America, most of them anyway, cried aloud, 

We want to be heard. They would be. 

The year 1969 was a momentous year, a different year and a challenging year. It was a 

year that would greatly affect this writer. As the leader of the “first strike” of any 

Catholic school system in the America, 1969 would prove to be a catalyst for change in 

my life. That “Spirit of 69”still lives!!!

Chapter 22 – LEADING OUR NATION’S FIRST MAJOR 

CATHOLIC SCHOOL STRIKE 

THE WAY IT WAS 

When I entered the teaching profession back in 1958, vocations for the religious 

congregations were relatively high, and those congregations who worked in the area of 

education were able to staff their schools with a majority of their members without a 

problem. The role of the lay teacher, for the most part, was a supplemental one in the 

eyes of many Catholic school administrators across the country. We, the lay teachers, 

were there to fill a void. 

In 1958, brothers outnumbered lay teachers at Essex Catholic High School by almost two 

to one. The brothers held all administrative positions. Within a ten-year period of time, 

that would change. In the meantime, I would work within the system while leading the 

impetus for change. 

LAY TEACHER – SECOND CLASS CITIZEN 

In the eyes of some religious, lay teachers were second-class citizens. Some of the men in 

black tended to segregate themselves from the lay teacher and, with their clerical garb 

and strap felt a sense of empowerment. Some preferred to have lunch in the brother’s 

dining room in the cloistered monastery rather than to sit with other brothers and lay 

faculty in the cafeteria. Fortunately, founding principal and community superior, Brother 

Francis I. Offer, was not in that category. During his opening address to the freshman 

class at the beginning of each year, Brother Offer demanded that the students show the 

same respect toward a lay teacher that they would show toward a brother. However, he 

too, had to work within the system to be an effective administrator. 

In the minds of many of the parents of the Essex Catholic students, the brothers could do 

no wrong, after all, they were vessels of God. I sent my boy to Essex Catholic because of 

the brothers, was the pervasive argument given by so many parents as the foremost 

reason for sending their son’s to Newark’s growing Catholic high school. Most parents 

were first and second generation Americans who were raised not to question authority, 

especially religious authority. They stood in awe of a collared cleric or religious. They 

worked in concert with the brothers on many school projects and generously contributed 

to their coffers. Because of these factors, the brothers had a greater visibility in the eyes 

of the parents than did the lay teachers.

The brothers had greater visibility in the eyes of the students as well. Intramural sports, as 

well as many extra-curricular activities, were presided over by men of the cloth. It was 

easier for a student to “connect” with a brother. The brothers were there to talk to the kids 

after school, to discuss personal matters in a private setting if need be, although I must 

say that I was approached by several students during my earlier years in teaching to lend 

a helpful ear, and I did. 

For the most part, the brothers were good classroom teachers, although one might find an 

eccentric or sadistic one whose credentials were most questionable. In fairness to both 

sides, the same was true for lay teachers. Brother Offer hired a couple of lay co-workers 

with whom I was ashamed to be associated. Some brothers were sent out to their mission 

while still in the process of completing their college education. I don’t think that a lay 

teacher could apply for a job in a brother’s school without a college degree, certification 

notwithstanding. 

I resented this second-class citizen status and would work toward its elimination. 

A CLEAR DICHOTOMY – SEPARATE AND UNEQUAL 

This dichotomy between the layman and religious - or should I say religious and laymen, 

for indeed, the religious are closer to God – was evident everywhere. 

In the 1959 and 1960 yearbook, the listing of the administration and faculty was not in 

alphabetical order but in the order of the brothers first, followed by the laymen. 

It used to annoy the heck out of me to find out from my students, information that one of 

the brothers gave to them, and that should have been given to the lay faculty first. A 

student might say to me, Mr. Murray, we’re going to get an extra day off at Easter in 

honor of Brother Finbar’s Golden Jubilee. Not being made aware of such a holiday by 

the administration, my response would be, No Kidding! So there was a communications 

divide in the school as well. 

Attending the commencement exercises of the first graduating class of Essex Catholic 

High School in June of 1961 at Sacred Heart Cathedral, Newark, I was taken aback when 

Archbishop Thomas A. Boland in his salutation greeted those assembled by saying, 

Brothers, parents and friends of the graduating class… What happened to the lay 

teachers? Were they chopped liver in the mind of His Excellency? Were we the “invisible 

men?” At graduation after graduation, year after year, the Archbishop omitted 

mentioning the lay faculty in his opening greetings. That sin of omission hurt!

PATERNALISM PREVAILS 

Back in the dark ages of Catholic education, collective bargaining, tenure, grievance 

procedures, and other rights as we know them today, simply did not exist. 

If a school principal wished to increase the salary of his teachers, he would incorporate 

that increase, usually quite modest, into the proposed budget for the following school 

year. In the case of a diocesan school such as Essex Catholic, the principal would meet 

with the archbishop and present the budget to him for approval. If approved by the 

ecclesiastical powerhouse, he would then return to his drooling lay faculty, telling them 

of his financial conquests on their behalf, while singing the praises of the benevolent 

archbishop. I started at Essex Catholic in 1958 with an annual salary of $3,000.00 a year. 

Next year it increased by $500.00. My net income the first year was $125.00 bi-monthly, 

that’s twice a month, over a ten -month pay period. The following year, because of the 

big salary increase, I opted to be paid the same amount but over a twelve-month pay 

period. This way I didn’t have to worry about a salary-less summer. However, I got more 

bang for my buck back in the late fifties. 

Brother Offer was a most thoughtful and fair individual. A warm friendship developed 

between him and me and I was sorry to see him leave Essex Catholic in June of 1963. We 

showed our appreciation to Brother Offer by giving him a great sendoff that I 

coordinated. He was an ideal principal and most lay faculty members agreed. It’s a matter 

of fact, he was the best principal I ever worked with during my thirty-eight years in 

Catholic education. 

The same was not true of religious administrators in other Catholic schools where an 

autocratic administration prevailed. If a principal had a “personality conflict” with one of 

his teacher’s, the chances of that teacher being offered a contract for the following year 

was in doubt. A principal with a “type A” personality would have little compunction 

firing a lay teacher who might happen to disagree with him, especially if the brother or 

father principal was suffering from a raging hangover from the night before. Lay teachers 

had little recourse to address the injustices they might have suffered under a tyrannical 

collared administrator. Due process was not to be had. After hearing so many horror 

stories from various sources during my early years in Catholic education, I wondered 

would a similar situation lie down the road for Essex Catholic High School? 

I didn’t know the answer to that question, but at the time I realized that we, the lay 

faculty, should be prepared for any and all eventualities. A small but dedicated group of 

lay teachers and myself would work to building a closer partnership with the brother’s 

community, while at the same time, would strive to gain the basic rights of the 

workingman for the lay teachers at Essex Catholic High School.

THE POPE’S ON OUR SIDE, BROTHER 

Ever since the Industrial Age, the pontiff’s of the Roman Catholic Church have spoken 

out on the rights of the workingman. Leo XIII, the “Labor Pope,” in his encyclical 

“Rerum Novarum” (1891) stresses the rights of the workingman, fair and just wages, 

collective bargaining, the right to organize “workmen’s associations,” and the dignity of 

labor. A similar message is reiterated in Pope Pius XI’s, “Quadragesimo Anno.” 

These two encyclicals are the cornerstones of the institutional Roman Catholic Church’s 

position on organized labor. My question: Why wasn’t the Catholic Church practicing 

what it preached in its own house? I planned to address that question. 

THE BIRTH OF THE LAY FACULTY ORGANIZATION (1960) 

From day one, as a pioneer in the Catholic schools labor movement, I have refused to 

accept the premise of some Catholic religious administrators, If you don’t like it here, you 

can go elsewhere. My answer to them, Yes, brother, I like it here but I plan to improve 

my stead. And that’s exactly what I did! 

During the fall of 1960 John Flood, the ranking member of the lay teachers, and I 

discussed the possibility of forming an intra-school lay faculty organization. At the time, 

John was a sharp, quick-witted individual, who taught history during the day at Essex 

Catholic while pursuing a law degree in the evening. We called a meeting that was 

held the following week where nominations and elections took place. John Flood was 

elected the first president and I was elected the vice president of the newly created Lay 

Faculty Organization (LFO). 

The LFO was founded to promote the advancement and enrichment of its members 

economically, culturally, socially and professionally. 

Naturally our economic welfare was paramount to the organization. It was once said, 

while the brothers take to vow of poverty, the lay teachers practice it. However, during 

my tenure as president the following year, I worked to close the divide between the 

brother’s community and the lay teachers. 

Close communications with the entire Essex Catholic community was at the top of my 

agenda. Sponsoring joint get-togethers for both lay teachers and brothers, was high on the 

list of my priorities, after all, we were one faculty, one family.

Substantial salary gains were negotiated between the LFO and the Essex Catholic 

principals in the years the followed. The result was a salary scale that was higher than 

that which prevailed in other schools of the archdiocese. The starting salary rose from 

$3,000.00 to $4,200 per annum. Increments on the middle steps were increased from 

$250.00 to $500.00. A teacher, if he were on the top step could make $8000.00 a year. 

Fringe benefits, including a health plan, were now included for all full time lay teachers. 

Even procreation benefits were included allowing $20.00 each child up to five years of 

age. 

Teachers were automatically covered by the archdiocesan pension plan. I now receive 

$87.00, that’s eighty-seven dollars and not eight hundred and seventy dollars per month, 

for my eighteen years of service to Essex Catholic High School and the Archdiocese of 

Newark. That’s unbelievable! 

The Archdiocese announced that starting in September of 1967, all diocesan high schools 

would be under the same scale. No longer would the Essex Catholic LFO be able to 

negotiate for its members. Some teachers, including myself, were thinking of forming an 

archdiocesan lay-teachers organization. Why not? 

NATO IS FORMED 

Bernard Corbalis was a 1965 addition to the faculty and to the History Department of 

Essex Catholic High School. His earlier hope to become chairman of the department was 

never realized and was quite disappointed when Brother Dennehy announced a name, 

other than his, George Cluff, to be the new chairman. Some faculty members including 

my friend, Tom Tobin, felt that Bernie was among the most Machiavellian of men. 

However, it was Bernie who spearheaded the movement to organize the teachers on a 

diocesan-wide basis in late 1967 and became the acting president of a group called the 

Newark Archdiocesan Teachers Organization (NATO). Not every lay teacher liked that 

militaristic acronym. However, it was better than the Catholic Union of Newark 

Teachers. That proposal was laid on the table immediately. Tsk! Tsk! 

I agreed to play a behind the scenes role in the birth of the NATO, as did Tom Tobin, Pat 

Hoey, both members of the Essex Catholic faculty. My expertise in the area of Public 

Relations would be my principal contribution to the fledgling organization. 

The constitution of NATO was ratified in January 1968. The new constitution did not 

exclude a strike clause, even though Bernie could never see us going to the wall.

To win support among the religious, Tom Tobin assured the various schools that full 

membership would be accorded to any members of the religious communities who 

wished to join. None joined. 

Mr. Corbalis, the president pro-tempore, said the organization would seek recognition as 

sole bargaining agent for the ten archdiocesan secondary schools that had joined NATO. 

This proposal ruffled a few feathers in the Schools Office, especially those of Monsignor 

Joseph P. Tuite, Superintendent of Schools, and his Asst. Supt., Father William Daly. 

The same was not true for The Advocate, the official weekly newspaper for the 

Archdiocese of Newark. Its progressive editorial stated: 

We endorse the developing movement to organize teachers in the 

archdiocese. We see it be consistent with papal encyclicals. We feel 

that educational excellence will follow…that without a reasonably 

competitive capacity to attract skilled teachers who would otherwise 

consider only placement in the public schools, our education system 

runs the ever-increasing risk of being second-choice and second-best. 

A little “saber-rattling” occurred when a possible affiliation with the American 

Federation of Teachers was announced. Our sister Catholic schools in Philadelphia were 

being courted by the AFT at the time. Our affiliation with the AFT never materialized; it 

did in Philadelphia with the incorporation of Local 1776 into the national labor 

organization. Affiliation into the New Jersey Education Assn. appeared very unlikely. So 

we went the independent route, representing ourselves as members of NATO. 

The starting salary for the archdiocesan regional schools for the 1967-68 academic year 

was $4,700.00 which was unreal compared to the public schools. Corbalis wanted 

“parity” with the public schools. That too was unreal! 

The Archdiocese of Newark accepted the credentials of the NATO Negotiating Team and 

the net result was our first negotiated contract. The fruits of their endeavors were 

successful and a new starting salary of $5,750.00 went into effect at the beginning of the 

1968-69 academic year.

CONTRACT MISINTERPRETED 

George Ripley, a teacher at Roselle Catholic High School, was the duly elected president 

of NATO during the 1968-69 academic year. At the time NATO represented ninety 

percent of the lay faculty, nearly three hundred lay teachers, in the ten diocesan regional 

high schools. His school was one of the most pro-union of the diocesan high schools, and 

he presented himself as a pragmatist in dealing with the issues that confronted this 

fledgling teachers organization. 

Things seemed to be going well as the Negotiating Team for the 1969-70 contract settled 

down for talks in the late winter of ’69. Both sides had agreed on a starting base of 

$6,350 for the following September. Then the contract discussions hit a snag. A “bonus 

clause” had been inserted to reward teachers who had stayed in the system. Those who 

attained their fourth year of seniority or better would be paid an additional 5% bonus; 

those with eleven years or more would receive a 10% bonus. That was fine with both 

parties. Both teams agreed and signed off on the contract. Before the contract was issued 

to the NATO members, the question of “when” the bonus should be paid arose. The 

diocesan negotiators maintained that the “bonus clause” would not be payable during the 

next contract year but rather in 1973; NATO said “no” and maintained that it was to be 

paid during the timeframe of the negotiated contract. Both sides were adamant in their 

positions, both sides intransigent. NATO maintained the archdiocese was reneging on the 

contract. 

For the first time in its brief history, NATO was talking of a work stoppage and teachers 

throughout the system were warned not to sign next year’s contract until the “bonus 

clause” matter had been settled. The war drums started beating, as the “s” word became 

the topic of conversation at faculty lunch tables across the archdiocese in April of 1969. 

At this point, NATO retained the services of attorney, Frank Chester. Chester, Ripley, 

and chief negotiator, Frank Palmeri, would be the chief spokespersons for NATO from 

that point on. 

A timetable, listing the events to follow, was drawn up by NATO. On April 8, Mr. 

Chester advised his archdiocesan counterpart, Tom Gassert, of this timetable and sent a 

telegram to Archbishop Boland advising him that there was no contact and the reasons 

for this.

On April 9 all the schools affiliated with NATO signed a unity statement. Being the 

Public Relations Director at Essex Catholic, I was only too happy to work with NATO, 

and later that day, our first press release was sent out. I tried to impress upon my 

colleagues the importance of the media and the “spin” that NATO must be given. We 

must have the media on our side! 

INFORMATIVE PICKETING IN FRONT OF THE CHANCERY OFFICE 

Negotiations to resolve the impasse were still continuing as over a hundred well dressed 

and orderly Catholic school teachers held a demonstration in front of the Chancery Office 

of the Archdiocese of Newark on Saturday, April 12 from 3 to 4 PM. Nobody inside the 

offices heard the group chanting “We Shall Overcome,” as the offices were closed on 

Saturday’s. Dignity was the order of the day and the teacher’s picket signs reflected that. 

At 4PM they left as they came, quietly. 

We were hoping that the message got back to the Archbishop’s mansion in West Orange. 

He did not acknowledge the telegram that Mr. Chester sent to him a week earlier, and 

NATO members felt it rude and a lack of common courtesy not to reply to such a critical 

telegram. 

RALLYING THE TROOPS 

On April 16, I issued a letter to my colleagues as dean of the Essex Catholic faculty and 

as a founder of the Lay Faculty Organization, stating: 

As of late, many efforts have been made to break their (NATO) spirits – 

and ours. Fortunately such efforts have proved fruitless. 

We are now entering a most critical hour. The success or failure of all the 

things we have worked so hard for over the years depends upon the response 

of each and every one of us. If such a response is negative or indifferent, 

our organization cannot be of long duration. Only with a sense of realism, a 

manifestation of unity, and a determination of purpose, can we survive. We 

must survive!!! 

A “P.S.” reminded my colleagues of an LFO meeting after school in the Board Room.

That same day I wrote a letter on behalf of the LFO to our principal, Brother Dennehy, 

submitting that the “present crises” has not been brought about by either the principal or 

administration of Essex Catholic and that we wished the administration will not look 

upon our actions as a deterioration of what has been a rather cordial relationship. 

The drums were beating louder; the “s” word said more often 

A WALKOUT AND THE HISTORIC STRIKE VOTE 

Earlier in the week, the membership of NATO authorized a walkout on Friday, April 18, 

1969. This was not to be the first walkout of Catholic schools in America. The Catholic 

schoolteachers of Philadelphia had that distinction two years earlier under the leadership 

of John Murray (no relation), when it authorized a walkout that lasted under half an hour. 

For the state of New Jersey it marked another “solidarity day” for the teachers of NATO. 

The religious had ample time to prepare for the walkout in terms of class coverage and 

the operation of their respective school’s. 

Some of the teachers participating in the walkout had the blessings of their principals. 

Others were not so accommodating and scheduled faculty meetings for that Friday to 

pressure their faculty to be in school on that day. One proactive principal said he would 

have no qualms hiring replacements for striking teachers to complete the remainder of the 

school year. 

At 10AM virtually every member of NATO assembled at the Coronet, a catering hall in 

Irvington, New Jersey. NATO President, George Ripley and Attorney Robert Chester, 

presented their case before the membership. As a courtesy, NATO allowed Archdiocesan 

Attorney, Tom Gassert, and Asst. Supt. of Schools, Father William Daly, to address the 

assemblage. We heard the usual platitudes coming from the latter. 

A resolution was introduced from the floor to authorize a work stoppage against the 

archdiocesan regional schools effective the following Monday, April 21 with a rider that 

negotiations continue around the clock to break the impasse. The motion was seconded 

and a floor debate on its merits followed.

For many of those gathered in the hall who, like myself, were steadfast members of the 

Roman Catholic Church, it was a difficult motion to accept. Would a vote in favor of the 

resolution mean that we were defying Holy Mother Church? Would a strike mean that we 

were putting our jobs on the line? Questions! Questions! 

The question was moved and a vote was taken. By more than two-to-one majority, 149 to 

72, the lay teachers of NATO authorized a strike. In doing so, history was being made 

whether the members realized it or not. 

ELECTING THE STRIKE LEADER 

Shortly after George Ripley gaveled the assembly back to order after the strike vote, he 

suggested that a committee to formed to execute the strike. A motion from the floor 

created a Coordinating Committee for Strike Action was introduced, seconded and passed 

without debate. 

Now that the ad-hoc committee was in place, it needed a chairman. 

Keith Heiner, a teacher from Union Catholic High School for Boys, was nominated. It 

looked like his nomination would be uncontested, but before George Ripley could 

entertain a motion to move the question to a vote, John King, chairman of the English 

Department at Essex Catholic High School, entered my name in nomination. 

Thereupon, nominations were closed and a vote taken. You guessed it! I “won” the 

election as Chairman of the Strike Action Committee (SAC) and was to be the leader of 

the first major strike of any Catholic school system in America. Within minutes after the 

vote, I was leading, planning and implementing this “radical action” against the 

Archdiocese of Newark and, in effect, the Catholic Church. The ball was now in my court 

and my mind was put into overdrive as I caucused with volunteers from the various 

schools that wished to serve on the committee.

THE WEEKEND BEFORE “S” DAY 

Various sub-committees had to be formed for the implementation of the strike. The three 

major ones were (1) Strike Deployment (2) Picket Signs and (3) Strike Enforcement. I 

hastily organized all three before I left the building, making sure I got the telephone 

numbers of the respective chairpersons and making sure that they had my unpublished 

home phone number. 

I directed the group of volunteers who were contributing their artistic talents on signmaking 

techniques. By mutual consensus we arrived at “sign language.” In no case, were 

signs with improper language or name calling allowed. The press would be covering the 

strike and I did not want to create a negative image of NATO or its teachers. The use of 

big, bold letters with darker colors was encouraged so that the message could be more 

clearly visible and more easily seen by the media and the passing public. 

The Strike Deployment Subcommittee had to assign teachers from their respective 

school’s to pivotal positions around the perimeter of their school and arrange times for 

the various units that were to be in place during the work stoppage that was to begin the 

following Monday. 

In the meantime, I accessed the strike vote in each of the ten schools. I had to know 

wherein our strength lay. “Strong” schools were important for the success of the strike; 

“weak” ones had to be persuaded to continue the good fight. 

I noted that the vote to strike was almost unanimous in Hudson Catholic High School 

while Paramus Catholic High School for Girls voted heavily against the strike vote. My 

own school, Essex Catholic, voted 34 – 22 in favor of the strike. That left much to be 

desired in my mind. Essex Catholic was the largest school both in terms of student 

enrollment and lay faculty and therefore had to be my “looked after” child. I could not 

afford to lose my own school 

The work of the Enforcement Sub-committee would be implemented during the actual 

strike. 

I realized that communications was vital for the success of the strike and over the 

weekend I received more than thirty telephone calls from NATO delegates and 

committee members who had questions or pertinent information that I should know. The 

Strike Command Center was my home, Apartment 5N of Riverview Gardens, North 

Arlington. It rivaled Winston Churchill’s War Room in London. What a hectic weekend!

OUT OF THE CLASSROOMS AND INTO THE STREETS –THE FIRST STRIKE 

The negotiating committee members on both sides worked through the weekend at Seton 

Hall University and burned the midnight oil. Come Sunday midnight, no agreement had 

been reached. A post-midnight phone call from George Ripley advised me that the strike 

was on for tomorrow (Monday). History was about to be made and I was ready. 

The teachers reported to their respective schools an hour before school time where they 

met with their respective strike coordinators. By law, the strikers were not allowed to 

prevent the ingress or egress of people or vehicles from the struck premises. The striking 

teachers were not allowed on their school property, needless to say the school building 

itself. I gave instructions that non-NATO teachers were not to be hassled as they crossed 

the picket line for work. It was their choice not to be part of us, and like the religious, I 

felt they should not be penalized. My colleague and friend, Don Sullivan, was in this 

category. Further, I issued a warning to all coordinators that students were not to be 

“used” by the striking faculty in any way; they were not be used as pawns by either side. 

The strike went well the first day with no defections. However, the week was long. As 

head of the Strike Action Committee (SAC), I had to maintain a esprit de corps among 

my teachers in the field. 

To insure that defections were kept to a minimum, an “unofficial” Strike Enforcement 

Committee (SEC)” was created. I, being a five foot ten, one hundred and fifty pound 

skinny guy, decided it best that I should travel with an entourage of four “husky” teachers 

in a large “luxury” car. Impressions had to be made upon the strikers and my SEC team 

would do exactly that. I traveled throughout the diocese during the course of the strike to 

make sure everything was going well. Our objective was to “rally the troops” and to 

prevent a break in ranks through the use of logic rather than a breaking of heads or car 

windows. Contrary to popular opinion, they were not T. C. Murray’s “goon squad.” After 

all, we were Christians. 

The strike affected over ten thousand students from ten schools in four counties in 

northern New Jersey and. Unfortunately, with a limited staff and some schools as Essex 

Catholic using an alternate day approach, the quality of education that the kids were 

receiving, or not receiving as the case may be, was suffering. That is the sad cost of any 

teacher’s strike.

The striking teachers picketed each day for an hour before the start of the school day and 

an hour at the end of the school day. During the course of the day, a token detail of 

pickets were stationed in crucial areas outside the schools. Truckers, for the most part, 

honored the picket line and would give us the traditional honk of their horn as they 

passed by the school. 

The non-workweek of April 21 saw much rain. Nothing like picketing in the rain with the 

colors from your picket sign running onto your face. In addition, the NATO strike force 

was required to picket the Chancery Office each day. On the second day of the strike 

some 175 teachers gathered en-masse to picket the Chancery Office prompting the 

Newark Star-Ledger to feature in its banner “Strike Gets Stronger.” The reporter noted 

that more teachers converged on the archdiocesan office on Tuesday, April 22, than voted 

for the strike the previous Friday. From my perspective, things were moving along nicely. 

PLAYING HARDBALL 

As the week progressed, some school administrator’s started to play hardball. 

The brother principal of Paramus Catholic High School for Boys threatened teachers who 

were participating in the strike with loss of their jobs while Father Daly, Asst. Supt of 

Schools, threatened “appropriate action” against striking teachers. The Schools Office 

made it clear that striking teachers, if indeed they were not replaced, would not be paid 

for the days that were on strike. That dictum sent fear throughout the minds of many 

strikers, especially those who were the breadwinners of their families. The longer the 

strike continued, the more they would have to lose.

DEALING WITH SCABS – THE LOWEST OF THE LOW! 

An incident occurred at the all-girls, Mother Seton Regional High School in Clark, New 

Jersey. One of Mother Seton’s NATO reps complained to me that the sister principal had 

employed substitute teachers from a nearby school in Union County the previous day. 

The teachers at Woodbridge High School were themselves out on strike and walking the 

line. To me, striking teachers of one system scabbing for striking teachers in another 

system was deplorable and had to be dealt with immediately. They were the scum of the 

earth! Many years later, while a teacher at AFT represented Mater Dei High School, I 

voiced my concern to Ray Peterson who had moved up the AFT ladder to a State level 

and, who at the time of the 1969 strike was Woodbridge High School’s AFT rep. He 

denied his school’s role as that of strikebreaker. Did I notice Mr. Peterson’s nose growing 

as he spoke? 

I proceeded to contact former Newark Mayor, Vincent Murphy, who in 1969 was 

President of the Central Labor Council of New Jersey, and told him my tale of woe. 

At the time, the Archdiocese of Newark was engaged in a massive building campaign 

throughout its four counties. Because of my complaint, Mr.Murphy contacted the 

Archdiocese and informed them that if as much as one scab crossed the picket line and 

substituted for the striking teachers of NATO, all the construction in the archdiocese 

would come to an immediate halt. There were no more incidents of scab labor being used 

during the duration of the strike. That fixed their posterior! 

COMIC RELIEF 

One of the afternoons of the strike I was addressing my own group of Essex Catholic 

teachers in the back room of McHugh’s Tavern in Newark. The solidarity was continuing 

from the Essex Catholic stalwarts. Don Sullivan was still crossing our picket lines, unhassled, 

but other than the Sullivan factor, Essex Catholic had the largest and most 

spirited contingent among the ten secondary schools. I was glad to be part of the faculty 

and, as their strike leader I felt that I contributed to that surge in spirit. 

A reason for my addressing the group was that the NATO reps from Mother Seton 

requested some males to bolster their all-women faculty strike line With the exception of 

Peggy Conway, Essex Catholic had an all male staff. We could readily accommodate 

Mother Seton’s request and send some of our male teachers to the front lines of Union 

County. After taking the names of volunteers, I said in effect, The Seton girls want us, 

they need us, so tomorrow let’s go down there and really give it to them. Oops, sorry!

Mr. Bannigan, and older, distinguished, graying gentleman attached to the Guidance 

Department of Essex Catholic, while discussing the controversial bonus clause of the 

contract wanted to say, it (the contract) sticks in my craw. What he came out saying was, 

it sticks in my crotch. A deadly silence fell over the back room as several male members 

looked toward the only female member in the room. Was she blushing? Not at all! Mrs. 

Conway was not disturbed by Gerry Bannigan’s remark and we continued our union 

business. 

BACK TO THE TABLE AGAIN 

The two sides resumed talks and they would continue negotiations through the course of 

the week and on into the weekend. NATO sent a letter to Carl Marburger, the 

Commissioner of Education for the State of New Jersey, requesting that he intervene in 

effort to settle this labor dispute. However, that was not necessary as an “eleventh hour” 

deal was struck over the weekend and presented to the membership for ratification at a 

meeting at the Coronet Hall in Irvington on Sunday, April 27, 1969. It was ratified by 

less than a two-to-one margin and the next day some 280 teachers returned to the 

classroom. 

Compromise prevailed at the weekend meeting, as the archdiocese agreed to pay the 

bonus to the teachers that qualified during the 1970 academic year instead of the 1973 

academic year as the originally postulated. Certification and Grievance committees were 

set up with representatives from both parties. No teacher was to be paid for any day on 

strike and no teacher would be fired solely because of strike action. Everyone was happy, 

relatively speaking. 

WELCOME BACK MR. MURRAY 

It was good to get back into the classroom after the six days out of the classroom. The 

warmth of students’ smiles and a welcome back, Mr. Murray was a pleasant change from 

pounding the pavement with rain pelting in your face. For the most part, I am a “routine 

person,” although I can go against the flow if the occasion arises. 

The strike created a divide between some brothers and some lay teachers at Essex 

Catholic High School- not all. A case in point was when Brother “Burksey” Whelan said 

to me because of my role as strike leader said, Tom, you know that you have made a lot of 

enemies, don’t you? I replied, While I have made some enemies, I have lost no friends.

That was very true. John Lonergan, the school’s vice-principal remained my loyal friend 

despite our differences over the strike. During the days of the job action, the striking 

teachers did not have access to the school. I was awaiting an important bicentennial- 

related letter from Washington, D.C. I phoned John and he obliged by checking my 

school mailbox each day and did phone me at my home telling me that the letter had 

arrived and that I could pick it up at his home in Newark. 

The principal, Brother Dennehy, treated the rank-and-file of the lay teachers, myself 

included, with the same cordiality he had before the strike. However, he summoned each 

Department Chairperson into to his office on an individual basis, stating to them that he 

felt because they were appointed by the principal, they should have sided with him on the 

strike issue. He felt that chairpersons were in, effect, administration. When he told one 

chairman how pissed off he was because he went out with the strikers’, the chairman 

replied, Brother, it is better to be pissed off than pissed on. 

My only incident came as Monsignor Joseph P. Tuite, the Supt. of Schools, passed my 

open classroom door on the way to meet with Brother Dennehy. I said “Hello 

Monsignor” as I exited the classroom to greet him. His greeting to me was not warm 

saying, Tom, I heard that you threw yourself down on the pavement of the school 

driveway and blocked the passage of a milk delivery truck. 

Not so, Monsignor! Where did you hear that? 

He walked away pretending not to hear me. Was he trying to send me on a guilt trip or 

something? Rumors abounded, rumors faded. 

STRIKE REFLECTIONS 

Could the “first strike” have been avoided? If a spirit of compromise prevailed on the part 

of the Archdiocesan Schools Office when the bonus dispute arose, the strike could have 

been avoided and we would have settled for the same benefits that were reaped as a result 

of the strike. That not being the case and with no agreement in sight, momentum took 

hold about two weeks before the job action and we all know how difficult it is to restrain 

momentum. This momentum gained strength with each passing day. A strike was 

inevitable. 

Was I proud of my role as the guy who lead the first major Catholic school strike in 

America? That, too, is a yes and no answer. I really didn’t like leading the strike, per se, 

but my peers called upon to lead them and I was proud to answer their call.

I definitely think that, subconsciously, I was affected by the “Spirit of ’69,” otherwise, I 

would have spurned the nomination to lead the strike. That “69 fever” was contagious. It 

was a catalyst for change in my life, although the metamorphosing process would take a 

few years. My life would never be the same. 

Perhaps too, it was mother’s death the previous fall that also played a part in that 

decision. I was now unencumbered and attached to no one. I could do what I like, even if 

that meant leading a strike. I knew that Delia was with her son in spirit during the strike, 

for she too was a union activist during her days as a member Local 6 of the Hotel 

Workers Union in New York City. 

One of my labor heroine’s was Mary Harris, known better as “Mother” Jones from Cork, 

the “rebel county,” Ireland, who came to America and was a force to be reckoned with in 

the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. She was a dynamic leader and labor 

agitator who decried child labor and stood up for the rights of the miners and other 

workingmen. I asked myself, Was I becoming a male counterpart of “Mother Jones?” 

Only time would tell, but in 1969 it looked that I was heading in that direction. 

MOVING UP THE NATO LADDER 

It is interesting to note that the two teachers nominated to head up the Strike Action 

Committee were nominated to lead NATO. About a month after the strike, Keith Hiner, a 

lay teacher from Union Catholic High School for Boys was nominated and elected 

president of NATO, while I was nominated and elected vice president. 

As the newly elected vice president, I had ideas, plenty of them, that would show NATO 

clearly leading the way in the field of Catholic education. Also, I wanted to rid the 

organization of the specter of the “first strike” and the one way to do that was to rid it of 

its militaristic acronym, NATO. This meant a name change that had to be approved by 

the membership. The change was so moved, seconded, and voted upon. The new name 

was long and unwieldy – the Lay Faculty Association of Regional Secondary School 

Teachers of the Archdiocese of Newark. The new “LFA” as it was called, was off and 

running for the next school year of 1969-1970 – new name, new leaders and new ideas.

OVER THE BOARDWALK IN ATLANTIC CITY 

My most important role as Vice President of the LFA was to promote educational 

excellence within the organization. This would be accomplished through a series of 

programs that I would direct throughout the 1969-1970 academic year. 

The first such program was held in Atlantic City in November of 1969 in conjunction 

with the annual New Jersey Education Association Convention. The NJEA hosts the 

largest conference of its kind in the United States and attracts over 20,000 public 

educators each year. Public schools are closed the Thursday and Friday of convention 

week. In any event, I would have attended the convention in my role as an Advisory 

Council member of the Education Committee of the New Jersey Historical Society. Now 

I had two reasons for attending. 

We hired a suite in the towering Claridge Hotel for a Thursday afternoon presentation by 

Assemblyman Richard Vander Platt. The Assemblyman had a bill in the New Jersey 

Legislature that would provide vouchers for non-public schools. If passed, that would 

have been a shot in the arm for Catholic education. The NJEA did not have a problem 

with either the program or the LFA, and we were listed on its official program. This was 

another “first” – the first time that a Catholic labor organization received billing at the 

world famous convention, not that there were too many Catholic labor organizations 

around at that time. Under a new banner, many of the attendees remembered us for the 

strike the spring before. 

So you’re the guy who led the Catholic school strike? 

Yes, I was that guy, and it was something that I would have to live with the rest of my 

life. 

Assemblyman Vander Platt’s keynote was well received and roundly applauded. I 

arranged for press coverage of the event and his speech received more attention in the 

press the next day than did the NJEA itself. 

After that presentation, I then proceeded to put on my historians hat and headed for the 

New Jersey Historical Society’s suite where I would play the role of bartender for their 

reception. Did I need a drink!

THE FIRST PROFESSIONAL CONFERENCE FOR LAY TEACHERS 

Another “first” was realized on February 12, 1970 when I organized the first professional 

conference for lay Catholic schoolteachers of the Archdiocese of Newark. Prior to this 

time, religious had their own professional development conferences and they were not 

open to lay faculty members. The February 12 conference was open to ALL Catholic 

educators, religious as well as lay. Like the strike a few months earlier, it did not proceed 

without creating controversy, especially for me. How dare I take a leadership role in 

promoting professionalism among my fellow catholic educators! That was the Church’s 

job! 

The theme of the conference itself, Catholic Education – a Revaluation of 

Philosophy???, was sure to spark controversy. I’m sure the Schools’ Office was asking 

what right did a fledgling organization of lay teachers have to even suggest that the 

philosophy of Catholic education may be in need of re-evaluation, let alone that they 

planned to host a major educational conference. The very thought of a lay faculty 

sponsored conference was resented very much by the institutional Roman Catholic 

Church of the Newark Archdiocese. Inviting religious to attend was yet another matter – 

perhaps the collared might get “contaminated” at the conference and subsequently 

discouraged to attend by the powers that be. 

Once the program was released, all hell broke lose. 

I thought I had a coup when I announced that Monsignor James Donohue, Director of 

Elementary and Secondary Education for the United States Catholic Conference, was to 

be our keynote speaker. A month earlier, he had been featured in a Look magazine item, 

“Are Catholic Schools Dying?” I had known Jim from his days as a counselor at Camp 

Rip Van Winkle and his hobby as a magician was welcomed as he entertained the boys of 

Camp Adrian with a show. Now I wanted the good monsignor to provide me with the 

magic I needed for my conference. 

When I invited him to speak at our conference, he wrote me a “Dear Tom” letter stating 

that he would be delighted to be the keynoter. Shortly before the conference, he wrote me 

a “Dear Mr. Murray” letter informing me that he had to renege on his commitment and 

expressed his regrets. Could it have been that the Archdiocese of Newark had pressured 

him to withdraw from the LFA’s February 12 conference? I felt betrayed by the 

Monsignor’s actions.

Where would I get a last minute replacement speaker? I prevailed upon my good friend, 

Dr. Patrick Conway, chairman of the Chemistry Dept. at Fairleigh Dickinson University 

and past president of the American Association of University Professors, to fill the spot. 

He was already slated to lead the science workshop later in the day. With a little coaxing 

from his charming wife Peggy, and an Essex Catholic colleague as well, my dilemma was 

solved. Thank you, Pat – a true Irishman, indeed. 

The program was divided into two sessions. 

The first group of seven workshops was entitled, “The Basic Disciplines and then Some.” 

Some of the finest minds in the country were invited to lead their respective panels. 

Mitchell Lichtenberg, Co-director of the Education Systems Research Project, as well as 

being the “father” of the “New Social Studies,” flew in from the Carnegie-Mellon 

Institute in Pittsburgh. My friend and former Essex Catholic colleague, John Ennis, was 

now chair of the English Dept. at Kings College in Wilkes Barre, Pa., and led the English 

workshop. 

The workshops in Session II were called appropriately “The Age of Aquarius” and 

consisted of some six presentations, each reflecting progressivism. The topics included 

religion, urban studies, guidance and psychology, “corpus sana, mens sana,” and 

“teachers together,” a union oriented workshop. But, Mr. Murray, that’s only five – you 

said six workshops. Your right! The sixth workshop was on sex, sex education that is, 

and featured Paulist priest, the Rev. James Hagmaier, past Executive Secretary of Sex 

Information and Education of the United States (SIECUS). Was this workshop, presented 

by a progressive Paulist, considered taboo by the hierarchy? I commended Father 

Hagmaier and the other priests and religious who had the intestinal fortitude to honor 

their commitments to the LFA Professional Conference. 

The February 12 th LFA Professional Conference was a huge success. Some religious 

attended but I would have liked it if more collared people were there. It was a “first” and 

I was glad to be an integral part of it. 

I wondered about the possible repercussions of this “indexed” professional conference. 

I’m sure that the collared powers that be realized that the Lay Faculty Associations of the 

Archdiocese of New York and the Diocese of Brooklyn were cooperating organizations 

for my February 12th event. Were they fearing the growth of the Catholic labor 

movement? Did they think that they might soon be displaced in their power structure 

because of Tom Murray and people like him? They couldn’t let that happen. Perhaps they 

should act soon to address this matter. 

At the end of the school year, I was elected president of the LFA for the 1970- 1971 

school year. Problems awaited me and I would address them. A stormy year lay ahead in 

the presidency of Thomas C. Murray, with the “C” in my middle initial now standing for 

“controversy.”

Chapter 23 – TAKING ON GOLIATH – A LANDMARK 

GETTING TO THE TOP 

COURT CASE 

There is no question in my mind that my role as NATO strike leader laid the foundation 

for my rise within the ranks of the Lay Faculty Association (LFA). No longer would I be 

satisfied working behind the scenes as I had been since the inception of the organization. 

Having had a taste of leadership, I now felt that I should not content myself with being a 

rank and file member, but rather, continue in a leadership position. My peers looked to 

me for leadership and I would give it to them. 

As Vice President of the Lay Faculty Association, I had proven myself by coordinating 

two highly successful professional conferences. Perhaps, in the eyes of some, they were 

too successful, too encroaching on the educational power structure of the Archdiocese of 

Newark, New Jersey. 

As LFA President, Keith Hiner, was moving out of Catholic education and into the public 

school sector, this left me is a position to vie for the top spot. And so, I was elected 

President of the LFA in an uncontested election. I now looked forward to bringing the 

organization to even greater heights. 

THE PRESIDENT OF THE LAY FACULTY ASSOCIATION 

I assumed the office of the presidency in June of 1970 with a certain degree of optimism 

and looked forward to cooperation from the teachers within the ten secondary school 

organization and from the Archdiocesan Superintendent of Schools. 

Father William J. Daly, the Assistant Superintendent of Schools for the Archdiocese of 

Newark, was the principal spokesman for the Schools Office. The aging Superintendent, 

Monsignor Joseph Tuite, was playing a lesser role in the day-to-day operations of the 

Office, relying heavily on Father Daly. I actually looked forward to working with Father 

Daly, as he seemed to me to be a more reasonable man than his superior. My hopes 

would be short lived.

At the opening of the academic year in September of 1970, I observed that membership 

forms were very slow in being returned. By early October, the LFA numbers did not 

reflect a majority of the lay teachers in the ten regional high schools. This presented a 

problem to me, and subsequently, I called a general membership meeting to be held on 

October 7 in the Essex Catholic High School auditorium. The theme of the meeting was 

“Which Way – L.F.A.?” I invited some of the nation’s top lay faculty leaders to this 

“rally.” 

Unfortunately, some negative thoughts about the weakness of human nature started to 

enter my mind. Was it because the teachers had a full plate and were fully sated that they 

felt the need for the LFA no longer existed? Were some of my colleagues like salivating 

dogs waiting for their next bowl of puppy chow, but willing to do nothing to earn their 

keep? How unfortunate! “F--- them! Let them fend for themselves! However, I banished 

these thoughts from my mind and went on to lead the meeting on October 7 in true T.C. 

upbeat form. The Executive Board proposed that the annual dues be lowered from $25 to 

$15 per year, with a check-off system an option. The members liked that idea – a $10 

saving for each of them, and spread over three pay periods at $5 a cycle, sounded even 

better. 

At the meeting, I expressed my dissatisfaction with the drop in membership. I threw out 

the concept of dissolving the LFA, stating that, if we are not a truly representative body, 

then our very existence should be questioned. Nothing like a little shock therapy! Would 

it work? That was the question. 

The one bright spot was that the LFA added three new regional high schools to its roster 

– Immaculate Heart Academy (Washington Township), St. Michael’s High School 

(Jersey City) and St Cecilia’s High School (Englewood). This brought the total number of 

schools within the LFA to thirteen. 

Even with the new member schools, membership in the LFA remained pitiful poor. With 

fall of 1970 passing as rapidly as the falling leaves, I wondered whether the natural 

scenario was a harbinger of things to come for the LFA. There was no upsurge of 

membership in sight. Christmas came; Christmas went. The new year of 1971 had 

arrived, and the membership roster was still well below the fifty percent level. A viable 

strategy had to be devised. Our very existence depended upon it. Contract time was fast 

approaching and our vulnerability was becoming ever so evident in the eyes of the 

Schools Office. Would the collared men be like the teachers I spoke of earlier, and go 

into an attack mode like a vicious great white – or should I say “great black” – shark.

THE PLOY 

I had to devise an effective stratagem to save the free-falling LFA. Not only that, but I 

had to re-invent a resilient LFA with a membership roster that was uncontestable and that 

would give the organization a clear mandate for the bargaining sessions that lay ahead. 

The initial “shock therapy” of the previous fall wasn’t working. However, I felt that it 

was worth another try. So, once again, “shock therapy” played a factor in the 

revitalization process. 

RALLY ROUND THE LFA, COLLEAGUES! 

During January of 1971, I personally visited each of the thirteen schools represented in 

the LFA. At each meeting I sounded more like a coach trying to raise his team’s spirits. 

Invariably, I told my colleagues it was a “join or die” situation. 

While there were common threads in each presentation, nonetheless, each had its own 

tailored identity. When I spoke at St. Cecelia’s in Englewood on January 20th, I invoked 

the name of their former football coach, Vince Lombardi, concluding my presentation by 

stating, “Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing,” adding “We MUST Win!!!” 

Indeed, it was an exhausting month traveling around the four counties of northern New 

Jersey, as well as addressing my teaching responsibilities. 

For a coup de grace, I announced to the membership that an emergency meeting would 

be held on February 4, 1971. With failing membership, its purpose was to consider 

dissolution of the LFA. 

In a letter placed in every teacher’s mailbox in each of the thirteen schools on the eve of 

the meeting, I averred: 

This meeting will be critical to your career. Please don’t underestimate its 

importance. Remember! Our future – your future, lies in your own hands. 

Don’t complain later – ACT NOW! Come to our meeting tomorrow evening. 

The diocese is watching. Don’t fail us, or more importantly, don’t fail yourself.

Concurrently, I issued a press release, the purpose of which was to reinforce the severity 

of the crisis in the eyes of the public as well as the teachers. In it I stated that the LFA 

was the only bargaining agent for the nearly 450 lay teachers in the thirteen schools of the 

Archdiocese of Newark. Prior to the meeting, the LFA had a membership of only 180 

teachers or 40 percent of the lay teachers. I stated: 

Though our contract does not require any sized membership, it would seem 

that we should have at least 50.1 percent before sitting down at the bargaining 

table…Fruitful contracts can only be negotiated through a position of strength. 

Once again, I brought in “heavyweights” from the metropolitan area including John 

Murray, founder of the country’s first diocesan lay teachers group in Philadelphia, and 

John Reilly, president of Philadelphia’s Association of Catholic Teachers. 

Being a Catholic schoolteacher, I prayed that my efforts would bear fruit. Would the 

teachers realize the seriousness of the situation after seeing substantial items in the press 

about the possible demise of their organization? Would the banner in the February 3 rd 

edition of the Newark Evening News, “Lay Faculty Unit May Dissolve,” motivate the 

teachers to come out en-masse for the February 4 th meeting? 

THE S.O.S. MEETING OF FEBRUARY 4, 1971 

Some 250 teachers jammed into the auditorium at Paramus Catholic High School for 

Boys on the evening of Thursday, February 4 th. It looked like the majority that I sought 

and worked so hard to attain had now been realized. It appeared that my strategy seemed 

to be working the second time around. 

The meeting was in two parts. The first part consisted of four workshops to which all 

attendees were invited. They dealt with teacher security, working conditions, pensions 

and benefits, and salary. 

I convened the second part, a plenary session, at 8:45PM. 

After my welcoming comments, I announced that the LFA had just opened its own office 

at 866 Kearny Avenue, Kearny, in addition to its own post office box in North Arlington. 

A large meeting room was also available at the Kearny site for our use. 

In addition, I announced that I sent a telegram to Carol Graves, President of the Newark 

Federation of Teachers, supporting her and her union in an ongoing strike of the Newark 

teachers. Besides, we might need her support at a later time.

Barry Ryan, President of the Lay Teachers Group, Archdiocese of New York, delivered 

remarks of support. 

It was then time for me to deliver my “State of the Union’” address. In it, I cited the 

economic and professional gains made by teachers in the few short years of the LFA’s 

life. Our starting salary had increased from $4700 in 1966 to $6750 in 1970 with 

commensurate gains on up the 15-step scale. Employment stability, professional and 

personal days were incorporated into the contract, increased sick days, a maximum of 25 

teaching periods per week with a guaranteed free period, were among the myriad of 

accomplishments achieved by the LFA in a period of four years. Prior to the LFA, 

“employment stability” (term used in lieu of “tenure”) was granted after ten years and a 

day; through the efforts of the LFA it was reduced to three years and a day, the same as 

public schools. Major breakthroughs were made by the LFA. 

I then proceeded to address the question of dissolution, stating that if the LFA did not 

achieve a membership total of 225 members before the beginning of negotiations, then 

we should revaluate the organization and give serious thought to dissolving it. I 

continued: 

An organization is only as strong or weak as its members will it to be. If 

it represents less than a two-thirds substantial majority, then it is not 

truly a representative organization. 

If our organization continues, AND IT WILL, “positive power” must be its 

mantra. 

Each and every one of us must ask ourselves as Catholic educators, “How 

can I contribute to the perpetuation of the Catholic education system both 

within the State of New Jersey and the Archdiocese of Newark?” 

Catholic education is facing some acid tests. We must approach these 

challenges with a very positive sense of commitment. Cooperation between 

religious and lay, parents and teachers, administrators and faculty, the LFA 

and the Schools hierarchy, is a must. Otherwise, Catholic education as we 

know it today will not survive… 

Which way, LFA? I see only one way and that is FORWARD. 

While a standing ovation was in order, it certainly was not necessary.

After the Workshop Committee reports, I opened the meeting to questions from the floor, 

facetiously calling the final session of the meeting, the “bitch box.” 

Before the adjournment of the meeting I was happy to announce that the LFA had 

achieved its long, sought after majority. What a way to end the meeting! 

There were no two ways about it. The teachers appeared to be solidly behind me and, that 

being the case, there was only one way I could go – FORWARD! 

CAUCUSING AND CAROUSING IN THE OFFICE 

With membership reaching the two-thirds mark, I could now spend time in our new 

office. I now had time to coast for a while – not too long, as I would find out within a 

matter of weeks. 

The office, located at the corner of Kearny Avenue and the Belleville Turnpike, was less 

than a five-minute walk from my home. It couldn’t have been in a better location. My 

local “watering hole,” Tom and Sonny’s Cocktail Lounge, was only a half a block away. 

We had our LFA telephone with an off-premise extension connected to my home. Here 

we could caucus and carouse, more caucusing than carousing, of course. 

Regarding the latter, I found the hall to be the prefect place for a St. Patrick’s Day party 

that I hosted on Saturday, March 13, for my friends and colleagues. Even some of the 

brothers from Essex Catholic were in attendance. A couple of my students entertained 

with Irish ballads while Tara (Maureen Hoey) did her belly dancing routine. The brothers 

blushed as Tara approached their table and wrapped her veil around one of them. Tsk! 

Tsk! 

It was a perfect meeting place to prepare for the upcoming negotiations. One of my first 

appointments was Joe Maschuci of Hudson Catholic High School to head up our 

Negotiating Team. Besides, Joe lived in Kearny, and it was Joe who persuaded the 

landlord of our office to offer us the site at a very reasonable rent. Perhaps it was an 

overly dramatic gesture on Joe’s part, but he persuaded myself and other LFA negotiators 

to go to the early bargaining meetings in his wife’s black Cadillac, dressed in dark suits 

and smoking cigars. Besides being in a smoke-filled room with some parties doing their 

best not to cough, the setting would have made a good scenario for a godfather-type 

movie.

John Murray of Philadelphia offered his services to serve as a team member and 

consulter. We gladly accepted the offer of the “father of the Catholic Schools labor 

movement.” 

The office, too, was the setting for the members of our Newsletter staff. I believed that 

regular communications to the membership was vital to the organization and, 

subsequently, came out with our first issue on March 1, 1971. The second issue 

announced the formation of a Political Action Committee (PAC) to promote the agenda 

of Catholic schools including state aid to non-public schools. The second issue even 

congratulated Father Daly on his elevation to that of a monsignor. How nice of us! 

LET THE UNION BUSTING BEGIN 

March came in like the proverbial lion insofar as the LFA was concerned. No sooner did 

we have our first negotiating session than the Archdiocesan Negotiating Committee 

declined to discuss contract proposals, questioning the very legitimacy of the LFA. The 

opposition declared that we truly did not represent a majority of the teachers who we 

claimed to be representing. Our membership in early March was well over the half way 

mark and rising. Hadn’t the Archdiocese heard the news yet? It was clear that the 

Superintendent’s Office was engaged in an attempt to destroy the LFA. It seemed that the 

new monsignor enjoyed riding atop that proverbial March lion. An impasse was now 

created by the Archdiocese and it had to be resolved. 

At a meeting held later that month, between representatives of the Association and the 

Archdiocese, Monsignor Daly indicated that under no circumstances would he agree to 

an election conducted by the New Jersey State Board of Mediation as the LFA earlier 

proposed. It is interesting to note that while pressing for State aid for Catholic schools on 

the one hand, the Schools Office refused the offer of an authorized State agency to help 

resolve the dispute on the other hand. However, at the same meeting, Monsignor Daly 

requested a notarized list of the numbers of teachers in each high school that the LFA 

represented as a bargaining agent. Monsignor specifically stated that he did not wish to 

know the names of the teachers – simply the numbers. 

I conferred with John M. Malkin, Executive Director of the Board. He advised me that an 

election was a possibility but not a necessity, thereby appeasing Monsignor Daly. The 

State Board could verify the LFA’s status by a “signature count” – that is, by checking 

and counting the number of teachers’ signatures authorizing the LFA to act of their behalf 

in collective bargaining. Monsignor had already agreed to this method to determine 

whether or not the LFA truly represented a majority of lay teachers as their bargaining 

agent.

This was the route the LFA opted for. Some 258 Agency Appointment cards, from a 

possible 450 lay faculty members, authorizing the LFA to be the bargaining agent were 

signed by member-teachers, counted, and verified by a notary public. A copy of the 

notary’s affidavit was then presented to the Schools Office with the hope of acceptance 

and thereby continuing with the negotiating process. 

Unfortunately for the LFA, the Archdiocese refused to accept the returns citing 

“coercion” as a reason for the rejection of the affidavit. 

We even requested relief from the National Labor Relations Board. The NLRB refused to 

involve itself citing the fact that the Archdiocese was not an employer covered under its 

jurisdiction – a not-for-profit religious institution. 

The Archdiocese clearly was playing hardball. I would impress upon them that two can 

play the game…those union busting men in black! 

LOCAL 1776, A.F.T. – THE PHILADELPHIA CONNECTION 

From day one, the “two John’s” from the Association of Catholic School Teachers in 

Philadelphia had been our staunchest supporters. 

In May of 1967, the Philadelphia group voted to affiliate with the American Federation of 

Teachers (AFT), AFL-CIO, and was given its appropriate number, Local 1776 of the 

AFT. By the end of the decade the lay teacher organizations of the Archdiocese of New 

York and the Diocese of Brooklyn had affiliated with the AFT. 

John Murray, like myself, was a pioneer in the Catholic schools labor movement and was 

elected the first president of the ACT in March of 1966 (NATO was organized a year 

later.) From the outset, John asserted the power of his fledgling organization. He and his 

band of teachers participated in a brief walkout a year later. John Murray claimed that 

the walkout he organized in 1967 was the “first strike” by Catholic schoolteachers in the 

United States. I countered by saying that the strike of the Newark LFA that I led in April 

of 1969, was, indeed, the first strike, claiming that there is a legal difference between a 

walkout lasting a half an hour and a strike vote taken by the members, allowing them to 

continue a work stoppage as long as necessary. A strike is a walkout but is a walkout 

necessarily a strike? “No,” I said and to this point John Murray agreed. 

. John Reilly was another Philadelphia Catholic teacher activist who would later take over 

the reins of leadership from John Murray and go on to found the National Association of 

Catholic School Teachers in 1978. His help, too, was invaluable.

Of all the three AFT locals, it was Local 1776 that would provide the most support in the 

battle that lay ahead, and John Murray would become an indispensable consulter with 

John Reilly playing a lesser role. 

It was clear that the AFT was courting the LFA in 1971. We were receiving overt support 

from the Philadelphia local, as well as New York and Brooklyn. Newark was the meat in 

their sandwich. I was warmly received by Dave Selden, the national president of the AFT 

at a non-public schools AFT conference held in Philadelphia on March 11, 1971. When I 

was introduced to Mr. Selden, he remarked, “Oh you’re the Tom Murray from Newark 

who led the ’69 strike.” Apparently, my reputation had preceded me. I kept an open mind 

on the affiliation question and considered it as a possibility at a later date. For now, I had 

to concentrate my attention on the course of action that I would take regarding the union 

busting being conducted by the Archdiocese of Newark. 

MUCH ADO ABOUT THE OTHER MURRAY 

Earlier that month, the Archdiocese threw a further obstacle into the resolution of the 

conflict by demanding that the LFA not allow Local 1776 representative, John Murray to 

be a consulter and sit in at the bargaining sessions. In a letter dated March 2, 1971, I 

replied: 

The LFA reserves the right, to invite at our sole discretion, other persons 

to participate in these negotiations if and when we believe such persons 

could be of assistance to us or both parties in reaching an agreement. We 

understand the archdiocese has the same privilege. 

Monsignor Daly and his team felt that a quid pro quo deal had been struck between the 

LFA and the AFT with the promise of LFA affiliation in the national union in return for 

assistance. Poppycock!!!

FILING SUIT AGAINST OUR HOLY MOTHER, THE CHURCH 

At an executive committee meeting held in mid-March, John Murray penned on my copy 

of the agenda: “One question: Shall we start a lawsuit to get recognition?” It was food for 

thought but sent shivers through my body. Who would we want to file a lawsuit against 

our holy mother, the Church – the one, holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church? 

Why, such an action might be considered heretical, and while burning at the stake was 

now outmoded, there were other forms of retribution that could be imposed upon me by 

the Church. My God, I could even be excommunicated. My life was fraught with laborrelated 

pressures and my very soul could now be placed in jeopardy if I were to move 

forward in a court of law. 

For the first time, a teacher, labor-related lawsuit was considered against the Catholic 

Church in America. The executive committee laid the proposal on the table until the next 

meeting and over the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day weekend, the delegates could give 

serious thought to the judicial option. 

The psychological pressure on the president of the LFA was increasing with every 

passing day. I knew that the month of March would not go out like a gentle lamb but, 

rather, the lion would still dominate. I knew that, as president of this controversial 

organization, the pressures of office would be ever-increasing if, indeed, a lawsuit against 

the archdiocese was filed. 

It was Wednesday, March 17, 1971, St. Patrick’s Day. I went over to the New York City 

and marched in the largest – and greatest - of all New York parades. Wednesday was the 

beginning of a long five-day weekend. As many products of Catholic education realize, 

Catholic schools give time off for funding drives, founder’s anniversaries, and the like. I 

looked forward to the long weekend. 

After the parade, I decided to treat myself to dinner at the Casa Delmonte in New York 

City. After a couple of Manhattans at the bar and a bottle of wine with dinner, I was 

feeling no pain. It was in this frame of mind that I decided to pay my first visit to an 

infamous New York City “spa” at the nearby Ansonia Hotel. I stayed overnight, awaking 

the next morning with an “h-o” (hangover). Tsk! Tsk!

Hung over, I returned to North Arlington, packed a small suitcase, got in my car and 

headed for Washington, D.C., where I planned to spend a relaxing weekend. As I passed 

Newark Airport, I asked myself, “I wonder do these credit cards I have in my wallet 

really work?” Passing Budweiser’s “Flying Eagle,” I doubled back to the airport and by 

noon I was on a plane winging my way to Los Angeles. I spent Thursday and Friday in 

L.A. and included a visit to Disneyland and Universal Studios on my itinerary. Where 

would I spend Saturday and Sunday? Two places came to mind – Tijuana and San 

Francisco. I chose the latter and am glad I did. I flew to San Francisco and had dinner at 

Alioto’s on Fisherman Wharf. I loved the city of song and would return some years later. 

On Sunday evening I flew back to Newark Airport. As we were coming in for a landing, 

it was so good to see the “Flying Eagle” atop the brewery, flapping its brightly lit wings, 

welcoming me home. It was quite a whirlwind trip – all on credit cards! Tsk! Tsk! 

However, I felt fully refreshed and ready to take on Goliath. 

DALY’S DICTUM 

Besides the representation question, yet another problem presented itself in early April 

when Monsignor Daly announced that Local 1776 president, John Murray, would be 

persona non grata at all future talks. I had written him a letter in this regard but now he 

seemed to want to call all the shots, ignoring those principles of collective bargaining 

procedures as laid down in papal encyclicals. Daly’s dictum further exacerbated an 

already deteriorating situation. 

HELLO DALY 

In an effort to preserve my composure, I penned a parody of Jerry Herman’s, “Hello 

Dolly,” which was very popular at the time, thanks to the play, the movie, and, of course, 

“Satchmo.” Let’s try it for a little comic relief. A one, and a two, and a three…wellll: 

Hello Daly, well hello Daly 

Won’t you please sit down and talk with us today? 

Your really must, Daly! Won’t you please, Daly! 

You’re so stubb’rorn; you’re so deadly wrong. 

We hope the tide’s turning, L.F.A.’s yearning 

Won’t you please negotiate with us right now? 

So talk to us, father; sit down with us, father 

Daly will never talk to us, 

Daly will never talk to us, 

Daly will never talk to us again!

TAKING ON GOLIATH 

It was back to school, back to the office, and back to the angst. Being a possible plaintiff 

in a lawsuit against the Roman Catholic Church was heavy stuff. Tackling an institution 

as the Roman Catholic Church with its top lawyers, financial resources, and a myriad of 

other things in its favor was a formidable challenge. Nonetheless, a lawsuit had to remain 

a viable option. 

Upon my return from the West Coast, I immediately met with the LFA delegates. At the 

caucus, the delegates expressed their feelings that, because of all the roadblocks put in 

our way by the archdiocese, that the only way to go was through due process in our legal 

system. Before we could proceed, the general membership had to approve the proposed 

actions. A general membership meeting was called for April 6. 

At the meeting, the pros and cons on filing a lawsuit against the Archdiocese were 

pursued. All our options for expeditiously resolving the stalemate were exhausted. It was 

clear which way the LFA wished to go – all the way, to the wall again, once more. 

OUR LEGAL TEAM AND THEIR STRATEGIES 

“Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead” was our slogan for the upcoming court battle. 

At this point, John Murray started to play an ever-increasing role in this whole process. 

Two lawyers would represent the LFA, the plaintiffs in the case. One was Edwin Landis, 

of the Newark firm of Meyner and Wiley, later to become Meyner, Landis and Wiley. It 

was one of New Jersey’s premier law firms headed up by a former governor. Michael F. 

Walsh of the Philadelphia law firm of O’Halloran, Stack and Smith, was a seasoned labor 

lawyer and would be co-counsel with Mr. Landis in the impending lawsuit. Not to be 

outdone, the Archdiocese added Patrick Vaccaro, a 42 nd Street lawyer, to their team of 

Gassert, Murphy and Clarken. I often wondered if the Archdiocesan law firm took the 

case on a pro bono basis. 

Several strategy sessions were held before the filing. Inasmuch the Archdiocese of 

Newark encompassed four counties in northern New Jersey, the LFA had the option of 

filing in the Superior Court, located in county seat in each of the four counties. 

Homework had to be done. County profiles had to be drawn up.

Mike Walsh, a good Irish-Catholic (is there any other kind?), suggested that we be wary 

of filing at a county seat where a Roman Catholic judge was presiding. Subconsciously, 

his honor might have a question of conflicting loyalties in his mind, with the dominant 

loyalty being to the Catholic Church. Mike’s proposal made sense and I went along with 

it. Jersey City in Hudson County was the first to be excluded because of its highly 

Catholic judicial representation including Victor Kilkenny. I suggested that we take a 

look at filing in Newark. I felt that city climates in general seemed to be more welcoming 

for liberal causes, and more open in their thinking than the suburbs. Besides being the 

largest city in New Jersey, Newark was also the press hub of the state. As a public 

relations person, I felt that it could work to our advantage. It was finally decided to file 

before Samuel Alcorn, the presiding WASP judge sitting in the Chancery Division of the 

Superior Court of Essex County in the City of Newark. 

In addition, I was the subject of several depositions, all of which took place in the office 

of Mr. Landis. I was told, that if I had signed these legal documents filing suit against 

Holy Mother, the Church, prior to the Vatican II Council, that I could have been 

excommunicated. Damn! Or should I say, damned! 

Mr. Landis then proceeded to file for a hearing, and an April 22 nd date was set in the 

courtroom of Judge Sam Alcorn. See you in court, Monsignor! I was ready to take on 

Goliath! 

THE CRUX OF THE CASE 

Actually the LFA was filing suit against the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Newark, a 

New Jersey corporation. The “corporation” status made me feel more justified in 

pursuing the case. Perhaps I was a Michael Moore in the making. 

The objective of the case was to prove to the Archdiocese and the Court that we, in fact, 

represented a majority of the lay teachers in their regional secondary school system and 

that the LFA was “the sole and exclusive bargaining agent” for the teachers. Further, we 

felt that degreed librarians, as well as guidance counselors, should be included in the 

bargaining unit. 

We hoped to achieve our objective through a mandated representation election that would 

certify the LFA as the sole bargaining agent for the lay teachers. The Archdiocese 

maintained otherwise, and stated that they intended to issue individual contracts to the lay 

teachers for the next school year – non-negotiated contracts that would be presented to 

the lay faculty on a “take it or leave it” basis. If the Archdiocese were allowed to do this, 

it would deal the LFA a fatal blow. This had to be prevented, and the only way of 

preventing it, was through a court order.

The total number of full time lay teachers in the regional schools also became an issue, 

with the Archdiocese maintaining that there were 475 teachers in the system and the LFA 

maintaining a figure closer to 425. Naturally, the higher the number, the greater the 

number of LFA members would be required for a majority. I maintained that the LFA 

reached a majority at the February 4 th meeting but the Archdiocese disputed the 

contention and at that time pulled out the arbitrary “475” number. At the time we filed in 

court, the exact number of lay teachers in the regional secondary schools was still an 

unknown, laying somewhere between 425-475. All that could be changed with a 

representation election where complete rosters of the respective schools were required to 

be presented to the agency conducting the election. 

IT’S OFF TO COURT I GO 

“C-Day,” April 22, 1971, had finally arrived. I met Ed Landis in his Broad Street office, 

along with Mike Walsh, for one final briefing. We then walked over to the Essex County 

Courthouse where we arrived well ahead of the appointed time that we were to appear 

before Judge Alcorn. 

While we were waiting, along came Carol Graves and her entourage. The president of the 

Newark Federation of Teachers, AFT, was to appear before Judge Alcorn just before our 

hearing. Her teachers were out on strike and she had refused a court mandate ordering 

them back to work. I chatted briefly with her and wished her the best of luck. 

Unfortunately for Carol, luck was not with her and Judge Alcorn cited her for “contempt 

of court.” My case was the next one on the docket and I couldn’t help but think to myself, 

in light of his stern decision to a fellow-labor leader, Will this guy react to the plight of 

the LFA in a way similar to the way he reacted to Carol Graves and her NFT? 

The first day in court was a matter of formality with Ed Landis requesting permission 

from the bench to allow Mike Walsh, a member of the Pennsylvania Bar, to sit at the 

table with him as co-counsel. Permission granted, without objection. The Archdiocesan 

team was similarly introduced. It was then time to present the various legal documents to 

Judge Alcorn, including my sworn six-page affidavit with attachments, as well as the 

filing of a complaint against the Archdiocese in this civil suit. It included a request for a 

restraining order prohibiting the Archdiocese from offering contracts to the lay faculty 

members for the 1971-72 school year, until such time as collective bargaining has been 

completed between the LFA and the Archdiocese. 

His honor obliged and issued a temporary restraining order. Perhaps, Judge Alcorn 

wasn’t such an anti-labor judge after all. We were off and running and were to be back in 

court on April 30 th .

At an April 29 th meeting with Ed Landis, we worked on a reply affidavit in response to 

Monsignor Daly’s unsubstantiated allegations and his very unprofessional tactics. Then it 

was back to court the following day where attorneys for both sides presented their views 

and legal papers on the representation question and of holding a consent election before 

the end of the school year. Time was of the essence if the LFA was to be successful. The 

daylong hearing included the filing of my reply affidavit in which I called the issue of 

having John Murray of the AFT as a member of my negotiating team a “red herring” and 

having “no relationship to this litigation.” 

And yet another day in court on May 5 th ! This was becoming quite a learning experience 

for me. 

COURT ORDERS REPRESENTATION ELECTION 

On May 7, Judge Samuel Alcorn ordered that an election be held on June 4 th to determine 

whether the LFA would represent lay faculty as their “sole and exclusive bargaining 

agent.” His honor suggested that a neutral third party conduct the election, and suggested 

the New Jersey State Labor Mediation Board or the New York based Honest Ballot 

Association. We opted for the HBA. 

The judge further ordered that degreed librarians, as well as guidance counselors, were to 

be allowed to vote in the June 4 election. If there were any disputed ballots, Judge Alcorn 

would make the decision as to which votes would be counted and which votes would not 

be counted after the election. Priests, brothers and nuns were expressly prohibited by the 

court from participating in the election because of their unique status. 

What a victory for the LFA! 

I TOLD YOU SO 

No sooner had the judge left the courtroom than the Archdiocese filed an appeal. On May 

24 th , the Appellate Court ordered a “stay” in the June 4 th election, thereby reversing the 

lower, Superior Court. It is interesting to note that the presiding judge of the three 

member tribunal was none other than Jesuit-educated, Victor Kilkenny of Hudson 

County. Need I say more?

No sooner was the ink from Judge Kilkenny’s pen dry after signing the “stay” order, than 

Ed Landis took the case to the ultimate judicial body, the Supreme Court of the State of 

New Jersey. I met with Ed and Mike Walsh the following day in Philadelphia for a 

strategy session. Mr. Landis then proceeded to file the necessary papers, urging the 

highest court to act with haste in making the decision – June 4 th was closing in. With 

haste, they acted. On May 26 th , the Supreme Court voided the “stay” order of the 

Appellate Court and sustained the original ruling of Judge Alcorn of the Superior Court. 

In the meantime, an ad hoc Committee of Concerned Lay Teachers was formed to offset 

the growing impetus of the LFA. To this day, I do not know who organized this fly-bynight 

organization but suspect that the idea was spawned with the help of the Schools 

Office. Their propaganda was vitriolic, condemning the LFA tie-in with the AFT and the 

tactics used in the strike of ’69. Fortunately, the lay faculty of the regional secondary 

school system recognized the organization for what it was worth – nothing. It fizzled like 

a wet firecracker. 

PCQ38: In what movie did Paul Newman star as an alcoholic lawyer fighting for 

justice in a case involving the Archdiocese of Boston? 

THE ELECTION 

The June 4 th election was now set. Although most of the groundwork for the election had 

already been laid, the LFA had a little over a week to put the finishing touches on this 

“do or die” event. 

Prior to the Supreme Court’s voiding of the “stay,” the Assistant Superintendent of 

Schools worked feverishly to dissuade as many lay faculty members as possible from 

voting for the LFA as their bargaining agent. Monsignor Daly issued several letters to the 

staff of the thirteen regional secondary schools. In each, he condemned the LFA as elitist 

and not representative of most lay teachers. He urged the teachers to vote “no” so that “a 

vocal few cannot make the decision for the vast majority. In a letter of May 20, 1971, 

Monsignor decried the “Philadelphia group” and cited the heartaches of communities like 

the City of Newark which have suffered at the hands of AFT influence in the educational 

system.

Not to be outdone, I issued a two page letter citing the recent legal victories and pointed 

out that this was the “FIRST INSTANCE where an organization of lay teachers have had 

to resort to a court case, let alone a Supreme Court case, just to hold an election. Indeed, 

ours is a landmark case!” Because of the cost of the top-notch legal team, I requested that 

each member contribute $10 or more to our legal fund, noting that LFA dues were 

reduced from $25 to $15 at the beginning of the school year. A third page, in color, cited 

excerpts from Church teaching on organized labor including a recent letter from Pope 

Paul VI in which he proclaimed “the important role of union organization.” 

The electioneering that went into the June 4 th election would have made any political 

machine proud. I created an Election Committee, appointing Paul Kravinger from 

Paramus Catholic Boys High School as chairman. He and Bob Stickles made sure that the 

machine was moving in the right direction, sending out communiqués to the teachers 

almost daily. Personal and phone call communications reinforced the memos. I loved 

their last “get-out-the-vote” memo when they added a P.S.: All faculty are invited to Tom 

and Sonny’s Cocktail Lounge in North Arlington (1/2 block From LFA office) on Friday, 

June 4 at 3PM for a Gala Victory Party (Dutch treat, of course, thanks to the 

Archdiocese). They were confident and so was I. 

It was “Election Day,” June 4, 1971, as more than four hundred lay teachers went to the 

polls. But the controversial election had an unusual twist when 123 religious teachers 

defied a court order and voted in the election. Remember what happened to Carol Graves 

when she defied one of Judge Alcorn’s orders? The Honest Ballot Association challenged 

each clerical vote as it was cast. Only at Hudson Catholic H.S. and Paramus Catholic 

Boys H.S. did the collared teachers refrain from participation. Some of the brothers in my 

own school, Essex Catholic, voted in the election; others refused. I must say with all 

fairness, that Brother Bernie McIlmurray, principal of Essex Catholic High School, was 

most cooperative with me in terms of the many days I had to take off from school to be in 

court or in the lawyer’s office, and he even paid me for the lost time. 

The LFA won the representation election by a 274 to 143 margin. Even with the vote of 

the priests and religious, the LFA still won by a 285 to 260 margin (it looked like the 

LFA picked up eleven broad-minded collared personnel along the way). Later, Judge 

Alcorn would nullify their votes. 

Whew! What a day! After meeting with members of the LFA delegates and the Election 

Committee at “Election Central” (LFA) headquarters, we then proceeded to Tom and 

Sonny’s Lounge for that long-awaited victory celebration.

AN ELECTION WON, AN ELECTION LOST 

Our last general membership meeting for the year was held on June 22, 1971. Paul 

Kravinger, who headed up the Election Committee, decided to run against me for the 

presidency for the 1971-72 academic year. Paul had done an outstanding job in rallying 

the members for the June 4 th election and, I’m sure, the rank and file membership kept 

this in mind when they voted. 

I lost the election to Paul in a very close race and met with him two days later at the 

Kearny office to turn over the reins and to pledge my support in the trial that was slated 

for July. 

It is my contention that I lost the presidential race to Paul not because of his skills as an 

organizer, but mainly because of my close ties to the AFT. So many of my colleagues 

saw the AFT as a behemoth ready to swallow up the newly-emerging Catholic schools 

lay teachers organizations as it had done in Philadelphia and New York. My Philadelphia 

connection proved to be my albatross 

A LANDMARK CASE 

The trial for representation was set for July 20 th in the Superior Court. After three days of 

trial before Judge Alcorn, the Archdiocese was ordered to bargain with the LFA. Not 

only did the judge rule that the Archdiocese should negotiate a contract for the next 

school year, but he ruled that the LFA does represent degreed librarians and guidance 

counselors as well as teachers. The court also ruled that the votes of religious teachers 

could not be counted as they were treated by the Archdiocese as a separate class of 

teachers. The Archdiocese’s objections to the conduct of the election were dismissed, as 

they could not prove that any free choice of any teacher was affected. 

The Archdiocese of Newark decided to use the appellate process once more, and 

understandably so – the LFA would have done the same thing if the situation were 

reversed. 

After going through all the steps of due process the Archdiocese of Newark was dealt a 

mortal blow by the Supreme Court of the State of New Jersey on February 2, 1973 when 

it ruled that the original decision of Judge Alcorn, set by him on July 22, 1971, would 

stand. Case closed!

As a result of this landmark decision, lay teachers in Catholic secondary schools 

throughout New Jersey may organize and bargain collectively for their wages, fringe 

benefits, working conditions, and all the other things that affect their lives as professional 

men and women. 

UNION BUSTING IN CATHOLIC SCHOOLS TODAY – ALIVE AND WELL 

More than three decades have elapsed since the “first strike” of 1969 and the landmark 

court case of 1971. Since then, the Catholic schools union movement has grown with 

some success across the country. Still today, many dioceses, school superintendents, 

pastors and school principals refuse teachers in Catholic schools the right to organize and 

bargain collectively – rights of the workingman clearly advocated in papal encyclicals. 

It’s sad to say that today union busting on the part of some Catholic schools is alive and 

well. Clerics and religious in some schools throughout New Jersey, and throughout 

America for that matter (Fort Wayne in the mid-1990’s), have made a concerted effort to 

keep unions out of the schools under their jurisdiction. There are ways and there are 

ways. For organizing teachers, unionizing may prove a challenge. 

One such case involved a Catholic high school located only a short distance from where I 

live. Several attempts to organize a bargaining unit at the school failed. Monsignor 

“Casey” (not real name, as I don’t want to be sued or excommunicated) was the director 

of the school whose rule reminded one of czarist Russia. It was a dilemma for any teacher 

who wanted to organize in the school, inasmuch as he or she was not protected by tenure. 

A teacher from that school did not have her contract renewed when it was found that she 

was part of a movement to organize within her school. She came to Mater Dei High 

School and that was our gain. So beware my fellow-organizers. If you are not protected 

by tenure, you are taking a chance of being fired if you try to organize in a hostile 

climate! 

In the June, 2002 NACST Newsletter, President Rita Schwartz writes: 

Union busting is union busting, whether it is attempted on long organized 

groups like the Boston Archdiocesan Teachers Association or on fledgling 

organizations like the St. Denis and. St. Rose Associations (both in my Diocese 

of Trenton).

In a congratulatory letter to me on the occasion of the 25 th anniversary of the “first 

strike,” Tom Donohue, Secretary-Treasurer of the AFL-CIO wrote: 

I want to congratulate you on 25 years of effort to advance the Catholic 

schools union movement. 

In response to a draft outline that I sent him that included a section on union busting, 

Donahue went on to cite other union busting activities by the Catholic Church in cases of 

cemeteries, hospitals, etc. under its control. 

It’s really sad to see the Catholic Church not practicing what it preaches. Shame! Shame! 

Shame! 

WE’VE COME A LONG WAY 

Shortly after its disaffiliation with the AFT in 1978, Local 1776’s president, John Reilly, 

went on to found the National Association of Catholic School Teachers (NACST). 

Newark’s LFA was one of the first school systems to affiliate with the new national 

group and remained a NACST member up until the late 1990’s. Today NACST 

represents Catholic teacher groups from coast to coast and is headed up by Rita C. 

Schwartz, a dynamic lady if I ever saw one. 

Non-affiliated lay teachers groups, some independent and others “not so independent,” 

are commonplace today in Catholic schools across America. 

Catholic school leaders should never forget the role of the pioneers in the earliest years of 

the movement especially John Murray and John Reilly of Philadelphia. 

I’m glad to have played a role in this whole process and, if I had it to do over again, I 

would – strike, court case, and all!

Chapter 24 – BICENTENNIAL FEVER 

USA 200 - AN EXERCISE IN DEMOCRACY 

In 1966, ten years before the bicentennial of America’s independence, Congress passed, 

and President Lyndon Johnson signed, a bill creating the American Revolution 

Bicentennial Commission (ARBC). The bill empowered the president to appoint 

members to the volunteer agency and, on January 18, 1967, the president filled the 

seventeen public member slots. Conspicuously absent from the roster was a 

representative from New Jersey. 

I mulled over this grave sin of omission and, as a New Jersey resident and historian, felt 

slighted. How could this grievance be addressed? 

At the beginning of the 1967-1968 school year, I met with Bob Tortoriello, the head of 

My “brain trust” and a senior at Essex Catholic High School. The net result was the 

Catholic High School observance of the Bicentennial, as well to launch a statewide drive 

to seat a New Jersey representative on the ARBC. The latter would be accomplished by a 

Constitutional right to petition the government for a redress of grievances as guaranteed 

by the First Amendment. We in New Jersey felt aggrieved. 

To implement this right, Bob Tortoriello drafted a resolution, citing in his perambulatory 

clauses, the pivotal role the Colony-turned-State of New Jersey played in the fight for 

independence. Indeed, New Jersey was the “cockpit” and “crossroads” of the American 

Revolution. Bob’s operative clause concluded the resolution, stating: 

We, the undersigned, do respectively request the a New Jerseyman be 

appointed to the American Revolution Bicentennial Commission, and 

that this serve as just recognition of New Jersey’s priceless contribution 

to the cause of American liberty. 

On the top of the reverse side of the resolution sheet, the sponsoring school wrote its 

name and location. The next line stated: We, the undersigned, support the resolution on 

the reverse side of this page. On each page there was room for twenty-five signatures, as 

well as the town and grade of each signing student. 

1

By the beginning of the second semester we were ready to launch our campaign. On 

Wednesday, February 21, 1968, USA-200 was officially created in the auditorium of 

Essex Catholic High School when Patrick Harvey, a junior at the school, affixed his 

signature to the first petition form. Joan Hull from the New Jersey Historical Society and 

Bernard Bush from the New Jersey Historical Commission were on hand to witness the 

ceremony. Both organizations would lend their support to our endeavor. 

It was the objective of USA –200 to send mailings to every secondary and middle school 

in the state of New Jersey. Enclosed was a cover letter urging support of the resolution, 

and a copy of the resolution / petition. I requested that the social studies chairperson in 

each school coordinate the drive in his or her respective school, and make available 

copies of the petition to its students for their signatures. Initially, our goal was to collect 

100,000 student signatures – one must always aim high in life. Pragmatically, I projected 

a 25,000 figure in my own mind. 

Our civic endeavors were editorialized in newspapers all across New Jersey from the 

prestigious Newark Evening News to the lesser-known Burlington County Times. I had lit 

the match and a groundswell of support would be immediately forthcoming. 

From past experiences, I knew that organizing and implementing a statewide project 

takes a lot of time and effort. As it was near the end of February, I felt a little 

uncomfortable executing the project past the midway point of the school year. There were 

just too many things happening during the second semester at Essex Catholic, or for that 

matter, any high school across America. So, reluctantly, I made the decision to defer the 

mailings until the beginning of the next academic year – the fall of 1968. Although Bob 

Tortoriello was graduating in June of ’68, and therefore would be unable to shepherd the 

first phase of USA- 200 to its conclusion, I agreed to keep him fully abreast of 

developments while he was attending college. 

At the beginning of the 1968-1969 school year, as Director of USA-200, I proceeded to 

appoint three dynamic seniors to implement the petition phase of the project – Joseph 

Fernandez, Kevin McConnell, and John Ronches. These “69ers” would provide USA 200 

with exceptional leadership. 

2

The mailing process was tedious, what with stuffing, stamping, and an occasional paper 

cut suffered by one of our student mail clerks. Over 500 pieces of first class mail went 

out with Essex Catholic picking up the postage. Naturally, I expected my first return 

within a day or two. That did not happen. However, with Essex Catholic having reached 

its maximum enrollment, I could count on my own school for some 2,500 signatures. If I 

couldn’t get the cooperation within my own Social Studies Department, then I would get 

it nowhere. I’m sorry to say that a few of my own colleagues were very resentful – or 

jealous might be a better word – of my many successful programs at Essex Catholic. 

By February 14, 1969, USA 200 had collected only 10,000 signatures. This was 

beginning to worry me. So I had the dynamic trio man the phone banks with follow- 

through calls to secondary and middle schools throughout the state. 

It was now time to lay the groundwork for the next step – the presentation of the petitions 

to a representative of America’s newly elected president, Richard Nixon, in an 

appropriate White House ceremony. Accordingly, I wrote a letter to “Uncle Pete” 

Rodino requesting that he set up an appointment with a Nixon staffer for the petition 

ceremony. 

Not only did Congressman Rodino agree to set up an appointment at 1600 Pennsylvania 

Avenue upon the conclusion of the petition drive in mid-spring, but advised me that he 

would get the seventeen member New Jersey Congressional delegation behind our 

resolution. He did! 

The “Spirit of ‘69” would prevail! By the cutoff date of March 31, 1969, I had received 

over 30,000 student signatures. Over the Easter recess we received nearly 15,000 

additional signatures. We were now ready to go to Washington with an impressive count 

of nearly 50,000 signatures from the electorate of tomorrow. Open up those White House 

gates, New Jersey’s kids are coming through! 

3

BACK TO THE WHITE HOUSE 

Our entourage to Washington consisted of students Joseph Fernandez, Kevin McConnell, 

and John Ronches, accompanied by John Lonergan, the Vice Principal, and myself. Joan 

Hull and Bernie Bush represented their respective historical organizations. On the 

afternoon of Friday, May 23, 1969, we presented our credentials to security at the West 

Gate of the White House and proceeded up the incline to the reception room of the West 

Wing for yet another security check. John Davies, a special assistant to President Nixon, 

received our group and led us to a room where the presentation was made. 

As he was tied up with Congressional duties, “Uncle Pete” could not join us for the 

presentation. He did, however, have a letter signed by the entire New Jersey 

Congressional delegation calling upon the President to appoint a representative from New 

Jersey to the American Revolution Bicentennial Commission. A few days prior to our 

White House visit, Governor Richard J. Hughes sent a telegram to the President 

requesting similar consideration. 

Kevin McConnell presented the stack of petitions bearing nearly 50,000 signatures to Mr. 

Davies and delivered a few words on behalf of the youth of the State of New Jersey, 

urging the President to consider our petition for the “redress of grievances.” 

4

After the presentation ended, we were treated to a special VIP tour of the White House. 

Mr. Davies phoned the Oval Office to tell security that he was bringing us for a visit to 

that seat of power. Next came the Cabinet Room with the President’s Chair the focus of 

the oval table. The highlight of the tour came when Mr. Davies invited us out to the 

White House Lawn to watch President and Mrs. Nixon take off on Marine I for Camp 

David. We were the only group on the lawn. Mr. Davies began a “who’s who” as each of 

the Camp David bound passengers boarded the helicopter. Included was the military 

attaché who carried in his case, the “football,” the latest codes that would enable the 

president to set the doomsday weapons of destruction into motion – Oh, Dr. Strangelove! 

Pat and Dick were the last to get on. The president did acknowledge our group with a 

hand wave and a guarded Nixon smile before he boarded Marine I. It was impressive to 

watch the helicopter take off from the White House Lawn and fade away into the blue 

horizon. Goodbye Dick! 

THE APPOINTMENT 

As of July 3, 1969, President Nixon had appointed the seventeen public members to the 

newly reconstituted American Revolution Bicentennial Commission. Once more, New 

Jersey was slighted. Our neighbor, the State of New York, was awarded six seats on the 

Commission. Why distant California, with no part in the American Revolution, received 

three seats, I’ll never know. Perhaps it was because the incumbent president was from 

that state. Pennsylvania received two seats and that was well justified. Alabama, Illinois, 

Mississippi, Nebraska, South Carolina and Virginia each had one member on the ARBC. 

Come on Dick, already! We were not yet ready to give up the fight. Once again, we 

prevailed on Congressman Rodino to trumpet our cause, and Uncle Pete would not let us 

down. It would take a while but persistence would pay off. 

5

Our unanimous choice to represent New Jersey on the ARBC was Richard P. 

McCormick. Dick was New Jersey’s foremost historian, and I had the pleasure of 

working with him previously on New Jersey – related history projects. Dr. McCormick 

was an academician of the highest order. At the time, he was serving as Chairperson of 

the History Department at Rutgers – the State University, and Chairperson of the New 

Jersey Historical Commission. Dick also had served as Dean of Rutgers College and had 

written several books on New Jersey history. It would be Dr. McCormick’s name that 

would be submitted by Congressman Rodino and the New Jersey Congressional 

delegation to President Nixon for consideration as an appointee to the ARBC when a 

vacancy occurred. The newly elected Republican Governor, William T. Cahill, jumped 

on the ARBC petition bandwagon and fired off a letter to his fellow partisan in the White 

House, sending me a copy. 

The world of history was saddened to learn of the death of Catherine Drinker Bowen, a 

prominent Pennsylvania historian and author of Miracle in Philadelphia. Ms. Bowen was 

one of the two Pennsylvania representatives on the ARBC. There was now a vacancy on 

the Commission. Phone calls had to be made; lobbying had to be renewed. 

On May 21, 1971, “Uncle Pete’s” secretary, Joy Hoare, phoned me at Essex Catholic 

High School advising me that President Nixon had just appointed Dr. McCormick to fill 

the late Pennsylvanian’s seat on the American Revolution Bicentennial Commission. 

What had begun as an exercise of democracy at Essex Catholic High School in 1967, had 

mushroomed into a major state-wide project, reaching fruition with the appointment of 

Dr. McCormick to the ARBC in 1971. 

With some help from the powers that be in the New Jersey State House and Congress, the 

youth of New Jersey was heard. Especially helpful was “Uncle Pete.” In appreciation for 

his efforts, the Social Science Federation of Essex Catholic High School honored 

Congressman Rodino by conferring honorary membership upon him in the organization 

that I founded some ten years earlier. 

6

DINNER WITH DICK 

No, not that Dick, but rather Dr. Dick McCormick of Rutgers University. Elated that my 

goal had been achieved, I took it upon myself to organize a dinner honoring the newest 

ARBC appointee. An Honorary Committee was formed headed by Governor Bill Cahill 

and included three former governors – Richard Hughes, Bob Meyner, and Alfred 

Driscoll. Senators Clifford Case and Harrison Williams, as well as Congressman Rodino, 

represented Congress. The rest of the committee read like a Who’s Who of New Jersey. 

As coordinator of the gala, I did all the work – naturally! 

After crosschecking dates with key personnel whose presence I needed for the success of 

the event, I booked the largest reception room in Thomm’s Restaurant on Park Avenue in 

Newark, for Friday, September 10, 1971 at 7PM. The only person missing from my list 

was an emcee/toastmaster. I had hoped that Peter Roberts, the baritone-voiced 

commentator from radio station WOR would accept the invitation to do the honors. He 

phoned me expressing regrets, stating that he would be off to a Caribbean island for 

holiday at that time. So much for Peter Roberts! Certainly I did not want a hoary historian 

as toastmaster, so what the hell, I said to myself and decided to wear the hat of 

toastmaster. It proved to be a good fit. Well, almost a good fit. 

The dinner was preceded by cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Being the perfect host, I 

welcomed our many guests, urging each to taste of the nectar of the gods at nearby 

fountains that were flowing with Manhattan’s and Daiquiri’s. Hosting guests for a full 

hour was quite demanding. The rigors of such office demanded that I replenish my 

Manhattan. With glass in hand, I worked the crowd, handshaking and schmoozing, as I 

went from guest to guest. I talked with former Governor Bob Meyner and his wife Helen, 

who would be elected to Congress in 1974. After chatting with many other interesting 

people, I looked at my watch. It was 8PM – dinnertime. Our guests, cocktail in hand, 

moved into the main dining room and took their reserved seats. It was time for me to 

formally open the dinner program. 

~ 

As toastmaster, I tapped my water glass lightly with my silverware to signal the dinner 

program was about to begin. I proceed to the speaker’s rostrum located in the center of 

the dais and asked everyone to rise for the singing of the Star Spangled Banner. After 

consuming some potent potables at those magic fountains, they were in a singing mood, 

and so was I. 

7

I had hoped that His Excellency, Archbishop Thomas A. Boland, would deliver the 

Invocation. Actually I had written him a letter inviting him to the event for the purpose of 

delivering the Invocation. However, I did not receive a response from him. Presumably, 

he was irked with me because of the court suit that I, as president of the Lay Faculty 

Association, initiated against the Archdiocese of Newark a few months earlier. It seemed 

that he no longer wanted to associate with the man who once wrote a “Defender of the 

Faith” rebuttal to some careless, socially-active priests’ charges a couple of years earlier. 

Now I know how Thomas More must have felt when Henry VIII ordered the execution of 

his Chancellor and faithful servant. That rejection from the Archbishop hurt! 

Perhaps it was the potent potables, but as I was about to introduce Brother O’Brien, the 

principal of Essex Catholic High School, who agreed to deliver the Invocation, I 

suddenly changed my role from toastmaster to “roastmaster.” Before I called upon 

Brother O’Brien, I told the audience the background of my conflict with the Archdiocese, 

noting that it was Ed Landis, present in the audience and a lawyer from Governor 

Meyner’s firm, was my chief counsel in my suit against the Archdiocese. I then went on 

to say: 

I invited the Archbishop to deliver the Invocation this evening. Unfortunately, 

I did not receive the courtesy of a reply. I know what I am going to give His 

Excellency as a Christmas present – a copy of Jim Bouton’s book, “ I’m Glad 

You Didn’t Take it Personally.” 

After the laughing subsided, I introduced Brother O’Brien who went on to deliver the 

Invocation. 

8

Bob Tortoriello, then a student at St Peter’s College in Jersey City and the first 

chairperson of USA 200, delivered the opening remarks. Bob cited the role of the young 

people of New Jersey in helping to bring about the appointment of Dr. McCormick: 

I think that the import of what we set out to do goes far beyond the literal 

substance of our quest. It is a portent of much more – of the vast wealth of 

potential that exists within our students to criticize by creation, to criticize 

by constructive efforts to change, to criticize without resorting to the time- 

worn and futile rhetoric of the street. 

It was now time to hear from Congressman Rodino. Apparently, the effects of drinking 

from the spring of muses had not yet worn off and I continued the proceedings in my role 

as “roastmaster” – and did I do a job! 

Some months earlier in an upscale home on Lake Street in Newark, not too far from the 

residence of “Uncle Pete,” the Essex County Sheriff’s Office raided the premises of a 

Dutch citizen, Monique Van Cleef. The New York Daily News had a couple of photos of 

the Madam’s S & M House on the front page of the tabloid the following day, replete 

with whips, chains and whatever. Introducing the Congressman, I went on to say: 

I am very happy that my friend, Peter Rodino, is with us this evening. The 

Congressman, who led our petition drive in Washington, is chairman of the 

Subcommittee on Immigration and Naturalization of the House Judiciary 

Committee. He is also the Assistant Majority Whip in the House of Repres- 

entatives, and speaking of whips, anytime he needs an extra one, he sees his 

old friend, Monique Van Cleef. 

With the Monique incident still fresh in the minds of the attendees, pandemonium broke 

loose at Thomm’s Restaurant. “Uncle Pete” turned as “red as a beet.” 

Holy shit! Did I say that? Tsk! Tsk! 

It took several minutes to restore order, and after reassuring the audience that I was only 

kidding, I went on to introduce the Honorable Peter W. Rodino Jr. The Congressman 

seemed to take the whole Monique thing in stride and went on to deliver his remarks in 

true oratorical style. 

9

John T. Cunningham delivered the keynote address, “New Jersey and the Bicentennial.” 

John had recently taken over as Chairman of the New Jersey Historical Commission and 

his popularity as a speaker had not diminished. I presented his predecessor on the 

Commission, Dr. McCormick, with an antique New Jersey History plaque and a response 

from the noted historian concluded the program. 

Mr. Melvin Spector, the Executive Director of the American Revolution Bicentennial 

Commission, flew up from Washington to be with us and had the honor of cutting a 

special “Spirit of 1776” cake. Yum! Yum! 

Except for the extemporaneous remarks of an exuberant toastmaster, the evening was a 

huge success by any standard. 

In a letter from Dr. McCormick to me dated September 19, 1971, he wrote: 

I was quite sincere in my statement that it (the dinner) really represented 

a tribute to you, to your associates in USA 200, and to Congressman Rodino. 

Had it not been for your zealous and effective campaign, there would have 

been no occasion for a dinner. 

Thank you, Dick. Dinner with you was most enjoyable. 

T. C. TESTIFIES IN TRENTON 

Less than a year earlier, on May 5, 1970, I was invited to testify before the New Jersey 

Historical Commission in the Senate Chamber of the State House in Trenton. 

Commission Chairman, Dr. Richard McCormick presided. The list of testifiers included 

persons from within and without the history community, as well as from within and 

without New Jersey. The purpose of the hearings was get input from various leaders and 

organizations as to how the American Revolution Bicentennial In New Jersey might be 

best observed. 

The thrust of my twenty-minute presentation was primarily for teachers and the education 

community. I said that a more positive image of our State should be presented in the 

classroom from kindergarten to the university. 

10

I think that far too many people today are tearing down that image and now 

is the time to start rebuilding that image in the classrooms. 

When the 1976 observance reaches its height, July 4 th , we don’t want to see 

how many flags we can burn; rather, we do want to see how many flags we 

can proudly wave on high… It’s about time that we have a resurgence of 

national pride in our classrooms and on our campuses. 

It was still early in the Bicentennial movement as certain eastern seaboard cities were 

positioning themselves to be the official host of the 1976 celebration. Both Boston and 

Philadelphia were among the front-runners. Philadelphia, the home of Independence Hall, 

had its world famous Centennial Exhibition in 1876. I was familiar with both cities, and 

in light of a three day school trip to Boston a couple of months earlier, I took the 

opportunity to chide “Beantown” for its lack of historical restoration in preparation for 

the Bicentennial. 

While on a bus tour of Boston, the guide pointed out that that we were passing the sight 

of the Boston Massacre. One of the kids queried the guide: 

Where’s the site? 

We just drove over it, was the guide’s reply. 

Faneuil Hall was the site of a not very active meat market. I continued my testimony: 

We then drove to Bunker Hill…The grounds left much to be desired, dogs 

running all around the base of the monument…Words written on the monument 

that would put a seasoned sailor to shame. So I was very disappointed. And 

certainly if there was a choice between Boston and Philadelphia, well there is 

no question as to which city I would recommend. 

It turned out that neither historic city was selected. The ARBC in its wisdom decreed that 

no city or town should be the central focus of attention but rather each and every city and 

town in America should do its own thing. No international exposition was in order either. 

Personally, I agreed that each city and town in our country plan its own Bicentennial 

observance, but I would have liked to have seen a world’s fair in Philadelphia – or even 

Boston, for that matter. 

11

My testimony continued, stressing the need that teachers urge their charges to explore 

and restore – take a field trip to Batsto or Allaire State Park where the iron for the 

cannonballs and bullets of the American Revolution was forged or have their students 

cleanup a local cemetery. Teachers should start planning Bicentennial school programs 

early and should consider starting a Jerseymen chapter in their respective school. I 

concluded my presentation stating: 

…it is important that we the people of the United States of America rekindle 

within ourselves the faith of our founding fathers and that we rededicate 

ourselves to those basic principles as set forth in our Declaration of 

Independence some 200 years ago; and that we reaffirm our belief in 

divine providence. We can have all our parades and fireworks; we can have 

all our pageantry, but if we fail to recommit ourselves to the spirit of ’76, 

then I’m afraid that the Bicentennial will be for naught. 

BICENTENNIAL BUG BITES NEWARK 

In keeping with the local observance concept of the ARBC, the City of Newark, as well 

as the Archdiocese of Newark, created their respective Bicentennial committees in early 

in 1974. As a founding member of the Newark Bicentennial Committee, I was named to 

head up its Festival Committee, and serve in an advisory role to the Archdiocese of 

Newark Bicentennial Committee. Jill Coogan of the Newark Public Library served on the 

city committee and was my mainstay on the Festival Committee. So, too, was Sister 

Eileen Marie, O.P., who served on both church and city committees. Charles Cummings, 

who succeeded Miriam Studley as chief reference librarian for the New Jersey Division 

of the Newark Public Library, was the chairperson of the newly created Newark 

Bicentennial Committee. As an upstanding Episcopalian, born in Puerto Rico and moving 

to the South at an early age, Charles was an academic type who knew the ins and outs of 

municipal government, and gave the Bicentennial movement in Newark the boost it 

needed to forge ahead in the ever-changing city. Newark had elected its first black mayor, 

Kenneth Gibson, in 1970. Contacts had to maintained in City Hall and Charles was the 

man to maintain those contacts, especially if the Newark Bicentennial Committee was to 

seek a budget as 1976 drew closer. 

A CATHEDRAL IS DESIGNATED A STATE LANDMARK 

Many people do not know that Sacred Heart Cathedral is longer than St. Patrick’s 

Cathedral in New York City, taller than Notre Dame in Paris and has square footage close 

to that of Westminster Abbey in London. 

12

As mentioned previously, I had an ongoing feud with the Archdiocese of Newark in my 

role as a labor leader. I considered Archbishop Boland my spiritual leader and was set 

back when the strike cum schism occurred. The lawsuit against the Archdiocese further 

weakened my relationship with the Archbishop. His Excellency was starting to get up in 

years and I felt it was time to extend my “olive branch” to him. 

For years, the Essex Catholic High School Social Science Federation participated in the 

Jerseymen’s Defense Brief Program. A student wrote a carefully documented research 

paper with reasons why his proposed site should be eligible for New Jersey landmark 

status, and then submitted it to the New Jersey Historical Society for consideration. It was 

a difficult process to gain recognition. Some of my student’s briefs made it; others didn’t. 

Upon finding out that the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart was not an officially registered 

state landmark, I proceeded to bring the matter to my U.S. History II Honors Class, 

proposing that a student take up the call, write a defense brief, and if chosen, would bring 

credit upon Essex Catholic and the writer of the brief. The brief would be my ticket to 

restoring normal relations between the Archbishop and myself. 

Ricky Stefanelli, a parishioner from Sacred Heart, said that he’d be honored to answer his 

school’s call and went on to write a brilliant paper. I suggested that it be dedicated to 

Archbishop Boland. Both of our dreams of establishing Sacred Heart Cathedral on the 

State Register of Historic Sites came true at the annual Jerseymen Convention in May of 

1974 when it was announced that the Ricky’s defense brief was one of the two selected 

by the New Jersey Historical Society for 1973-74 academic year. At that point, the 

Archdiocesan Bicentennial Committee took charge of the liturgical proceedings and a 

date was set for December 1, 1974. The Bicentennial Festival Committee worked in 

concert with the Archdiocese in planning Newark’s first Bicentennial-related event. 

13

On December 1, 1974, the new archbishop, Peter Leo Gerety, served as the principal 

celebrant for a solemn high Pontifical Mass. Archbishop Thomas A. Boland and Bishops 

Costello and Dougherty were concelebrants, along with a host of lesser clerics. It was a 

colorful event with over 2,000 people in attendance. Even non-Catholic religious leaders 

were invited, including Episcopal Bishop Leland Stark who, a decade earlier, was 

uninvited by Essex Catholic High School to deliver a prayer at the opening of Project 

300 on March 30, 1964. The Knights of Columbus, in full regalia with their plumed hats 

and colorful capes, looked quite impressive. Their drawn swords served as a bridge under 

which the procession of prelates and dignitaries marched to the anthem emanating from 

John Rose’s mighty pipe organ. It gave me goose bumps as I paraded triumphantly down 

the center aisle with Joan Hull and Ricky Stefanelli on either side of me. I had to contain 

myself from giving the faithful my special “pontifical” blessing as I passed the exuberant 

crowd. 

All three of us would speak from the marble pulpit later in the ceremony. Both Ricky and 

I were assigned to read the two biblical passages that preceded the reading of the gospel. 

Originally, Ricky was scheduled to do the first reading, and I, the second. However, at 

the very last moment, I made a switch. My original reading, the second, referred to 

“drunkenness and debauchery” and I felt rather uncomfortable with the topic. Instead, I 

opted for the first reading from Isaiah the prophet: “They shall beat their swords into 

ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks…” Much more appropriate, wouldn’t 

you say? 

PCQ39: Near what New York City landmark is the above quote from Isaiah etched in 

stone? 

14

Joan Hull, the first non-Catholic ever to ascend to the great pulpit of Sacred Heart 

Cathedral, delivered remarks and read an inscription from the blue and gold historic 

marker of the State Historic Sites Division of the New Jersey Department of 

Environmental Protection. The sign was later placed on the lawn in front of the awe- 

inspiring site and today is displayed in the vestibule of the basilica for all to see. Its 

legend reads: 

SACRED HEART 

Towers soaring toward heaven, 

Sacred Heart represents the 

European tradition in Newark. 

Begun – 1898, Completed – 1954 

French Gothic in style, it is 

365 feet long, 260 feet high, 

Fifth largest in the nation. 

Or as Ricky so aptly wrote in his Defense Brief: A cathedral is not built for a day, nor for 

an age; it is built for all time. A cathedral happens once in a lifetime; a cathedral like 

this may never happen again. 

I last saw Ricky in May of 2000 in West Orange at a performance of my play, Oh 

Brother! where we reminisced about our “cathedral days.” 

And, yes, Archbishop Boland did accept my olive branch gesture and invited Ricky and 

me to the Chancery Office for a presentation and reception. I felt so much better after 

that, for I had made peace with my Archbishop… and I was not beheaded. 

A COMMISSION IS CREATED 

About the same time of the Cathedral dedication ceremony, Charles Cummings was 

taking the initiative to change the name of the Bicentennial “committee” to Bicentennial 

“commission.” The change in status was to be done for legal purposes so that it would be 

a part of Newark’s municipal government and therefore eligible for funding from the 

city’s coffers. 

15

Charles requested that Dr. John O’Connor, a Humanities professor at New Jersey 

Institute of Technology, and I, draft the ordinance that would be presented to the Mayor’s 

Office, and in turn, to the Municipal Council. The drafting of legislation was an 

interesting process, and together with John, we turned out a document within a matter of 

a month. It would take all of six months to wind its way through the bureaucratic maze. 

The proposed ordinance was sent to the Council for its first reading on March 5 and two 

weeks later, after the second reading, was passed by the Council. It then was sent back to 

Mayor Gibson’s office for his signature. It was not until nearly two months later that the 

Mayor would submit the nineteen names, including mine, for Council approval. Finally, 

at 11AM on the morning of July 2, 1975, members of the new commission were sworn in 

and signed the necessary affidavit accepting the commission. I took my place beside the 

new members that included Councilman Sharpe James; Newark Museum Director, Sam 

Miller; football great, Al DeRogatis who was a Vice President of Prudential Insurance; 

the New Jersey Historical Society Director, Bob Lunney; my friend, Charles Cummings 

from the Newark Public Library who was named Commission Chairman; and Sacred 

Heart organist, John Rose, represented the performing arts community. You may now 

call me Commissioner Murray. 

NEVER BURN BRIDGES 

While the commissioners served without compensation, the Ordinance provided funding 

for a full time executive director and staff for a two-year period, an office, and the where- 

with-all to run the office. If ever a job was hand tailored for me, this was it. I discussed 

the matter with Charles Cummings, who said in effect, Go for it, Tom! With 

encouragement such as that, I met with Brother Dick Kelly, the principal of Essex 

Catholic High School, and requested a leave of absence for the 1975-’76 academic year. 

Permission was granted as my hopes ran high for the new position. Fortunately, I was 

paid over a twelve-month basis and would be receiving my payroll checks over the 

summer months. 

I compiled an extensive resume, with letters of recommendation from some top people 

including Congressman Peter Rodino, and submitted it to Mr. Cummings for 

consideration. I was virtually assured of getting the job, or so I thought. 

16

September had arrived and the Commission had not moved on the appointment of an 

executive director. My funds were almost exhausted, and one can eat peanut butter 

sandwiches for only so long. Finally, Charles Cummings announced that the Commission 

would meet in October to consider candidates for the position. As a candidate, I was not 

allowed to attend the Commission meeting. On October 22, the Commission announced 

the appointment of George Conover as the Executive Director. George who? Never heard 

of him! 

This rejection was quite a blow to me, but this kid from Hell’s Kitchen is not a quitter; I 

wasn’t going to pout. Later I was told I that the clout of the Newark Chamber of 

Commerce made the difference in Mr. Conover’s appointment. I decided to remain fully 

committed to the Newark Bicentennial Commission and give my full backing to George 

Conover, the approved Executive Director. 

Unfortunately, not obtaining the position left me unemployed. Essex Catholic was almost 

into its third academic month and my replacement couldn’t be summarily dismissed. He 

could be, but that wasn’t about to happen – Christian charity and that sort of thing. I was 

left with no recourse but to go on unemployment (back then, Catholic school teachers 

were eligible for Uncle Sam’s benefits). With a “bravo” for Brother Dick Kelly, he filled 

out the appropriate information so that I would be eligible to receive welfare benefits. 

Living on the dole sucked; almost as bad as living on a Catholic schoolteacher’s pension. 

I had been a rugged individualist all my life, a diehard Republican, and now I had to trot 

myself off to the Social Security Office on North Broad Street every month and wait in 

line like everyone else… hat in hand. Recipients on the line told me that they had this 

whole unemployment process down to a science and did their thing on a monthly basis. 

Their tales further reconfirmed my suspicions about abuses in the welfare system. But 

now I was a beneficiary of the system and dared not complain, at least, not too loudly. 

WORKING WITH GEORGE AND MY FELLOW COMMISSIONERS 

After the agony of defeat wore off, I was back in the Bicentennial groove again. 

The Bicentennial Commission had been assigned a second floor suite in the old Military 

Park Hotel. Not having too many places to go, I spent quite a bit of time there conversing 

with George Conover and helping out whenever I could. He was assisted by two young 

ladies who served as Assistant Directors, and a secretary. 

17

Some commissioners were more active than others. Some I got to know pretty well; 

others, for obvious reasons, I didn’t. John Thomas, a former Newark public school 

teacher, led the movement to make Crispus Attucks a household word, as well as a school 

holiday in Newark. He had left education and was now in the private sector in New York 

City. John and I really hit it off, whether be it at a Commission meeting or enjoying a 

post meeting drink in the first floor lounge of the Military Park Hotel. On one occasion 

we drove to a bar in the all-black Central Ward. I felt a little angst as we walked through 

the door, and no, a dead silence did not fall upon the bar. In a matter of seconds, this 

“albino” within their midst was drinking and joking with the best of them. I know, now, 

how a black guy must have felt going into an all white bar in 1975. 

Another active Commissioner was Councilman Sharpe James. He was well versed in the 

art of municipal politics and would aspire to higher office later on, serving as Mayor of 

Newark for an unprecedented five terms (and at this writing is serving concurrently as a 

State Senator). 

The fall of ’75 and the spring of ’76 saw the Commission supply its own red, white and 

blue float for several of Newark’s, mostly ethnic, parades. I was proud to march in every 

one. 

In my role as a Commissioner and Bicentennial activist, I accepted numerous speaking 

engagements. They ranged from talks to the men of the Holy Name Society to the men of 

the Organization of Gay Awareness. My friend, John Lonergan, Principal of Mater Dei 

High School in New Monmouth, invited me to address a school assembly on November 

10, 1975. Addressing a group of some six hundred teenagers on history and the 

Bicentennial was quite a challenge. As soon as I saw that the teenagers were getting 

restless, I shortened my presentation. I little knew at the time that I would be returning to 

that same stage in Memorial Hall many, many times, later in my life. 

BACK TO ESSEX CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL AGAIN 

During the Easter break of 1976, Brother Dick Kelly phoned me advising me that Brother 

Keaveney, a social studies teacher at the school, had taken ill and would be out for the 

rest of the academic year. He asked me if I would be interested in filling out the 

remainder of the brother’s term at Essex Catholic. I promptly said Yes! and was back in 

the classroom when the school reopened after the Easter recess. Getting a paycheck in my 

wallet felt so good – and I was now off the dole! 

18

THE GLORIOUS FOURTH, 1976 

New York City had planned “Op Sail” as its main Bicentennial tribute. Countless sailing 

ships of all shapes and sizes converged in New York Harbor for what was considered to 

be the largest flotilla of its kind at the time. Fireworks were to conclude the festivities. 

The City of Newark Bicentennial Commission decided against any specific event for the 

day itself. Its main attraction was scheduled for the following month, not with sail power, 

but rather with steam power – a visit of the Freedom Train. 

It was a very low-keyed Sunday for me, as many Sunday’s are. I was spending the 

weekend with my close friends, Ed and Catherine D’Ascoli, in their West Orange home. 

There we watched the parade of the tall ships from the comfort of our living room. It was 

great seeing the ships of so many nations, their respective flags furling in the air, as they 

plied the waters of New York Harbor with a refurbished Lady Liberty as the backdrop. 

19

Thousands of smaller spectator boats clogged the Harbor like the rush hour on the L.I.E. 

What a site! 

New York City would continue the tradition on a special event basis and has sponsored 

several tall ship programs on through the millennium. Each year, thanks to Macy’s, a 

gigantic fireworks display is produced for the pleasure of locals and visitors alike. 

20

TAKING OVER AS EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR 

The Commission was stunned shortly after the 4 th of July when George Conover 

announced that he had accepted a position in Saudi Arabia and would be resigning as 

Executive Director effective July 31. A replacement had to be found and found quickly as 

someone had to meet the incoming “Freedom Train” in August. Both Assistant Directors 

let their intention be known that they were interested in moving up to the number one 

position. I had been a victim of political bureaucracy before and was very hesitant to 

throw my hat back into the ring again. However, some of my fellow Commissioners 

prevailed upon me and subsequently, I declared that I was once more a candidate for the 

Executive Director’s position. A closed-door meeting of an ad hoc Selection Committee 

was held on July 29 th . George Conover was invited to give input for his successor; the 

two Assistant Directors were not invited, nor was I. This time I wasn’t going to project 

myself a winner. 

Thursday, July 29 th was a busy day for me. That morning I moved out of my North 

Arlington apartment to my temporary residence with Ed and Catherine in West Orange. 

Then, it was over to Essex Catholic for a farewell luncheon. Charles Cummings 

requested that I phone him after the Commission meeting to learn my fate. Good news! 

The ad hoc selection committee had nominated me for the position and it would 

recommend that the full Commission confirm my nomination. Although it appeared to be 

a fiat accompli that I would get the job, I would know the official results on Sunday 

evening, July 31. 

On Saturday morning, I decided to fly up to Provincetown. With an overnight stay at the 

Owl’s Nest, I decided to have a relaxing weekend and let the chips fall where they may. 

This was my first visit to P-town since my childhood days nearly thirty years earlier. The 

quaint town hadn’t really changed too much since I was there last with my late mom in 

1947. I treated myself to dinner at The Cottage restaurant and took a menu to add to my 

growing collection. I wrote on the top of the menu dated Saturday, July 31, 1976: Taking 

a weekend vacation after eighteen years at Essex Catholic, seventeen years in my North 

Arlington apartment – and about to take over as the Executive Director of the Newark 

Bicentennial Commission. It would be another twenty years before I would return to my 

first vacation site. 

21

Upon my return from Cape Cod on Sunday, August 1, I phoned Charles Cummings who 

advised me that the Commission had confirmed my nomination and that I should be 

ready to start work the next day. I learned that George Conover recommended me for the 

position over his two Assistant Directors and that a groundswell of support on my behalf 

came from John Thomas, Councilman Sharpe James, and Museum Director, Sam Miller. 

Persistence paid off and, although it took a while, I was now ready to start my duties as 

Executive Director of the Newark Bicentennial Commission. 

The spacious Bicentennial Office shared the second floor of the Military Park Hotel with 

S.A.R.A. (“Sex Assault and Rape Analysis”), a special division of the Newark Police 

Department. The job paid a nice salary, considerably more than what I was getting at 

Essex Catholic. Its perks included one Assistant Director (the other one quit when she did 

not get the Director’s position) and a couple of secretaries, a private office with my own 

personal “hot line,” and best of all, a fabulous restaurant and lounge where I could 

entertain guests over a two Martini lunch. Tsk! Tsk! A car with municipal plates was at 

my disposal from the City Hall motor pool – nothing like a car with MG plates, not that I 

took advantage of the situation. And an expense account, of course! 

“Jimmy the Greek” ran the Bleeker, a small restaurant and bar that was located on 

Bleeker Street only a couple of blocks from the Bicentennial office. It had become one of 

my favorite downtown restaurant’s in the mid-1970’s. It was a comfortable, relaxing 

place, perfect for an after work cocktail, followed by a wonderful Moussaka dinner. It 

was at the Bleeker that I first met Hubert Williams, Newark’s first African-American 

Police Director. Invariably, he was accompanied by at least one detective, where they sat 

at the bar and quaffed a drink or two. We got to know each other on a first name basis 

and I soon became one of his bar buddies. After one of my first days on the job, I was 

feted at the Bleeker Restaurant by the Police Director. That felt good! 

My main objective was to plan for the Freedom Train’s visit to Newark later in the 

month. I hired a former Essex Catholic student, Jack Sheehan, to assist me in this 

endeavor. He was a Godsend and helped create a special spirit of ’76 in the office. 

22

IF I WERE ONLY MAYOR 

Mr. Carmen Biase was Deputy Mayor for Mayor Kenneth Gibson and was appointed by 

Mayor Gibson to be City Hall’s liaison with the Bicentennial Commission. Carmen 

Biase’s family operated one of Newark’s finer Italian restaurants in the North Ward. I 

would see a lot of Carmen and we established a good working relationship. 

Mr. Biase’s mom passed away during my tenure as Executive Director and I decided that 

I would her funeral mass at St. Francis Xavier’s Roman Catholic Church in North 

Newark. 

I took the bus from near my office in downtown Newark to Bloomfield Avenue that rainy 

morning. As I alighted from the bus, I noticed that the Mayor’s limousine had just pulled 

up in front of the church and that the Mayor, and his detective bodyguard/driver, was 

entering the church. 

After the service, I retraced my footsteps across the street to the bus stop. It was raining 

lightly, like a soft day in Ireland, when Mayor Gibson spotted me, saying, Need a lift 

downtown, Tom? 

Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It would be a great help. 

As I neared the limo, I approached the front door on the passenger’s side thinking that 

would be the appropriate place to sit, with the detective doing the driving, and the Mayor 

sitting in the back seat. That was not to be. 

You sit in the back seat, Tom. I’ll drive, said Mr.Gibson. 

So off we went, heading for downtown Newark, with the Mayor as my chauffeur and his 

bodyguard sitting next to him in the front seat. 

I relaxed in the back seat with my legs outstretched and thinking to myself: This is the 

way it should be. 

23

THE “FREEDOM TRAIN” CHUGS INTO NEWARK 

The “Freedom Train’s” three-day visit to Newark was scheduled for Saturday, August 21 

thru Monday, August 23, 1976. Newark was the 107 th city on the train’s epic-making 

journey. 

Fortunately for me, George Conover laid the groundwork with the Port of New York- 

New Jersey Authority, for it would be in Port Newark that the famed train would be 

berthed for the five days. I met with Port Authority officials at the New York World 

Trade Center a couple of weeks before the event for a final briefing. Arrangements for 

the train’s crew and staff were made and the Robert Treat Hotel in downtown Newark 

was secured for their stay. A shuttle service schedule between the Hotel and Port Newark 

provided transportation to and from the train. I had to work out security details with the 

Newark Police, as well as the Port Authority Police and the Sheriff’s Office. The 

Bicentennial Office on Park Place was a hub of activity as we prepared for our premier 

event. I thought that the phones would never stop ringing. 

The “Freedom Train” chugged into Port Newark on Friday, August 20, powered by an 

850,000 pound, Reading T-1 class locomotive. 

The next morning Opening Ceremonies were held in an area close to the train. I presided 

over the event from a portable stage at which Mayor Gibson and other dignitaries 

delivered welcoming remarks. This was followed by a special escorted tour of the train. It 

was absolutely amazing. 

Over 550 original documents and precious artifacts collected from over 200 museums 

nationwide were on display aboard the “Freedom Train.” Each item was woven into an 

exciting multi-media presentation spanning such themes as the revolutionary beginnings, 

exploration and expansion, growth of the nation, human resources, sports, performing 

arts, fine arts, origins, and conflict and resolution. Things from the National Archives 

included George Washington’s copy of the Constitution with his handwritten marginal 

notes, the Louisiana Purchase, the Gadsden Purchase, and the Oregon Compromise. 

Other artifacts included the first Bible printed in the USA, Hank Aaron’s 714 th homerun 

bat and ball, the dress worn by Judy Garland in the “Wizard of Oz.” These were some of 

the things that thousands of visitors to the site would see as we made our way on a 

moving walkway through the ten railroad cars, on a journey taking us past 200 years of 

history. 

24

Two glass-enclosed showcase cars featured modes of transportation from an early steam 

engine to a lunar rover, as well as a specially cast Freedom Bell. 

For the price of a $2.00 ticket for adults and $1.00 for children under 12 and senior 

citizens, the public not only got to visit the “Freedom Train” but had the opportunity to 

visit a nearby containerization warehouse some three football fields long. It was like 

another Project 300 with exhibits ranging from the Army National Guard to the New 

Jersey State Museum; from Bicentennial displays representing various New Jersey 

municipalities to the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts of America; from religious 

organizations to service organizations; from industry to the New Jersey Sports Authority 

– they all were there. What an exposition! 

In addition, there was ‘round the clock entertainment from our staging area: folk singers, 

jazz ensembles, ballet dancers, and even the Pushcart Players – they all were there. 

What entertainment! 

Coordinating the “Freedom Train’s” visit to Newark was both an exhausting and an 

exhilarating experience. The Train’s Executive Board praised the ancillary items that 

Newark provided – the exhibits and the entertainment – at the time of the “Freedom 

Train’s” visit to Newark. The spokesman said we were the only city, up to that point in 

time, to provide for such a diverse program and congratulated us on our endeavors. 

When the “Freedom Train” chugged out of Newark, there was a lull in the Bicentennial 

office. A few fall parades and festivals remained. I would be returning to my first love, 

teaching, in a few weeks. The Commission suggested that I remain on the job in a part 

time capacity for the fall. I agreed to this and the Commission approved me as a part time 

Executive Director. The Assistant Director agreed to stay on and tend to the office until I 

got there each weekday after school and on Saturday’s. A bus from Middletown, where 

my school was located, took me right up to Newark and things would work out perfectly, 

or so I thought. 

OH YES, YOU CAN FIGHT CITY HALL!!! 

The Assistant Director who I shall call JJ opted to stay on in that capacity when I became 

the Executive Director of the Commission. She was somewhat helpful in the office, 

especially during the Freedom Train’s visit to Newark. JJ was paid bi-weekly by City 

Hall using C.E.T.A. funds. As her supervisor, I was required to sign a work sheet 

verifying her hours worked for the two-week period. 

25

As the part time Executive Director of the Commission, I had to rely more heavily on 

JJ, and conducted some of my communication with her over the phone from my school in 

Monmouth County. Often I phoned the office and often there was no one there. Often I 

arrived at the office after school, usually about 4PM, and there was no one there. Initially 

I signed the C.E.T.A. forms but I started to have second thoughts. JJ was putting down 

hours for non-work and the taxpayers were paying her. That wasn’t right, damn it! 

In mid-October she requested that I sign her C.E.T.A. form. I did not give it the usual 

cursory scan but rather reviewed it in detail. Obviously she was putting down many hours 

that she had not worked and I refused to sign the form. She was taken aback and stormed 

out of the Bicentennial Office. 

Guess who got called on the carpet by City Hall? If you said me, you’re right. JJ had 

filed a grievance against her supervisor – me! The next day I was called down to City 

Hall where I was asked to justify my actions. I did exactly that, refusing to sign the 

questionable C.E.T.A. form. I stood my ground because I knew that I was right and was 

backed by the Commission all the way. Besides, City Hall could not fire me; only the 

Commission could do that. I know; I co-authored the municipal ordinance. 

I was left to run the office single-handedly with JJ no longer on the scene. However, 

things worked out fine. 

ROLE PLAYING AS TOM PAINE, HOW APPROPRIATE 

The final Bicentennial event of 1976 was a re-enactment of Washington’s retreat through 

New Jersey some 200 years earlier with General William Howe and his well disciplined, 

well-maintained, British army in hot pursuit. The Revolutionary troops of Washington’s 

ragtag army were heading south hoping to reach Trenton and cross the Delaware before 

winter set in. Desertions were commonplace; supplies were in short demand; morale was 

low. Two key bridges crossing the Hackensack and Passaic Rivers were destroyed by 

colonists after the Continental Army crossed them, thus allowing the bedraggled troops 

respite. With breathing space now a reality, the commander-in-chief decided that the 

army should rest, spending nearly five days encamped in Newark before continuing their 

trek southward through Union county and beyond. 

26

A statewide effort to recreate Washington’s Retreat was set in motion in early November 

as a group of marchers clad in period uniforms began retracing the route of the retreat 

from its beginning, appropriately, near the George Washington Bridge to its terminal 

point in Trenton. The contingent would reach Newark the last weekend in November 

where they would set up tents and bed down in Washington Park, across from the 

Newark Public Library. As Director, I would oversee the Newark segment of the retreat. I 

was invited to sleep the two nights in my own private tent by the Captain John Doughty 

Company of the Eastern New Jersey State Artillery. I politely declined their kind offer, 

and instead spent the two nights at the Robert Treat Hotel where I overlooked the 

festivities from the comfort of my room. Chicken! I think that’s what they served me for 

dinner. It wasn’t too bad! I enjoyed the evening entertainment of the fife and drum corps 

and the drills that accompanied the music. 

On the Saturday morning on the historic event recreation, the Company included a fife 

and drum corps leading the 25 or so troops down Broadway and onto Broad Street, 

Newark. Revolutionary war cannons were fired at several historic points along the way. 

Naturally the boom of the cannon attracted even more curious onlookers. Imagine being 

awakened to the roar of a cannon in a residential neighborhood of New Jersey’s largest 

city. “What’s going on here?” cried many a bewildered spectator. 

It was in Newark, that pamphleteer Thomas Paine, wrote the first of his “Crisis Papers.” I 

was elected to portray Thomas Paine and did so with pride, being somewhat of an 

iconoclast and maverick myself. I doffed my rented colonial attire, and although Paine 

professed Deism, I proceeded to recite Paine’s memorable words from the steps of the 

Old First Church: 

These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the 

sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country, 

but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of men and women. 

Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered…the harder the conflict, the 

more glorious the triumph… 

Can you picture me doing this role-playing re-enactment? It was fun as I tried to 

recapture a moment in history. 

A New York Times reporter quoted me as saying, It was here (Newark) that this country’s 

determination to exist faced its most urgent test. And that was ever so true. 

27

Yes, George Washington did reach the Pennsylvania side of the Delaware River as winter 

was setting in. Since no formal fighting was done in winter, the British army retreated 

northward back to the safety of New York City. However, they did leave a Hessian 

contingent on the Trenton side of the Delaware River to observe any major movement of 

the Continental Army. Knowing that the Germans would be celebrating Christmas night, 

Washington and his troops crossed the Delaware Christmas night and surprised Col. 

Johan Gottleib Ralls and his Hessian troops early the next morning. Have you ever tried 

to fight with an H-O? (hangover). This was the first major military turning point of the 

Revolutionary War for Washington’s army, and shortly thereafter the tide began to turn 

in our favor. 

BYE, BYE, BICENTENNIAL 

The Bicentennial Commission Office shut down the following month and transferred its 

files to the New Jersey Division of the Newark Public Library. Later, a monograph on 

Newark’s history was completed and serves as a legacy to Newark’s bicentennial 

endeavors. 

Working first as a Commissioner, and then as Executive Director, was quite an 

experience for me. It got me out of the classroom, a pleasant change in the middle of my 

career; it taught me to work with the various members and segments of the urban 

community; it introduced to me the world of real politics through the municipal 

government of Newark’s City Hall, and to fight City Hall if you must; it fostered 

persistence in my character, giving me a position of leadership to which I aspired; and 

made me feel that I contributed in a major way to the success of the Bicentennial in New 

Jersey’s largest city. 

From nearly a decade before 1976, I helped shape the Bicentennial movement in the State 

of New Jersey; not only was I was teaching history, but I was making history and 

enjoying every minute of it. 

Another change in my life was about to take place. The New Jersey Shore was beckoning 

and I would answer its call. 

28

Chapter 25 – ON AND OFF THE BARSTOOL 

Tommy – Whenever you plant your fat arse on a barstool, you don’t want to leave it. 

Delia Murray 

IT ALL STARTED WITH SLURPING SUDS AND SUCKING CHERRIES 

I cannot answer the question as to when I first tasted an alcoholic beverage. Most likely it 

was during the war years when Delia, on occasions, would buy a container of beer from 

the Corner Bar, literally situated on the corner of 57 th Street and 9 th Avenue and 

conveniently located right in our own building (363). It was probably then that I slurped 

my first bit of foam off the open container, after first blowing it in a creative manner. 

Delia also liked a Manhattan cocktail before dinner. I remember waiting for her to finish 

the drink so that I could suck the alcoholic juices out of the stemmed maraschino cherry. 

After the war and with tin once again more available, mom purchased beer by the can, 

usually three at a time, as there was no such thing as “six packs” back in those days. 

Mom’s favorite was Ruppert’s Beer, made at a Manhattan brewery owned by Yankee 

magnate, Jacob Ruppert. The cans bore an image of “Father Knickerbocker,” the 

legendry character distilled from the pen of Washington Irving. Cans were more 

challenging than the containers – and, seemingly, so much fresher. As pull-tabs had not 

yet arrived, a can opener was required. Not missing a trick, brewers supplied their own 

can-openers with their name properly engraved on the opener, just as they did with 

calendars and other goodies that they merchandised. I was like a puppy ready to be fed as 

mom opened her Knick can with a two pronged assault, one on each side of the can. I 

attuned my ears so that I could not miss that welcome pop upon the initial thrust of the 

can opener as my eyes were affixed on the non- stemmed “5 & 10” glassware as mom 

poured the frothy brew into her glass. She allowed me to taste the foam before the regal 

glass of brew lost its tiara. Yum! Yum! 

Before long, I was off to Power Memorial Academy for my high school years. They were 

four dry years as I had no interest in alcoholic beverages at the time. Sure, I took a glass 

of red wine whenever I had a Spanish dinner at my classmate, Joe Rodriguez’s home. 

Once I did have too much wine at a New Year’s Eve party that was hosted by our operasinger 

neighbors in Apartment 3A. My mom was most forgiving for this overindulgence. 

Even though I turned eighteen during my senior year in high school, all my late senior 

year activities were alcohol free, including the senior prom and my graduation party. 

Who needed alcohol anyway?

Shortly after being emancipated from Power, I decided to try my first real alcoholic drink 

one sultry summer 1952 night – a Tom Collins. It was so good and quenched my thirst, 

so good that I had a second and a third. And the barstool felt like I was sitting on a 

comfortable living room sofa. Before I knew it, I was “bombed,” and merrily made my 

way home from Martin’s Bar near Columbus Circle very late that far-from-memorable 

night. I had overindulged. My mother was no so forgiving this time. She was pissed!!! 

As I mentioned in earlier chapters, I quaffed a few beers during my college days, both at 

Iona and the Harvard Club, but without any adverse effects. I barfed all over the barracks 

at Quantico in 1958, but that was understandable. Who wouldn’t, if beer only cost 

twenty-five cents a pitcher? 1-2-3-4, I love the Marine Corps! 

RELAXING ON A BARSTOOL 

My first real introduction to the barstool came as a novice teacher in 1958 in the City of 

Newark. After a few days of class, lay faculty cliques were formed at Essex Catholic 

High School. There were those who liked to stop off for a drink after school and those 

who didn’t. I was one of those who liked to stop off for a welldeserved drink at the end 

of the week. I suppose the same is true of most workplaces. Before too long, I was 

leading a group of my fellow lay-faculty members to Mc Hugh’s, a local watering hole 

for a beer or two every Friday afternoon. 

My newly found friend, Tom Tobin, soon became my alter ego, and became a co-leader 

of the “TGIFer’s.” In his very unique Irish cum Australian way, Tom would say to his 

peers, We’ll go down for a beer after school. And who could refuse this dictum coming 

from a six foot five, two hundred and fifty-pound broth of a Corkman. The fact of the 

matter, was there was no such thing as “a beer,” for either Tom Tobin or myself. 

Invariably, it was at least three, four, or more glasses, or nips of Rheingold, before I left 

for my home in Manhattan. Needless to say, there was a mad rush to the men’s room at 

Port Authority Bus Terminal upon my arrival in New York. Beer did that to me. Hicup!!! 

Another newcomer, John Ennis, introduced us to a “real” Irish bar, Ryan’s, about a mile 

away from the school. John gave Tom and I a lift to Ryan’s but he usually left early, 

leaving us to find our own way back to our respective homes. It was John who introduced 

me to the “Vodka Collins” one hot June day. Later, a downtown bar, Mc Govern’s, 

would become our third tavern option. We now had the “triple crown” of Irish bars in 

Newark. Why is it that Irish bars abound in cities, big and small?

Sitting on the barstool and swiveling around and around was quite a relaxing sensation – 

whee!!! From there I could pontificate over the goings-on while chatting with my coworkers. 

I descended from my throne on high to play a game of shuttle-board bowling 

with my colleagues or to make a necessary trip to the men’s room. 

Soon the frequency of after school bar visits increased from Friday afternoons’ to 

weekday afternoons’. 

In the fall of 1959 mom and I moved to North Arlington. That meant I could stay later at 

Mc Hugh’s or Ryan’s, phone mom that I wouldn’t be home for dinner, take the 13 bus to 

Belleville, walk over the Rutgers Street Bridge for a bite at the Arlington Diner, and take 

a sobering walk up the hill on the Belleville Turnpike to our Riverview Gardens’ 

apartment. Phew! If that didn’t sober me up, nothing would. At times mom had prepared 

a nice dinner for me, only to receive a phone call that I wouldn’t be home for dinner, 

giving her some far-fetched excuse. Delia must have had the patience of a saint. 

Like a person on illegal drugs, going from pot to heroin, I wanted to try more powerful 

alcoholic beverages. So I “graduated” from beer to hard liquor. I was first introduced to 

Justerni and Brooks (J&B) Scotch at McHugh’s Bar in the very early 1960’s with my 

first glass of the imported whiskey – a tall glass with plenty of ice and water. Within a 

year I acclimated a taste for Scotch and switched from J&B to Dewars While Label 

Scotch. I found that drinking Scotch gave me a quicker high than beer and that I 

frequented the men’s room less. As time progressed, I was using less water and more 

Scotch, both in the bars and at home. Delia’s forbearance with her son’s drinking was 

laudable. 

Next came a pre-dinner cocktail, the Manhattan. This soon became my favorite drink. 

Two Manhattan’s and I was feeling no pain. Whenever I dined out, I wouldn’t look at the 

menu until I had started my second cocktail. The Manhattan is a “possessive” drink, and 

can overwhelm you in a matter of a few minutes. Paraphrasing Dorothy Parker’s 

”Martini” quote: Manhattan, Manhattan, The drink I love most 

Two I’m under the table 

Three I’m under the host 

I introduced many of my friends to the world of Manhattan’s. I never cared too much for 

Martini’s, but when the occasion arose, I preferred a “Beefeater” gin Martini over a 

“Smirnoff” vodka one. It was my friend and fellow-historian, Joan Hull, who once said to 

me, Tom – The world is divided into two classes of drinkers - Manhattan drinkers and 

Martini drinkers. Obviously, I was in the former category.

It was common for me to order a split of Chianti with my dinner and, at times, finished 

off with an after dinner drink or two. Just think of it two Manhattans made with rye and 

sweet vermouth, two glasses of red wine, followed up with Scotch and water – all these 

mixes going through your stomach, into your liver, and up to your brain. It sounds 

repulsive. It was!!! 

By the early 1970’s, I modified my Manhattan intake, changing from a regular rye 

Manhattan to a perfect Canadian Club Manhattan. For non-drinkers, a perfect Manhattan 

is made with two vermouths – a red and a white. Fortunately for me, I always used the 

finest ingredients, but, finest or not, they still had the same effects of “gut-rot.” 

Rationalization! 

Usually I ate after a preliminary drinking session. This helped in neutralizing the effects 

of my alcoholic intake. More rationalization!!! 

DELIA’S CURSE, AND MINE TOO 

It has been said that drink is the curse of the Irish people. While the statement may be 

moot, it deserves consideration insofar as my mother and I were affected. 

Delia liked potent potables periodically, especially beer and whiskey. Whenever we went 

out to a restaurant for dinner, she always had a before dinner cocktail, usually a 

Manhattan. Whenever she attended a party at our neighbor’s, Bill and Elsa Bergen’s in 

363, she usually enjoyed herself by quaffing a beer or two. Mom was known to 

overindulge on rare occasions. However, when she retired from the workforce and we 

moved to suburbia, mom had time on her hands - too much time. She had worked hard as 

a chambermaid all her life and made sacrifices to give me some of the things in life that 

she didn’t have, including a formal education. All the free time presented her with a 

problem, an alcoholic problem. Delia’s had become a closet drinker. This curse 

progressed during the early 1960’s. Sometimes, I would come home from school to our 

North Arlington apartment, well fortified after stopping at McHugh’s, only to find that 

mom had been drinking. Immediately, I flew into a rage, hollering at her for her lack of 

self-control and overindulging. Nothing worse than two inebriated family members 

arguing! Our downstairs neighbors, Frank and Lil, were most tolerant of my vocally loud 

rampages against my mother’s excesses. For our part, we were most tolerant of them, as 

it seemed that they too were forever fighting. At times, I would turn the house upside 

down in search of a hidden bottle of booze, and often I would find a pint bottle of 

Seagram’s whiskey. The “proof” was cause for another tongue-lashing by Delia’s everso-straight 

and self-righteous son, Tommy.

MOTHER FORGIVE ME FOR I KNEW NOT WHAT I DID 

The first of two shameful events on my part took place in 1966. I was away for a 

weekend visiting friends in Chicago and returned home from Newark Airport only to find 

my mother totally inebriated. So was I, as I made my way up the staircase, wobbling as I 

ascended the flight. This sight of my mother’s state triggered an explosive reaction within 

me, something that I will never forget but want to forget. Delia’s brutal son slapped her 

several times while calling her all sorts of obscene names. This drunken Irish lady of 

diminutive stature could not put up a defense against her drunken son. To mom in 

heaven, as I write this on first day of October 2002, please forgive me for I knew not 

what I did. 

The second event occurred a short time before Delia’s death in October of 1968. At a 

reception that I was hosting in the Board Room of Essex Catholic High School for Joan 

Hull, I had one too many Scotch and water’s. Joan had received honorary membership in 

the school’s Social Science Federation and the room, once filled with the power brokers 

of Newark, was now filled with Essex Catholic administration and invited staff members, 

as well as Joan Hull and her associate from Butler High School Florence Athay. The 

reception lasted all of three hours. It was 6PM and dinner reservations were made at the 

nearby Thomm’s Restaurant. 

Once at the restaurant I had a couple of Rob Roy’s (Manhattan’s made with a Scotch 

base, for one must never mix liquors). We had wine with the dinner. It was a great dinner 

for what little I remember with Brother Dennehy and John Lonergan, the principal and 

vice principal respectively, as well as Fred Dwyer, the Eagle’s track coach, social studies 

chairman, George Cluff, and department member, Sabino Iovino. As Joan and Florence 

were departing for their hour’s ride to Butler, New Jersey, I got up and while hugging 

Florence, lost my balance, and threw both of us onto the floor. We were both lying prone 

on top of each other in one of Newark’s more upscale restaurants. Florence had difficulty 

getting up, as she somehow got caught on one of the drapes of the room divider. How 

embarrassing this incident was for me. 

I drove home and arrived safely. Mom was not drinking but her son was totally wasted. 

Looking at a framed award presented to me by the New Jersey Historical Society earlier 

that year, I punched my fist through the glass-covered document while crying out, What a 

fuckin’ hypocrite! Blood came effusing out of my hand. Mom wisely contacted my 

policeman neighbor, Frank Dalesso in the apartment below, and he drove me to West 

Hudson Hospital where I received several stitches for my wound. Delia died later that 

month.

It was shortly after the beating incident in 1966 that Delia decided to follow in the 

footsteps of her fellow-Irishman, Matt Talbot, and to “take the pledge” and abstain from 

alcohol. She was successful in this endeavor. On October 29, 1968, when I came home 

from school and found my mother sitting on the side of the couch after suffering an 

apparent heart attack, I suggested that she take a shot of brandy to stimulate her. She 

refused and I then proceeded to drive her to West Hudson Hospital. I returned in the 

evening to find her in an oxygen tent. She knew that I was upset. Before kissing her 

goodnight, she requested that I not to stop in the local bar for a few drinks. I honored her 

request. Instead, I had several Jack Daniels and soda and drowned my sorrows at home. 

That was the last time that I saw Delia alive. She succumbed to a massive heart attack the 

next day (October 30, 1968) while I was in school. 

It is my belief that alcoholism is a trait that may be genetically transmitted. There is no 

doubt that Delia suffered from the “curse of the Irish.” I cannot speak for my father, 

inasmuch as I saw so very little of him. On those few occasions, he did indulge in a 

“shot” or two as his hand trembled as he held the glass of whiskey. 

Further, it is my belief, that Delia, in the last years of her life, through her example and 

complete abstinence, was sending her son, Tommy, a message. Unfortunately, I was not 

yet ready to accept the message. I was not listening. 

HARBINGERS 

Students are very perceptive. My students were sending me messages pertaining to my 

drinking as far back as the early 1960’s. Perhaps they were all in good fun but they were 

there nonetheless. 

The messages became more poignant as the stormy sixties progressed. While visiting 

Expo 67 in Montreal with a busload of students from Essex Catholic High School, I was 

presented with a “World’s Greatest Drinker” certificate by the members of the trip on 

May 6, 1967. 

The following month I received a hand-written message that was placed on the 

windshield of my car parked in front of McHugh’s. Apparently I had been in the bar for 

some time and when I exited the premises, I discovered the note on my car. It read, Take 

it easy on the gas since by this time you’ve probably got a full tank yourself! 

It was signed by a recent graduate who called himself, a “critic-at-large.” It was Tom 

“Tucker” Hannon with whom I shared many a movie review and who idolized Barbra 

Streisand. It is interesting to note that the stationery he used was the reverse side of an 

appeal notice from the Selective Service System.

In May of ’69, I was coaching my senior homeroom softball team. We were in a playoff 

series, the best two out of three, would be the senior champs. I was very confident that 

my boys would win in a sweep. They won the first game and while playing the second 

game the following day, were well ahead of their rival homeroom. At the top of the fifth 

inning, I told the team captain that I was leaving the field and going to the cafeteria and 

to have the team meet me there after the game. That’s how confident I was, that they 

would be the senior champs. They won, had a shower, and met me in a very jubilant 

mood in the cafeteria where I invited them to have a soda to celebrate the victory and to 

quench their thirst. The team captain said, I know that you are thirsty too, Mr. Murray, as 

he presented me with a bottle of Scotch. They also presented me with a signed softball. 

How did they know that I drank? 

As Director of Public Relations at Essex Catholic, I always had a bottle of Scotch in my 

locked cabinet, for I never knew who might stop in. The integrity of the bottle was intact, 

as I never indulged during school time. That’s never! 

The same was true when I was President of the Lay Faculty Association. I always had a 

well-stocked file cabinet drawer in my Kearny office. A classic photo of me was taken as 

I was drinking a bottle of Schmidt’s beer. Schmidt’s was brewed in Philadelphia and it 

always “took the edge off.” How appropriate, as Local 1776 of the AFT in the “City of 

Brotherly Love” helped take the edge off my struggles with the Archdiocese of Newark. 

ABUSE OF ALL KINDS 

In view of my “rising star” status as a historian and labor leader, I thought it best that I 

apply for premium credit cards. After all, I would be entertaining both on and off the 

road. Accordingly, I applied for both and American Express and Diner’s Club card. To 

meet the minimum salary requirement, I inflated my salary on the respective applications, 

and persuaded the financial secretary at Essex Catholic to attest to these figures when the 

companies ran a salary verification check. Tsk! Tsk! Tsk! 

I now had these two coveted cards in my possession and did I make good use of them. 

Before I knew it, I was abusing them on unnecessary trips, extravagant dinners, and the 

like. The bills were coming in. I was not in a position to pay them. I cringed when the 

telephone rang. Was it a creditor calling? How would I answer him? I owed a 

considerable sum to the owners of what was said to be a Mafia-connected restaurant in 

Newark. Would they send a couple of goons after me to send me a message, physical or 

otherwise? The grief got more unbearable with each passing day. I shook when the 

telephone rang. “Phonophbia” had set in.

Speaking of telephones, whenever I had too much to drink, “telephonitis” set in. I was 

known to phone people at unusual hours. Most conversations were palaver and dilatory. 

One evening I phoned my cousins in Ireland forgetting the five-hour differential. They 

were not overly pleased receiving a call from their drunken Yankee cousin at 4AM in the 

morning, Ireland time. 

Between my teaching duties, coupled with those of a historian and labor leader, I was on 

the go on a daily basis with little room for recreation. My escape was the bottle. As a 

result of the combination of things, I developed an ulcer. That got so bad that I entered 

West Hudson Hospital in Kearny on December 14, 1970. I was bleeding internally and 

immediately was given Vitamin K by a nurse who was the mother of one of my former 

students. It was so embarrassing when she requested that I bend over so that she could 

prick me with her needle-full of coagulant. I was out of school for the balance of 

December, but issued the infamous “Murray Memorandum,” a rather lengthy assignment 

to be done in my absence and that was to be completed over the Christmas recess. Bah! 

Humbug! While the kids were busily engaged on their assignment, I took off for a week 

of sun and fun in Miami, using my credit cards, of course. 

By the end of the following year, I was sinking quickly in the quagmire of debt that I had 

incurred. A friend of mine suggested that I phone Emanuel Weitz, a bankruptcy lawyer. I 

did and set up a meeting with him in his Jersey City office. On October 22, 1971, I filed 

for Chapter XIII under the bankruptcy laws of the United States. A Chapter XIII allows 

the debtor to pay off his debts, less interest and without the harassment of creditors. I 

breathe a sigh of relief but before too long, thanks to excessive drinking, I missed agreed- 

upon payments, and my protection under the plan, was dismissed by a federal referee. 

Further exacerbating a deteriorating situation, I fell behind on my car payments. In June 

of 1968 and feeling no pain – alcohol somehow seems to dull the senses – I purchased a 

new black Oldsmobile Cutlass. What a beautiful car! By 1970 I had fallen behind in my 

payments to GMAC and had received numerous phone calls threatening to seize my car if 

the payments weren’t forthcoming. I stalled and stalled until one morning as I went to go 

to work, I found that my car was nowhere in sight. The big, bad “repo man” had spirited 

my car off in the silence of the previous night. 

I was able to negotiate with GMAC for the return of my car and it was so good to see the 

“Black Beauty,” promising never to let the “repo man” take her from me again. However, 

an early death awaited her, a death that could have been mine.

On August 31, 1972, I overindulged at Tom and Sonny’s, the local tavern, in North 

Arlington. After leaving the premises as “drunk as a skunk,” I suddenly had the urge to 

drive into New York City for some more drinking. As I approached the heavily trafficked 

Route 3 from the feeder lane, I saw and heard an eighteen-wheeler barreling down the 

right land of the six lane state highway with his horn blaring. I was on a collision course 

with the semi and, as drunk as I was, crashed into a utility pole to avoid the oncoming 

truck. The Rutherford Police arrived shortly, as did the tow truck to remove the pile of 

debris that was once a beautiful car. I was not hurt but visibly shaken. The police did not 

give me a “dui” or “dwi” summons but rather took me back to my North Arlington 

apartment. They were with me that fateful night, as was God. 

Auto abuse, credit card abuse, telephone abuse, and with my memory still green from the 

earlier abuse, both physical (in the one instance) and verbal, that I had inflicted upon my 

wonderful mother were taking its toll on me both physiologically and psychologically. 

THE “S” WORD 

During my darkest days, the “s” word entered my mind. I banished the thought each time 

it reared its ugly head. What would that accomplish? I did not want to take a coward’s 

way out. I did not want to be like one of Edwin Arlington Robinson’s character’s, 

“Richard Cory” who “went home and put a bullet through his head.” 

I felt that this kid from Hell’s Kitchen would survive some of his bleakest days. I had a 

lot to live for. 

Unfortunately, like another of poet Robinson’s character’s, “Miniver Cheevy,” I “kept on 

drinking.”

THE NIGHT BEFORE AND THE MORNING AFTER 

The many negative experiences of my barroom days are ones that I can’t forget. 

At times, while visiting friends or on out-of state trips, I forgot where I had parked the 

evening before while I was getting bombed. Nothing like a morning after experience! 

“Gray-outs” persisted, and one more than one occasion I blacked out because of the 

amount of alcohol in my system. 

Barroom conversation was usually most mundane and forgotten by the next morning. Far 

too often, expletives were used by me to stress a point. It doesn’t speak well of a person 

who has to resort to the language of the gutter to make a point, especially in mixed 

company. 

Have you ever gone into a bar the first thing in the morning after it just opened? The 

stench, the staleness of the air, the second hand smoke still permeating the polluted air, is 

an unpleasant experience. But the night before, who cared? 

Have you ever met a newly found “friend” in a dingy, poorly lit bar, in a less than sober 

state? The he or she of your dreams had finally arrived. Meeting that person the next day, 

you’d swear a metamorphous had taken place. 

How many times have you blown a date because of your alcoholic abuse and subsequent 

actions in an “altered state” and have gone home to make love with the toilet bowl as you 

puked your brains out? 

How many times have you tried to recuperate from a hangover by having a “Bloody 

Mary” or another concoction made from the “hair of the hound that bit you?” I tried 

everything and it seemed to me that the only cure was time – at least 24 hours. Oh, my 

aching head! 

For the most part, I was a “happy” drunk, rarely violent. At times, I could be overbearing 

and my language despicable – those Hell’s Kitchen roots coming out again. What 

bullshit!!!

THE IRISH ROAD SHOW 

Martin Costello, an entrepreneurial Irishman, was teaching an evening travel agent course 

at the Newark “Y” during the fall of 1971. Travel had always been important in my life 

and the course whetted my appetite. The course was interesting and in pre-computer days 

the travel agent’s manual’s were the bulky two-volume “Official Airlines Guide,” – one 

for domestic travel, the other, international. Mr. Costello was an affable man about my 

age who owned a travel agency at 45 New Street in downtown Newark. Martin and I hit 

it off from day one. Soon, both of us were hitting McGovern’s Tavern, across from 

Martin’s two-story office and home. 

The man from County Galway also hosted a weekly radio program, “The Irish Road 

Show.” It was usually pre-taped on a Friday evening and then sent over the wires for 

broadcast on Saturday evening. Before I knew it, I was co-hosting the show and Martin 

would say in his introductory remarks, …and riding herd with me tonight is Tommy 

Murray. Before most pre-taping sessions, Martin and I would have a Jameson’s or two at 

McGovern’s. Jameson’s was the only whiskey that I could drink straight up. It was ever 

so smooth. One evening during the taping, I had to use the bathroom in the studio. The 

onomatopoeic sound of me urinating was caught on tape. Martin was pissed; I was 

relieved. The tape was done over. I avoided using the bathroom at future tapings. 

Martin was committed to the cause of Irish freedom, as were many of the McGovern 

patrons. I found myself catching up with the times. The early 1970’s was a time of deep 

unrest in Ireland. On January 30, 1972, British troops killed 13 and wounded 27 Catholic 

civil rights advocates who were participating in a peace march in Derry, Northern 

Ireland. As a result of Bloody Sunday, I activated myself in the cause of a united Ireland. 

I attended many Noraid (Irish Northern Aid Committee) functions and subscribed to their 

newspaper, The Irish People I picketed in front of the British Counsel in New York 

during the hunger strike of Bobby Sands and contributed what little I could to the cause 

so dear to my heart. Erin Go Bragh! 

Irish barhopping in NYC for me was a genuine heritage adventure. Well, let’s say an 

adventure. The highlight of the evening was the singing of “A Nation Once Again.” 

Picture the scene in Rick’s Café in “Casablanca” where the entertainer boldly leads its 

anti-Nazi patrons in the singing of “Le Marseilles,” thereby drowning out the Third Reich 

competition. That’s what an Irish bar was like with the singing of “A Nation Once 

Again.” 

Many a night I slept on the couch at 45 New Street inebriated from an afternoon and 

night of steady drinking. Often, I would wind up the night there after an evening of 

drinking and carousing in New York City. Martin’s wife, Bernadette, and the mother of 

three lovely girls, was always the gracious host, and tolerant of Martin’s peccadilloes.

Martin reinforced in me my love of travel. He was sponsoring a chartered flight to Ireland 

from October 12 – 16, 1972. I had hoped to go to Ireland the previous summer and had 

obtained my first U.S. passport. However, I deferred the trip. Martin’s extended 

Columbus Day weekend trip looked enticing. Twenty-four hours before the charter’s 

departure from JFK I phoned Martin and ask him to book me on Thursday night’s flight 

to Shannon. Advising me that the flight was sold out, I persuaded my friend to “bump” a 

passenger who had book but not paid him for the flight. The flight was filled with 

drunken, partying Irishmen. This annoyed me, as I could not get any sleep. So I said to 

myself, If you can’t beat them, join them! And I did just that, and sang and drank all 

night. On Friday morning as I descended into Shannon Airport, seeing the “forty shades 

of green” below me, I couldn’t help think of Delia who had left Erin’s shores in 1927, 

never to return. I often invited her to join me on a trip to her native Ireland and she 

always refused. America was her home and she wished to stay there. As soon as my foot 

touched Irish soil, I said a silent prayer for Delia, thanking God for giving me such a 

wonderful mother. The 1972 trip would be the first of many trips that I would make to the 

“Emerald Isle.” 

THE COUNTY CAVAN PUBMASTER 

It was Martin Costello who introduced me to Hugh O’Lunney, another man faithful to the 

cause of a united Ireland. The Cavan-born O’Lunney owned two establishments in 

Manhattan, a pub and steak house in the Mansfield Hotel on West 44 th Street; the other 

was Country Music City on the east side. The Mansfield location was convenient for, in 

the event I missed the last bus back to New Jersey, I could get an overpriced room for the 

night. It was so convenient. I could get wasted and not have to worry about going back 

into the sometimes mean streets of New York to catch a bus a Port Authority. 

Over the years, Hugh O’Lunney, has been a loyal friend, and at this writing has just 

opened a mega-pub off Times Square on West 45 th Street. 

THE RUSSIANS ARE COMING! 

It was Martin Costello who also introduced to another pub-master, Dermead O’Farrell, 

who, with his partner, Norman Doyle, ran “Molly Malone’s Pub” on 23rd and 3 rd . 

One evening while I was dining alone at “Molly’s,” Dermead introduced me to Detective 

Kelly, an arms instructor for the Police Academy just around the corner. It seems that 

policemen tend to patronize bars, much more so than coffee and donut shops. Dermead 

had three guest passes to visit a new Russian luxury cruise ship that was docked at one of 

the piers on the Hudson River and invited Detective Kelly and me to attend the gala as 

his guest. Was Communism was espousing capitalism? I asked myself.

After having a couple of Manhattan’s before dinner and a couple of after dinner drinks 

on Dermead, we “cabbed” it to the docks, and there beheld the USSR’s luxury liner, the 

“Maxim Lermitov.” Security was tight and each visitor had go through a metal detector 

before boarding the ship. Dermead and I had no problems going through but the detector 

picked up the detective’s pistol. After whipping out his ID and badge, he was waved 

through, and the three of us ascended the gangplank. As I walked up the gangplank, I 

thought that Senator McCarthy, George Montgomery, and other anti-Communists, must 

be turning in their graves to see me setting foot on Soviet soil. Détente had arrived! 

At the head of the gangplank, we were welcomed aboard by some of the ship’s officers. 

A not-so-bunny-like hostess, stood tray in hand, offering those who boarded the ship a 

“welcome” drink of vodka. “Cheers!” and chug-a-lug. The “Ruskies” sure knew how to 

throw a party – a sumptuous buffet and the finest of brandies and other drinks. In the 

spirit of “détente” between traditional enemies, I did more than my fair share of sampling 

their alcoholic offerings. I vaguely remember taking a cab to the bus terminal. 

A BAR IN EVERY PORT 

Like the sailors of song claiming to have a “girl in every port,” I had a bar in every port. 

Stretching from the frigid winter climes of Montreal to the sub-tropical balmy weather of 

Florida, I had them all on the eastern seaboard. 

My Montreal favorites were a piano lounge across the street from the Sheraton Hotel on 

Peel Street and the Peel Pub on the corner of Peel and St. Catherine Streets. The former 

had an older lady tickling the keys and she did a marvelous rendition of Neil Diamond’s 

“Song Sung Blue.” Many a night I spent there getting bluer and bluer with each drink. By 

the end of the night I was almost in tears. The Peel Pub, like pubs back in those days, was 

an all male establishment, with acceptable food at reasonable prices. Nothing like 

quaffing a Molson’s or two with your meal, eh! 

Besides the Holiday Inn near the Lake Worth Pier, O’Hara’s in trendy downtown Palm 

Beach was one of my favorite watering holes. It was a favorite stop for churchgoers 

coming from mass in nearby St. Edward’s. And, no, I never met any of the Kennedy’s 

while barhopping in this millionaire’s paradise. 

I could go on and on, reciting the names of my favorite bars in my favorite cities like a 

litany of the saints, but a sampling will do. I wish I could have said the same about 

alcohol.

THE SPIRITS OF ‘76 

While I was still at Essex Catholic, Brother Dick Kelly, the principal admonished me for 

my drinking saying, in effect, that while I was a great teacher, my capabilities were 

diminished when I suffered the after effects from the night before. I was somewhat 

resentful when he made the remark, which he said was based on hearsay of a couple of 

kids. But, I was a drinker, and drinkers tend to be resentful of critical remarks. 

I was glad, in a way, to make the break from Essex Catholic High School. As a member 

of the City of Newark Bicentennial Commission, I developed a “drinking clique” just as I 

had at Essex Catholic. 

The New Jersey Performing Arts Center (NJPAC) site was then the Military Park Hotel 

before it fell to the wrecker’s ball about ten years ago. It was in the Military Park Hotel 

that the Bicentennial Office was housed. When I took over as Executive Director during 

the summer of ’76, a dream had come true – an in-house bar at one’s place of work. 

Needless to say, I availed of its services. Two martini lunches were still in vogue, so why 

not do as an Executive Director of a large municipal agency should do, have a substantial 

lunch fortified by a couple of drinks. Then it was back to my office for a less-than-active 

afternoon – all at the taxpayer’s expense. Like General Grant of old, I did my job when 

the pressure of battle was there, but imbibed when it was not. I may have been considered 

a “functional alcoholic” back then. I did my job and never, well almost never, missed 

worked. 

FLYING HIGH 

Newark Airport had been given “international” status and was ever-expanding, 

competing with LaGuardia for bragging rights. With the travel bug in my veins, I always 

made sure to arrive at “EWR” early so that, after checking my luggage, I might stop in 

the airport bar for a couple of Scotch’s. The measured portions of booze dispensed from 

the bottle annoyed me – and it was expensive to boot. If an evening flight was 

considerably delayed, I was given a dinner voucher and then proceeded to the upscale 

Newarker Restaurant for a couple of Manhattan’s and a gourmet dinner. By the time I 

was ready to board my flight, I was already flying high.

That was the case one evening in the early 1970’s when my evening Eastern Airlines 

flight to West Palm Beach Airport was delayed by two hours. At the time of departure, I 

was ready to soar into the wild star-lit yonder and that I did. The flight was not a direct 

flight and called for a change of planes in Jacksonville. It was really two flights. That 

meant that according to airline regulations, I could have two Manhattan’s on one flight 

and two on the other. I did exactly that and by the time I landed in West Palm, I was 

“three sheets to the wind.” A rental car awaited my arrival. As I drove onto to what I 

thought was the eastbound lane of the two-lane state highway, I soon found myself 

heading east with oncoming traffic putting their “brights” on and beeping their horns. I 

hadn’t noticed the dividing island as I entered the highway. It was past the island that I 

should have made the left onto the two eastbound lanes of the four-lane highway. I 

quickly back the car out of harms way and then drove onto the proper lane. God was my 

co-pilot that night. 

WHO SEZ I HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM? 

With two major moves in my life, a new school and a new residence down the shore, I 

thought that my life might stabilize. Unfortunately, it did not and my drinking grew 

progressively worse. By the early 1970’s, I admitted that I drank too much – on 

occasions. While still living in North Arlington, I attended an AA meeting or two at a 

local church but did not follow the suggestions that they were giving me. Besides, I did 

not feel comfortable being around a bunch of reformed alcoholics. So on I drank and like 

“Miniver Chevy” - “waited for the light.” 

From 1976 – 1979, I taught at Mater Dei high School, and yes, many of the kids and 

faculty knew that I liked to drink, but no one ever branded me as an alcoholic. Did I drink 

in the presence of students? Of course, I did, whether it be at a birthday party at 

O’Lunney’s Restaurant or a faculty-student bowling match. I saw no harm in that. 

In February 1978, I started to keep an account of my drinking in my appointment book. 

That month I had a – 2 days without drinking; August was a – 11, surprising! Later that 

year, I attended the faculty Christmas party at the Shore Casino. Prior to leaving my 

home in Sea Bright, I stopped in Olivo’s Restaurant for a pre-party drink There I met my 

friend, Police Chief, John Carmody and his wife, Barbara. Naturally one drink turned to 

two. Upon leaving, they both wished me a good time at the faculty party. I got totally 

bombed at the party and Miss Deegan, our new principal, offered to drive me home. “I’m 

all right, Marie,” I said “I can drive home.” I drove home in a “loaner” 1970 Chevy that 

was given to me Ed D’Ascoli, but not without stopping of at a local Sea Bright bar for a 

nightcap. In the process of pulling into the parking lot, I hit another car. The police were 

called and I was given three summonses – one for careless driving, one for an 

unregistered auto and one for expired insurance card. It could have been worse; I could 

have been nailed for reckless driving. It was another one of those nights that I want to 

forget.

I met Mayor Cecile Norton on New Year’s Day, 1979, and casually mentioned my plight 

and my upcoming appearance in the Sea Bright Municipal Court. She said that she would 

speak to the judge on behalf citing my merits as an outstanding citizen. BS!!! I sheepishly 

told the story of my mishap to Police Chief, John Carmody and his wife. Barbara said 

that things like that happen to all of us and not to worry about it. More BS!!! The January 

14 court date came up and I went before the bench that evening. His honor walked me 

through the proceedings, answering for me, and giving me a minimum fine of about $60. 

And even more, BS!!! The judge should have thrown the book at me. Enablers! Enablers! 

The academic year of 1979-1980 at Power Memorial Academy in New York City was a 

complete disaster. I knew every bar within a three-block radius of my Manhattan hi-rise 

apartment and was going downhill like a speed skier. 

A PLEA FOR HELP IN THE GEORGETOWN CHAPEL 

Because of my heavy drinking, I was unable to cope with over-filled classes of tough city 

kids at Power Memorial Academy. I knew that if I continued past the midterm I probably 

would have suffered a nervous breakdown. Accordingly, I left my teaching duties at 

Power on February 15, promising to return at a latter date, if only to complete the 7+7 

Wonders Search of New York City. The next day I left for a weekend in Washington, 

D.C 

The three-day trip to our Nation’s capitol gave me a chance for some “r and r.” A dinner 

Saturday evening at the Watergate restaurant was in order. 

I went to mass Sunday morning at the Georgetown University Chapel. As I knelt before 

the crucifix, I prayed to God that I He would help me in my battle against alcoholism. I 

knew that I could not conquer this addiction alone. 

A prayer by one of the Georgetown Jesuits, Father Burghardt, caught me eye. I 

immediately identified with it and remains in my appointment book, year after year, until 

this very day. I would like to share Father Burghardt’s poem- prayer with you: 

Jesus, who transcends the ages, faith and love in us prepare. 

Save us from our own destruction and the mindset of despair. 

From our selfish ways o lead us, jar us from our leisure days. 

Come in us and lead our spirits into new creative ways. 

Please God, help me!!! He would, but not at the time.

I spent that Sunday with a former Essex Catholic student, John Kiss, who was a senior in 

Georgetown at the time and had dinner at his campus apartment. The next day was spent 

with Mauranna Lynn, a writer for the Washingtonian magazine. We dined at “1789” 

Restaurant over the “Tombs,” and then I gave her a bit of local history as a nightcap. I 

pointed out to her the “Exorcist” house, diagonally across the street from the restaurant, 

as well as the town home of former Georgetown English professor, William Peter Blatty. 

The good professor pulled off a coup with his 1969 best seller and the subsequent Oscarwinning 

screenplay of the movie version in 1973. In a way I identified with the central 

character, Regan. Like Regan, I felt that I was possessed by a demon and its hold on me 

was getting progressively stronger. I had to take steps to exorcise this demon from my 

total being, but I could not do it alone. 

HITTING BOTTOM – DECEMBER, 1980 

Returning to Mater Dei High School, as well as finding an apartment in Highlands, set 

me up for what would become a fall, filled with continued drinking. It is ironic that I 

returned to the shore as penniless as a pauper, but at the same time I scrounged up enough 

money before my first paycheck to pay for a half a pint of booze so that I could make my 

Manhattan’s in my new apartment and while enjoying the limited vista, sitting on the 

barstool of the built-in bar in the living room. 

It’s premature of me to pound my chest after having gone 18 days, and 13 of them 

consecutive, during the month of August without drinking. September was a –4, October 

a –2, and November a –7.Thanksgiving Day was a lonely, bleak day where I opted to stay 

at home drinking and have dinner in the nearby “River House.” 

On Thursday morning, December 11, a surly malcontent student challenged me to a fight. 

This was the first and only time such an incident had happened in my teaching career. It 

was insulting to me as a professional and if a similar occurrence had happened in a 

Brother’s school, the boy would be summarily dismissed. After immediately reporting 

the incident to Frank Outwater who served as Dean of Discipline, I returned to my 

classroom. Later in the day Mr. Outwater informed me that he had called the student to 

his office and had reprimanded him. No detention! No suspension! No expulsion! 

Nothing! That sucked!!! I had told several of my colleagues about the incident and the 

subsequent “punishment” meted out by the Dean of Discipline. By the close of the school 

day, a group of colleagues led by soccer coach, Ken Van Schaak, led a movement for 

justice and that Mr. Outwater seriously consider stepping down from his role as Dean of 

Discipline.

I was stunned and angry by Mr.Outwater’s “slap on the wrist” decision (Mr. Outwater 

and I became friends as my years at Mater Dei progressed. While his house guest in 

Florida in January 2002, the incident was brought up for the first time since it happened 

over twenty years earlier and Frank apologized to me for his inaction in the case). 

After school I proceeded to Olivo’s Restaurant where I drowned my sorrows. I drank 

until I could drink no longer and the owner saw to it that I reached my home in Highlands 

safely. I woke up the next morning with an unbelievable hangover. 

After signing in Friday morning, I went to Room 112, my homeroom and classroom for 

many years. I felt awful. A lone student, John Golding, walked into my room, looked at 

me, and sensing something was wrong, asked: 

Are you all right, Mr. Murray? 

In an instant, I banged my fist into the chalkboard crying out, I’m so fucking’ fed up with 

life, John! 

In that second I had hit my bottom as an alcoholic. I left the room immediately and 

proceeded to the principal’s office where I asked Miss Deegan for permission to go home 

because of my pathetic condition. She agreed. From my home, I phoned Dr. John Paul 

Swidryk, my family doctor. Unfortunately, he was closed that day. In spite of my 

condition, I did attend the annual faculty Christmas party at the Shore Casino, and yes, I 

did have a drink and kept it at that. Mr. Outwater ignored me and that was fine. 

Apparently he thought that I had led the short-lived uprising against him. 

I spent the weekend at home with minimal drinking. On Monday afternoon I met with Dr. 

Swidryk complaining to him that my ulcer was acting up and said by the way, Doctor, I 

think I have a drinking problem. Dr. Swidryk told me of a 28-day program for alcoholism 

at the Century House in Red Bank’s Riverview Hospital that was preceded by 3 days in 

the hospital for detoxification and workup. At first, I balked at the proposal. Hell, I didn’t 

want to spend Christmas, New Year’s, and my December birthday in a rehab center. 

However, I convinced myself that it was now or never and agreed to enter the hospital. 

Unfortunately, no beds were available. On Tuesday, December 16, I had dinner with a 

Manhattan cocktail at the Copper Kettle in Red Bank and then moved to John Lonergan’s 

home in Eatontown to await the phone call from the hospital. I joined John for a nightcap 

at the Pine Tree Bar and the following day I was admitted to Riverview After two 

consultations with Irwin Chess, the official “body snatcher” for the Century House, I was 

advised, that based upon the conferences, I was a prime candidate for the House. At 

1:30PM on Friday, December 19 I was admitted to Century House.

THE CENTURY HOUSE OF RED BANK, NEW JERSEY 

Going through the portals of Century House was like going through heaven’s “pearly 

gates.” It was a redemptive experience after spending many seasons in hell. 

For many years, hospitals and the public looked down as alcoholics as scourges of 

society. Insurance companies refused to cover rehab stays, considering they as mere dryout 

periods. The outlook on alcoholism started to change in the 1970’s and it started to be 

viewed by the medical world as a treatable disease. As a disease, it would be covered by 

insurance. Mrs. Helen Payne was the prime mover in the founding of Century House in 

July 1980, and I would get to know this determined lady during my 28 day stay at the 

House. 

The stately mansion overlooking the Navesink River on East Front Street in Red Bank 

was one of many Victorian “century” houses in that town. The setting on the hospital 

grounds, set apart from the hospital complex, was idyllic. It could accommodate up to 

fifteen patients comfortably on a shared room basis. I was among one of twelve patients 

in residence at the time and shared a room with Jim G. Jim and I got along well and he 

shared his stories about the theatre district in New York City where he worked in the box 

office of one of Broadway’s premier houses. All of us were ready to make the decision to 

change our lives for the better by taking the first step of the A.A. program – We admitted 

that we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable. The 

A.A. program founded by Dr. Bob and Bill W. many years earlier had a proven track 

record with its twelve-step program. 

Over the four weeks we were involved in private counseling, group therapy sessions, 

lectures, workshops, and a baptism into the A.A. organization and its philosophy. Anne 

Lyttle was my personal counselor and we remained in contact until her death in 2002. 

Jane C., a former patient, was part of a volunteer House program, driving patients to AA 

meeting in the evening. Soon I began to realize that my decision to enter the House’s 

rehab program was one of the best decisions I ever made in my life. 

The support of my friends and the Mater Dei community was great including visits and 

phone calls. I received permission to spend Christmas Day with John Lonergan and his 

girls in Eatontown. It was a frightfully cold day. The temperature reached –1. Helen 

Payne, the Director of the House, took care of administrative duties that day so that the 

counselors and other staff members could be with their families.

When John Lonergan dropped me back off at the House, Helen delivered a message to 

me. It was from John Golding, the Mater Dei senior who witnessed me hitting bottom 

earlier that month. John phoned to wish his history teacher a “Merry Christmas.” Now 

that’s what I call an antidote to the below-zero weather. It made my Christmas Day! On 

Sunday, December 28, I celebrated my 47 birthday with cards from some of my fellow 

patients and visits from my friend, John Lonergan, and colleague, Sister Catherine. House 

members attended an A.A. New Year’s Eve party at Precious Blood Church in 

Monmouth Beach. I found out that people can have fun at a party without booze. We rang 

in January 1981 in grand form. 

On January 7, my counselor, Anne Lyttle met with Marie Deegan, Mater Dei High 

School’s principal, and a week later with John Golding, to lay the groundwork for my 

entrance back into society…and the workplace. 

GOD PROTECTS BABIES AND ALCOHOLICS 

On Wednesday evening, January 7, I was watching television in the community room 

located in the basement of the House. It was after 10PM, and the sportscaster mentioned 

the name of tennis great, Rene Richards. I thought I would exit the room by mentioning a 

“funny.” 

Did you realize that Rene Richards was once a distinguished ophthalmologist before her 

sex change from a male to female? No was the simultaneous response from my fellow 

patients. 

Does anyone remember his name before the sex change? No, once more. 

His first name was Richard, Dr. Richard, but I can’t remember his last name. None of the 

patients could remember his name either. 

Do you remember his last word before undergoing the sex change operation? No, for the 

third time. With that I stood and as I was leaving the room said, Goodbye Dick!!! 

Laughter permeated the community room as I made my exit. I hadn’t notice a water spill 

on the floor and came crashing down hitting my arm in the process. I lay on the floor 

writhing in pain and kicked the door to the community room hoping that one of my 

fellow-patients would hear me. Was God punishing me for my off color joke?

Finally, someone discovered me, and Bob J., a policeman, helped me while Dr. Swidryk, 

the official Century House doctor and my personal physician, was called. The doctor 

immediately transported me to the emergency room of Riverview Hospital. The pain was 

unbearable. During those minutes that seemed like hours, I had a religious experience. I 

offered my pain, as if I was on the hill of Calvary the day Christ died, to the pain of Our 

Lord on the cross. It was an ethereal experience and one I’ll never forget. 

I fractured my humerus, was pumped with pain-killers, stayed overnight in the hospital, 

and returned to the House the next day with my arm in a cast. Fortunately for me, it was 

my left arm, as I am a “righty.” 

LEAVING CENTURY HOUSE 

Leaving the House that gave me a new lease on life was difficult. It was a security 

blanket in a sense for nearly a month. I had found myself a sponsor and agreed that I 

would try to make 90 A.A. meetings in 90 days. My counselor, Anne Lyttle, presented 

me with a “24 hour a Day” book. I still read its contents over two decades later. 

I “graduated” from the House on Friday, January 16, a thankful, recovering alcoholic. 

John Lonergan picked me up and took me to his Eatontown home where I stayed for a 

few days because of my immobility. 

NATURAL HIGHS ARE THE GREATEST 

It was Tuesday, January 20, 1981, when I returned home to the “Cave.” That day, 

Ronald Reagan was sworn in as our 40 th President with George H. W. Bush taking the 

oath as Vice President. All that was peripheral compared to the package that I received. It 

was from my publisher and contained ten complimentary copies of my recently published 

book, The Seven Wonders of New Jersey…and then Some. What a great present that was 

as I opened the door to my apartment for the first time as a sober person. I returned to 

school and the support I received from Miss Deegan, as well as my colleagues and 

students, was unbelievable. The timing was also in my favor as it was the beginning of 

the second semester.

A.A. meetings filled my calendar for the ninety days after leaving the House, as well as 

trips to the orthopedic surgeon for my humerus problem. On March 16, I celebrated 90 

days of sobriety and the following Saturday, I received a pin at the Little Silver A.A. 

evening. Several Mater Dei students were on hand to witness the event and that made me 

feel good. The following day I marched in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade with Power 

Memorial Academy and was the first sober St. Patrick’s Day that I had in many a year. 

Earlier in the month, I received an invitation from the Mater Dei High School PTA to be 

their guest of honor at a champagne brunch to be held at the Beacon Hill Country Club 

on Sunday, March 29. I could hardly wait. Here I was only two months out of a rehab 

program and I was given this honor. Naturally, the invitation was book-related and I was 

requested to give a presentation on the 7+7 Wonders of New Jersey. I responded with 

delight that I’d be glad to be their honored guest. 

The event was presided over by the PTA presidents, Charles and Sue Fallon. My 

presentation was going great until I started talking about Lucy, the Margate elephant. I 

prefaced my remarks by saying that the first time I was ever in Lucy was well over a year 

ago. Apparently I had committed a “Murrayism” (double entendre) and the place went 

wild. It took several minutes to restore order. Finally, when everyone settled down, I 

continued with my presentation. Tsk Tsk! 

On Holy Saturday, April 18, I departed for Florida from Newark Airport. Instead of 

hitting the bar before boarding as I had done so many times in the past, I walked around 

the ever-growing airport, stopping to look in the windows of the various shops. As I 

passed the bookstore, there it was in the window – a copy of my book. Wow! What a 

high. 

LESSONS REMEMBERED 

Members grow with the program. The longer one is clean and sober, the greater one’s 

defenses against this insidious disease are. 

One must remember that he is only one drink away from returning to his former ways and 

wasted days. 

One must never project, and yes, there is a difference between planning and projecting. 

One must live life one day at a time. 

One must rely upon God or his “higher power.”

One must try to follow the 12 Steps of A.A. to the best of his ability. 

One must never stand in harms way. 

One must always keep his memory green. 

One must remember that help is only a phone call away. 

THE COMMITMENT 

By the end of April I was taking on commitments telling my story to fellow alcoholics. I 

was slightly nervous and apprehensive about speaking before a group of fellowalcoholics 

in a smoke filled room. Cough! Cough! 

As the meeting began with the Serenity Prayer, I started to settle down. Within a few 

short minutes I was introduced to the awaiting audience. 

Hi! My name is Tom and I am a thankful alcoholic. 

Hi Tom was the enthusiastic response. 

It’s good to be here tonight. Let me start out by saying that I am C.I.A. – Catholic, Irish, 

Alcoholic…

MORPHING OF A MAVERICK

Chapter 26 – DOUBTING THOMAS SWINGS TO THE LEFT 

1969 – A CATALYST FOR CHANGE 

On February 24, students took over Conklin Hall on the Rutgers University campus in 

Newark, New Jersey and laid siege to the urban campus for 72 hours. Two months later 

came the first Catholic school system strike in America. At the beginning of the hot, 

steamy summer, of ’69, the Stonewall riots took place in Greenwich Village. Woodstock 

would follow in August and in mid-November in Washington, D.C., nearly a quarter of a 

million people marched for peace and an end to the Vietnam War. Indeed, it was the 

stormiest year of the stormy sixties. 

Two years later I would become locked in a struggle with the Archdiocese of Newark in a 

landmark court case. Then came Watergate in 1973 and the president for whom I voted 

three times, was in deep trouble. The following year, the House Judiciary Committee 

under the chairmanship of my friend, Congressman Peter Rodino, voted three articles of 

impeachment against the sitting President and recommended that the full House act in a 

similar manner. Nixon resigned in disgrace later that summer of 1974. The man for 

whom I voted three times had become my own personal Brutus. I was disheartened! I felt 

betrayed! 

By then, my morphing process had begun and by the Bicentennial (1976) I would be 

questioning leaders in our government and the institutional Roman Catholic Church. The 

answers to many questions given by my Government and Church were most 

unsatisfactory. Their positions were unacceptable. Was I was becoming a “doubting 

Thomas?” By the 1980’s, I had become a liberal Democrat, a card-carrying member of 

the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), and a “fringe” Catholic. 

I was told that the older one gets, the more conservative one becomes. Not me! The older 

I got, the wiser I became, and with that wisdom, came my ascendancy into the world of 

liberalism. I no longer wanted to live in the myopic world of conservatism. In this 

chapter I will explore how I got that way.

MY WILD IRISH ROOTS, ALIVE AND WELL 

By the early 1970’s, times were changing. The “troubles” in Northern Ireland were 

escalating just like the Vietnam War. I, too, was changing and was becoming an activist 

in the “cause.” England must get out of Ireland!!! 

I became a member of the Irish Northern Aid Committee and soon found that The Irish 

People, their republican newspaper, was now supplementing the Echo. I attended their 

rallies and joined their picket lines. During the hunger strike of the avowed Provisional 

I.R.A. member, Bobby Sands, I joined the picket lines in front of the British Counsel for 

several days. The F.B.I. trained their cameras’ on the marchers. J. Edgar was alive and 

well and all over the republican movement in New York City. Often I was to be found in 

Provo-friendly pubs in Newark and New York City drinking and singing the night away. 

Songs of the Easter Rising and its heroes stirred me. I attended concerts of the Clancy 

Brother and the Irish Rovers. Both were too tame for me – too much Whiskey in a Jar 

and not enough of A Nation Once Again. About the same time, Brian Anthony released 

his ballad, Ireland, United, Gaelic and Free. I loved it! 

Then came “Bloody Sunday,” a clash that took place on January 30, 1972 between Irish 

civil rights marchers and British troops in Derry, Northern Ireland. It was devastating. On 

that day, British troops fired upon those taking part in the peaceful march. Some 13 

unarmed civilians, some in their teens, lay dead on the streets of Derry. It was a major 

turning point in the history of the “troubles” and would further exacerbate the cycle of 

violence. 

Many years later (2002), I saw a docudrama, Bloody Sunday. It was by far the best 

docudrama that I have ever seen, replete with its grainy footage transferred from its 

original 8mm. format to that of the big screen. Bias is kept at a minimum and both sides 

fairly represented in a date that will in infamy in Irish history. I did not hesitate to give 

the movie a “10” and it is not be confused with Sunday, Bloody Sunday, that was shot a 

year before the Derry massacre and featured Peter Finch, Glenda Jackson and a cameo 

appearance by a young Daniel Day-Lewis.

Not only was I repelled by the British presence in Northern Ireland, but also by the “first 

estate” in the Republic of Ireland. It seemed the Roman Catholic Church remained 

intransigent on the issues of the day and the “troubles” of the time. Abortion was banned, 

birth control condemned and homosexuality outlawed. Censorship was the order of the 

day and sure ‘twas no wonder that Joyce and Wilde wound up as expatriates on 

continental Europe earlier in the twentieth century. There was no questioning of the 

Church of your Fathers. 

After Derry, voices were to be heard, not only condemning British occupation of 

Northern Ireland, but the institutional Church as well. Bernadette Devlin, who herself had 

a child out of wedlock, was becoming a symbol of the dispossessed and, subsequently, 

was elected to several government posts. 

In spite of the best efforts of Betty Williams and Mairead Corrigan, who were corecipients 

of the Nobel Prize for Peace in 1976, the “troubles” continued. Initially, I felt 

betrayed by the actions of these two women laureates. After all, I was a “Provo” 

supporter, and for a “Provo” supporter there was only one answer to the Irish question – 

the I.R.A. 

A hard line approach by the British government continued. Prime Minister, Margaret 

Thatcher was ruthless in her resolve of the Irish question, a George III of her day. 

Politicians make strange bedfellows. Truer words were never spoken when it came to 

Ronald Reagan and the “Iron Maiden.” Their respective successors, John Major and 

George Bush would follow in their footsteps. It was during the Reagan-Bush years that 

American diplomacy regarding the Irish question reached its lowest ebb. 

Anglo-American relations regarding the Irish question would change for the better with 

the ascendancy of Bill Clinton to the White House and Tony Blair to 10 Downing Street. 

President Clinton took the unprecedented step of inviting Sinn Fein spokesperson, Gerry 

Adams, to the White House. The George W. Bush White House did not opt to continue 

this precedent. 

Ireland would be brought into the twentieth century with the election of Mary Robinson 

to the presidency. Although a figurehead, her assertive progressive position on the issues 

of the day caused Irish heads to spin, especially those of the Irish clergy. Concurrently, 

the “Celtic Tiger” was advancing as a formidable competitor in the European Union. 

After her tenure in office, Mrs. Robinson would go on to become High Commissioner on 

the United Nation’s Human Rights Commission, following in the footsteps of Eleanor 

Roosevelt and Charles Malik. Entertainers as Sinead O’Connor would question the ultraconservative 

Pope, John Paul II, and Sony Bono of U2 continues involving himself in 

humanitarian projects.

By the early 1980’s, I began distancing myself from the “Provos.” There had to be 

another solution besides the war that continued ravaging Ireland for more than two 

decades. Perhaps, Betty Williams and Mairead Corrigan were right. Perhaps Mary 

Robinson was right. The peace process had to be given a chance. 

I have visited the land of my heritage many times, often staying with Tom Tobin and his 

family in Cork City. Cork is often called the “rebel county,” the seat of the republican 

movement in Ireland. The venue suited me perfectly. 

Ireland was changing and so was I. It was good to see the land of my forefathers, joining 

me, in the evolutionary struggle from the darkness into the light. 

THE DECLINE AND FREE-FALL OF THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH 

Being of Irish heritage and a devout Catholic, I was hesitant at first when Pope John 

XXIII called the Ecumenical Council of the early 1960’s and skeptical when its work was 

done. Did the former Cardinal Roncalli overextend himself? But then he was infallible in 

matters of faith and doctrine and, most assuredly, he would do only what was best for the 

Church, wouldn’t he? 

As a conservative Catholic, I adjusted nicely to the changes and went with the flow. 

While I was versed in Latin, I still thought it was better to have the liturgy in the 

vernacular. Today, a Latin lover (no pun intended) may feel at home with the Tridentine 

Mass that is offered in many parishes throughout the United States. Whenever I am in 

Amsterdam, I feel very much at home attending the Solemn High Mass in Latin that is 

offered at a Catholic Church on the Keizergracht, a stone’s throw from the Ann Frank 

House and the Homo Monument. It is always a great religious and cultural experience for 

me, invariably capped off with a postlude from the Church’s mighty pipe organ. 

I thought that it was more people-friendly to have the priest facing the congregation; after 

all, Jesus did not have his back to the Apostles at the first Mass on Holy Thursday. 

As a result of the Council, the role of women was increased in the male-dominated 

Roman Catholic Church, albeit minimally. 

I consider Pope John XXIII to be the greatest pope of my lifetime, for he gave the 

institutional Roman Catholic Church a breath of life – at least, for a while – a sorely 

needed resuscitation.

Then came the somewhat non-descript Paul VI, the first pontiff to visit America. As he 

addressed the General Assembly of the United Nations, he admonished the delegates on 

the scourge of war - war, never again! 

The Roman Catholic Church was to return to strict conservatism with the election of its 

first Polish pope, John Paul II. With its pyramidal structure, the Vatican has been 

emulated by monarchies and Mafia alike. Indeed, John Paul proved himself to be an 

effective capo di capo. 

Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, a Bavarian and a former Bishop of Munich, was his chief 

enforcer, aka, the “Rottweiler.” As prefect for the Congregation of the Doctrine of the 

Faith, this ultra-conservative prelate is the most powerful man in the Vatican next to the 

Pope. “To promote and serve…” is his mantra; sounds like the L.A.P.D. He has called to 

task and effectively ruined the lives of many theologians who did not subscribe to his 

strict interpretation of the Vatican line. Yes, Nixon had his Halderman and Ehrilchman; 

Pope John Paul II had his Ratzinger. The “Rottweiler” would succeed John Paul II to the 

papacy. One of his last acts as Prefect was to effectively fire Fr. Tom Reese, the Jesuit 

editor of the progressive magazine, America. 

Liberation theology in developing countries was stopped; clergymen could not hold 

public office; and the role of women was marginalized considerably. His appointments 

reflected HIS conservative theology including many nodding-head red hats – the late 

John Cardinal O’Connor of New York and the deposed Bernard Cardinal Law of Boston; 

Justin Rigali replaced Anthony Bevilacqua in Philadelphia; and Teddy McCarrick, the 

Archbishop of Newark accepted a red hat to become archbishop of Washington, D.C. 

There were progressive groups contesting the will of the Holy Father – Call to Action’s 

“We are Church” being the most noted example here in the States. The Roman Catholic 

Church was in a free fall both in America and in Europe. A few American prelates took 

up the progressive cause. Archbishop Rembert Weakland of Milwaukee led the charge. 

Bishop Raymond Hunthausen of Seattle invoked the wrath on conservatives by having a 

mass for gays in his diocese while Auxiliary Bishop, Tom Gumbelton of Detroit, pleaded 

for reform. Gumbelton, a peace activist who practiced the social gospel, exhorted Rome 

to be open and to listen. The Vatican was not listening. 

~ 

I have seen Pope John Paul II on three occasions: his first visit to New York City to 

address the United Nations (1979); at the reopening of the Paulist Church (Santa 

Susanna) in Rome on June 27, 1993 where I actually shook hands with the Holy Father; 

and at Newark Airport in 1995. The Rome event was the most thrilling of the 

experiences, although I would have rather shaken the hand of Mother Theresa – a saint 

for our times.

Mater Dei High School was closed for five days because of the papal visit. This was a 

perfect opportunity for me to leave for Montreal that Wednesday afternoon, October 4, 

1995, spend the long weekend with my friend, Tom Tobin, and then return to New Jersey 

on the following Monday. President Clinton was arriving at Newark Airport about a half 

hour earlier than the papal plane so that he could welcome the Holy Father to the United 

States. I was picked up at school by a shuttle service at 2pm. and taken to Newark Airport 

(EWR). I knew that my Continental flight to Montreal would be delayed because of the 

ado. 

After checking in, I made my way to the large bay window at the end of Terminal C. 

There I could watch the expected arrival of Air Force I. Shortly after 3pm the airport was 

shut down to all aircraft. Some ten minutes later the gleaming jumbo jet carrying the 

President of the United States touched own on the tarmac. What a sight! I have never 

seen a more impressive aircraft in all my life. Air Force I taxied to a position near the 

tower where the President was ushered out of the plane without any fanfare. The airport 

was reopened. 

Fifteen minutes later, it was closed down again and within minutes the Alitalia aircraft 

bearing the Pontiff touched down at EWR. The ladder was placed aside the front door of 

the fuselage and the crowd who had gathered by Terminal C’s bay window was anxious. 

About ten minutes later, a figure, clad all in white, emerged from the door. A 

spontaneous cheer went up from the hundred or so travelers who gathered to watch the 

arrival. I, too, joined in that cheer. 

I tell my friends about that historic meeting of the two most powerful people on earth and 

embellish the story somewhat. After the initial cordialities at the airport, the Pope 

commented to the President about Air Force I. 

It was built to impress, Holy Father, said the President 

For security reasons, the two dignitaries left in separate motorcades for the Archdiocesan 

Office complex on Summer Avenue across from Sacred Heart Cathedral in Newark, 

where a pre-arranged meeting between the two world leaders was to be held. Clinton, 

looking out the window of the complex and seeing the over-powering French Gothic 

cathedral, remarked to the Holy Father that it was awesome. 

It was built to impress, Mr. President, said the Pope. 

~ 

With growing disillusionment, I saw the injustices perpetrated within my own Church. 

I stood strong and steadfast in my Faith until the early 1980’s. After that, I started 

questioning many of the tenets of the Roman Catholic Church.

Why confess your sins to a priest when you can confess them directly to the Almighty? 

Do I really believe in the doctrine of transubstantiation, where bread and wine is 

transformed into the body and blood of Jesus Christ? Or is it merely a symbolic gesture? 

Must I be tithed 10% of my paltry pension, having worked for the institutional Church for 

thirty-eight years? Haven’t I given the Church enough? Why must many of the first estate 

live a close-to-luxurious lifestyle at my expense? 

Why must I go to Mass every Sunday and Holyday? Can’t I pray directly to God? Can’t I 

attend a weekday Mass in lieu of the mandatory Sunday liturgy? 

Does the institutional Church practice what it preaches? 

Why must divorced Catholics, women and homosexuals be second- class citizens in a 

male-driven Church? 

Why can’t non-Catholics dine at the Feast of the Mass? 

So many questions! So many superficial answers! 

Many of my fellow Irish-Catholic friends, too, were having doubts about the Church of 

their Fathers. Maureen O’Connell Hoey, the mother of my godson, Daniel O’Connell 

Hoey, once said to me that the reason the Roman Catholic Church has existed for two 

millennia was that it has refused to practice Christianity. Food for thought! 

I was starting to get disillusioned with the Church to which I had been so very loyal. 

Slowly, I started backing off. This process continues to this very day. 

~ 

With growing disillusionment, I saw injustices committed by too many members of the 

institutional Church. Union busting in the Catholic schools across the country is 

prevalent. I have witnessed pastors rail against parishioners who did not meet their tithing 

responsibilities to their parish. I have heard priests berate women and divorced Catholics. 

I have seen too many acts that have been perpetrated by men with collars that were most 

un-Christian.

Father Bob Kaeding, the former pastor of St. Anselm’s in nearby Wayside, New Jersey, 

welcomed divorced and gay Catholics on an equal footing with the rest of his diverse 

congregation in this community-minded parish. He allowed schoolrooms to be used for 

the homeless in the area. Father Bob founded The Center of Asbury Park, an AIDS 

outreach program and Center House, a housing facility for poorer people afflicted with 

AIDS. That is what Christianity is all about! 

There are many issues which I feel have not been adequately or compassionately 

addressed by the Church: birth control, celibacy, abortion, the secondary role of women, 

divorced Catholics, and gays – are but a few. Unless the Roman Catholic Church 

addresses these issues in a Christian and compassionate way, it will continue its free fall. 

As I grow older I feel a lesser need for the institutional Church. As its intransigency on 

these important issues remain, so too does the rift widen between me and the Church of 

my Fathers. 

Have I left the Roman Catholic Church? No! 

Have I left the institutional Roman Catholic Church? One might think so! 

The eminent Chicago sociologist cum novelist, the Reverend Andrew Greeley, call 

people like myself, who pick and choose what they want to accept or not accept within 

the Roman Catholic Church, cafeteria Catholics. I call myself a fringe Catholic. 

~ 

Shortly after the beginning of the millennium, the walls of the institutional Roman 

Catholic Church came tumbling down. Most observers of the Church, including myself, 

knew of cover-ups that paled to Watergate. It could no longer continue – at least not in 

this cyberspace world of ours. The sex scandals that rocked the Church from its 

foundations were nothing new, and when the proverbial walls came tumbling down, some 

breathe a sigh of relief – finally! 

Sexual abuse of minors by collared clerics and religious was happening from day one. 

Tales abounded of cardinal sins but were brushed off with a snicker or a crude joke. 

My first encounter of sexual abuse concerned a former Irish Christian Brother who was a 

senior staff member at Camp Adrian during the mid-1960’s. A senior counselor reported 

to me that he saw the person in question performing oral sex on a camper through a cabin 

screen. As overseer of the camp, I brought the matter to the attention of the camp owner, 

Nan Cowhey, who sent him “packin’” on the first bus out of Saugerties. Why did he leave 

the Brothers in the first place?

PHEBOPHILES PARADISE 

While I was not familiar with the pedophilia that existed within the universal Church, I 

was somewhat familiar with the phebophilia that existed on a Catholic secondary school 

level. Phebophiles have a carnal desire for post-pubescent teens and may or may not act 

upon that desire. 

For the most part, the Irish Christian Brothers were dedicated to the youth they served 

and adhered to the principles of their Church and Brother Edmund Ignatius Rice, the 

founder of their congregation. There were exceptions. 

At times, a few drank too much, perhaps to compensate for the rigors of the classroom or 

their suppressed libido. Here again the Jansenism effect prevailed. In the Brothers’ 

Community Room at Essex Catholic High School, the highlight of many a brother’s day 

was the extended Happy Hour before dinner. Their bar included a free-flowing tap of 

Budweiser and an array of bottled booze that would do justice to the best stocked bar in 

the City of Newark. When a Brother’s drinking problem became chronic and noticeable, 

he was sent way to a Canadian rehab to dry out – at least, that was true in the case of the 

rank and file brothers. It was not necessarily true in the case of those in leadership 

positions, including two past principals of Essex Catholic High School 

At Essex Catholic High School, it was the exception to see a brother lasciviously leering 

at a boy in gym shorts at play in the yard or monitoring the shower room. But they were 

there. 

I heard of brothers being transferred from other schools conducted by the Christian 

Brothers of Ireland for sexual improprieties. I once discussed this matter with a Brother 

who served his Congregation for well for over fifty years. He indicated that any Brother 

with a sexual abuse problem was usually transferred at the END of the academic year to a 

place far away - St. John’s, Newfoundland. In short order, this Canadian city became a 

safe haven for religious pedophiles and phebophiles; a cesspool for the unwanted. 

One of the Brother’s properties in St. John’s was Mount Cashel, an orphanage for 

underprivileged boys. It was there that one of the most sordid tales of sexual abuse in the 

history of Canada unraveled in the 1980’s. It was there that pedophilia prevailed at its 

worst. It was Mount Cashel that would become the center of government inquiry and 

whose doors would be shut forever as a result of this inquiry. At this writing, (2003), 

there are at least two Brothers here in the United States fighting extradition to Canada. 

One of the two was a former colleague from Essex Catholic. Today, the site of Mount 

Cashel has been razed and a parking lot now stands in its place.

In 1994, The Boys of St. Vincent, was released. The movie caused quite a stir within 

religious communities and was broadly based on the Mount Cashel tragedy. The 

docudrama pointed out the collusion between the orphanage and the government to 

suppress the pedophilia that went on for fifteen years before the inquiry was finally 

mounted by the provincial government. To my surprise, the Office of Film and 

Broadcasting of the U.S. Council of Catholic Bishops cited the movie as strong fare but 

responsibly treated… 

The incidents at Essex Catholic High School with which I am familiar involved both 

Brothers and laymen. In most cases, the phebophiles were from the school’s English 

Department. Most of the abuses that I was aware of were perpetrated, not by the Brothers, 

but, sadly, by the lay teachers. This abuse went all the way to the top, the chairman, and 

worked its way downward into the department itself. Why the English Dept.? 

One such incident occurred in 1968 and involved a lay teacher and a senior boy. During 

the 1968 annual Jerseymen Convention held in Asbury Park held in May of that year, the 

English teacher came to me requesting that he be allowed to share a room at the Berkley- 

Carteret Hotel with his senior charge. We were expecting nearly eighty Essex Catholic 

students and at least a dozen faculty members, as well as, John Lonergan, the viceprincipal, 

for the weekend convention. Attesting that the youth’s parents didn’t mind the 

unusual setup, I allowed the English teacher to room with his student. The young man in 

question was a member of the National Honor Society and represented Essex County in 

the statewide Jerseymen program. He was your All-American boy! Nothing could go 

wrong. My colleagues thought that it was a little strange allowing a chaperone to room 

with a same sex student but I did not pay too much heed to it. And who would question 

my decision anyway? Naiveté, Mr. Murray! 

After graduation the following month, the youth and his teacher eloped to California. The 

boy’s father phoned me and I offered my support and offered to help in any way I could. 

The case went to the grand jury where it was dismissed. The grand jury felt that it should 

not be brought to trial because of the mutual consent factor and the fact that the youth had 

reached the age of majority. Brother Dennehy, the principal of Essex Catholic, fired the 

English teacher, and that was the last I heard of both the English teacher and his prize 

student. 

Several members of the school’s English Department were “lustful lookers.” Whether or 

not any of them were abusers, I cannot say.

AND THE WALLS CAME TUMBLING DOWN 

In 2002 the walls came tumbling down when accusations against a Boston priest 

emerged. A ripple effect followed when alleged victims that had been bought off by the 

Archdiocese of Boston started to come forward. The scenario followed a la Watergate, 

and like Watergate, it involved slush funds, hush money, cover-ups, and eventually the 

resignation of John Cardinal Law, the Archbishop of Boston. 

The flood- gates were now opened as allegations of sexual abuse surfaced across the 

USA and Canada and across the ocean to Europe. As more and more lawsuits were filed 

against priests and ex-priests, more and more bishops were resigning. 

To protect the institutional integrity of the Roman Catholic Church in America, a hastily 

called conference of bishops was held in Dallas. To placate the faithful, the bishops 

adopted a hastily drafted “zero tolerance” policy of sexual abuse and then returned to 

their respective dioceses’. Look what we did! The new policy was to be retroactive and 

without any statute of limitations. To me, this was unfair and I feel strongly that each 

case should be adjudicated on its individual merits. Yes, we must draw a line somewhere. 

Yes, we should defrock priests who have had a chronic problem with sexual abuse, but to 

defrock a priest who has served his Church loyally for some fifty years because he 

allegedly committed an indiscretion with an altar boy at the beginning of his priestly 

calling, is Draconian. 

The Dallas Conference seemed like a replay of Attorney General, John Ashcroft’s “USA 

Patriot Act” which was hastily drafted by the Bush White House and passed by Congress 

with a minimal of debate. Many members of Congress didn’t even read the bill. 

The press had a field day with the scandals in the Church. Their frenzy was likened to the 

O.J. Simpson trial. This overkill, coupled with their careless use of semantics, caused me 

to lessen my opinion of the fourth estate. It seemed that the press gleefully blanketed all 

the alleged priests as “pedophiles.” This was not true. Some were phebophiles (also 

called epheebophiles). And, yes, there is a difference! Thank you, Mr. Safire! 

In 2005, Father Bob Hoatson, a former student, founded Rescue and Recovery 

International (RRI), a support group for those sexually abused by clergy and religious. 

Later that year, he filed a five million dollar lawsuit against the Congregation of Christian 

Brothers (CFC), the Archdioceses of New York and Newark, and the Diocese of Albany, 

N.Y. In the court papers he avers that the institutional Church still protects its own 

whether it be the various dioceses or the Congregation of Christian Brothers. How true, 

Bob.

SALEM LIVES! 

The scene was the Puritan village of Salem, Massachusetts in 1692 as its infamous witch 

trials were in progress. Testimony against the accused “witches” was being heard. At 

times, mass hysteria swept the venue. Girls were accused of being possessed by the devil. 

Other girls were overcome with epileptic-like fits while crying out the names of the 

accused. Guilt by association, innuendo, half-truths and all the things that we associate 

with McCarthyism were present. 

The actual location of this trial was not Salem, 1692, but rather Mater Dei High School, 

some four centuries later, where students in my A.P. United States History class were 

staging a three-day simulation of the witch trials. As a teacher I took academic 

satisfaction in coordinating this annual Salem re-enactment in my AP class. The 

prerequisites for the three-day program included historical research of the witch trials, as 

well as reading Arthur Miller’s, The Crucible. The staging of the trials, especially the 

possession scenes, was something out of The Exorcist – well, not quite. 

Having lived through the McCarthy era and, even worse, having been a supporter of right 

wing fanaticism at the time, I identified with the trials – and thanked God that they were 

only a. simulation. By 1969 I was convinced that the late Wisconsin Senator was a 

demagogue, who like the self-righteous “holier than thou” people of Salem at the 1692 

trial, ruined so many lives. My views toward the reactionary right were changing and my 

shameful association with the McCarthy movement was “history.” 

While the Salem witch trials of 1692 are history, Puritanism has left an indelible mark 

upon the United States, both for better and worse. Certainly the work ethic is a positive 

contribution of this group to our country, as is their emphasis on thrift. However, during 

my lifetime, these concepts gave way to the greed and corruption of late twentieth 

century. Insider trading and other violations of the rules of the Securities and Exchange 

Commission were woefully abandoned during the greedy eighties. Skilled workers, 

service workers, and others who take a pride in what they do, have diminished 

considerably. Has the American worker become too complacent? Overly self-secure? 

Saving for that proverbial rainy day at the expense of others became the rule rather than 

the exception. 

Overshadowing all this is the SPECTRE of Puritanism – authoritarianism, McCarthyism, 

conformity, unquestioned loyalty, blind patriotism, and so forth – all alive and well at the 

beginning of the new millennium. 

Today, there are religious right zealots who are no better than McCarthy and use the same 

undesirable tactics to achieve their goals. We see them in politics, the business world, 

and, yes, even in the churches, my own institutional Roman Catholic Church, included.

Blue laws are so much a part of the American scene. Unlike our European cousins, 

elections are never held on a Sunday. Election Day is held on the first Tuesday in 

November and primary and special elections are always held on a weekday, never on a 

Sunday. 

Blue laws are still alive and well in some New Jersey locales. Paramus Mall in Bergen 

County does not open for business on Sunday’s. Ocean Grove, a Methodist-owned town 

less than a half hour from where I live, up until a few years ago, prohibited vehicular 

traffic on Sunday’s. And so it goes. 

Since McCarthy’s demise, many have followed in his footsteps. Are we less gullible 

today than we were during the McCarthy era? Are we still a “nation of sheep” fifty years 

later? 

Sadly, the hatred spewed by Senator McCarthy and the descendants of Salem is still with 

us today. Xenophobia prevails! 

As the women’s rights movement loses ground, I dare say that I will not see a women 

chief executive in my lifetime. Sorry, Hillary! 

At the urging of the G. W. Bush White House, Congress has hurriedly passed legislation 

clearly discriminatory in nature against Arabic/Muslim peoples and others, who in the 

eyes of the administration may be considered less-American. It has committed sins of 

omission in affronting the God-given rights of other groups. Attorney General, John 

Ashcroft, trampled upon the liberties of Americans in true J. Edgar Hoover fashion. 

The walls of the theocratic bastions of Catholicism in Europe and the United States are 

almost gone – a welcome change, indeed. The Puritanical Jansenism that complemented 

the Roman Catholic Church is far from gone. One example of this is the exclusion from 

Holy Communion of Roman Catholic politicians whose views differ from the official 

party line of the Roman Catholic Church. Hierarchy in at least one diocese has withheld 

the sacrament from Senator John Kerry because of his liberal views on choice, stem cell 

research and same sex civil union’s. To be an acceptable political candidate one must 

pass the Church’s litmus test – or else! 

I so often told the students of my American Government classes that we must never 

forget that “the same government that gave us our liberties can take them away from us.” 

This retired teacher is prepared to fight to defend these freedoms.

THE PEOPLE’S HOUSE AND THE PEOPLE IN IT 

My political morphing was latent. I had voted for Dick in 1960, 1968 and 1972. 

Watergate changed my perspective on Nixon. His accomplishments, that were many 

including the détente with the Peoples Republic of China, were negated by violation of 

his public trust and the blatant violation of the principles set forth in the U.S. 

Constitution. I’m sure that my friendship with Congressman Peter W. Rodino Jr., also 

had a lot to do with changing my outlook toward President “I am no crook” Nixon. 

However, life inside the beltway went on with Gerald Ford in the White House. One of 

his earliest acts as President of the United States was to pardon his predecessor. This act 

caused me to be further disillusioned with the political process. Later in my life I saw the 

rationale of President Ford in issuing the pardon. Reluctantly, I voted for “bumbling 

Jerry” over the peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia. This was to be the last time that I 

ever cast a vote for the Republican presidential nominee. 

In 1980, I went the independent route and voted for John Anderson. I knew that 

Anderson didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the election or even getting 

a respectable number of electoral votes, but he seemed to me to be knowledgeable, issue 

oriented, and above all, a man of principle. 

In 1984, after being a registered Republican for nearly thirty years, I made the big switch 

and aligned myself with the Democratic Party. Today, I am still a registered Democrat 

but, in reality, I am more of an independent voter. 

In the 1980’s I went with the losers, Mondale and Dukakis. It was good to see Walter 

Mondale inviting Geraldine Ferraro to serve as his running mate – a woman only a 

heartbeat way from the presidency. 

During the 1992 primaries, the governor of Arkansas emerged as the front-runner among 

the Democratic presidential candidates. From the outset, a “Slick Willie” image appeared 

in my mind regarding William Jefferson Clinton. My fears were allayed somewhat, 

when I spoke to my friend, Peter Rodino, who, at the time was “retired” from his Newark 

Congressional district after serving it so well for forty years. So I went to the polls on 

Election Day of 1992 and voted for Bill Clinton – reluctantly. Ditto, 1996. Clinton was a 

popular president and if he were to run against G.W. Bush in 2004, the two-term limit 

notwithstanding, I’m sure he’d win – Monica notwithstanding.

In 2000, I voted for the Green Party candidate and consumer advocate, Ralph Nader. Like 

Anderson in 1980, I knew he wouldn’t win but his platform appealed to me. It looked like 

Al Gore would sweep New Jersey’s electoral vote so I, along with more than 92,000 

other New Jersey voters, voted “Green” for president. For me and other citizens, it was a 

protest vote against the middle of the road, Al Gore. Because of contested votes and 

hoary voting machines in the state of Florida, the case was appealed to the Supreme 

Court. S.C.O.T.U.S., in its infinite wisdom, by a 5-4 vote, decided the 2000 election in 

favor of George Walker Bush. George and Barbara were the proud parents of the “punchcard 

president.” In the election of 2004 I voted for John Kerry, with reservations, and did 

not go the Nader route. 

“UNCLE PETE” RODINO COMES HOME TO NEW JERSEY 

Sister Catherine Tronolone of Mater Dei High School and I had a mutual friend – 

Congressman Peter W. Rodino Jr. “Uncle Pete” was Sister Catherine’s cousin and we 

often talked about him. After forty years of public service in the House of 

Representatives, Peter began a new career as professor of Constitutional Law at Seton 

Hall Law School in Newark and resided in Maplewood, New Jersey, at the time. 

On May 17, 1992, Sister Catherine invited me to St. Mary’s Convent for a classic Italian 

dinner with the former Congressman, an octogenarian at the time. Joy, his second wife 

and former secretary, chatted with me on one side of the room, while Sister Catherine and 

the former Congressman chatted about their extended family on the other side. Joy was 

amazed at my memory. I was able to go back to the 1960’s when I first met her in the 

Congressman’s office and remembered her maiden name of Jocelyn Judleson, some years 

before she married a D.C. policeman, Tom Hoare, who she later divorced. I related to Joy 

the story of the embarrassment I caused her husband at the Bicentennial Dinner in 1971. 

Her laughter could be heard throughout the convent. Their intergenerational marriage was 

a match made in heaven, for Joy had been an angel to the former House Judiciary 

Chairman. 

On Veterans Day, 2004, a week prior to the Essex Catholic High School Alumni 

Association dinner, I received a phone call. The voice on the other end said, This is Uncle 

Pete. It was ninety-five year old Peter W. Rodino, Jr. The prime purpose of the call was 

congratulatory in nature, commending me on the “lifetime achievement ward” that I was 

about to receive from Essex Catholic High School. He spent most of nearly an hour 

updating me on his activities, including a chair at Seton Hall Law School endowed in his 

honor. He waxed nostalgic on my many trips, both with the kids and alone, to visit him 

during his many years (40) as a Congressman.

CAPITAL IMPROVEMENTS 

During my many years as a beltway watcher, I have seen Constitutional amendments 

proposed and in most cases, proposed Constitutional amendments fail. Most citizens 

don’t want the Constitution tampered with. Only six amendments, the 22 nd thru 27 th , have 

made it during my lifetime. Most never receive the two-thirds vote required in both 

houses of Congress before it goes down the long road requiring the approbation of threequarters 

of the states. Even the popular Equal Rights Amendment, which I supported, was 

pronounced “dead” ten years after it failed to get the required number of states. Most 

proposed amendments never make it out of committee during a Congressional session. 

One that did was the American flag desecration amendment. However, during a vote on 

June 21, 1990, the full of House of Representatives rejected it by a vote of 254-177. I was 

there, along with my colleague from Mater Dei High School, John Anderson, when the 

vote was taken. Earlier that day we both met with Congressman Frank Pallone of my 

Congressional district in New Jersey who assured us that the votes weren’t there later in 

the day. While I love my country’s flag and what it represents, nonetheless, I would have 

voted with the majority. Intrinsically, the flag is a piece of cloth. For some, that piece of 

cloth may mean a deprivation of freedom. (Later that day John Anderson and I attended a 

reception in the State Dept. and we had the pleasure of meeting Larry Eagleburger, the 

Under Secretary of State, at the time. A few months later, he would serve a short tenure 

as Secretary of State under President George Bush). After 9/11, Pallone would reverse 

himself and vote in favor of the flag desecration amendment. Nothing like an expedient 

Congressman! 

There are movements afoot on an ongoing basis in Congress to change the Constitution. 

There are many religious conservatives who would like to see Roe v. Wade reversed 

through the amendment process. While my views remain somewhat restrictive on this 

issue, nonetheless, I think that freedom of choice will prevail. I would not want to see this 

reproductive rights decision reversed. Like many liberals, I support stem cell research. In 

the final analysis, one’s conscience is the highest law. 

At the time of this writing, there is a Constitutional amendment that would define 

marriage and a union between a man and a woman. President George W. Bush has come 

out supporting the proposal. The Federal Marriage Amendment (FMA) is a restrictive 

amendment and one that deprives a minority group of a right they feel is theirs. The 

chances of it passing both houses of Congress are quite remote. Others felt that President 

Bush has used it as a stratagem in his culture wars during an election year (2004). There 

are several Republicans who feel that this is a divisive issue and that the Constitution 

shouldn’t be tinkered with. Many feel that this is a states rights issue and should be 

addressed by the states alone. At this writing the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain and 

Canada allow same sex civil marriages. Bravo for these countries. More will follow.

Lobbies remain a vital force in American politics. The American Medical Assn. (AMA) 

and its cousin, the pharmaceutical industry, prevail among the top contributors to the 

Washington establishment. The latter has more lobbyists in Washington, D.C., that there 

are members in the House of Representatives. The American Bar Assn. (ABA) still 

remains an important presence in the “City of Lawyers.” The National Rifle Association 

(NRA) has lost some of its firepower. Anti-gun advocate, author and actor, Michael 

Moore depicted his battle against the gun lobby in the Oscar-winning documentary, 

Bowling at Columbine. However, his anti-Bush remarks at the Academy Awards 

ceremony detracted from this auspicious occasion. His anti-establishment books continue 

to make The New York Times bestseller list including Fahrenheit 9/11. 

I seldom get down to Washington. I was there for an overnight trip in August 2003. For 

the first time ever, I stayed in the Dupont Circle area. Maybe it was because I got a good 

rate at Jury’s, an Irish hotel chain. The famed multicolored circle was still as vibrant as 

the last time I visited our Nation’s capital. Some things have changed inside the beltway. 

Mark Russell is no longer at the Marquis Lounge at the Shoreham; the Capitol Steppes 

are now Washington’s most popular political satire musical group. It was good to see that 

my favorite restaurant, Georgetown’s “1789,” was still open for business and during the 

summer of 2004 while my goddaughter, Mary Beth Kostka, was attending the American 

Federation of Teachers Convention, she took me for dinner there. 

THE SECOND PRESIDENT BUSH AND THE SECOND IRAQI WAR 

America had been attacked on 9/11. A state of war existed as a new world order was 

created in the days following the 9/11 attacks. 

From day one, I was dead set against George W’s incursion into Iraq. At the invitation of 

Victor Saraiva, a former Essex Catholic High School student, and his teenage son, 

Daniel, I marched against it in a mass demonstration in New York City on February 15, 

2003. While I resented the fact that the United Nations played no pivotal role in the 

process, or for that matter most of our allies, nonetheless, I supported the troops once 

President Bush made his incursion into Iraq the following month. Two years later, I felt 

there were some valid comparisons between Iraq and Vietnam. At that point, I started to 

feel that the sooner we extricated ourselves from this mess, the better. As of today, the 

number of US troops killed in action is more than 2,000 and thousands more wounded. 

For what? 

Why President George W. Bush took so long to retaliate and finish off Bin-Laden and in 

Afghanistan, I’ll never know. George W’s actions reminded me of Douglas Corrigan, the 

heralded solo pilot of the 1920’s, who left New York for San Francisco but wound up in 

Dublin instead. The press dubbed the pilot, “Wrong Way Corrigan.” Why didn’t our 

president go all out to kill or capture Bin-Laden instead of creating a “phony war” in 

Iraq? I’m told that the USA possesses the most modern war machine in the current world.

It seems to me that President Bush is on a mission to superimpose his values upon the 

world, just as another Republican president, William McKinley, tried to do more than a 

century earlier. From our US History classes in high school we remember that McKinley 

wanted to “Christianize” the Philippine’s and other “backward” nations back in 1898. 

The result was the Spanish-American War and the beginning of America’s “Age of 

Imperialism.” Today, the “Imperial President” has launched a new “Age of Imperialism” 

to “democratize” the Middle East. The spirit of the Crusades is alive and well and living 

in the White House. Indeed, must the world be made safe for democracy? 

My friend, the late Dr. Charles Malik, once said: To lead, the leader must inspire but only 

the inspired can inspire. To me, “W” neither leads nor inspires, for indeed, only the 

inspired can inspire. 

Shortly after the attack, Congress passed without reading and debate, the USA Patriot 

Act. Inspired by Attorney General, John Ashcroft, the act created machinery to deal with 

those they felt threatened the security of our country. The UCLU decried the act as 

unconstitutional in parts. An anti-Arabic, anti-Muslim, xenophobic fervor gripped many 

Americans, unlike anything we had seen in recent years. It seemed to be a reincarnation 

of the “Red Scare” years of post-World War I and II America. 

Those who questioned the USA Patriot Act or the Iraq War were branded as 

“unpatriotic.” Those who protested and marched in cities throughout the country were 

branded as “un-American rabble rousers” by the right wing establishment in Washington. 

I resented my patriotism being questioned. One does not need to have his car, home or 

clothing covered with American flags and decals to be considered patriotic. I told one of 

my neighbor’s, that unlike the large flag waving from his porch, I wear the colors of 

America in my heart. I am proud to say that I am a true, “blue” American. 

The election of 2004 proved a setback for the “blue” states, of which New Jersey was 

one. Perhaps, Americans did not want to change presidents in the middle of their 

president’s war. Perhaps, a bare majority of citizens thought that the president was the 

perfect fit to lead the country in the war on terrorism. Other, I’m sure, were influenced by 

the values mandated by the “Puritan ethic.” I was not one of those Americans. 

Speaking of colors, a color-coded alert system was created by the newly created Office of 

Homeland Security. Invariably, the president had the final say on the when, what and 

where of color usage. More often than not, orange, for a “high” level of alert, was posted. 

At times, I feel that this alert system is overused to create a “fear factor” mentality among 

the American people and to boost the popularity of the incumbent Executive Department 

as the creator of a “safer America.” Then again, would I rather be safe than sorry?

CARD-CARRYING MEMBER OF THE A.C.L.U. 

The post-World War I years saw a return to conservatism and the accompanying, Red 

Scare. Attorney-General A. Mitchell Palmer and his troops conducted the notorious raids 

that bear his name, casting aside the civil rights guaranteed by the Constitution. 

Sometimes, those in the position of Attorney General have the tendency to cast aside 

those cherished liberties. Rising to the occasion, were a group of super-heroes from the 

left – each contributing their time and talents to form an organization that would thwart 

the efforts of General Palmer. Founded in 1920, it was called the American Civil 

Liberties Union (ACLU) and its founding members read like a “who’s who” in an 

American History textbook: Jane Addams, Clarence Darrow, Helen Keller, and its first 

president, Roger Baldwin. You weren’t listening General Ashcroft! 

As mentioned in an earlier chapter, my first connection with the organization came while 

I was a bellhop at the Harvard Club of New York City and got to know Irving Ferman, a 

lawyer for the ACLU based in Washington, D.C. In those days, I was on the McCarthy 

bandwagon and scorned the ACLU as a front for Communism. 

It was in the 1980’s that I started to give membership in the ACLU some thought. I 

supported their concept of protecting basic civil liberties and the extension of those 

liberties to the disenfranchised. I had seen adversaries of George Dukakis, the1984 

Democratic presidential candidate, being called the “L” word and a card-carrying 

member of the ACLU. This annoyed me and pushed me further in terms of joining the 

organization. From my point of view, the ACLU had some negatives and I resented their 

backing of extreme radical or reactionary groups including the Ku Klux Klan. I weighed 

the matter carefully asking myself: Is it better to have an organization with flaws than 

have no organization at all to protect our civil liberties? By the fall of 1988 I was ready 

to apply for membership. I filled out the form and sent in my annual dues to the ACLU 

headquarters in New York City. I soon received my membership card. I was now a cardcarrying 

member of the ACLU. 

The highlight of my ACLU involvement came on the morning of October 19, 2001 at the 

Alexander Inn in Philadelphia. At breakfast, in the great room of the hotel, I had the 

pleasure of meeting Tony Romero, the Executive Director of the ACLU. The first order 

of business was to whip out my ACLU card and present it to him for his signature. He 

obliged and then we chatted for a while. We both agreed that civil liberties were being 

eroded by the Patriot Act, especially our fourth amendment rights to privacy. It was a 

brief but exhilarating discussion. 

Today, I am a proud member of the sometimes-controversial organization, attending 

discussion forums on constitutional rights, receiving e-mail and newsletter updates on the 

issues of the day, and, at times, fighting alongside the ACLU for causes in which I 

believe.

THE CHURCH, DOGMA, AND CENSORSHIP 

I became actively involved in the movie censorship battle upon the release of Kevin 

Smith’s Dogma in 1999. Before I penned letters to the editor’s of local newspapers, I 

thought back to the inception of the Legion of Decency and the role the Catholic Church 

played in censoring movies over the years. 

Father Daniel Lord, S.J., was one of the major writers of a movie code proposal, which, 

in 1930 became the basis of Hollywood’s Hays Code, and in 1933, the Catholic Church’s 

Legion of Decency. The code included a section on religion that stated…ministers of 

religion may not be comic characters…George Carlin played the role of a bishop in this 

movie. Need I say more? 

For decades, the Legion of Decency prevailed and determined what would – or what 

would not – be shown on silver screens. As a younger person, I remember well reciting 

the pledge at St. Paul’s in New York City. I remember too, the well-intentioned members 

of Catholic organizations, rosaries in-hand, picketing “C” rated movies. Forty-one years 

later, this Catholic senior citizen braved the brickbats of Catholic advocacy groups to 

attend the screening of Dogma. Just as I questioned the right of the Legion of Decency to 

dictate what I should not see or not see in 1958, so too, do I question self-appointed 

censorial groups as William Donahoe and his Catholic League for Religious and Civil 

Rights (what an oxymoron) to determine what I should not see or not see in 1999. 

Yes, I found Dogma to be faith questioning, but it was also faith affirming. Does not 

Kevin Smith have the right to pose questions in film about the religion of his baptism, or 

do we reincarnate the Legion of Decency? Onward Christian Soldiers! 

NO BLEEDING HEART LIBERAL 

I have been called a bleeding heart liberal by some, and a socialist by one of my closest 

friends, Ed D’Ascoli. I plead “not guilty!” to the latter charge. Progressivism should not 

necessarily be equated with socialism. 

I am a fiscal conservative. However, I feel that my priorities differ from those on the 

other side of the aisle. Unbridled pork barreling annoys me, as does corporate welfare. 

Conservatives complain about individual welfare while espousing corporate welfare. 

What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.

I do not believe in individual welfare on demand but rather welfare where warranted. 

There are far too many people on the dole here in America and it’s draining our national 

and state treasuries. Ed D rants and raves about those on welfare and believes there are no 

“poor people” in our country. I usually cut him down by saying: Have you not collected 

unemployment in the past? Are you now not collecting a hefty monthly Social Security 

check? It annoys me to no end when people knock the system in one breath, while in the 

next breath try to beat the system in every way they can. 

Why should we go back to the moon again when our infrastructure is in need of repair, 

Ed? 

I love riding the rails. Unfortunately, our national passenger rail system, Amtrak, leaves 

so much to be desired. On a trip from Newark to Florida in 2003, my train, the Silver 

Star, was nearly five hours late getting into Kissimmee. I have made the scenic trip to 

Montreal aboard the Adirondack many times and in most case the train was late in 

arriving. Our train system runs a poor second to those of other developed nations – in 

terms of the quality of the trains, meals, service and amenities. I have traveled the trains 

of Europe and there’s no comparison – and they’re usually on time. 

I do not believe that a college education is a universal right. For those high school 

graduates who qualify, I would support college aid programs like the Pell Grant. 

However, we need the tradesmen and merchants; the people in the service industries and 

skilled laborers; and, yes, the unskilled laborers too. It is good to see day Latino laborers 

here in Red Bank gather in the street near the train station every morning, rain or shine, 

hoping to get a day’s work. They work hard. They want to work. God bless them. 

In the area of foreign policy, we must not forget our friends, in some cases sycophants, at 

the expense of other allies. This is happening far to often in the Bush administration: 

Israel v. Palestine; Ireland v. England; and so on. Politicians make strange bedfellows, 

don’t they? Ronnie and Maggie? George W. and Tony? 

THIRTY-FIVE YEARS LATER 

In April 2004, I “celebrated” the 35 th anniversary of the major first strike of any Catholic 

school system in the United States. Because of my actions in this somewhat historical 

event, 1969 proved to be a catalyst for change in my life and the beginning of a morphing 

process that would take years. During those thirty-five years I have swung from one side 

of the spectrum to the other, in terms of politics, religion, social activism and other areas. 

In 2004 I feel a more fulfilled person and less myopic than I was in the days and years 

preceding April 21, 1969.

In the area of Catholic schools labor relations, we have come a long way but there is still 

long way to go. 

My heroes are no longer on the right, but rather to the center and left of center. The 

National Catholic Reporter has come to replace my diocesan newspaper. The New 

Republic, Commonweal and America have replaced the National Review. That is not to 

say that I don’t read the right magazines at times. NPR has become my favorite radio 

station; PBS my favorite television station wit Mark Shields, my favorite commentator. 

“Air America” with Al Franken has taken to the airwaves to offset Rush Limbaugh. Our 

authors include Molly Ivins, Al Franken and the “ballsy” Michael Moore. It’s always a 

pleasure to pick up the New York Daily News and read a piece by Pete Hamill. Naturally, 

balladeer, Pete Seeger of the sloop Clearwater fame, ranks high on my list of favorites. 

One lady that I have placed on a pedestal is the past president of the Republic of Ireland 

and former High Commissioner of the United Nations Human Rights Commission, Mary 

Robinson. She brought Ireland into the twentieth century and for that I am grateful. 

Despite many obstacles, she pushed forward her agenda as head of the Human Rights 

Commission. Eleanor Roosevelt and Dr. Charles Malik would have been proud of her 

efforts at the UN. God bless you, Mrs. Robinson! 

I dare not project what will happen in the next thirty-five years. However, by the year 

2039, there is a good possibility that we may have: 

1. universal health coverage; 

2. the Global Village becoming much more so; 

3. an ever-expanding role of the United Nations, especially some of its agencies; 

4. many states recognizing same sex marriages and even more, recognizing civil 

unions between gays and lesbians; 

5. the return of the Papacy to an Italian and with that, a less doctrinal and more 

compassionate Catholic Church; 

6. a woman president, despite our Puritan roots; 

7. eminent domain run amuck and 

8. the despoliation and development of woodland and preserved areas in many 

states, including my beloved New Jersey. 

Whatever will be, will be!

Chapter 27– GAY AM I BY THE GOD THAT MADE ME 

Gay am I by the God that made me. 

Out am I to the world around me. 

Proud am I of the man who is me. 

GAY AM I BY THE GOD THAT MADE ME 


The Spirit of ‘69 

Homo sapiens are we, each and every one of us, all people, everywhere. It is a prime 

tenet of most religions that man, the sapient man, replete with free will, was made by 

God. I, too, believe that God made all homo sapiens, a.k.a. human beings. I believe that 

God made, not only the heterosexual population, but the homosexual population, as well. 

Proof, scientific/medical proof, is a difficult thing. It is a “missing link” but not for long. 

Today, more and more researchers and members of the medical profession are coming 

down on the side of homosexuality as an “orientation” vis-à-vis a “lifestyle.” 

In 1973, the American Psychiatric Association (APA) declassified homosexuality as a 

“mental illness.” Other medical and psychiatric groups followed suit, contending that 

homosexuality is no longer considered a deficiency or disorder. Rather, it is considered 

an intrinsic trait, a genetic factor, by most of the progressives in today’s world. 

The APA has also debunked reparative therapy, a psychological process of exorcising the 

homosexual “demons” from within. 

What’s normal? What’s natural? What’s sexually normal or natural for ninety percent of 

society may not be normal for the other ten percent. More and more members of society 

are agreeing with that hypothesis. 

Many Irish people believe that homosexuals are genetically born “that way.” Lifestyles, 

including gay one’s, are chosen by the free will of the individual and acted upon, be it 

going to Fire Island for a vacation, to Massachusetts for a marriage ceremony, or to 

Vermont for a civil union. Then, of course, there’s celibacy.

If I asserted that God created gays, I would have been branded a heretic back in the days 

of the Inquisition, and you know what the Roman Catholic Church did to heretics back in 

those days. Burn, baby, burn! 

My baptismal name may be Thomas but I’m no “Angelic Doctor.” This Thomas may 

have difficulty making a case for gays being created by God. However, can you, the 

reader, prove otherwise? It is my strong feeling – “f” like in feeling; “f” like in faith – 

that God made me, and people like me, “to know, love and serve Him in this world, and 

be happy with Him in the next.” 

WHAT DID I KNOW AND WHEN DID I KNOW IT? 

Difficult question! Qualified answer! 

By the time I reached puberty, I had a feeling, albeit remote, that I was “different” than 

most of my male classmates. My altar boy years at NYC’s Church of St. Paul the 

Apostle, saw displays of male genitals in the altar boys’ room, especially during 

downtime in the evening while waiting for the closing Benediction liturgy. Once I 

witnessed a couple of aroused boys go into the altar boys bathroom for whatever. Tsk! 

Tsk! 

Then came my days at camp. Wow! Did I come of age! 

I had just graduated St. Paul the Apostle (SPAS) Grammar School, and during the 

summer of 1948, I attended two camps – Shepherd Knapp in Conn. and Adrian in the 

Catskills. 

At the former, a Herald-Tribune Fresh Air Camp, I was impressed with the sexual 

proclivity of a couple of my fellow-campers. However, it was just a “looking” situation. 

Returning for my second year to Camp Adrian, I was in the senior group of boys 12-14 

years of age, and was assigned, with three other boys, to the Director’s cabin. It was a 

nifty situation with only four boys in Cabin 2 – two bunk beds and the Director’s single. 

The Director used the cabin for sleeping only, so we had relative privacy. One morning 

while we were making our beds and sweeping the cabin, one of the camper’s exposed his 

fully engorged “stiffie,” and invited us to help him get it down by performing oral sex on 

him. I found this exposition quite exciting. However, for me, it was still a “looking” 

situation.

My high school years at Power Memorial came and went without much ado. I attended 

senior prom, which was nothing more or less than an expensive dance at the Pierre Hotel. 

I graduated high school less than a month later and was still a virgin. Ho hum! 

On a college level, I did not attend as much as one dance at Iona. I had neither the time 

because of my full-time job, nor was I in the mood to “shake, rattle and roll.” 

Some of my peers gave me blow-by-blow descriptions of their sexual soiree’s; others 

were bragging about their first sexual encounter and how exhausting an experience it 

was. Me, I just kept quiet. 

I graduated from Iona College in January 1958 and was still a virgin. 

ME GAY? NO WAY! 

One must remember that in the pre-Stonewall world, gays were expected to stay in the 

closet. At worst, they were despised; at best, grudgingly tolerated. Living in the Joe 

McCarthy – Roy Cohn era, presented a challenge to homosexuals. They were 

discriminated against in the workplace, legislation, school, housing, and even at their 

place of worship. It was a repressive society in which I lived; a double shotgun blast both 

from my Church and from society. Some things have not changed that much. 

I was not labeled a “faggot,” “ queer” or “fruit” by my classmates in high school or 

college, nor by my co-workers at the Harvard Club, because I presented an outwardly 

“straight” appearance. I may have been “different” but no way was I gay! I did not dress 

nor act like a Village queen. I was not sissified, and upon graduation, I entered the United 

States Marine Corps Officer Candidate School in Quantico, Virginia, as detailed in an 

earlier chapter. Don’t forget the “Marine Corps Builds Men.” Back in those days, they 

didn’t have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. They simply separated you from the service if 

you were suspected of being homosexual. I didn’t have to worry about that, although the 

sight of a young, slim, nude fellow-candidate in the barracks was quite appealing. As I 

stated earlier, I was given an honorable discharge because of medical and hardship 

reasons. 

A contemporary, Dennis Elgrim, once commented to me: It was easy being Catholic in 

the 1950’s and not be sexual. How true, Dennis. 

Back in the “good old days,” even the mere mention of the “H” word was taboo. I 

laughed heartedly at the Bob Newhart character in the movie, In and Out. His role was 

that of a high school principal and when he called the closeted teacher, played by Kevin 

Kline, into his office to admonish him for rumors that he was gay, the principal 

(Newhart) used his trademark stutter, as he sputtered out the ho…ho…ho…homosexual 

word

IN AND OUT – OF THE CLASSROOM, THAT IS 

In September of 1958, I began my teaching career at the all boys Essex Catholic High 

School in Newark, New Jersey, where I would remain for seventeen years. I was never 

asked about my homosexuality nor did I proffer my sexual orientation to administration, 

faculty or students. By 1969, I seriously addressed the question of my sexual identity but 

was not quite ready to come out of the stifling closet. 

All told, I spent thirty-eight years in the classroom. With the death of my mom, Delia, in 

1968, I had more disposable time and would live alone in my North Arlington apartment 

as master of the house. In late April of 1969, less that six months after her passing, I 

would be leading the first major strike of any Catholic school system in America. As a 

result of my leadership role in the thirteen-school, Lay Faculty Association, I grew bolder 

and, with the advent of the 1970’s, I was about to cross over the threshold and explore 

questions of my sexual identity. 

Carefully choosing my words, I supported the fledgling gay rights movement, both in and 

out of the classroom. I was careful enough to thread a fine line as not to imperil my 

teaching position. 

By the mid-1960s the word “gay” had come into our lexicon as synonymous with 

homosexual. I remember that one of the Brother’s in Essex Catholic High School’s 

English Dept. had organized an Easter trip to Paris. His flier caused quite a flap in the 

school, urging the kids to go to “Gay Paree.” After speaking to me, the good Brother 

came out with an edited edition of the flier. And speaking of coming out… 

COMING OUT IS HARD TO DO 

By the end of 1969, a few months after the Stonewall Riots in New York City, I came out 

to the most important person in the world – myself. Finally, I had addressed the question 

but for a while I kept asking myself: Am I really gay?

It was not until the 1974-75 academic year that I came out to another person. John Zoltan 

Kiss, a freshman honor student at Essex Catholic High School, was an active member of 

The Jerseymen program. While on a bus trip to a historic site, the blond Hungarian youth 

who was sitting alongside me, asked me point blank: Are you gay, Mr. Murray? The 

impudence of this freshman asking me such a personal question. I responded: Yes, I am, 

John. He then went on to tell me how much he admired gay role models, including a gay 

teacher at his middle school. He kept my secret during his high school years. Whenever 

we were alone, he used to tease me: Mr. Murray, have you read the latest edition of ‘The 

Advocate’ (the national gay magazine) yet? I left Essex Catholic at the end of his 

sophomore year but we continued our very special relationship over the years. In his 

senior year John Kiss was elected State President of The Jerseymen. I was honored to 

receive an invitation from John to attend his graduation in June of 1978. I accepted with 

pride. He went on to Georgetown where I visited him on at least two occasions. After 

that, we lost contact, and the last I heard of him was that he was married. 

Coming out to John Kiss broke the ice. 

By the Bicentennial year (1976), I was ready to come out to my inner circle of closest 

friends. I did! Without exception, they stood by me. Some suspected, as was the case of 

Ed D’Ascoli. He felt that homosexuality was genetic and there wasn’t one damn thing I 

could do about it. Friend and former Essex Catholic student, Bob McGonigel, a special 

agent with the FBI at the time when I came out to him, responded: Oh I knew (It’s still 

unfashionable for FBI agents to associate with homosexuals). John Lonergan, a 

conservative Roman Catholic and the former Vice Principal of Essex Catholic High 

School, was principal of Mater Dei High School when I came out to him. Later that year 

he invited me to teach at Mater Dei High School and I accepted his invitation. That was 

in 1976. It would take twenty-five more years before I would come out urbi et orbi. 

My mom, Delia, never discussed or questioned my sexuality. I was her one and only son, 

and to her, I was who I was. If she had lived a few years longer to the time when I came 

out in the mid-1970’s, I know that this stigmatized Catholic mother would have been 

most supportive her son. Delia was that type of person – tolerant and understanding.

TEACHING – AN INVIOLATE TRUST 

As a teacher, I firmly believe that those in this, the most honorable of professions, are 

placed in a position of trust, not only by their superiors and parents, but by their charges 

in the classroom. 

If you count my seven college years as a counselor at Camp Adrian, as well as the six 

years that I served as Model United Nations Director at Mater Dei High School after I 

retired, and then add my thirty-eight years in the teaching profession, you will have a 

total of over fifty years of working with young people. During that half century, I have 

kept the faith in, and honored the trust of, ALL those placed in my charge. I would have 

resigned from my position if I ever violated that trust…or perhaps, worse. 

Let’s look at it another way. If I had children, adopted or naturally-born, attending 

elementary or high school, I would not want to have my son or daughter molested, or 

even worse, by a predator homosexual or heterosexual teacher. Honor thy students! You 

owe them no less. 

STONEWALL – THE GAY RIGHTS REVOLUTION BEGINS 

Mistakenly, some people refer to the Stonewall Riots of late June 1969 as the beginning 

of the Gay Rights movement here in the United States. Not so! Although not flourishing 

and sometimes clandestine, the homosexual subculture had been part of American society 

long before Stonewall, probably from the earliest days of our country’s history. During 

the post-World War II years, there was a large influx of gays into New York and other 

major liberal cities, for it was in cities that a homosexual would not stick out from the 

crowd and a more permissive attitude prevailed. Teahouses were not settings for high tea 

but rather for clandestine sexual activity. Bathhouses abounded in the major cities where 

unprotected sex ran rampant. 

Harry Hay, considered by many to be the “father” of the homosexual rights movement, 

founded the Mattachine Society in his hometown of Los Angeles in 1950. At first, it was 

a secret organization, as homosexuals were not allowed freedom of assembly under local 

ordinances in many municipalities. The Society that he founded, later deposed him for his 

socialistic leanings and his adversarial tactics. 

Gay bars would attract homosexuals like bees to honey. Maxine’s, today the Tavern on 

Camac, in Philadelphia, predated the Second World War. By the 1960’s numerous gay 

bars were appearing in New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco and elsewhere throughout 

the urban area. Julius’ with its super “Manhattan’s” is the oldest gay bar in the Village.

The Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookshop opened its doors in 1967 in New York’s 

Greenwich Village. Soon, other bookshops like Giovanni’s Room in Philly, would follow 

As the 1960’s progressed, the homosexual movement grew in strength. The “Annual 

Reminder,” led by Frank Kameny of the Mattachine Society, Barbara Gittings and other 

homosexual activists, began its picketing activities on July 4, 1965, in front of our 

country’s birthplace of liberty – Independence Hall. By today’s standards, it would be 

considered tame, as well-mannered men in suits and women in dresses, holding passive 

picket signs, made their annual pilgrimage to Philadelphia. The “Annual Reminder” 

would continue until 1969. For the most part, confrontation was not part of the gay rights 

process. However, that would change the early morning (late night) of Friday, June 27, 

1969. 

The Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street in New York City’s Greenwich Village was a 

bane to most area homosexuals. It was a dive, reportedly controlled by the Mafia, a 

hangout for queens, prostitutes, chicken hawks and others, looking like they came out of 

the cantina scene in Star Wars. No self-respecting homosexual would cross its threshold, 

at least, that’s what I’ve been told. 

One story goes, that in the early hours of the morning of June 27, 1969, the police raided 

the nest in a routine bust. However, unlike previous raid in gay bars throughout the city, 

the customers rebelled against the police actions. As the night wore on, police 

reinforcements, include elite tactical units, were sent in to control the unruly mob. I 

couldn’t help but think of the Peter Finch character in the movie, Network. Yes, gays 

were as mad as hell and not going to take it any longer. 

The next day, word spread throughout the city and gay machine put their “committees of 

correspondence” to work. By Saturday evening crowds by the thousands had jammed 

into the Christopher Street area to protest the ongoing police policy regarding the 

harassment of homosexuals. Police, clad in riot gear, stood by waiting for the first sign of 

any disorder. They didn’t have to wait long, as a now militant homosexual community 

began throwing anything that they could get their hands on at the police. A second night 

of rioting had begun and so had the Gay Revolution. 

A former student from Essex Catholic High School, Marc Verzatt, then a student at 

Rutgers in Newark, New Jersey, wrote to me recently in reference to my poem, 

“The Stonewall Brigade” and commented on that first eventful night: 

It was an odd night. I was in the Village with some friends from the Drama Dept. at 

Rutgers and had gone to a movie. We were coming out of somewhere innocuous, late, 

around midnight or so. And what to out wondering eyes…all this noise and screaming 

down the street and police cars with lights whirling and stuff being thrown. We asked 

some guys coming back from the melee what was happening, and we were told that the 

Stonewall had been raided and that the gays were fighting back.

We stood as close as we could without getting hit with something and watched for an 

hour or so. 

We had no idea that history was being made, but it was exhilarating to see something 

happen, where gays were no longer passively putting up with the harassment. 

Stonewall marked a beginning of a militant approach by gays to securing equal rights as 

Americans. The Gay Liberation Front (GLF) and the Gay Activist Alliance (GAA) would 

be just two organizations that would blossom forth immediately after Stonewall. It 

marked the beginning of a national gay pride movement. 

The first Stonewall parade, organized hastily the following year, drew a mere 200 or so 

marchers. Today, hundreds of thousands march in the annual event held on the last 

Sunday in June. Hundreds of thousand more line the sidewalks along the parade route. 

They’re all there – politicians (it’s a must for the mayor of the “greatest city in the 

world”); Hell’s Angels and Dykes on Bikes; and G.O.A.L., out members of New York’s 

Finest who, invariably, get a thunderous round of applause as they pass by. 

While I was nowhere near Stonewall in late June of 1969 and wasn’t immediately 

affected by its outcome, nonetheless, I would march in the Stonewall Gay Pride Parade in 

later years; I would watch from the side-line as I grew older. It was during one of those 

sideline years while watching the colorful parade that I was spotted by one of my former 

Mater Dei High School student’s, Patrick Kowalczyk. 

Accompanied by another Mater Dei High School classmate, Patrick asked: Mr. Murray, 

What are you doing here? 

I jokingly responded: What’s a good Catholic young man like yourself doing at a parade 

like this? 

We chatted for a while. I felt a sense that Patrick was proud to see one of his favorite 

teacher’s and a role model at the Stonewall anniversary festivities that late June Sunday 

and we have kept in contact ever since. Today, Patrick is president of a PR firm in 

Manhattan. 

As a homosexual, Stonewall was my Lexington and Concord. I think that if Stonewall 

didn’t happen, the homophile movement wouldn’t be where it is today – the fastest 

growing civil rights movement in American history.

THE CONTINENTAL BATHS, A HOMOSEXUAL HAVEN, OR SHOULD THAT 

BE HEAVEN? 

I often passed the Ansonia Hotel either going to the movies at the Beacon Theatre or 

taking a walk after dining at my favorite restaurant, the Casa Delmonte on west 72 Street. 

The Ansonia is a 17-story Beaux-Arts Baroque masterpiece on Broadway between 73 and 

74 Streets and stands out as the area’s focal point. With the likes of Enrico Caruso and 

Lily Pons as former residents, the three-foot soundproof walls and ceilings were quite 

appropriate. The Ansonia was also the sight of many film shoots, including my favorite 

CIA spy thriller, 3 Days of the Condor. It was in the basement of this aging grand dame 

that the Continental Baths were to be found in the 1970’s. 

I had read about the Continental Baths in the gay press and was considering paying a visit 

to the recently opened institution. However, I had to work up the courage to do so. On St. 

Patrick’s Day on 1971, after a tiring march in the “Big Parade,” I treated myself to dinner 

at the Casa Delmonte. After getting “half-bombed,” I decided to make the two-block trek 

to the Ansonia. Entering at a special entrance on west 74 Street, I paid my admission, an 

admission that included a roomette and the use of the facilities. In return, I was given a 

white towel and a wristband on which were attached two keys – one for my room and the 

other for my safe deposit box where I checked my wallet and college ring. The attendant 

buzzed me through the inside door. On the other side, a new gay life awaited me. 

Upon descending a flight of stairs, I heard Isaac Hayes’s theme from Shaft blaring from a 

large “amp” adjacent to the strobe-lit dance floor. Dazzling! Glittering! A large pool, 

largely unoccupied, was another focal point of the subterranean playground. Also, I 

noticed a bar, and for that I was most grateful – an oasis in the cavernous abyss. 

Now came the hard part. Finding my way through the darkened corridors to my roomette 

proved quite a challenge. Fortunately one of the towel-clad patrons directed me to my 

room. I noticed that some of the room doors were left unopened, quite unusual for New 

Yorkers. Later I was informed that an open door meant that the occupant of the room was 

looking for sex. So much for the Open Door Policy! The rooms were cell-like, dimly lit 

and contained only a cot and locker. I found it difficult to maneuver in such a diminutive 

space and wondered how one could get it on with another?

After doffing my clothes and wrapping my towel securely around my waist, I locked my 

door with the key on my wristband and returned through the darkened labyrinth of 

corridors to the sound of the music. Everything in the air was sensual including the 

music. This time Bette Midler was the jukebox soloist. Her selection was the evocative 

“Do You Want to Dance?” The Divine Miss M gained popularity at the Baths a year 

earlier, as did her piano accompanist, Barry Manilow. As I needed fortification, I went to 

the bar, ordered a Scotch. and took a poolside chair. Nothing like watching beautiful 

males, like playful nymphs, splashing about in a swimming pool while sipping on a glass 

of Scotch! Later, I wandered about my new environs and discovered a dark dormitory. I 

was aghast to witness the sex that was going on in what was nicknamed the “orgy room.” 

Between drinking and ogling, it was time for bed and so I retreated back into the abyss. 

Again, I needed help in finding my room. 

I woke up the next morning with a “h-o” (hangover) and swiftly dressed myself. 

Although hung, I was sober and quickly ascended from the bowels of the earth, 

proceeded to reclaim my valuables, and checked out – a virgin. How much longer would 

I remain unspoiled? I enjoyed my first visit to the Continental Baths but was happy to see 

the daylight once more. 

Over the course of the ensuing years, I ran into several colleagues from Essex Catholic 

High School at the Continental Baths (CB). One evening Tom Tobin and I were there for 

a non-sexual overnight stay. While sipping our drinks at the pool area, we espied John 

King, the Chairman of the English Dept. at Essex Catholic. The portly educator was 

ascending the staircase, presumably on his way to his roomette. I called out, John! He 

continued his ascension, so both Tom and I hollered out, John! John! With people 

looking at him, he reluctantly turned around, looking surprised and greeted us with a, 

What are you guys doing here? 

I would return to the Continental Baths a couple of months later, and would continue my 

odyssey to the notorious bathhouse until 1980. In the meantime, I found out what bathhouse 

products such as “K-Y” and “poppers” were all about. 

MELBA MOORE, BATHHOUSE BOMBSHELL 

Melba Moorman is her baptismal name and she is the brother of one of my former 

students, Eliot Moorman of Essex Catholic High School’s, class of 1967. By the time I 

met her in the early 1970’s, Melba Moore had already achieved fame as a singer and for 

her Broadway roles in Hair and Purile, receiving a Tony Award for her performance in 

the latter.

Yes, it was one of those nights – a Saturday evening in Manhattan, sipping a Manhattan 

or two, followed by dinner at the Casa Delmonte. Then it was off to the nearby 

Continental Baths for a show and overnight stay. I knew that Melba Moore would be 

appearing there so I didn’t get soused at the Casa – after all, I didn’t want to give the 

appearance that one of her brother’s favorite teacher’s was an alcoholic. 

I checked into the bathhouse of legend, donned my gay apparel, and proceeded to the bar 

for a Scotch and water. From there, drink in-hand, I went to the dance floor area where a 

makeshift stage had been set up for Ms. Melba. It was curtain time and the “bathhouse 

bombshell” was ready to do her routine. 

After the show, Melba chatted with her fans and handed out comp photos. Clad only in 

my white towel, I got her attention, introduced myself at Eliot’s teacher from Essex 

Catholic, and requested a photo from her – autographed, of course. After a brief chat that 

revolved mostly around her brother, she graciously obliged, signing the photo: To Tom 

Murray of Essex Catholic High School. That made my night and so I celebrated with 

another Scotch. 

THE 23 –37 CONNECTION – MY FIRST CLOSE ENCOUNTER 

My second visit to the CB during the spring of 1971 was similar to the first one, two 

months earlier – dinner and drinks at the Casa, followed by an overnighter at the Baths. 

While I felt more at home at the CB, the second visit would be a whole lot different. 

Scotch in hand, I was relaxing at the poolside beholding the nudists splashing about in the 

water. From my vantage point I got a full view of the dance floor. Of all the people at the 

baths that night, the most striking was a blond- haired young man in his lower twenties. 

Holy shit, I said to myself, that guy’s a knockout. 

I was too shy to strike up a conversation. A couple of minutes later, the young man was 

sizing me up, if you’ll pardon the expression, and after making a determination, came up 

to me while I was sipping my Scotch, saying: 

Mr. Murray? 

Yes? Do I know you? 

What are you doing here? You were my teacher at Essex Catholic High School a few 

years ago.

Somewhat agog, I asked: And, what’s your name? 

Martin Lane, the golden-haired youth replied. 

I remembered him well from the mid-sixties. Somewhat reserved, he was an above 

average student. In the cafeteria, he usually sat with other boys who were “different.”. 

However, one thing puzzled me. The Martin I remembered did not have blond hair. Later, 

he told me that he had dyed his hair blond – blonds have more fun. 

I asked that he sit down and join me in a drink. He seemed somewhat elated meeting up 

with his former history teacher. I went to the bar, ordered him a drink and returned to the 

pool area. We played “catch-up” and the more I looked at his trim, smooth, slim body, 

the hornier I got. 

He was gay, I way gay. It was time to pop the question. 

Martin, would you like to come to my room for a while? He obliged. 

Being “bombed,” I don’t remember all the details and it didn’t matter, for I had my first 

sexual encounter at the age of 37 – Martin was 23. 

After returning to my North Arlington apartment the next morning, I poured through the 

Essex Catholic yearbooks trying to find his picture. He gave me his name but I had 

forgotten it. He gave his graduation class and I had forgotten that too. Damn, it never 

fails! Who was this mystery man? 

Several months later, the mystery man approached me at the Port Authority Bus 

Terminal. He agreed to meet subsequently for dinner and an overnight stay at the CB. 

Later, we would meet at other bathhouses, including the East Side Baths and the Great 

Northern Baths, for a little fun. Like the old soldier, our flings faded away. 

I re-established contact with Martin a few years later and we have remained good friends 

to this very day. We usually meet once a year in New York City for dinner. On occasions, 

Lane and his friends have visited me at my home over the years. During the summer of 

1995, we spent a week together touring Amsterdam and London. I look forward to his 

friendship for many more years to come.

LOOKING FOR LOVE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES 

Growing older meant growing bolder insofar as my sex life was concerned. 

By the early 1970’s gay bars abounded in New York City. Being alcoholic and gay, I was 

not one to pass these up. The east side had its trendy, upscale bars while the west side had 

its dives. On the upper east side there was “Harry’s Back East” and then there was 

“Uncle Charlie’s” Uncle had three establishments, two on the east side, and one in the 

Village. I frequented all three, sometimes in the same night. 

Gay bars were places to cruise. However, I was unsuccessful in the art of cruising, and to 

this very day have never picked up a guy at a bar. Perhaps, I didn’t try hard enough or my 

“gaydar” was turned off. 

UNCLE CHARLIE’S TAXI DRIVER 

Uncle Charlie’s Restaurant on Third Avenue and Thirty-ninth Street had great food at 

prices to match. I dined there as often as my wallet would permit. One night as I left the 

posh restaurant, a taxi was waiting outside. Perfect timing, I said, as I entered the cab. As 

we made our way cross town, I noticed that the driver had an Irish accent. 

I notice that you have an Irish accent. Where are you from in Ireland? 

He gave me the information and started to talk about the situation in Northern Ireland. 

Like myself, he was an IRA Provo sympathizer. Having won my confidence, he then 

advised me to look at his ID card. My driver was Dominic Byrne, one of the notorious 

kidnapper’s of the Seagram heir, Samuel Bronfman. He had failed in a plot to extort 

money from the elder Bronfman, money to fund the Provisional wing of the Irish 

Republican Army. Apparently he was out on bail. Later, I told my former student and 

FBI friend, Bob McGonigel, about the 1975 encounter. Bob was part of the arrest team 

and he shared with me the story of Byrne’s arrest and how he reprimanded Byrne for 

committing such a despicable act, totally unbecoming an Irishman. Tsk! Tsk! Dominic.

BOYS OF THE NIGHT 

The Times Square area in the 1970’s was notorious, not only for its porn houses, but also 

for its rent-boys. Yes, prostitution abounded both on 42 Street and a number of blocks 

running northward on 8 th Avenue – the so-called Minnesota Strip. Runaways, 

throwaways – they all were there. Sad to say, some kids were kicked out of their homes 

when they told their parents that they were gay. Despite the best efforts of Father Bruce 

Ritter and his wonderful work at Covenant House, vice of all kinds remained a reality in 

and around the Times Square area. 

The Haymarket Bar on the Strip was a coven for young male prostitutes. Like any rent- 

boy bar, a young man, sometimes barely legal, approaches a john, has a drink with him, 

cuts a deal, and then goes to an 8 th Avenue flea bag hotel or takes a cab to one of the 

many bath houses in the City for a sexual encounter. 

An upscale rent-boys bar was “Cowboys” located on east 53 rd Street between Lexington 

and Third Avenues. Once I was so bombed from an early night of boozing that they 

refused to serve me. Imagine what that did to my convoluted ego. During my brief 

residence in New York City during late 1979 and early 1980, a young man about 

eighteen, named Billy, approached me while I was having a Scotch at Cowboys and 

asked me to buy him a beer. How could I say no? Many rent-boys work for the house and 

invariably order a split of champagne or some other expensive drink. Billy wanted only a 

beer and seemed to have no house connections. I doubted that Billy was a rent-boy. So 

we drank and chatted for a while before returning to my apartment for a lovemaking 

session. I’m sure the doorman wondered who was this young stud that I was bringing up 

to my apartment. 

And then there are escorts. An escort, either free-lancing or one who works for an 

agency, is there to provide companionship for his client. Whatever may transpire over 

and above that companionship is determined by the mutual consent of both parties. An 

escort is usually pricey and rates vary from $100.to well over $300. for a one hour 

session. The latter price usually is that of an agency. Albeit more expensive, escorts are 

usually screened, albeit casually, for health problems, drug habits and whatever by the 

agency. The more they are screened, the higher the price. Ground rules are usually 

established by the agency for both their models and their clients. An escort is given a 

working name by the agency. In some cases, after the escort gets to know a client, he may 

give him his real name and may socialize “off the clock.”

Pickup bars and male escort agencies abound across the United States, especially in the 

costal and resort areas. My friends, John King, Mike Witsch and I loved visiting Fort 

Lauderdale and stopping in one or two of its “go-go” bars. Some found sticking a dollar 

bill in the “g-string” of a dancer was quite a thrill. I did not. “Johnny’s” was one of the 

beach resort’s most popular “go-go” bars. A low-keyed offering was “Stanley’s” with a 

younger group of dancers. They even had “dancers- to- go” with its subsidiary escort 

agency, “Chickens ‘R Us.” 

Although the undeclared pay is good, the life of an escort or rent-boy is fraught with 

danger – to themselves, and others. The psychological and physiological damage to both 

parties may be devastating. Many live a double life, unknown to their family and friends. 

In some cases, some were thrown out of their home once their homosexuality was 

discovered. Rebellion was the answer. Unfortunately a large number of escorts rely on 

drugs, especially crystal meth, and this furthers their need to stay in the “business.” Some 

college age kids “moonlight” to help pay the high cost of a higher education. They 

rationalize that they can make more money in one week from hustling than what 

otherwise might take one or even two months to make in a regular job. I know a kid from 

Philadelphia who once was in the escort business but got out and is now waiting tables 

instead. He said to me that he often was apprehensive about the “face” on the other side 

of the door, the “face” with all its ramifications. Although he makes two-thirds less in 

wages, he seems happier – and Uncle Sam too. 

BOBBY, MY FRIEND, I LOVE YOU 

On November 5, 1994, a former student changed my life forever. This young man would 

become the “son I never had.” 

Robert J. Batz was in my American Government senior elective at Mater Dei High 

School during the 1989-90 academic-year. Having had me as a teacher in United States 

History the year before, he liked my teaching style but more so, my understanding of 

him. It seemed that Bobby suffered from hypochondria, for he was absent from school 

many days and often could be found in the nurse’s office. He sat in the far right corner of 

my classroom, up front, and loved it when I called on him. Occasionally, I caught him 

doodling in class, but rather than reprimand him, I praised him for his creativity. More 

than anyone in his class, Bobby was a definite candidate for the “lost souls’ club.” We 

got along well and he was prouder than a peacock when he drove me to the railroad 

station after school one day in his brand new Volvo. Academically, he did well and 

finished up in the top quarter of his graduating class.

Bobby went on to Brookdale Community College while working as a pest control person 

for his father. About three years after he graduated from Mater Dei, in January 1993, he 

came over to my place and later took me out to dinner at a local Italian restaurant. 

At a calamitous time in my life, I decided to pick up the phone and call Bobby. The 

twenty-two year old young man was happy to hear from me and invited me to dinner on 

Saturday, November 5, 1994. After dinner, we returned to my home where we played 

“catch-up.” 

He told me the story of his engagement to Alyson and her subsequent abortion of the 

planned marriage. Now came my turn. Laying my cards on the table, I came out to him 

regarding my sexuality. He listened attentively and understood where I was coming from. 

Upon leaving my home, he gave me a hug of re-assurance and we both made a pact that 

if either of us needed each other for any reason, one of us would pick up the phone. There 

was chemistry between the two of us, unlike anything I had ever felt before. 

A little over a month later, I invited Bobby to dinner at the Farmhouse Restaurant in 

Little Silver, followed by a Christmas-tree lighting back at my apartment. He helped me 

trim the tree, a tradition that would last for eight years. The wonderful evening put me in 

a truly Christmas state of mind. 

As time progressed, I got to know Bobby well. Like me, he was willing to share his 

innermost thoughts and dreams. He accepted me for who I was – an aging, creative, 

upbeat homosexual – and that was great. 

I noticed, too, that as time progressed, our relationship grew stronger and it started to take 

on another dimension – a father-son one. Invariably, he would spend some time with me 

on Father’s Day during the years of our very unique relationship. In fact, he tried to spend 

some time with me on every major holiday. Many a Christmas, we spent part of the day 

together. A father-son relationship developed and that was fine with me. I’d rather 

enjoyed being Bobby’s dad. 

Bobby claimed he was not homosexual and that I was the only gay person in his life. 

From what he told me, he was a Casanova par excellence. His sexual encounters with 

girls were many but he had problems sustaining a relationship. He often talked about his 

exhibitionism and his very seductive ways at parties – signs that I did not pick up at the 

time, for “youth must have its fling.” 

Bobby was a caring, compassionate, selfless and Christ-like young man, who was always 

there for me. A symbiotic relationship developed between the two of us that was second 

to none.

Since the death of my mom, Delia, in 1968, I have never loved anyone as much as I loved 

Bobby. We were very much in love with each other, and our very unique, multi-faceted 

relationship continued until January 15, 2003. 

THE CHURCH AND THE HOMOSEXUAL 

Homosexuals received a Bicentennial surprise with the publication of The Church and 

the Homosexual by theologian, John J. O’Neill, S.J. It was not a reckless move on the 

part of Fr. O’Neill, but rather his book received the Imprimi Potest (permission to print) 

from the head of the Jesuits in New York. It challenged traditional Roman Catholic views 

on homosexuality and assumed a liberal posture on the topic. The noted Jesuit took issue 

with the Vatican that homosexuality is an “intrinsic disorder.” Likewise, he took issue 

with Biblical interpretations of the controversial topic. He said that gay love was morally 

good and, using the same norms, is just as legitimate as heterosexual love. 

Its first edition, released in July of 1976, received accolades worldwide from progressive 

churchmen and others, and by September the book was in its fourth edition. Also, Father 

McNeil was one of the leading Catholic priests serving as spiritual advisor to Dignity, a 

Catholic organization of practicing and celibate homosexuals. 

Between his popular book and his Dignity activities, the Vatican “silenced” him by 

forcing his superiors to revoke the Imprimi Potest. The good Jesuit was now effectively 

muzzled by the Vatican’s, Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. 

The Advocate, the official publication of the Archdiocese of Newark, under the 

enlightened editor, Joe Thomas, had taken a progressive stand relating to homosexuality 

as early as 1974. Not to be confused with a gay publication of the same name, I was 

outraged at the silencing of Fr. McNeill and sent a letter to the editor of the Catholic 

newspaper: 

Rome has spoken and, hopefully, the case is not closed. 

In this post-Vatican era, when dialogue between the exponents of gay Catholics seemed 

to be developing, it is disheartening to witness this retrogressive move. It seems that 

many of the Catholic hierarchy wish to keep the subject “closeted.”

On the one hand, the powers that be silence Fr. McNeill, while on the other hand, claim 

there is no “canonical penalty” for his actions. These same powers granted Fr. McNeill 

permission to print the book and then, after four editions, rescind its publication. 

Is the next step to ban books such as the Catholic Theological Society of America’s 

“Human Sexuality: New Directions in American Thought?” Should censure be imposed 

on those who even remotely question traditional teachings in this area? 


Sea Bright, N.J. 

The letter was printed in the September 22, 1977 issue of the Advocate. In a sense, this 

was a public “coming out” for me, as I was well known within the Archdiocese of 

Newark. Later, the newspaper changed its name to the Catholic Advocate so that readers 

would not confuse it with a prominent national gay magazine, the Advocate 

Father McNeill later declared his homosexuality, left the Jesuits, and the last I heard, the 

former good father is a psychotherapist and practicing in Florida. 

As for the Roman Catholic Church, I totally reject their doctrine regarding 

homosexuality. The institutional Church continues to maintain that it is an “intrinsic 

disorder.” Those who proffer that stand are flying in the face of the A.P.A. and other 

leading psychiatric organizations. On the other hand, if the Church were to reject that 

argument, it would leave the door wide open, and they might have another Vatican II on 

their hands. The man in white would not want to see that happen – nor the men in red, for 

that matter. 

Fortunately, there are support groups for Catholic homosexuals. Dignity is still active in 

many areas around the country, although forbidden to have liturgies in most churches as 

mandated by the hierarchy. 

Courage, a Church-sanctioned ministry organized to serve gays, require that its members 

pursue chastity and condemns homosexual acts as forbidden fruit. Could poverty and 

obedience be far behind?

St. Anselm’s in Wayside, New Jersey is one of those churches, where openly gay 

congregants serve on both the Parish Council and as Eucharistic Ministers. The church’s 

former pastor, Father Bob Kaeding, founded The Center of Asbury Park, a support group 

for People With AIDS (PWA), as well as Center House, a residence for PWA. I often 

wondered why the Diocese of Trenton hasn’t “silenced” or transferred Fr. Bob. Could it 

be that he runs his parish in the black? Fr. Gene Vavrick, another “gay-friendly” priest, 

took over the parish when Fr. Bob was transferred. It will be from St. Anselm’s Church 

that I will have my funeral on that Dies Irae day. 

My former parish, St. Paul the Apostle on Manhattan’s west side, has a Gay and Lesbian 

Ministry and a very active program for its members. 

“Call to Action” and “Soulforce” take up the plight of gay Catholics as they plea for the 

Catholic Church to take a more tolerant stand toward homosexuals. So, too, members of 

the “Rainbow Sash Movement” who are routinely denied Communion while wearing 

their uniform. The National Catholic Reporter has advanced the gay cause from day one. 

I was delighted to learn that my alma mater, Iona College, has a Gay-Straight Alliance 

(GSA). Congratulations to Brother Ligouri, C.F.C., the college president, on this forward 

step. If only Notre Dame would follow! 

THE LAVENDER SCREEN AND BEYOND 

The 55 th Street Playhouse, a stone’s throw from Carnegie Hall, was an art house back in 

the 1960’s. It was conveniently located in my old neighborhood and oftentimes, after a 

movie, I proceeded to the Carnegie Deli for a chopped chicken liver sandwich on rye 

with Russian dressing. Yummy! It was at the Playhouse in 1961 that I saw my first gaythemed 

motion picture, Victim – the story of a bisexual lawyer portrayed by Dirk 

Borgade, who was being blackmailed by a ring that targeted gay men (homosexual acts 

were illegal in England at the time). The British b/w movie was riveting from beginning 

to end and is considered the first major movie to deal openly and seriously with the 

subject of homosexuality. It was an awakening for me. More than four decades later, I 

still remember the message, “Farr is Queer,” painted on the character’s wooden garage 

door. Recently, with the purchase of the film on video and subsequent viewing, it 

confirmed that my memory still serves me well.

Borgarde would return to the lavender-tinted silver screen ten years later in the classic, 

Death in Venice. His character, a fading musician, is loosely based on the German 

composer, Gustav Mahler, who is searching for perfection and beauty. Not finding it in 

music, he finds it in a fifteen-year old androgynous, Polish boy, Tadzio, who is 

vacationing with his family at the Lido in Venice. To this day, the theme of the movie is 

moot: Was Tadzio solely a thing of beauty or the object of the musician’s erotic desires? 

What makes this movie great, aside from its classical music background, is that no words 

are ever spoken between Tadzio and the musician, an attribute to Thomas Mann’s novella 

and Director Luchino Visconti’s brilliance. 

Prior to 1961, gays were usually portrayed in stereotypical ways and given minor roles. 

Unfortunately, gays would be stereotyped for some time to come. In 1976, I remember 

seeing The Ritz, a Terrence McNally play that was made into a movie. I identified with 

the bathhouse setting and chuckled when feisty Rita Moreno invaded the exclusive gay 

men’s domain blurting out “maricon” and other Spanish homosexual appellations. Today, 

there are considerably less queenly approaches to the homosexual character. 

Like many gays in 1983, I went to see the highly acclaimed French movie: LaCage aux 

Folles. It was the longest running foreign film ever, opening in 1978. Up to this time, I 

had never seen a foreign language film. With alacrity, I read the sub-titles as they flashed 

across the bottom of the screen. I laughed and I cried. It was a wonderful cinematic 

experience and it began my odyssey into the world of foreign films. 

As a teacher, I laughed like hell but empathized as well with Kevin Kline’s character, an 

Indiana teacher, Howard Brackett, in the movie, In and Out. Some gays may have 

thought the movie stereotypical and maybe it is to a degree, but I think that one must 

have the ability, not only to cry when one’s group is portrayed sadly on the silver screen, 

but to laugh as well when there is levity involved. 

As a retired teacher, I would highly recommend to all middle and high school school 

districts to organize a “Gay-Straight Alliance” and to build up a section of gay films for 

classroom use – films that students can identify with. On the top of the list I would place 

the coming of age British film, Beautiful Thing a story of two “straight” appearing 

adolescent boys, next door neighbors, living in a London working class housing 

development, who lead different lives but bond because of their commonalities. Mama 

Cass fans will love this movie too.

On the Long Island Expressway, there are lanes going east, lanes going west and lanes 

going straight to hell. 

That was the opening line of a 2001 movie, L.I.E., said by Howie Blitzer, a teenager 

beset by life’s woes, as he precariously straddled the railing of an overpass ramp of the 

Long Island Expressway (L.I.E.). His mother was killed in an accident on the Long Island 

Expressway some months earlier. His father has no time for Howie, and seems more 

interested in shacking up with a local hussy and getting himself involved in corrupt land 

development schemes. The FBI swoops down upon dad, whisks him off to jail, and poor 

Howie is left home alone…Paul Dano does a masterful job portraying Howie Blitzer, a 

low-keyed, poetry-writing, high school student and an only child. A daring educator 

might put L.I.E. in the school video collection for it is a valid story of high school 

students living in suburbia, coming from dysfunctional homes, and a local, pillar-of-thecommunity 

– pederast “BJ” as in Big John (Brian Cox). 

PCQ46: What gay Shakespearean actor has portrayed his versatility with roles ranging 

from Gandolf in the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy to his Academy Award nomination for 

his portrayal of James Whale in “Gods and Monsters?” 

Living in Red Bank gives me easy access to the New York City theatre scene. In a little 

over an hour, I am in mid-town Manhattan. So on December 8, 1984, I went up to the city 

to see the musical, LaCage aux Folles – the musical. It featured actors George Hearn as 

Albin and gene Barry as Georges. The score was written by Jerry Herman, who I 

remembered from Mame and Hello, Dolly! Tearing, I stood up and clapped at the end of 

Act I as Albin sung “I Am What I Am.” Herman’s score was perfect. The showstopper, 

“The Best of Times,” was played at President Ronald Reagan’s first inaugural – if he 

only knew. It was going strong four years later (1987) when I took a group of students 

from Mater Dei to see the long-running show. I saw it, yet again, in Philadelphia’s 

Walnut Street Theatre (America’s oldest) in the year, 2000. 

PCQ47: Who won an Oscar for “best original song” from the movie, “Streets of 

Philadelphia?” 

I managed to get over to the city to see several gay-themed, non-musicals including Larry 

Kramer’s, The Destiny of Me, as well as Gross Indecency , and Jeffrey. Still making the 

rounds is The Laramie Project, based on the tragic death of Matthew Shepherd. 

Matthew’s mom, Judy, is very popular on the speaker’s circuit today. The imagery of that 

scene still haunts me. 

Recently, Joe Pinatauro’s The Dead Boy was staged here in Monmouth County, New 

Jersey, and in an interview with a local newspaper reporter, he stated: 

The age-old puritanical obsession with controlling people’s sexuality is still alive and 

well. Finger pointing remains an American sociological disease.

Your point is well taken, Mr. Pintauro. 

Then there’s television. As you might guess, the earlier shows were stereotypical, as per 

game show participant, Paul Lynde, and BBC’s Mr. Humphries (Are You Being Served?). 

Then came today’s sitcoms, still stereotypical – Will and Grace, for one. By the 1990’s, 

both men and women were coming out in droves – Ellen DeGeneres and Rosie 

O’Donnell, you name them; they came out. After the millennium, cable started to get 

more daring with the two “queer” shows – Queer as Folk and Queer Eye for the Straight 

Guy. HBO brought us The Laramie Project. SHO brought us Armistead Maupin’s Tales 

of the City in 1993, a mini-series that featured Olympia Dukakis as Mrs. Madrigal, the 

owner of a San Francisco rooming house in the 1970’s. Its success generated two 

subsequent sequels. Maupin also narrated The Celluloid Closet (1995), a film about gays 

in the film industry. 

PCQ48: In what Tony Kushner, Emmy Award winning HBO special, did Al Pacino 

play the role of Senator McCarthy’s “sidekick,” Roy Cohn? 

Gay characters are even in our comic books. Thank you, Green Lantern! 

WE’RE HERE! WE’RE QUEER! WE’RE ALL AROUND THE SPHERE! 

A recent survey indicated that in 2004 a majority of straight people knew at least one 

family member, relative or friend who is gay. The same was not true only twenty years 

earlier. 

Today more gays are coming out more than ever before. They are coming out at an 

earlier age. Society is getting more tolerant; religious institutions, with some exceptions, 

are getting more progressive; media exposure is everywhere; people are more informed 

and educated on the subject of homosexuality than ever before; many state legislatures 

have passed sexual orientation discrimination and hate crime laws; courts, from the 

Supreme Court of the United States on down, have issued many gay-friendly decisions in 

recent years; and the hallowed halls of Congress have been less hostile to gay causes. 

Gays have more disposable income than many Americans and, therefore, are a prime 

consideration in the marketing strategies of big business. As a group, gays have more 

formal education than many of their fellow Americans. 

Gay venues are all over America, from sea to shining sea – from The Village in New 

York City to the Castro in San Francisco; from the gayborhood of Philadelphia to the 

resorts of Provincetown and Rehoboth; and from South Beach, Miami, to North Beach in 

San Fran. And let us not forget Florida’s, Fort Lauderdale, for it is there, “where the boys 

are.”

The highlight of Gay pride is events held in the month of June. Invariably, rainbow flags 

can be seen fluttering in the breeze and rainbow apparel worn on the person of 

participants. My friend and former student, Michael Witsch, presented me with a rainbow 

necklace some time ago. I wear it with pride at the gay events I attend and venues I visit. 

Here in New Jersey we have our Pride Day held in Asbury Park on the first Sunday of 

June. I remember attending my first Pride Day on June 4, 2000 in this gay seashore 

community. No sooner had I entered the park, I heard a girl’s voice yell out: Mr. Murray! 

It was Jill, one of my former Mater Dei students, who was picnicking with her girlfriend 

on a blanket. There was an element of surprise in both our faces. She introduced me to 

her partner as her favorite teacher at Mater Dei. I think that it was a “feel good” day for 

both of us. Naturally, the climax of the Gay Pride festivities is the Stonewall Parade held 

on the last Saturday of June. 

Philadelphia hosts a weeklong educational program in mid-spring called the Equality 

Forum. When the annual event was called “Pridefest USA,” I attended part of the 

program and heard New York Times essayist, Andrew Sullivan, and the Executive 

Director of the Gay, lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN), Ken Jennings, at 

a stimulating symposium. As a former high school teacher, I pricked up my ears as Mr. 

Jennings spoke on lesbian, gay, bi-sexual and transgender (LGBT) youth. He reported 

that nearly 70% of LGBT kids report verbal, sexual or physical harassment; 90% of 

LGBT students regularly hear anti-gay comments at school; LGBT youth are four times 

more likely than their peers to have attempted suicide; and that they are more than three 

times as likely to skip school because they fear from their well-being. I had the 

opportunity to chat with Mr. Jennings after the program and the conversation made this 

teacher a more learned one when it came to gay youth. The Jim Wheeler Youth Panel, 

named after a gay youth who committed suicide while a senior in high school, was 

gripping as the student panelists told of their battle with the establishment in their 

respective schools. Several have succeeded in starting GSA chapters in their schools – 

with, of course, the help of a teacher. 

I often visit Montreal and enjoy the gay flavor of our neighbor to the north. The Gay 

Village on East St. Catherine Street was featured in the movie, Mambo Italiano, 

stereotypical but funny. The Canadian Parliament has approved legislation legalizing 

same sex marriages. Canada is far ahead of the United States when it comes to gay rights. 

Pride Days are celebrated all over the world. In Amsterdam, it is celebrated every day. 

The Queen’s Birthday is a national holiday when gays join with the rest of the 

Netherlands in celebrating the birthday of Queen Beatrix. I’m sure that lesser queens 

come out in full drag for the celebration. Not far from the Ann Frank House and the 

Western Church is the Homo Monument. 

Virtually every European city has its own gay quarter. Recently, Paris and Berlin elected 

openly gay mayors. In 2002, Pim Fortuyn was an openly gay rightist candidate for Prime 

Minister of the Netherlands. Poor Pim was assassinated before the election.

It seems to me that many European countries have a more tolerant attitude toward gays. 

The Netherlands has taken the lead in this regard, and not far from the Anne Frank House 

is the Homo Monument. 

Here in the USA we have our Stonewall Democrats and our Log Cabin Republicans. Yes, 

there are gay, conservative Republicans! Barney Frank, the “pit-bull” of the House of 

Representatives has served his Massachusetts constituency for years, at times running 

unchallenged. Why, even the “two Dick’s” – Cheney and Gephardt, have lesbian 

daughter’s – Mary and Chrissy, respectively. 

Yes, indeed, we’re here, we’re queer, we’re all around the sphere – and we’re not going 

away! 

MY “GAY AMERICAN” GOVERNOR OF NEW JERSEY, JIM MCGREEVEY 

Jeanne Cozzati, a former Mater Dei student, was in charge of soliciting “Best of luck” 

letters for my retirement event on Sunday, November 2, 1997. Having worked for former 

U.S Senator, Bill Bradley, she knew the workings of politicians. One of those people she 

wrote to was Jim McGreevey, the Mayor of Woodbridge, New Jersey and a State 

Senator. Mr. McGreevey had aspirations for the State House in Trenton, hoping to unseat 

Christine Whitman. With Election Day only two days away, he was campaigning with 

president Bill Clinton on the day of my event. However, he did send a surrogate to the 

Garden States Art Center to present me with a citation from the State Senate. I would 

have liked the rising star in the Democratic Party to present it to me in person but instead, 

he choose the President of the United States. He lost the gubernatorial election but would 

return four years later to defeat former Jersey City Mayor, Brett Schundler. A few weeks 

after my big bash, he sent me a personal note wishing me a “happy retirement” and that 

he was passing on my regards to my friend, Tom Giblin, chairman of the Democratic 

Party of NJ. 

In 2001, Jim McGreevey was elected governor of New Jersey. I identified with him in 

many ways – Irish, Catholic, product of Catholic schools, including St. Joseph’s High 

School of Metuchen. However, by the time he left office prematurely in November, 2004, 

I would identify with my governor in another way. 

On Thursday, August 12, the Governor announced at a hyped press conference that I am 

a gay American. So far, he was the highest ranking elected official to come out of the 

closet. Immediately, it was reported in virtually all the news services, for his position as 

governor of an important state was one that sent reverberations throughout the world.

To me, the “gay American” announcement left me with a bittersweet impression. Yes, I 

was very proud that the man for whom I had voted was “one of us.” However, I felt the 

Governor used his homosexuality as an “escape mechanism” to deal with a number of 

issues including questionable appointees. The appointment of his male lover, Golan 

Cipel, as a security adviser, a man without credentials, was deplorable. His violation of 

his marriage vows caused me concern. His decision to resign on November 15, 2004, 

following the proscribed formula in the state Constitution, was a good one, despite the 

best efforts of the Republicans to call a special election. During the nearly three months 

that followed his historic announcement, Mc Greevey worked hard to establish a legacy. 

That he did. 

On November 8, a week before he left his Governor’s chair, he delivered his farewell 

address to friends in the State House saying, I am not apologizing for being a gay 

America, but rather, for having let personal feelings impact my decision-making and for 

not having the courage to be open about whom I was.

On November 9, I received a hand-written note from the Governor, thanking me for the 

copy of my poetry anthology, the Spirit of ’69 that I had sent to him. I had hoped that in 

the days when he would have a less pressing schedule, he would read “G.O.P.” (Gay, Out 

and Proud) and “Out of the Closet” Perhaps, he would identify with them. He wrote: 

…I look forward to having the time to read your poems. Congratulations on your 

Lifetime Achievement Award, and I’m sorry to say, I am unable to attend. Enjoy your 

special night. (Nov. 19). 

Thanks, Jim, and all the best to you, too. 

All the best, Jim. 

LEADING THE WAY – A SALUTE TO GAY ACTIVISTS AND THEIR GROUPS 

It is east to forget the role of our Founding Fathers. So too, the Catholic Schools labor 

movement. T. C. who? The first strike – where? The same may be said of the gay rights 

movement and its early leaders who took serious risks in order that gays may have a 

better, non-closeted life today. 

I remember attending a meeting of the Gay Activist Alliance at a former firehouse on 

Woorster Street in the Village back in the early ‘70’s. It gave me a “feel good” feeling 

knowing that this group was in the forefront of the Gay Revolution. 

Over the years I have met many activists. 

In 2002, while in Holland, I chatted with two ladies in the dining room of the Hotel Smit 

in Amsterdam. Both were born in The Netherlands and were there on a visit to their 

native land. Both moved to the States many years before. Both raised a family. Amy 

Ashworth was married to a prominent New York City lawyer and lived in the Village in 

an apartment off Fifth Avenue. Willy Jump lived with her family in Brooklyn. Amy had 

three sons, two, of whom, were gay and who would later become victims of the new 

AIDS epidemic that plagued America. Her compassion as a nurse in Holland during 

World War II extended to her own family and her life here in America. Willy’s son, 

Frank, came out to her when he was only thirteen. He, too, would die during the early 

stages of the AIDS pandemic. Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays 

(PFLAG) was founded through the efforts of Amy. She appeared on the Donohue Show 

and other venues where she could tell audiences all over the country that her sons’ did not 

die in vain and urged Americans to take a more passionate look at PWA. She urged that 

parents actively support their gay son(s) or lesbian daughter (s). Today, there are nearly 

500 PFLAG chapters and affiliates across the country. It’s so good to see parents with 

their gay children, walking hand in hand, at Pride Day parades.

My friend, Bill Hungerford, a United States citizen living in The Netherlands, has been a 

life-long Democrat and a teacher at The American School of The Hague. An activist in 

Democrats Abroad, Bill traveled to Washington where the Rules Committee of the 

Democratic National Convention was holding hearings prior to its New York City 

convention in 1980. He testified before the Committee urging the Democratic Party to 

include “sexual preference” in its non-discrimination clause. He was joined by Diane 

Feinstein of San Francisco and other prominent supporters of gay rights. The proposal 

was adopted and later changed to read “sexual orientation.” 

Another friend, Professor Dennis Elgrim of Brookdale Community College, now retired 

as a full time counselor, still serves as moderator for the school’s gay organization a 

group he founded in the early 1970’s. 

Close friend and former student, Michael Witsch, serves on the Board of Directors of the 

Hudson Valley division of GLSEN and is editor of its newsletter. 

Democrat Congresswoman, Lynn Woolsey, from the Sonoma area of California, who I 

had the pleasure of chatting with a few years ago, has been a champion of gay and 

women’s rights. 

The list could go on, but thank you, one and all, for your efforts of my behalf as a gay 

person. 

GAY ACTIVIST ME – NOT REALLY 

Yes, I had a published letter in a Catholic newspaper defending the rights of Fr. O’Neill, 

author of The Church and the Homosexual. 

Yes, I didn’t drink orange juice when former beauty pageant queen, Anita Bryant, led her 

attempt to reverse gay rights legislation in Dade County, Florida. 

Yes, I have spoken to various homosexual groups over the years, both on history and gay 

issues. 

Yes, I belong to the Human Rights Campaign (HRC), the Nation’s largest lobbyist group, 

based, naturally, in Washington, D.C. 

Yes, I have attended Dignity liturgies from Paul’s Tavern in Newark to the Provincetown 

Inn on Cape Cod. Being dispossessed from the institutional Roman Catholic Church, 

some non-Catholic churches allow Dignity to meet and hold services. Ah yes, outside the 

Church, there is no salvation.

Yes, I have written published “Dear Editor” letters on behalf of gay issues and people, 

like fellow Monmouth County resident and Boy Scout Leader, Jim Dale, who won a 

major victory when the Supreme Court of the State of New Jersey upheld his 

discrimination suit against the Boy Scouts. 

Yes, I am an essay contributor to The Citizen for Social Responsibility Newsletter. My 

latest essay entitled, “Let Freedom Ring,” supported the majority decision of the United 

States Supreme Court in the case of Lawrence v. Texas (2003). 

Yes, I wrote a column for a local gay e-mail newsletter, “Lambda Rising,” in the late 

90’s. 

Yes, I successfully completed a 10K AIDS walk-a-thon on May, 19,1991, in NYC to help 

raise money to fight that dreaded disease. I joined some 26,000 participants. 

Yes, I’ve heard Martin Dees of the Southern Poverty Law Center speak at Brookdale 

Community College in 2002 and was enlightened by his message. I used the Center’s 

Teaching Tolerance magazine as a resource tool in the classroom and have urged other 

teachers to use it, too, for it deals in a progressive manner with issues of the day 

including tolerance toward homosexual and other minorities in and out of the classroom. 

Yes, I sponsored a distinguished gay opera director, Marc Verzatt, Essex Catholic High 

School’s class of ’66, for induction as a member of the school’s prestigious Hall of Fame 

a breakthrough for what was previously a “jock” honor. The following year, I nominated 

another former gay student, Michael J. Witsch, class of ’65, for this honor. 

Yes, I have attended Senior Action in a Gay Environment (SAGE) programs at The 

Center, a large gay support complex in the Village in NYC. 

Yes, I participated in many Gay Pride Days here in Asbury Park, New Jersey on the first 

Sunday in June. On June 4, 1906, I hosted at reception for alums of gay sexual 

orientation from both Essex Catholic and Mater Dei high schools at the Berkeley-Carteret 

Hotel. Former student and colleague, Mike Witsch, co-hosted this gathering of gay 

alums. 

If these collective things make me a gay activist, so be it.

GAYS ARE GOD’S CHILDREN TOO 

As a gay person, I lived through the days when homosexuality was strictly taboo, when 

society treated gays as outcasts, and a Roman Catholic Church that was repressive. 

Living in the closet for so many years was suffocating, both to body and soul. But here I 

am today, a man of seventy-one years, a Gay, Out and Proud (GOP) homosexual. 

The gay rights movement has grown unlike no other right’s movement in the history of 

the United States. However, in the eyes of many, we are still “second class citizens” and 

should remain restricted to that stuffy closet. There is still plenty of work to be done. 

The countries of the Netherlands, Belgium, Spain, as well as our neighbor to the north, 

Canada, sanction homosexual marriages. Today, at age 73, I am a “man of faith” and a 

celibate homosexual. However unlikely, if I ever found my “Mr. Right,” I would want 

equal rights, including the right to marry, no more and no less.. 

Let us never forget that gays are God’s children too.

Chapter 28 – TWILIGHT TIME POET AND PLAYWRIGHT 

BOBBY, MY MUSE, INSPIRE ME 

When Bobby Batz came into my life that November 5, 1994, I was still an active teacher 

and had no plans of retiring. That would change a couple of years later. 

As we bonded, Bobby confided in me so many things about himself and his family. He 

was a very open kid and would not hesitate to tell me about a breakup in his romantic life 

or a family spat. The state of his health was almost always a topic of conversation. 

Invariably, he complained about one physical malady or another. His mental state, at 

times, worried me. Once, he confided to me that he was “unstable” and that he didn’t 

plan “to live past thirty.” As our very special relationship grew, I was able to perceive the 

mental anguish that he was suffering. He had his demons, but for now, was fighting them. 

Part of the bonding was the sharing of his poetic endeavors with me. At first, I was rather 

dismissive of his work –his poems were written in free verse and some, quite difficult to 

understand. Shortly thereafter, I watched and read with interest the production of his first 

anthology of poems, Pleased to Meet You, Pleased to Meet Me. It would take a while but 

he worked on and on. In the process, Bobby invited me to be his editor, reviewing the 

poems for style but not for content. He wrote prolifically, and soon, I too thought about 

the prospects of writing poetry. I had written lyrics and parodies earlier in my life but 

never poems. Perhaps, one day I would pick up my pen. 

ENTER, THE “BEATS” 

It was during this early phase of our relationship that I introduced Bobby to the poets of 

my early years, none of whom I had ever read. 

It was sometime in early 1995 that I read a piece in the New York Times that the Beat 

poets of the 1950’s and ‘60’s were regaining popularity on the college campuses and the 

poetry community at-large. I had never read a beat poem or novel and didn’t care to. I 

heard that their poems had neither rhyme nor meter and, I’m sure in some cases, reason. 

These renderings, passed off for poems, were written in free verse. I remembered the 

publication of On the Road by Jack Kerouac from my college days and the name of an 

unkempt, bearded, so-called poet from New Jersey, Allen Ginsberg.

I clipped the piece from the NYT and gave it to Bobby. Within a matter of weeks, he was 

converted to the Beats, buying several of their books. The more he read of the beats, the 

more he wrote. Soon, he was bestowing the world of the Beats upon his mentor, 

introducing me to Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs and the rest of that motley crew. 

As I researched their lives, I found without exception, that each had found drugs, nonprescription 

and otherwise, a part of their lifestyle. I couldn’t help but think about Bobby 

and his addiction to painkillers. Yes, Bobby’s life was influenced by drug use, although 

he had minimal tolerance for alcohol. He had tried the illegal “heavies” at one time or 

another but later rejected them, preferring instead to stay within the law and have his 

local internist issue scripts for oxycodone and the like. Besides the painkillers, Bobby 

relieved heavily on antidepressants and anti-anxiety (Klonopin) pills. I felt inadequate to 

help Bobby deal with his problem. Was he emulating his heroes, the Beats, or was there 

a deeper reason for his addiction? 

Before too long, I was buying the works of Ginsberg, Burroughs and others. I, too, was 

becoming addicted – to the Beats I once scorned. 

“I CAN LIVE WITHIN” 

During the course of our early relationship, and not realizing the severity of Bobby’s 

addictions and mental disorders, we had several spats. I would be angered if he didn’t 

return a phone call, or if he was excessively late for a visit to my home, or for violating 

any other of the myriad of social graces that I expected from him as a matter of common 

courtesy. One such incident happened in December of 1995. 

In mid-September, the Mater Dei High School Chorus would be performing my noel, 

Star of Christmas. This was its premiere performance and was a seasonal variation of a 

song that I had composed over forty years earlier. Bobby said he would be there. He 

wasn’t! I felt devastated and told him so in no uncertain terms in a phone call when I 

returned home. Bobby found criticism difficult and became very defensive, and at times 

reclusive, when challenged. My month was ruined as I constantly thought about Bobby, 

waiting for the doorbell or phone to ring. Tom Tobin from Montreal visited me for 

Christmas, so all wasn’t lost, as Tom was one of my closest friends. The day after 

Christmas, I flew down to Fort Lauderdale for a week. Upon returning back to New 

Jersey the following Sunday, I thought a lot about Bobby. Voila! I’d teach that young 

man a lesson he’d never forget. In flight back to New Jersey, I took out my pad and 

penned my first introspective poem, “I Can Live Within.”

I Can Live Within 

I’ll build myself a cloister, sole monk that lives within. 

I’ll build myself a hardened shell, clamped shut to all without. 

I am the lonely master, within these walls confined. 

Why embrace the trials of life when I can live within? 

Run and hide from my own self, from the problems that beset me, 

a refuge of my own making, run and hide within these walls. 

Run and hide, hide and run, is that what’s life about? 

Why accept its ups and downs when I can live within? 

Denial is my hallowed hallmark, deny I must – deny I will 

any question of discomfort that is put before me. 

Must black be white, and white be black, to suit a given mood? 

Why contest what’s true in life when I can live within? 

I’ll substitute some pills and booze, intoxicate myself this way. 

Surely they will drown my sorrows, mute my senses, and dull my brain, 

help offset my lovelorn blues, escape the problems of the day. 

Why confront the trials of life when I can live within? 

Criticism I shall reject, I do not need it, now or ever. 

It hurts me to be told I’m wrong; it hurts me oh so very bad. 

I’ll close my ears to sound advice or hear what I do choose to hear. 

Why listen closely to a friend when I can live within? 

Confused am I, beset by woes, not knowing where to turn. 

So many questions left unanswered – about my life, my future. 

“Who am I?” I ask myself; “Who am I?” I ask again. 

Why seek answers to these questions when I can live within? 

But do I want to live this way, a solitary prisoner, 

within these self-made confines? Do I dare tear down these walls, 

release my mind and spirit, and set myself forever free, 

or do I continue in my cloister where I can live within? 

Copyright 2002 by Thomas C. Murray

After many re-writes, I finally mailed the poem to Bobby in mid- February 1996, saying 

to myself: That’ll fix his ass! Upon receipt of the poem, Bobby phoned me saying my 

first endeavor was a masterpiece and that his totality of work paled in comparison to 

mine. He asked me about the model for the poem. I said it was he. A few days later 

Bobby visited me at my apartment and we greeted each other with a long hug. Relations 

had now been restored and I had to play “catch-up” in editing the poems that he had 

written during the hiatus. 

In June of 1996, the same month that I retired from teaching, “I Can Live Within” was 

published in the school’s literary magazine, and with lots of encouragement from Bobby, 

my new life as a poet began. 

MY LIFE AS A POET 

Being schooled in the traditional ways, reviewing Bobby’s poems was a challenge for 

me. I supported his endeavors by sending some of his better poems for critiquing to 

friends of mine in the academic world. 

I developed a free verse style of my own, with most of my poems in the narrative 

tradition. In all cases, I wrote and re-wrote the poem. To me, a poem was like a piece of 

sculpture – after it was written, it had to be sculpted. Writing a poem, while it was 

creative, was also laborious. Bobby, on the other hand, never self-edited his work and 

was a prolific writer. 

On Christmas Day of 1997, Bobby presented me with a sketchbook, similar to the one he 

had. In it I could jot down my poems. On the first page, he inscribed a poem, “All This 

Time,” writing about our very special relationship. I share its concluding lines: 

You were always there 

A friend, a teacher, a dad 

So many times. 

I found it difficult using the blank pages of the book to write poems. Instead, I used a 

yellow legal pad, wrote in pencil, and then after thirty or forty revisions, I inscribed the 

poem in pen in the sketchbook. This special Christmas present was telling me something 

– WRITE!

Over the years, we fed off each other. We complemented each other. We encouraged 

each other to expand our creative horizons. We attended poetry readings together, 

including one with Lawrence Ferlinghetti at the “Poetry Project’s” program at St. Mark’s 

in the East Village. I once presented Bobby with a signed copy of one of the works of 

Robert Pinsky, who was “poet laureate” of the United States at the time. 

I encouraged Bobby to broaden his reading to include some of the more traditional poets. 

Once I brought him a watercolor of the “Lake Isle of Innisfree” from Country Sligo in 

Ireland. He took the hint and bought himself a book of Yeats. He continued feeding me 

with books by the Beats. I felt that I was becoming an authority on the group that I once 

detested. 

As time progressed, Bobby’s writing improved. By the time our relationship ended in 

2003, Bobby had written five self-published volumes of poetry, three of which were 

copyrighted. It took me all that time just to write one volume of poetry. 

THE SPIRIT OF ’69 – AN ECLECTIC ANTHOLOGY 

I found that writing poetry can be both creative and fun. To enhance my latent ability, I 

read books on writing poetry by master poets and attended workshops. It is important that 

any neophyte poet should reread the poets of his high school and college days. Even the 

Beats make reference to poets like Yeats in their poems. To me, writing poetry was a 

labor of love. It was a relaxing stimulant for this retiree. 

Bobby was there to hear each and every poem recited by me. He gave me input and 

encouragement. He gave me a “push” when needed. 

Attending the Provincetown Poetry Festival in April 2000 was inspiring and I got to hear 

Frank Gaspar, a noted Portuguese poet, and other luminaries from the world of poetry. I 

did a scheduled reading at Twomey’s Irish Restaurant on Commercial Street. I found that 

reading poetry is like teaching an English literature class – exhilarating! A pint after the 

reading didn’t hurt either. 

By the end of 2002, I had written enough poems to compile an anthology. By this time, 

Bobby was midway through his fifth work.

I decided to title the anthology: The Spirit of ’69. The year 1969 was a catalyst for change 

in my life and a year of great historic importance. It would make a good takeoff point for 

my work. As the subtitle indicates, it is an eclectic collection of 69 poems. Two historical 

narrative poems would serve as the front piece and end piece – “The Spirit of 69” and 

“The Spirit of 69 Lives,” respectively. In-between were poems, mostly narrative, on 

nature, life in suburbia, urban treasures, Provincetown, Holland, 9/11, Church scandals, 

paranoia, a “Bobby” section and a section on myself, “Introspective Redemption.” One or 

two people suggested a title change: The Spirit of ’69 – really? I remained adamant. 

There would be no title change. 

The anthology was dedicated to Bobby, my closest friend and muse. 

CELEBRATING MY 69 th 

As “69” was my “magic number,” I looked forward to celebrating my 69 th birthday. 

December 28, 2002, started with a Mass at St. Anselm’s celebrated by my friend, the 

Reverend Bob Kaeding. A number of people, from near and far, were in attendance. A 

high school classmate of mine, Terry McAdams, drove my goddaughter, Mary Beth 

Kostka and her mom from Brentwood, Long Island. Several of my former Mater Dei 

students including Diana Jauregui, Ken Kringdon and play producer, David Meenan, 

were in attendance. So too was former Mater Dei Vice Principal, Frank Outwater. 

Another former student, Mari Kovach, coordinated a post-liturgy luncheon at the nearby 

Sheraton Hotel. There, several of my former Essex Catholic students, some with their 

wives, took up one of the tables – Bert Tobia and John Pechkis of the class of ’63; 

journalists, Joe Bakes and Michael Redmond, class of 67, and other “Eagles.” 

The highlight of the event was not me trying to blow out trick candles on the birthday 

cake but the dedication of The Spirit of ’69 to Robert J. Batz Jr. It was a moving five 

minutes and concluded with Bobby reading his poem, “All This Time.” 

As only ten spiral-bound copies were available for the occasion, they were sold for $15. 

each and all were gone in a matter of minutes. I really hated inscribing the work as I tried 

to write a distinctly different caption in each book. That is hard. 

After the luncheon, Terry McAdams and Frank Outwater watched the Giants game in the 

hotel bar, while Mary Beth and her mom went up to their room for a while. The ever 

gracious, Terry McAdams, invited me to join Mary Beth and her mom for dinner at the 

Olde Union House in Red Bank. After dinner, we had a nightcap at my home – a perfect 

end to a perfect 69 th birthday.

“SPIRIT” PRODUCTION 

In a way, I’m glad only ten copies were printed up as the work was sorely in need of 

editing. Neither Bobby nor I were up for the task; it needed a “professional.” Fortunately, 

Michael Redmond, who was the chief music critic for the Newark Star-Ledger for many 

years, came to my rescue. He used the copy he bought at the event as the “working 

copy,” and because of his commitments as a senior editor of the Princeton Packet, the 

editing process took a while. It came back like a failing-grade test, marked for mistakes 

in a major manner. How could I have overlooked mistakes that were so obvious? I asked 

myself. I asked myself the same thing with this manuscript. 

David Scalzo, a 1986 Mater Dei graduate, agreed to do the artwork. Just days before the 

printing deadline, he presented me with a colorful collage of the highlights of 1969. It 

was eye-catching and included a pictorial depiction of historical events, as well as things 

important to me as the Catholic Lay Teachers Strike, Stonewall, and Camp Adrian. 

Victor Saraiva, Essex Catholic’s class of ’76, suggested that we transform the first spiral 

edition into a published, professionally bound book. This would be costly but nowhere 

near what it would cost if I were to bring it to an editorial/printing service. Victor pursued 

various options and costs and the finished product was ready in the fall of 2003. 

Including the ISBN number and bar code, the cost fell under $1,500. for 200 copies that 

Victor had printed. The cover cost was $15. per book. Needless to say, “comps” and 

poetry reading sales at a reduced price of $10. cut into the gross. 

POETRY BOOKS DON’T SELL; POETRY READINGS DON’T DRAW 

Michael Redmond advised me not to get too many copies printed up, for poetry books 

don’t sell. He said that even the most recognized poets in America don’t usually have 

production runs over 10,000 copies. It’s hard to move poetry books off bookstore’s 

shelves. Michael remarked that only one’s inner circle of friends, and, in my case, some 

of former students, would buy the book. Minimal sales would be generated from the 

poetry public at-large. His words rang true. Nearly a year after its publication, I still have 

nearly 100 copies of “Spirit” left. I’ll be lucky if I break even. 

Thanks to my friend, Charles F. Cummings, the Asst. Director of the Newark Public 

Library, as well the City of Newark’s official historian, I was sponsored to have my 

premiere poetry reading on Saturday, December 6, 2003, in Centennial Hall in the main 

branch of the Newark Public Library. Mother Nature thought otherwise as two storms 

dumped fifteen inches of snow on the City, forcing cancellation of the event.

The following Saturday another poetry reading was held in the Red Bank Public Library. 

By default, Red Bank had become the premiere reading site. There were nearly twentyfive 

people in attendance, mostly Mater Dei High School alums and former Vice 

Principal, Frank Outwater. The others were poetry aficionados. Martin Costello, the 

former “Irish Road Show” host was on hand to tape the program. Poetry reading etiquette 

requires that no applause be given until the end of the presentation. However, there was a 

spontaneous round of applause after the reading of “SUV’s,” one of the poems from my 

“Suburban Encounters” section. The entire section is a spoof on suburban living with 

such titles as “Mall Mice” and “Soccer Moms.” The ever-loyal Diana Jauregui and Ken 

Kringdon were on hand to sell books. I did the obligatory book signing. 

After the reading, I gave the count to the librarian and she was very pleased indicating 

that was a “large crowd” for a poetry reading. I guess she was right, 

One of my former student’s, Alison Granito, covered the event for the Hub, a local 

weekly. Her story was mainly biographical in nature and the banner titled: “Former 

Teacher Moves from Rabble-rouser to Poet.” Another former student, Victor Saraiva 

took exception to the Banner and wrote a “letter to the editor.” It was never published. I 

didn’t mind, for at times during my life some may had considered me just that – a 

rabble-rouser. Perhaps, as Victor wrote, “activist” would have been a better choice of 

words. 

I received a letter from a senior citizen in the audience, Neary Owen, who stated: I 

enjoyed it very much. It has depth, breadth and immediacy. 

However, my first real critique came from my friend and former colleague, John F. 

Ennis. Under the letterhead of King’s College, Wilkes-Barre, PA, and his position as 

Professor of English, Emeritus, he wrote: I like, in particular, your ability to show the 

intense relationship between external, historical events and their impact on you as a 

person. I also like that you write in a variety of styles, ranging from conversational to 

prose poetry to lyric to narratives to biting satire. I do, however, think narrative is your 

forte, a storyteller in verse. 

~ 

Thanks to Charles Cummings, my poetry reading at the Newark Public Library was 

rescheduled for Saturday, May 15, 2004 at 3 p.m.

Arriving early, I went directly to Centennial Hall. I was told it was quite an honor to 

perform a reading there. Over a year earlier, Newark poet and the New Jersey poet 

laureate, Amiri Baraka, stirred up a controversy in the same room defending his 

“Somebody Blew Up America.” While I didn’t like his style and, most certainly, not the 

content of the poem, I defended his right of free speech in a letter to the editor of the 

Asbury Park Press (12/18/02). 

My classmate from grammar school John Kelly, now an ordained deacon in the Catholic 

Church and his wife, Joan, were in attendance. Many Essex Catholic alums, one going 

back to the class of ’62, were there also, as were former EC teachers, John King and 

Michael Witsch. There were two surprise guests: former Seton Hall Law School Dean of 

Admissions, Ed Henrickson, and former chairman of the State Democratic Party, Tom 

Giblin. Mater Dei graduate and Asbury Park activist, Una McGurk, made the trip up from 

the shore. 

Charles Cummings introduced me, and young Daniel Saraiva, a sophomore at St. 

Benedict’s in Newark, read a message from his father, Victor, who was too ill to attend 

the event. 

The reading drew heavily from my “Urban Delights” section that included poems about 

Sacred Heart Cathedral and McGovern’s Tavern (the “Cheers” of Newark). Like the Red 

Bank reading, there was one spontaneous round of applause. In this case, it was after the 

reading of “I Can Live Within.” 

Despite a blurb in the New York Times and others promos, the attendance was sparse with 

twenty-two people in attendance. 

After the reading and book signing, some of the Essex Catholic alums and myself walked 

to McGovern’s for some liquid libation. Nothing, including a parched throat, a pint of 

Guinness couldn’t cure. 

LATE NITE CATECHISM FOR JOHN, MIKE AND ME 

By the mid-1990’s, I had renewed my friendship with two former colleagues, John King 

and Michael Witsch. John spent ten years at Essex Catholic and Michael, a former 

student and graduate of the class of ’65, began his teaching career there in 1969. John 

was Mike’s mentor in the English Dept. Mike got wise and entered the Mamaroneck 

Public School system (Westchester) in 1972 and there he would become one of New 

York State’s leading authorities on the use of television in the classroom. John King left 

Essex Catholic two years later and entered the Newark Public School system. We found 

that we had many things in common including the love of theatre. So, on April 12, 1997, 

the three of us made our way to St. Luke’s Theatre on Restaurant Row (west 46 th St.) in 

New York City to see a one-person interactive comedy called Late Night Catechism.

We had seen Nunsense a few years earlier and enjoyed this play with multiple characters. 

However, would we enjoy a play with only one character? After the first minute of Act I 

when the Sister gives a latecomer “detention,” I knew the answer would be a resounding 

“yes.” I loved the play and went home and thought and thought about it. 

A PLAYWRIGHT IS BORN 

However, I kept asking myself: Why aren’t there any spoofs about brothers? After all, I 

spent eight years being educated by the brothers and eighteen years teaching with them. I 

first conceived the idea of writing a play about the brothers later that month (4/26/97). I 

would need motivation to put pen to paper and once more Bobby provided that 

motivation. For almost a year, I jotted down possible scenarios and on March 25, 1998, I 

began to write Oh Brother! The first draft was completed, almost to the day, five months 

later. 

During the process, I consulted with a former Mater Dei student, David Meenan. David , 

a local playwright and producer, was only too glad to help me. His RTG Production 

Company built the Royale Theatre on Monmouth Street in Red Bank and staged many 

productions there. Frank Outwater and myself went to see his production of Cabaret. 

David gave his former teacher and vice principal seats front row center. One of the play’s 

“Kit Kat” girls sat on my lap. How embarrassing! 

I decided to call my enterprise, Seraph Productions, and incorporated it as a legal sole 

proprietorship within the State of New Jersey. I called it “Seraph” because of my 

affiliation with Mater Dei High School, known as the “Seraphs.” I created a business card 

incorporating one angel on either side of the company’s name. Not many people knew 

that the art deco angel was the one on the tombstone of Oscar Wilde’s grave in Pere 

Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. 

Bobby and I worked on a logo design. I wanted a serious caricature of a brother in the 

“O” of “Oh” and a smiling collared face in the “O” of “Brother.” The “O’s” would be 

aligned one above the other. I brought our idea of a logo design for Oh Brother! to 

Grapevine Productions, a graphic art studio in Red Bank. They did a great job coming up 

with the final design.

The theme of the play was a year in the life of Brother Christopher, a religion teacher in 

his twilight years at City Catholic High School during the 1958-59 academic year. The 

play intersperses humor and wit to offset the “good old days” approach to discipline and 

learning. The class (audience) sings the school’s fight song, take a smut quiz, and recite 

the Legion of Decency Pledge not to see censored movies. I drew upon material from 

both from my student days at Power Memorial Academy (1948-52) in New York City 

and my early years teaching at Essex Catholic High School in Newark (1958-68). The 

first scene draws heavily from Brother Offer’s (principal) opening day speech to 

freshmen at Essex Catholic (I kept the audio-tape and was it helpful). 

A forty-eight star American flag and other props had to be bought. Memorabilia of the 

fabulous fifties were gathered. I bought posters of Elvis, Lucy and Brother Christopher’s 

nemesis, Brigitte Bardot. Frank Outwater built a school bell, loud and piercing, like the 

one we heard in the days of yore. The ring of the bell signaled the change of periods 

(scenes). My local shoemaker looked at me askance when I purchased a one-foot long 

“Cat’s Paw” rubber strap. After all, what was a brother without his rubber? 

The two-act play with intermission was written. Now, like my poetry, it had to be 

sculpted. Bobby sat through the first reading at my apartment and gave me input. We 

both agreed that it’s difficult to do an interactive play with just one person in the room as 

the audience. 

Brother Tony Ferro, a former colleague from Essex Catholic, served as a consulter. So, 

too, did Msgr. Robert E. Harahan. I did not want to alienate the Catholic community in 

any way, so I made sure the play did not contain any heresy or blasphemy. However, it 

contained mild sexual innuendos and double entendres. They did not have a problem with 

that. When I tried my habit (costume) on for the first time I said to myself: Maybe I 

should have been a brother? Only kidding! 

By the end of October, I started thinking about an opening date and a venue. I was 

shooting for the spring of 1999. 

Toward that end, I approached Frank Poleski, the principal of Mater Dei High School, to 

use a classroom for two preview performances on the weekend of March 20 and present 

the play the last two weekends in April. He was amenable to the proposal and had no 

problem with using my old classroom, Room 112. I could now breathe easier.

“OH BROTHER!” – THE PRODUCTION 

For the Mater Dei production, I put together a staff of mostly students from the MUN 

Hague delegation and named Bobby, Production Manager. A dress rehearsal took place at 

the school on Friday, March 19 at 7 p.m., followed by a staff meeting. The first preview 

was Saturday evening. Whew! I was tired after the performance. The Sunday matinee 

was for the brothers and my former colleagues from Essex Catholic. Also, March 21 was 

Bobby’s 27 th birthday but he wished to “low-key” it at the reception that followed the 

performance. Consulter, Brother Tony Ferro, was on hand, as was a former colleague, Br. 

Mike Valdez. Br. Eugenio DeLorenzo accepted a copy of the play for the Provincial 

Archives. I had one month to work out the kinks, send out the promos and distribute the 

fliers. 

Professional photos were taken of me in my collared black habit. Bobby appeared in 

several shots as a “student” being disciplined by Brother Christopher. One shot was by a 

school locker with me saying to him while holding a magazine: Is this your “Playboy?” 

Another photo depicts me giving Bobby a detention slip. These photos would be part of a 

press packet sent out to the print media as well as for display purposes at the show. 

I had great hopes for Oh Brother! Looking ahead, I flew up to Provincetown to explore 

the possibility of doing it there during the summer. There, I met with Jon Atherton, the 

Artistic Director of the Meeting House Theatre (Unitarian Universalist Church) on 

Commercial Street. The church auditorium was the center of theatrical productions in Ptown. 

Also, I met with Father Raposa, the pastor of St. Peter’s Church. I returned to New 

Jersey weighing the possibilities of a summer run. Doing the play in a Catholic Church 

hall would be different than doing it in a Universal Church hall in terms of audience and 

content. The cost factor had to be considered with the Catholic Church hall considerable 

less for rental but far from the hub of Commercial Street. How long would the run be? 

Where would I stay? Who would help me? Decisions! Decisions! But for now, I had to 

return to the real world with the premiere a couple of weeks away. 

BROTHER CHRISTOPHER’S QUESTION BOX 

One of the key parts of the play was “Brother Christopher’s Question Box” where typical 

questions posed by high school boys would be drawn from the box, read aloud and the 

audience asked to answer. After the “class” participation, Brother Christopher would then 

respond, giving the “official” Church answer. The question box sequences were 

interspersed throughout the play. The following are examples. How would you answer? 

Remember it’s 1958-59.

1. What are some television programs that you would recommend for teens? 

2. Are we responsible for subconscious acts, let’s say, nocturnal emissions? 

3. My older brother took me to a “C” rated movie with Brigitte Bardot. Was it a sin 

for my brother to expose me to this type of movie? Inasmuch as I did not find this 

movie at all titillating, was it a sin for me too? 

4. My pastor has an “STD” after his name. Does this mean he counsels parishioners 

who have sexually transmitted diseases? 

5. Is it a sin to physically pleasure yourself, by yourself? 

6. Why do brothers give names to their straps? 

7. It is a sin to be gay during Lent? 

8. Is it true that brothers bring a ruler to dances to make sure the boys stay at least 

six inches away from their girlfriends? 

9. Is it true that if I eat meat on Friday that I will burn in hell for all eternity? 

10. Is instant gratification a sin? 

“OH BROTHER” – THE PREMIERE 

The afternoon of Friday, April 16, 1999, I ran through my lines of the two-act play for 

one last time. I then went over to Mater Dei to transform Room 112 into a configuration 

that included both student desks, as well as folding chairs. I felt that some people might 

feel more comfortable in a chair. For those who wanted a deja-vu feeling, the desks were 

readily available and besides, what’s a classroom without desks. There were virtually no 

props with the exception of portraits of Pope Pius XII, President Eisenhower and Vice 

President Nixon. Also, a couple memorabilia items of Lucy and Elvis were included. A 

forty-eight star flag hung in the front of the classroom. My checklist indicated that every 

thing was in place. We were now ready for the opening night with music of the “fabulous 

fifties” playing in the corridor. 

One might say that the opening night was low keyed. There were only eleven people 

present including a former Essex Catholic graduate, Bob Tortoriello and his wife, Peg. 

However, that was enough to make the interactive part of the play work. I pretty much 

followed the script of the two- act, three-scene play with slight deviation for 

improvisation. The play evoked a lot of laughs as I returned the “class” to another 

generation. 

Unfortunately, the matinee and evening performances on Saturday were cancelled due to 

lack of the required number of people. I made a decision that I need a minimum of six 

people for the play to “work.” Things started to look up as seventeen people attended the 

Sunday matinee. However, the passing of my life-long friend, Maureen Hoey, put a 

damper on the weekend.

The following week, I read the critiques that were submitted by the respective audiences. 

For the most part, Brother Christopher heeded the critics’ advice. 

The last weekend of the month had arrived and I scheduled three performances. On 

Saturday evening, we had a record twenty-five people in attendance. A number of that 

size made the classroom look almost full. 

My new career as a playwright, producer and actor had now begun. 

PERFORMING IN P-TOWN 

The week following the Mater Dei shows, I went up to Provincetown for a business trip. I 

met with Jon Arterton of the Meeting House Theatre. Jon’s claim to fame was singing 

Mr. Sandman with a vocal group in the movie, Philadelphia. A week earlier he had 

reviewed the videotape of the show. In a telephone call to me, Jon made some 

suggestions including making it a one-act play without intermission and using cue cards 

instead of a formal script. You don’t use a script when teaching a class, do you Tom? He 

had a point. So I made up a series of prompts and taped them in Brother Christopher’s 

Roll and Plan Book. Only I could see the outline for the revised one-act, seven-scene 

play. Jon was pleased with the revisions and I signed the contract to do the show at the 

Meeting House Theatre from June 22 thru July 3, 1999. 

From there, I met with Mary Jo Paranzino of the Provincetown Reservations System who 

agreed to be my agent for ticket sales – with a ten percent commission, of course. Mary 

Jo was a member of the singing group, the “ Three Mary’s.” That day I met two of the 

three “Mary’s,” Jon “Mary” Artheron, Mary Jo and would meet Mary Abt during the 

summer. Only in Provincetown! 

The final step was obtaining housing for three weeks. Bill Wall, owner of the Shamrock 

Resort on Bradford Street, gave me a wonderful deal for a studio cottage. After that, it 

was dinner at “Fat Jack’s” and back to New Jersey the next morning. A lot of preparation 

awaited me for doing the production in such a cultural enclave as Provincetown. 

For eight weeks I polished the new version of the play, performing it aloud within the 

confines of my apartment. By Memorial Day weekend, it was ready for P-town. That 

weekend Bobby came over and I ran through the more improvised version with him. He, 

in turn, just started his fifth work of poetry, Drunken Messages. As he read his latest and 

one of his best poem’s yet, “Darkness Gets In,” I applauded him for the Rimbaudesque 

quality of his latest work. I was itching to get started in my next venue – Provincetown.

I flew up to P-town via Boston on Saturday, June 12 and settled in at the Shamrock. 

Sunday I attended Mass at the Provincetown Inn sponsored by Dignity and prepared for 

the busy week ahead. Unlike Mater Dei, I didn’t have a support system up there. There 

were so many unknowns. The week of June 14 was spent promoting the play in the press 

through ads and releases, placing broadsides in the many guesthouses of the resort town, 

meeting with Jon Arterton and hiring a “townie” to help me as production manager. 

Barbara would prove to be an indispensable part of the production. 

On Monday afternoon, June 21, Jon and Barbara helped me set up for a special preview 

performance for guesthouse owners, special guests and critics from the local press. We 

configured a side part of the theatre to resemble a classroom, replete with desk, 

chalkboard and props. I was a little nervous as the 7 p.m. show time approached. For the 

first time, I would be performing before an audience that I did not know. Just before the 

show, I received a bouquet of flowers from my friends Connie and Terri of Vorelli’s 

Restaurant and a couple of “break a leg” well wishes. They gave me that shot of 

adrenalin. I was now ready to go on with the show with some fifteen people in 

attendance, including Sue Harrison, the theatre critic for the Provincetown Banner. 

Things went well and there was a good chemistry between Brother Christopher and the 

audience. I found that each audience has a different chemistry and I had to work with 

each accordingly. This is where working from a non-scripted play could work to an 

actor’s advantage. Improvisation and interaction is so very important in this type of play. 

Oh Brother! opened to the public the following night. New faces! Strange faces! Another 

bouquet of flowers arrived, this time from Jon Arterton. I was beginning to like this. 

Roger Chauvette, the editor of Provincetown Magazine, was among the seventeen people 

in the audience. After the show, Roger interviewed me for the magazine. Things were 

getting better. 

There was no show on Wednesday. This gave me the opportunity to read my first ever, 

full length review from a play critic, Sue Harrison of the Banner. 

The Banner is the weekly newspaper of Provincetown. I placed an ad in the issue of June 

17. In addition, the paper ran a promo that included a photo of me on my bicycle when 

Delia and I were the guests’ of Eva Clendenin in her Mechanic Street home back in 1946. 

Little did I think, that when the picture was taken forty-three years earlier, I would be 

returning to Provincetown as a retiree, staging and starring in my own play. It sure felt 

good. 

Sue Harrison on Oh Brother! : 

As people take their seats, Murray cuts a kindly figure, chatting casually and quipping as 

he did on opening night to one man, as he said he went to a Catholic grammar school run 

by the Sisters of Charity. “Sisters of Charity, what an oxymoron,” Murray laughed, and 

promised to behave better, but he rarely did.

His patter skips back and forth between warm and stern, and his messages are a mixture 

of ‘50s dogma and ‘90s liberalism. 

If the audience had gotten more involved, there’s no doubt Murray could have fielded the 

comments and used them to his advantage. 

“Oh Brother!” is a credible look at how Catholic schools worked to turn out a 

generation of Catholic youth. For those who have been there, it will ring true. For those 

who haven’t, it’s a glimpse into another world. 

One word of warning. If you go, don’t be late to class. 

Not bad for a neophyte, eh? 

The next day, I stopped the Banner office to thank Sue. She suggested that I contact Marj 

Conn, the coordinator of the Provincetown Fringe Festival. I did, and invited her to 

Friday’s show. Although Friday’s attendance was sparse (5), I went on with the show 

with Marj’s encouragement. Fortunately for me, the chemistry and interactivity was quite 

good. Marj liked it and invited me as a guest on her radio show the following week. She 

also asked if I would consider bringing it back to P-town for her Fringe festival at the end 

of the summer. After some thought, I declined her offer, mainly because of cost factors – 

Provincetown is a very expensive resort town during the summer. Marj was a playwright 

and producer and had been on the P-town scene for many years. I managed to view her 

one-person show, Lorena and Eleanor at the Provincetown Inn. I picked up a few 

pointers about one-person shows from attending this “letters from” (Eleanor Roosevelt 

and Lorena Hickok) production. Marj was quite a performer. 

There were no shows Saturday or Sunday of the first week. I started the second week of 

production on Monday. Barbara worked overtime, distributing playbill cards on 

Commercial Street in front of the Universalist Meeting House Theatre. In the meantime, 

my friend Bill Hungerford and his partner, John, from Amsterdam had arrived in P-town. 

They were among the thirty-three people who attended the Tuesday evening 

performance. One of Bill’s friends pushed the envelope on the “interactive “ part when he 

took the forty-eight star American flag and threw it on the ground. Although I am a great 

believer in First Amendment rights, I believe that that was carrying things a little too far. 

Accordingly, Barbara escorted the delinquent “student” to the dean of discipline’s office 

where he sat out the day (play). Steve hasn’t been heard from since. 

My second full-length critique appeared in the July 1 issue of Provincetown Magazine. 

Roger Chauvette, the magazine’s editor, wrote the full-page review and included a photo 

of Brother Christopher reviewing the Legion of Decency standards. On the left side of the 

photo was a Brigitte Bardot poster with the word “censored” superimposed over the 

siren’s torso. Here’s what Roger had to say:

…get to know Tom Murray and where he’s coming from. That will give you a feel for the 

irony and humor in his one-man play. 

Tom Murray speaks of the ins and outs of Catholic education as it evolved over half a 

very dynamic century. Best of all, he managed to keep the faith and a sense of humor. 

Perhaps what works so well with the audience was the scrapbook approach that Murray 

uses to tell his tale. Each class resembles a snapshot of a particular aspect of life that – 

whether or not you went to Catholic school – everyone can relate to. 

Prejudices fly across the classroom like divine truth without room for discussion. The 

audience reaction allows each to carry out an examination of conscience on the 

prejudices that have been dropped as well as those which may still be lingering in guilt. 

From petting to school dances to the passing of Pope Pius XII to the Legion of decency 

ratings and school spirit rallies, little escapes Murray’s historic eye. 

So visit Brother Christopher at Central Catholic High School and let Brother walk you 

through the year from Orientation Day to the Rye Beach trip before summer vacation. If 

the humor of the situations strike you, then you have graduated; if some of the situations 

ring a bell and arouse anger or frustration, then face the garbage, dump it and relax. 

Remember it’s only a play today, but it was real then. Tom has faced the dragons of selfrighteousness 

in the System and has defeated them, that’s why he can write and laugh 

about them. Let’s hope we can all do the same. 

I stopped in the magazine’s office and thanked Roger for the positive review. While 

there, I purchased a copy of Roger’s anthology of poems, A Pilgrim Adrift in the Dunes, 

and had him inscribe it for Bobby. In my subsequent visits to Provincetown, I would get 

to know this deep thinking, philosophical poet and writer – his twenty-eight years as a 

priest in the Lasalette order, his role as a coordinator of the Provincetown Poetry Festival, 

and so much more. 

~ 

The last show was on Saturday evening, July 3. After the show, Barbara and I added our 

show and names to the “wall of honor” in the dressing room. My eyes began to swell as I 

inscribed my name on the wall with my black magic marker. We had put on ten shows 

and entertained about 125 people. Although I sustained a considerable financial loss, 

mainly for the long stay of three weeks at the Shamrock Resort, I enjoyed the P-town 

experience. It was quite a feeling having people come up to you on the street saying 

Hello, Brother Christopher. 

~

Bobby picked me up at Newark Airport on Sunday, the fourth of July. As we sat in his 

Grand Cherokee Laredo in the parking lot, he presented me with a large, wooden-covered 

photo album. Having a set of keys for my apartment, he came over and selected photos 

from my collection of our activities over the years and inserted them in this woodencovered 

album. It was a belated Father’s Day gift and I was taken aback upon receiving 

it. Over the years, I would add to it, including photos of a trip we made to Provincetown 

during Halloween weekend later that year. 

PCQ49: What area of New York City was and, is today, considered a “safe haven” for 

writers of liberal persuasion? Hint: The Provincetown Playhouse is in this area. 

ON THE ROAD WITH BROTHER CHRISTOPHER 

I now set my sights on the Catskill Mountains, hoping to take the show to the “Irish 

Alps” in the northern part of the range. My friend and daughter of Maud Lynn of Catskill, 

Deirdre Lupoli, suggested that I try for Gavin’s Golden Hill Resort. Accordingly, I met 

the proprietor, Jack Gavin, who invited me to do the show from August 2 thru 5. Gavin’s 

was one of the largest Irish resorts in the Catskills and we both felt a show about an 

“Irish Christian Brother” would be appealing to his guests. Although the lounge was not a 

perfect setting, the show went on despite the limitations. One must be flexible in this kind 

of entertainment. I managed to stay outside the complex at the local “Bates Motel.” Some 

fifty-five people attended over the four-night period including Joe and Pat Williams, of 

the Camp Adrian property, as well as Deidre and her daughters, Stephanie and Melanie. 

The best news was that I came out ahead with $185. in my pocket, thanks to Jack Gavin. 

The summer of 1999 was now ebbing. It was time to put Brother Christopher to bed – at 

least, for a while. 

In the spring of 2000, I staged a special edition of the play for alumni of the school where 

I taught for eighteen years, Essex Catholic in Newark. It ran for two weekends during 

mid-May and was held at the Shillelagh Clubhouse in West Orange, New Jersey. I sent 

out a mailing to nearly a thousand alums. It paid off. One hundred fifty-seven people, 

including a record thirty-five people at the opening night, attended the five shows. So 

many of my former students were there, many gray-haired and grandfathers. After each 

show, a group photo was taken and I hung around to chat with my aging former students. 

By then, with Bobby’s encouragement, I was thinking of writing this memoir. It was time 

to retire Brother Christopher – at least, for a while.

By the early spring of 2003, I was about halfway through this memoir and did not want to 

continue. I had lost all interest in writing. I felt that doing something physical might help. 

What could I do? Reviving Oh Brother! was a pragmatic possibility. By that time, I had 

become a frequent traveler to Philadelphia, usually spending a couple of nights at the 

Alexander Inn. At times, I even thought about moving to the “City of Brotherly Love.” 

On the first weekend of April my friends John King and Mike Witsch were planning to 

attend an organ concert at Lord and Taylor’s on Broad Street. They invited me to come 

along. 

On Friday, I started to explore venues including William Way Center on Spruce Street. 

My first choice was doing it in the closed St. Patrick Catholic grammar school near 

Rittenhouse Square. On Saturday morning while John and Michael slept at the Best 

Western, I was off to St. Patrick Church hoping to meet the pastor, praying that the 

legendary Irish saint would honor me by allowing me to present my play in the parish 

dedicated to his sainted name. 

It is my belief that some pastors do not wish to sponsor any type of show that spoofs the 

Church, so I was not overly optimistic as I rang the rectory bell. A priest answered the 

bell and invited me to come in for a chat in the parlor. He introduced himself as 

Monsignor Philip J. Dowling, the pastor of St. Patrick’s. I explained to him my objective 

of presenting the play in his parish and suggested that the parish receive twenty percent 

of the revenue. He agreed to sponsor the play in late May and brought his percentage 

down to ten percent. He called his secretary, the indispensable, Therese Joyce, who set up 

four performances from Thursday thru Sunday, May 29 thru June 1. I was ecstatic, 

thanked Monsignor and St. Patrick too. I then met John and Mike who had risen from 

their slumber. After a lunch at Moriarty’s Pub, we went to Lord and Taylor 

(Wanamaker’s) for the concert. What a concert! What an organ! It is the largest organ of 

its kind around. 

On May 1, I started my promo campaign and by the middle of the month I had fliers up 

on many of the major area’s restaurants and watering holes. The Tavern on Camac 

prominently displayed several posters in their two-story gay venue. 

I arranged to stay at the Latham Hotel on 17 th and Walnut Streets at a discount rate. 

However, I did procure the services of Scott Lupatsky, a desk clerk at the Alexander Inn. 

Scott had just broken up with his lover and besides, he had the opportunity to make a few 

bucks as my Stage Manager, selling tickets at the door and serving as scene changer. 

On the weekend before the performances, I went down to Philly where Monsignor 

allowed me to sell reduced rate tickets after the masses. He cooperated wonderfully in the 

endeavor, having it printed for several weeks in the parish Bulletin and announcing it at 

all the Masses the weekend before the play.

On Wednesday, May 28 th Scott met me at the old school for a dress rehearsal and a walkthrough 

of his role as scene changer. Also, Scott would tend to the boom box as it played 

the appropriate songs of the “fabulous fifties.” 

Among the fifteen people in attendance on the opening night was Mark Sluscavage, a 

senior at Drexel who served as a member of my Hague MUN team for three years. 

Despite the best efforts of Monsignor the play was cancelled on Friday and Saturday 

nights for lack of audience. An early evening show was held on Sunday with Monsignor 

and two nun guests in attendance. They loved the play and Monsignor later wrote a 

critique: 

Oh Brother! is a wonderful trip down memory lane. Tom Murray, the author and 

“teacher” makes it all the more believable because he was a teacher for many years. 

This makes the participation by the audience so close to being in school that it is scary. 

I returned to Red Bank with baggage and props in record time of one hour and fifteen 

minutes as Ken Kringdon, accompanied by his soon-to-be fiancée, Diana Jauregui. 

Two weeks later I was doing the show in St. Anselm’s Parish in Wayside, New Jersey. I 

met with Father Bob Kaeding about a month or so earlier and he agreed to sponsor the 

play in the small state-of-the-art auditorium in the Parish Center. The show would play 

for a long weekend, Thursday thru Sunday, June 12 thru June 15. Ken agreed to work the 

show on Thursday evening while Diana worked the other dates. 

The opening night was disappointing with only ten people in attendance. However, 

Friday night’s performance more than made up for it with twenty-three people, including 

my high school classmate, Terry McAdams, in attendance. It was one of the best 

interactive groups ever, with several of my former Mater Dei students in attendance…and 

did I go with the flow. Remember that “chemistry” thing? 

I was scheduled to return to Provincetown in August of that summer as part of Marj 

Conn’s “Provincetown Fringe Festival” but due to problems beyond my control, I had to 

pull the production. Perhaps, one day I’ll return to P-town. I sent a copy of my poetry 

anthology to Marj and she has invited me up to the Cape to do a reading of some of my 

poems on her radio show. Marj is one of those people who is willing to give neophytes 

like myself, a chance in show business – a wonderful “townie,” indeed. 

Since the show was launched in 1999, Oh Brother! has played in some seven venues in 

four states to nearly six-hundred theatre-goers. I finally brought the show to the “Big 

Apple” during October/November, 2007, when it played for six performances at the 

Paulist Center in my former parish. The venue is located where the Greater Broadway 

Theater District meets Lincoln Center. It felt great returning to my old neighborhood. 

Brother Christopher is now in “limbo.” Where’s that?

Chapter 29 – SENIORITIS SETS IN – A WORK IN PROGRESS 

SENIORITIS SETS IN 

As a teacher, the term “senioritis” meant the final months, weeks and days of a student’s 

senior year in high school, usually characterized by hyperactivity, high spirits and a sense 

of anticipation waiting for graduation to arrive. As a senior citizen, it can be said that 

“senioritis” is the time when a person, usually in his or her sixties, makes the transition 

from the work force into the ever-growing number of retirees. Like that senior in high 

school, the senior citizen, health permitting, acts in a very positive manner, keeping busy, 

and planning to make the very best of his or her golden years. 

For some, there is a sense of anticipation, or if not anticipation, a realization that we will 

end our stay here on earth in the not too distant future. Some of us, like that high school 

senior, enjoy our twilight years to the fullest, anticipating, while not dwelling on, the end 

of life’s journey. 

Some of us start the process at age fifty, signing up with the AARP and receiving its 

magazine and services. Why do so many Americans join this organization? Some join to 

work themselves into a frame of mind for their eventual retirement; a few, for the benefits 

such as hotel and travel discounts. 

Between the ages of sixty-two and sixty-five, most Americans apply for Social Security 

benefits. I applied close to my sixty-fourth birthday and my first check was electronically 

deposited to my checking account shortly thereafter. Thank God, for FDR and his 

foresighted Social Security Act. 

Also, electronically deposited are my two paltry pension checks that I receive after 

working thirty-eight years in the Catholic schools’ system. I taught twenty years at Mater 

Dei High School (Diocese of Trenton) and receive $576 per month. I taught eighteen 

years at Essex Catholic High School (Archdiocese of Newark) and receive $87 per 

month. The pension sucks! I tell my friends: If you think that the Catholic Church is 

conservative in its theology, just wait until I tell you about its pension plan.

Then, at age sixty-five, I applied for Medicare and shortly thereafter received my 

Medicare card – a “badge of honor” for every senior citizen. It has been great for hospital 

stays and doctor visits. I did opt to pay an extra premium for Part B, which seems to 

increase in a disproportionate basis every year. The 2005 payment for part B saw a 17% 

increase under the G. W. Bush administration. Now all that is missing is a good federal 

drug plan. I have a Medigap plan with Blue Cross/Blue Shield of New Jersey that is quite 

costly but necessary. The cost of the premiums is far in excess of the cost of living, while 

my pension from the Catholic Church remains the same. The Social Security payment 

includes an annual cost of living increase but that’s eaten up by the Medicare Part B 

payment. So with each passing year, my consumer spending power becomes less and 

less. Perhaps one day in America we’ll see a comprehensive universal health care 

program where people like myself at the bottom of the lower middle class scale won’t 

have to eke out an existence. After all, we are the leader of the free world and one of the 

world’s richest nations. 

I soon discovered that the Medicare Card had other perks as well, perks that would 

complement my “senioritis.” Simply by showing my Medicare Card, I found myself the 

recipient of discounts for everything from dry cleaning to airfares and so much more. 

Thank God for the progressive foresight of JFK and LBJ. 

Was it the Giants and the Jets in Sunday’s ballgame? Oh, those “senior moments.” 

LIVING ALONE AND PREPARING FOR D-DAY 

Since Delia passed away in 1968, I have always lived alone. I have had overnight guests 

sleep on the living room couch. Tom Tobin, who usually stayed for a few days, strained 

my lifestyle at times but that was okay as he was one of my closest friends. 

I have enjoyed living alone all those years and would find great difficulty at this stage of 

my life having anyone else share my one bedroom apartment, be it a roommate, partner 

or whatever. I’ve always wanted a pug dog but have balked at the thought because of the 

care I would have to give to “man’s best friend.” I still travel somewhat and could not 

afford to put the canine in a doggie hotel. I don’t want to impose upon my neighbors or 

former students in this regard either. So for now, I will forget about getting my pug 

puppy and will fend off the thought whenever it comes up. For now, the ceramic pugs on 

top of my piano, “Pug Alley,” will have to do. 

My friends in my support system have helped offset the challenges of living a single, 

celibate homosexual, retired lifestyle. As I do not have any close, living blood relatives, 

my friends and neighbors, former colleagues and students, all have contributed to making 

my life fuller.

One who lives alone and without relatives should prepare for graduation from this earth 

to a better life in the beyond. It is the only fair thing to do and will help alleviate some of 

the confusion on “D-Day.” We all remember “D-Day” as the name given to “Operation 

Overlord,” the planned Allied invasion of Europe on June 6, 1944 under General 

Eisenhower. I have chosen to use that term for my demise. 

Toward that end, I have drawn up a will and made arrangements for the wake 

arrangements and final liturgy to be at the Church of St. Anselm in Wayside, New Jersey. 

My remains will be cremated. Close friends of mine will implement my wishes. 

HOPPING “HIP-TOWN” 

About ten years ago, Red Bank was designated as the “hippest” town in the Garden State 

by New Jersey magazine. Is Red Bank really “Hip Town” New Jersey? 

I moved into my present one-bedroom garden apartment on Branch Avenue in Red Bank 

on October, 1983, and have enjoyed about a quarter of a century in this domicile, 

eclipsing my twenty-two year residency in 363 West 57 th Street. 

When I moved into Red Bank apartments were available and reasonable. My initial rent 

was $365 per month, and to make things even better, rent stabilization prevailed. In and 

around the four corners of Broad and Monmouth Streets, there were several “for rent” 

signs and a store rental was “dirt-cheap.” Why shop in Red Bank when one can take a 

ten- minute drive to the Monmouth Mall and have acres of parking spaces. It’s a matter 

of fact my town was facetiously called “Dead Bank” when I arrived. All that would 

change a few years later. A progressive, dynamic new mayor, Ed McKenna, would lead 

the way. 

By the mid-90’s Red Bank was gentrified and had morphed into one of the most desirable 

shopping towns in New Jersey. With that came a building boom, both commercial and 

residential. Parking? Well that’s still a problem. Rents are very high but thanks to rent 

stabilization, I pay $691.00 monthly for a $1,000.00 plus apartment. 

To some extent, Red Bank is a walker’s town. I love to walk and that is a plus. However, 

I still prefer walking the streets of Philadelphia or New York – at a faster gait, of course. 

There is something about city walking that doesn’t exist in suburban walking. 

We have two beautiful parks that are located on the banks of the Navesink River. 

Riverside Gardens, opened during the Millennium, is my favorite and has a boardwalk 

that parallels the river. In Marine Park, one can see smaller craft either docked or plying 

the river. Both parks are used for the many festivals held throughout the year. One of my 

favorites is the jazz festival that combines good music, good food and a lot of fun.

Red Bank is the home of the Count Basie Theatre, named after the legendary jazz figure, 

who was born here over a hundred years ago. I have often been to the theatre to laugh to 

the “Capitol Steppes” or the raunchy jokes of George Carlin. It was there that I heard 

Ralph Nader campaigning in the 2000 presidential election. 

“Hip Town” is also the home of many theatrical production companies including my 

own, Seraph Productions. Two River Center for the Performing Arts recently opened on 

Bridge Street across from the Galleria, a multi-store complex that was once a factory. 

On White Street, one finds the Arts Theatre, the home of Monmouth County’s foreign 

and indie films and the host of the Red Bank Film Festival. Needless to say, I have seen 

films there from Chololat and the Motorcycle Diaries to Michael Moore’s controversial 

Fahrenheit 9/11 – all at senior citizen prices. 

I have lectured on the Seven Wonders of New Jersey and had a poetry reading and book 

signing on the Spirit of ’69 in its Monmouth Street Library. Both my books are on the 

shelves of the local library. 

From my kitchen window I can view the spectacular fireworks display on the Fourth of 

July. 

I have strolled its streets and seen the vintage cars of the “fabulous fifties” during our 

Antique Car Weekend. Like New York City, there are free events year around. Unlike the 

“Big Apple,” Red Bank does take time to sleep, ending its parades and events well before 

midnight. It is a town that does sleep, perhaps, with the exception of the alcohol-free First 

Night festivities on New Year’s Eve. 

The Broadway Diner boasts that it makes the “world’s best pancakes.” I would take issue 

with that. While they are moist and somewhat light, they are not as good as Sears in San 

Francisco. I like hanging in the diner and have gotten to know some of the wait staff. Lee, 

a waiter, is quite a talented artist and a fan of the Beats. Judy Murray (no relation) is the 

cashier and always is polishing up the glass and chrome of the fifties-like Monmouth 

Street establishment. The Café In-between is another favorite both for breakfast and 

lunch and its blueberry pancakes are the very best.

Red Bank abounds in restaurants from the simplicity of diner food to the more upscale 

eateries where dining is an event. One of my favorites was Topp’s Bavarian Haus, a 

German restaurant owned by Mater Dei graduate, Tom Dunne. Tom, a C.I.A.-trained 

chef, had the best German food in town although the Little Kraut by the railroad station 

might dispute that. I have dined in some of its fancier restaurants like Ashes, Red, and 

quaffed a pint at the Dublin House under the watchful eye of local historian, T. J. 

McMahon. There are some excellent Italian restaurants in town including Villa Eduardo 

and La Pasteria. Michael Bitici, the former owner of the Grand Ticino Restaurant on 

Thompson Street in the Village, sought a new life by opening up yet another restaurant in 

Red Bank. Red Bank is the restaurant capital of Monmouth County and, perhaps, New 

Jersey, boasting nearly one hundred eateries in a town of less than two square miles. 

PCQ50: In what movie was the “Grand Ticino” Restaurant used as a setting? 

The House of Coffee in the Galleria claims to have the best coffee in Red Bank and 

perhaps it does. Often it is the setting of group coffee klatches like the Humanists’ and 

Lambda Gatherings, the latter being a gay group that attracted many college age kids. 

Yes, we have many coffee shops from Starbuck’s to No Joe’s Café. 

There is a sizeable antique district in Red Bank’s west side, rivaling Lambertville and 

other New Jersey antique towns. I didn’t have to go far to purchase artifacts for my play. 

Red Bank is sometimes called “Little Mexico.” Many Mexican families have replaced 

African-Americans on the town’s West Side – on the other side of the railroad tracks. It is 

by the railroad station that as many as one hundred young Mexican men can be found for 

work as day laborers. And many Mexican stores and restaurants abound. 

“Hip Town” earns its name from the high-end shops on Broad and Monmouth Streets to 

its diverse neighborhoods on the West Side. It is a welcoming town and even has a sexual 

orientation discrimination ordinance on the books. It is a progressive town where activists 

like myself can peaceably assemble to protest the war in Iraq. It is an ever-growing town 

and, like my native New York, some people are the casualties of gentrification. I’m told 

that once there was a relax parlor called the “Garden of Eden” on Maple Avenue. I never 

did check it out, and besides, I don’t think that I’d like a house of ill repute in my town. 

For seniors, unlike myself, there is a new Senior Center where there is something for 

everyone. Its Director, Terry Freda, does a wonderful job contributing to an active 

lifestyle for seniors. The Center has a bus service that will pick you up at your home and 

take you to the Center. From there, transportation is provided to shopping and the 

doctor’s office, as well as for adventurous day trips to exciting places. Activities abound 

during the day including everything from chorus to computer lessons. I have visited the 

Center several times and am enrolled as a member, but for now, as a septuagenarian, a 

youngster so to speak, I prefer to live in my own private world of Red Bank.

I still have the blood of the city coursing though my veins. At times, Red Bank doesn’t 

seem enough like the city and it is during these times that I think of making my last 

move. But these thoughts have been fleeting, akin to mood swings. I have contemplated 

moving into one of the several senior citizen centers in the greater Red Bank area, 

including the Luftman Towers in upscale Lincroft. Presently, it looks like I will put a few 

bucks into my apartment and live out my remaining years here in “Hip Town,” New 

Jersey. 

If it’s location you’re looking for, then Red Bank is your town. It’s only a ten minute 

drive to the seashore community of Sea Bright – a delightful drive, passing the baronial 

mansions of upscale Rumson, including the residence of Bruce “the Boss” Springstein. 

And there’s always Sandy Hook, also a short drive from Red Bank. Here we have a 

famous lighthouse, Fort Hancock, Marine Academy of Science and Technology (MAST). 

and a burial plot for British sailors who lost their lives during the War of 1812. Yes, 

Ruppert Brooke, there is a corner of a foreign field that is forever England. There are 

several beaches along the Hook, and if you’re looking for an all-over tan, then try the 

nudist beach. Anyone for a swim? 

By train or bus, the “Big Apple” is a little more than an hour away. A pleasurable 

alternate to NYC is the Sea Streak ferry that whizzes you off from nearby Atlantic 

Highlands to Pier 11 (Wall Street and South Street Seaport) and 34 th Street in a little over 

half an hour. Newark’s Liberty International Airport and Penn Station is only forty-five 

minutes away from Red Bank. As the crow flies, it’s less than a three-hour drive to Camp 

Adrian in the Catskills by way of the GSP and the NYS Thruway and less than an eight- 

hour drive to Montreal. Location! Location! Location! 

MOOING ALONG WITH MY AORTIC BOVINE VALVE IMPLANT 

The summer of 2001 went by, including the delivery of a slide show and lecture on the “7 

Wonders of New Jersey” at the Sea Bright Library. Bobby stopped over on Labor Day 

weekend and on September 11 all hell broke loose on a day that changed America 

forever. On the morning of Election Day after exercising my franchise and voting for 

Democrat, Jim McGreevey, for Governor, I went to Dr. John Paul Swidryk for my annual 

checkup. He noticed that my electrocardiogram readout was unusually high and strongly 

suggested that I make an appointment at Riverview Medical Center for a stress test. I 

waited for nearly three weeks, and a few days after I did a Seven Wonders presentation at 

the Red Bank Library, I scheduled an appointment at Riverview Medical Center. I parked 

my car in the two-hour zone in front of the hospital thinking I’d be out in an hour. That 

was not to be.

Dr. Joe Clemente, the cardiologist refused to give me the stress test after his 

electrocardiogram, fearing that I might get a heart attack on the thread-mill. He conferred 

with Dr. Swidryk who was in the building at the time. They concurred on the need for 

further tests and recommended that I be admitted as an impatient to the hospital 

immediately and I concurred with them. But what about my car, Doc? 

After being admitted and donning my hospital gown, I immediately phoned Bobby and 

advised him of my condition. He and Frank Outwater stopped over the first evening to 

see me. The next day, I took the usual battery of heart tests including an ECHO and a 

cardiac catheterization. On Tuesday afternoon, I was informed by Dr. Clemente that I 

needed a valve job. Actually three valves were clogged and an aortic valve replacement 

was needed. Dr. Swidryk concurred. After weighing the fact that both Delia and my 

father died of heart attacks, there was only one direction to go, so, I too, concurred with 

the good doctors. Let bypass surgery be the order of the day, although I had no idea what 

was entailed. Perhaps, it was best that I didn’t know. 

What the heck is an aortic valve replacement? 

Later that day, I conferred with Bobby. Although heart bypass surgery was 

commonplace, nonetheless, two percent of patients die on the table. I wanted the “D- 

Day” plan to be in place should that have happened. Also, I instructed him to send an email 

to my newsletter recipients advising them of the impending surgery and to say a 

prayer for a successful operation. 

The operating surgeon was to be Dr. Richard Niebert, one the state’s best, and I would be 

transferred to the Jersey Shore Medical Center the day after Thanksgiving. 

I spent this traditional American holiday in my hometown. Thanksgiving Day was great 

as I had many visitors and phone calls – the hospital turkey platter, not so great. Bobby 

fixed up a traveling bag for my transfer to Jersey Shore the next day. 

The five-hour quadruple bypass operation and biological bovine implant took place on 

Tuesday morning, November 27. Aside from the fact I awoke during the operation and 

found myself gagging and was promptly re-anesthetized, the operation was a success. I 

was then transferred to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) where I remained for two days and 

two nights. Bobby was the only person that I authorized to be with me for those two days. 

The first day I didn’t realize he was there. He later told me that he kidded with me and 

that I responded by giving him the finger. Tsk! Tsk! That first night I hallucinated, 

thinking that the nurses were part of a witch’s coven. On Tuesday, I was transferred from 

the ICU to my own private room. That day two pastors visited me. The first was Father 

John Dubrowski, pastor of St. Mary’s in New Monmouth, who I had never met. He 

started off by thanking me for all I did for Mater Dei High School. I thought that was 

rather nice, inasmuch as Fr. John was not on my A-list and I resented him taking Bobby 

to Kenya for missionary activity. The second was Fr. Bob Kaeding of St. Anselm’s and 

of course, Bobby Batz and Frank Outwater.

On Sunday evening, Bobby and his father picked me up at the hospital for transfer to the 

Meridian Rehabilitation Center in Red Bank. We passed my apartment complex but did 

not go up to my home. I had a private room, thanks to one of my former student’s and a 

Center administrator, Tina Ruane. The week dragged, the therapy was minimal and the 

food sucked! Fortunately, Bobby signed me out for dinner on Friday night. We went to a 

local Italian restaurant and although I ate minimally, I loved my two hours of freedom. 

The next step on the Road to Wellsville was on Sunday, December 9, when I returned 

home with Bobby. I walked up the flight of stairs to behold a lit Christmas tree and a 

clean apartment awaiting me. It was sooo good to be home and Bobby stayed around a 

couple of days, sleeping on the living room couch until he felt that I was capable enough 

to fend for myself. I adjusted nicely to the post-operative regimen, talking my daily 

walks, around the block at first, then, increasing the distance. Bobby was always there to 

bring me to the doctor during the months that followed, as driving for the following six 

weeks was discouraged. During the holidays I had visits from John King and Mike 

Witsch, as well as Ed and Catherine D’Ascoli who came down to the shore to take me out 

to Hook, Line and Sinker for my birthday…and did that Brandy Alexander taste good. 

By the mid-January, 2002, I was well enough to journey to Florida by myself. I took the 

Silver Star from Newark to West Palm Beach and had a roomette that was delightful. 

Frank Outwater met me at the train station and took me to his two-bedroom Palm Beach 

condominium where I would be the guest of Frank and his wife, Mary, for two weeks. I 

slowly built myself up, walking daily on a path paralleling the Inter-costal Waterway. My 

appetite was returning and even had a short order of pancakes at John G’s near the Lake 

Worth Pier. After spending two weeks with Frank and Mary, I then felt strong enough to 

move on my own to the Robindale Suites in Fort Lauderdale for a week’s stay. I had 

hoped that Bobby would join me in Fort Lauderdale but he phoned me declining the 

invitation. He was not a traveling man. I returned by plane to New Jersey on February 

5 th . The next day Bobby came over and we made up for some lost time – did we ever.

BOBBY, MY SON, I MISS YOU 

Within a couple of weeks after my return from Florida, Bobby started to feel ill once 

more claiming that he had a urinary tract infection. He started to go downhill 

psychologically from that point on. The depression demons were working on him again. 

On April 25, he spent over two hours on the phone with me. The following day he 

entered the Riverview Medical Center (RMC) as an outpatient for intensive testing for a 

possible urinary tract problem. I spent most of the day in the hospital with his mother. 

Late that afternoon, Dr. Smith, a local urologist, said he could find no sign of a problem 

with Bobby. In the meantime, Bobby had developed a theory that he had contracted a 

disease called urinary schistosomiasis on his missionary trip to Kenya nearly a year and a 

half earlier. However, the doctor did not come up with a clear diagnosis of the African 

disease. Compounding this, was the fact that Bobby had hurt his hand and it had to be 

operated on. The year was spent in and out of the emergency room at Riverview. 

It was during May of 2002, that I suggested that I have a conference with his parents and 

his sister, Cindy, who was recently capped as a nurse. Beginning with my household 

Merck Manual and continuing research on the Internet, I found that it was a possibility 

that Bobby was suffering from somatoform disorder. He possessed many of the 

symptoms found in this mental disease. Unfortunately, his family stonewalled me and a 

meeting was never held. 

By the summer of 2002, Bobby was clearly withdrawing from the world. He lad lost all 

interest in writing, social activity, and hadn’t worked for his father for most of that year. 

He stayed much of the time in his cloister at home. Bobby stopped over on Christmas 

Eve where we spent several hours editing the first draft of my anthology, The Spirit of 

’69. He agreed to print out about fifty copies of the document and have them ready for 

presentation at my birthday luncheon the following week at the Eatontown Sheraton. He 

got a preview of the work that I was dedicated to him. It was a white Christmas and I 

celebrated Christ’s birthday with dinner at my neighbor’s, Carol Hammond. 

Bobby and I had a belated holiday dinner on January 2 nd at Red Bank’s Olde Union 

House. He even took a sip of my Manhattan. 

On the evening of Saturday, January 11, 2003, Bobby came over to see me with his pug 

in tow. It was a romantic evening. Upon leaving, he held me tightly, saying, I love you, as 

his kissed me in a most passionate way. As he reached the bottom of my apartment 

staircase, he looked up at me, threw a kiss, and, once more, said: I love you. 

He phoned me the following Tuesday evening, feeling very depressed about the death of 

his favorite aunt (on his mother’s side) who had recently committed suicide. I tried to 

uplift his spirits. Bobby concluded the conversation with the greatest three words in the 

English language: I love you. That was the last time I ever spoke to Bobby.

~ 

On Wednesday, January 15 th , the phone rang in the late afternoon. It was Bobby’s father. 

He was in tears. Bobby had left this world for a better place. 

I do not know the “official” cause of this death, as his parents will not release the Medical 

Examiner’s report or the toxicology report to me. After two phone calls to his mother 

within the month after the funeral, and with her promise to phone me back when she 

heard from the Medical Examiner, I stopped phoning. I’m still waiting for that phone 

call. 

In some manner, shape or form, his death was drug related. I knew this day would come, 

sooner or later, and it is my belief that somatoform disorder played a part in his death. 

For those with somatoform disorder, suicide poses a very real threat. Yes, Bobby did not 

live to see his thirty-first birthday. His prophesy of not living past his thirtieth birthday 

was fulfilled. I had lost a person who I loved more than anyone else in the world. 

My former student, Diana Jauregui, was a great source of comfort at the time and in 

helping me through the initial ordeal. The people in my support system were great, 

phoning me, e-mailing me, and sending me over twenty remembrance cards. I adorned 

my piano top with Bobby’s photo, surrounded by the many cards and kept a vigil for 

thirty days before removing them. 

Bobby is buried in a crypt in Fairview View Cemetery, Middletown, and I stop by during 

major holidays, as well as on an impromptu basis, say a prayer and usually leave a long 

stem yellow rose. 

On the first anniversary of Bobby’s death, I was in Scheveningen, Holland, where I went 

out to the end of the pier jutting out into the tempestuous North Sea with a single red rose 

in my hand, said a prayer for the repose of his soul, and threw the flower into the waves.

ONCE AN ALCOHOLIC: A NIGHT BEHIND BARS 

Bobby’s death took a toll on me, as I went into a shell and did not touch this memoir for 

almost a year. Unfortunately, I assumed a I don’t care whether I live or die, mentality. In 

several instances in the year after his death, I over-indulged in alcohol. To help offset this 

problem, I attended several AA meetings. I even read Pete Hamill’s, A Drinking Life. 

The adage, Once and alcoholic, always an alcoholic, was proving true. There are no such 

things as “half-steps” or being “cured” from alcoholism. Once an alcoholic… 

Tancho, the Bulgarian bartender at Anthony’s “Pier 4” in Boston made one of the best 

Canadian Club Manhattan’s that I’ve ever tasted. I had arrived in “Beantown” about 2:45 

p.m. after a four and a half hour trip from NYC on Amtrak – the quiet car, of course. 

Killing time before my 5:30 fast boat to Provincetown, I decided to have a shrimp 

cocktail and a drink at the restaurant. Tancho made the Manhattan so good that I had 

another. Feeling no pain, I made my way to the hydrofoil about three blocks away, 

boarded the craft for the hour and a half ride, and ordered a couple of glasses of white 

wine en-route. Arriving in P-town, I checked in the “Shamrock” and then went over to 

the Boatslip where I had a wine at the bar. Then it was off to Twomey’s Irish Bar where I 

had several more wines while listening to the piano music of Bobby Wetherbee. I was 

“bombed” and I didn’t care, for after all, Provincetown has a very tolerant way of life. 

Besides, I was feeling very blue after the death of the man I loved. Excuses! Excuses! 

No sooner than was I out the door, I was apprehended by the Provincetown Police and 

taken into Protective Custody (PC). I must have really been “blitzed.” They cuffed me 

and took me to the P-town Police Headquarters on Shankpainter Road. I blacked out 

during the brief ride. At the stationhouse, I came to, and surrendered my wallet and watch 

to the policeman on duty. They also took my belt as well, for God forbid, I should hang 

myself. Then I was escorted to the detention area on the lower floor and ushered into my 

own private cell. There were no bars but rather a Plexi-glass door. Stainless steel seemed 

to be the order of the night – handcuffs, cot, sink and toilet. I was left to “sleep it off.” 

However, sleeping was near impossible, as I twisted, turned and slid the night away 

within the folds of the one light blanket provided me by my host. I felt like a piece of 

sandwich meat on the pillow-less slab of stainless steel. I could not sleep and 

claustrophobia prevailed from this windowless cell. The night dragged on and an eerie 

silence permeated the air. At last I heard a noise; someone was astir; movement was 

afoot.

I was released from “PC” about 9 a.m. the next morning. Officer Rachel Peters returned 

my belongings to me and was so helpful in the whole checkout process. She advised me 

that the there would be no record of my misadventures and that a P-town ordinance 

allows police to arrest intoxicated persons and detain them overnight in the local 

“cooler.” I headed back to the “Shamrock” on nearby Bradford Street, took my blood 

pressure medicine and tired recuperating, not from a hangover, but from one of the worst, 

most traumatic experiences that I have ever had in my lifetime. Needless to say, despite 

the best efforts of Officer Peters, I fostered an anti-police officer attitude for a couple of 

days thereafter. Pigs! Facist swine! 

It was decision day for me. I never wanted to return to Provincetown again. I was 

“pissed!” With that mindset, I met the next day with Marj Conn, the director of the 

Provincetown Fringe Festival, and withdrew from my scheduled performances of Oh 

Brother! at the Provincetown Inn in mid-August. While she left me room to reverse my 

decision, meeting with Marj was good therapy for me. Poet and shop-owner, Roger 

Chauvette, was also very helpful that day. I took the early morning bus from 

Provincetown the next day and said the last goodbye to Provincetown – or so I thought. 

No sooner than I got home, I started to write “A Night Behind Bars,” a narrative poem 

about my P-town experiences. The more I thought about it, the more I felt the police were 

justified in putting me in PC. Bradford Street, the location of the “Shamrock Resort,” is 

the most heavily trafficked street in P-town. There are no sidewalks on certain stretches 

of the street named after the first colonial governor. Even in my most sober of moments, 

especially at night, I thread carefully. What the police did that night was potentially 

lifesaving. 

John King, Mike Witsch and I drove up to Provincetown for the Halloween 2003 

weekend later that year. On Halloween morning, in ceremonies at the Police 

Headquarters, I presented Ted Meyer, the Chief of Police, with a framed copy of my 

poem, with officer Rachel Peters by his side. They loved the last stanza: 

A sobering experience was had by me that night. 

As I left the police precinct late next morning, 

I thanked the Lord, for I was here to start another day, 

and perhaps, was saved from highway death by the angels of the night. 

Officer Peters escorted John, Mike and myself to the cell I once occupied, and John took 

a photo of me sitting on the slab of stainless steel.

A letter from Chief Meyer was awaiting me upon my return to Red Bank. He wrote: 

The effort and talent that went into this special gift will always bring memories of your 

consideration of us. The very individual aspect of the poem and the reason for its being 

will go a long way toward helping us remember we do perform valuable services. To be 

recognized in such a heart-warming way is indeed unique. 

…We hope you will always enjoy visiting here in Provincetown and that you will be our 

“guest” in many different ways. We look forward to seeing you again. 

Hmm! 

9-11, ANOTHER DATE THAT WILL LIVE IN INFAMY 

Some of us remember where we were the day the Apollo 11 “Eagle” landed on the moon, 

or the tragic day on which President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Some of us 

seniors remember where we were on December 7, 1941. The same is true of that fateful 

September 11 day in 2001 when terrorists attacked the buildings of the World Trade 

Center in New York City and the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. We remember, too, the 

bold passengers who defied their hijackers over the woodlands of Pennsylvania. 

On that Tuesday morning, I went over to Mater Dei High School to prepare for the 

following Sunday’s meeting of my model United Nations delegates. I met school 

principal, Frank Poleski, in the corridor who informed me that a plane had just crashed 

into one of the tower’s of the World Trade Center building. Thinking that it was a “freak” 

accident, and nothing more, my first thought was a flashback to the B-24 airplane that 

crashed into the Empire State Building toward the end of World War II. Pat Hoey, a Port 

Authority executive, had phoned his wife, Eileen, a secretary at Mater Dei, to inform her 

of the catastrophe. He assured her that he was fine and that he was trying to access the 

damage and help out in any way he could. The students were viewing the calamity from 

the television sets in their respective classrooms. I left the building immediately, meeting 

Mrs. Hoey in the parking lot and assuring her of my prayers for the safety of her husband. 

I returned to Red Bank where I watch the events unfold. All the time, I was thinking of 

my friend and former student, Diana Jauregui, who was working on the ninety-fifth floor 

of one of the towers. 

I saw a second tower being hit by an aircraft. Within minutes, the first tower fell, and 

then the second. I started crying, thinking of the fate of Diana and all the other people in 

the Twin Towers.

Please, God, take me. Don’t take, Diana. I have lived a most productive life. She is 

young. I am old. Please, God… as I continued crying. 

I phoned her boyfriend, Ken Kringdon, who also worked in the city and he told me the 

good news. God did not call Diana home. She was late for work…and that made all the 

difference. 

Sadly, 2749 perished as a result of the terrorist attack on the WTC. Gregg Reidy, 25, a 

former Mater Dei student who worked for Cantor Fitzgerald perished on that day, as did 

another former student from Power Memorial Academy, Firefighter Larry Virgilio, 38. 

Pat Hoey, the husband of Mater Dei school secretary, Eileen, did not make it our alive. At 

the wake in Middletown, I presented the family with a watercolor of the George 

Washington Bridge that hung over my piano in the living room. The bridge was Pat’s 

favorite site administered by the Port Authority. Middletown was badly hit, listing some 

thirty-seven fatalities, including Luis Minervino, the father of Marisa, one of my former 

student’s. In 2003, author Gail Sheehy, wrote Middletown, America, tells the Middletown 

9/11 story. 

One of the first images to come out of the WTC carnage was that of Father Mychal 

Judge, a gay Franciscan monk who had worked with the AIDS Ministry at St. Francis 

Church near Penn Station and who was serving as Fire Dept. Chaplain. While 

administering the last rites of the Catholic Church to the dying, Fr. Judge removed his 

helmet and was hit by falling debris. He continued ministering even while injured. He 

continued to the north tower where, within seconds after its collapse, he became the first 

fatality. The image of his body being carried out of the tower lobby by firemen and 

policemen became known as the American Pieta. From my friends who knew Father 

Judge, they tell me that he was a most caring, loving and compassionate person and he 

was certainly that on the fateful day. His funeral was attended by an SRO crowd from all 

walks of life, including former president, Bill Clinton, and his wife, Senator Hillary 

Clinton. He has been proposed as a candidate for the Presidential Medal of Freedom and 

even sainthood. However, Vatican authorities are hesitant about sainthood as Father 

Mychal was an openly gay person. Tsk! Tsk! – on the Vatican, that is. 

I returned to Mater Dei High School for my Sunday meeting with my Hague team and 

got to the school early so that I could prepare a display honoring the fallen of 9/11. 

Shortly after, the Schools Office of the Diocese of Trenton banned all school trips 

because of the tragedy. My twenty-year European saga had come to an end and the 

delegates to The Hague International Model United Nations (THIMUN) were devastated. 

Perhaps, it was fortuitous, for two months later I would undergo by-pass surgery. The 

Trenton Diocese continued banning overseas trips the following year, and despite my 

best efforts to continue this world-class program at Mater Dei, it was a lost cause.

The next day, I took an overnight trip to Philly. On Tuesday, September 18, I walked all 

around the city. It was depressing to find Independence Hall barricaded and heavily 

guarded. That day I penned a poem, One Week Ago Today. I share with you an excerpt 

from the fifth stanza: 

Behind the Hall, John Barry stands, a sentinel of bronze. 

Arm extended, finger pointed, he warns our deadly foe: 

“Beware to those who did this act, this act of cowardice” 

- one week ago today. 

REDISCOVERING “THE CITY THAT LOVES YOU BACK” 

I had been to Philadelphia on numerous occasions, with students from Essex Catholic and 

Mater Dei High School’s, visiting the usual tourist sites. I was no stranger to the “City of 

Brotherly Love” when I met with John Murray and other Catholic school union leaders 

from the American Federation of Teacher’s, Local 1776, back in the early 1970’s and 

often stayed overnight at the old Benjamin Franklin Hotel on Chestnut Street. LaSalle 

College in the Germantown area was my summer destination in 1990. However, during 

my retirement years, I have rediscovered this town founded by William Penn and the 

Quakers in 1682. A thirty-seven foot bronze likeness of Penn dominates the business 

area, Center City, from atop City Hall. At one time, no building was allowed to be taller 

than this municipal structure at the intersection of Broad and Market Streets. Back in the 

earlier days I drove; today, I take the train – New Jersey Transit and SEPTA for $8.50 

round trip, senior citizen. 

Transportation is good in Philly both by SEPTA bus or train. With one’s Medicare card 

in hand, seniors can ride the bus free of charge during off-peak hours. A new visitor 

might try a ride on the tourist “trolley” or a splashy “duck” tour of Philly. As for me, I 

prefer walking, as this is a walker’s paradise. It is a relatively safe urban area. As a 

senior, I’ve walked its streets alone, both day and night, without fear. It reminds me of 

New York City during the post-War years, and like the “Big Apple,” it is a city of 

neighborhoods, each with its own distinctive flavor, whether it be Penn’s Landing and its 

vintage ships, “Old Town” where our nation was born, or South Street with its really hip 

shops and emporia.

I rediscovered Philly in 1998 and have been going back ever since. Usually I stay 

overnight, but on occasion I do a day trip from Red Bank. In March of 1999, I discovered 

the Alexander Inn, a boutique hotel on 12 th and Spruce (Philly likes naming many of its 

streets that go from north to south after trees). At the Alexander I met one of the most 

fabulous desk clerks that I ever encountered, Tracy Robinson. An Italian-American 

woman in her mid-thirties and a “Goretti Gorilla” girl from Maria Goretti High School in 

South Philly, Mrs. Robinson was married to a black Philadelphia firefighter at the time. 

Her dynamic Philly personality is worth the trip alone. Tracy left the Inn in 2003 and 

started working as a desk clerk in the up-scale Doubletree on Locust and Broad (Broad 

Street (14 St.) is also known as the Avenue of the Arts in the Center City area). So that I 

could be with her, I moved my “home base” hotel from the Alexander Inn to the 

Doubletree and later the Latham. 

My colleague from my early years in teaching, John Ennis, recently moved to South 

Philly with his wife, Joanne. John is Professor of English Emeritus from Kings College in 

Wilkes-Barre and I have met with him several times during my Philly visits. He is 

amazed at how closely my political views parallel with his, for back forty years ago when 

he was an English teacher at Essex Catholic High School, we were at opposite ends of the 

political spectrum. Our movie tastes are very similar and this provides fodder for 

discussion. 

Philly is a great cultural oasis with its many museums. Do a Rocky on the steps of the 

Museum of Art (huff! puff!) before exploring one of our country’s finest museums; see a 

replica of the “Thinker” at the entrance to the Rodin Museum; or check out the political 

memorabilia at the Kent-Atwater Museum. On July 4, 2003, I was on hand for the 

opening of the new Constitution Center, a “must” for all lovers of our precious heritage. 

In December 2005 I visited “Body Worlds; The Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human 

Bodies” at the Franklin Institute Science Museum. Eerie! The annual Flower Show is a 

must. 

There are quite a few free attractions in Center City. One of my favorite is the periodic 

organ concerts on the huge Wanamaker organ in Lord & Taylor’s. About a block south 

on Market is the transportation museum where one can board a non-moving vintage 

trolley and view the images of an earlier Philadelphia. 

Agreed, there is no city in the world like New York at Christmastime; however, Philly is 

among the best in the United States. Go to Macy’s, formerly Lord and Taylor, for a light 

show, accompanied by the Wanamaker organ, and you’ll really get into a seasonal 

mood…and stroke the bronze eagle while you’re there. During Christmastime, a trolley 

runs out to trendy Chestnut Hill.

Weather permitting, take a ferry ride from Penn’s Landing across the Delaware to the 

New Jersey Aquarium and the battleship, the U.S.S, New Jersey. Return just in time for 

high tea in the Plough and the Stars, an Irish pub in “Old Town.” If you’re not too tired, 

visit the cemetery of Old St. Mary’s Catholic Church where Irish-born, Commodore John 

Barry, the “father of the United States Navy,” is buried. It’s Barry’s statue that is behind 

Independence Hall. 

If you’re too tired from all the walking, then take in a movie at one of three Ritz movie 

complexes in “Old Town” where they play some great “indie” and foreign films. As an 

aging cinephile, they offer the finest selection of my kind of movie. Philadelphia has been 

the setting for many movies, aside from the Rocky series. The Philadelphia Story (1940), 

one of George Cukor’s masterpieces that featured Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart and 

Katharine Hepburn. “Kelly Drive” is named after the family of the late film star, Princess 

Grace. Tom Hanks turned in a “best actor” performance in Philadelphia. 

PCQ: Who won the Oscar for best original song, “Streets of Philadelphia?” 

If you’re still tired, then sit down for a while in one of the great park’s interspersed 

throughout the city. I have spent many hours musing and people-watching in Rittenhouse 

Square Park. I watch the rich walking their pampered pooches and the not so rich sitting 

under the shade of a tree during a dog day of summer. Neighborhood parks are great too, 

and Kahn Park, off Clinton Street is my favorite. Colorful contemporary wall murals are 

to be found throughout the city. 

Rittenhouse Park is surrounded by some great restaurants. My favorite seafood restaurant 

is Devon’s, nestled in between Rouge and Bleu. Why Devon’s is not called Blanc, I’ll 

never know. “University City” is the home of the White Dog Café, one of the most 

socially active restaurants in the country. Fine restaurants abound in this cosmopolitan 

delight. 

Philly, like its founder, welcomes all peoples. Its Chamber of Commerce encourages gay 

travelers to visit the city on a special web page. On Camac Street, one of those lanes that 

parallel a main thoroughfare, is located the Venture Inn and the Tavern of Camac, two 

excellent gay-owned eateries. Two blocks away on the corner of 11 th and Pine Streets is 

Giovanni’s Room, one of the oldest and largest gay bookstores in America. 

Not too long ago I gave some thought of moving to Philly or one of its suburban enclaves 

like Manayunk or Chestnut Hill. Yes, Philadelphia has it all. There are sights yet to be 

discovered by me. I never had a Philadelphia Cheese Steak sandwich nor have I been to 

the Mummers Parade on New Year’s Day or an Army-Navy game. I hear that the 

Philadelphia Zoo ranks among the nation’s best. 

PCQ: What New Deal logo did a Philadelphia team adopt as its symbol in the 1930’s?

TC’S NEWSLETTERS TO MY FORMER STUDENTS 

Inasmuch as my former students played such an important role in my life, I have created 

e-mail newsletters for Essex Catholic and Mater Dei High School. The Essex Catholic 

one is called “T.C.’s Eagle’s Eyrie” while the Mater Dei one is called “T.C.’s Seraph 

Newsletter.” Each of the two accounts have over a hundred names and addresses and I 

usually try to get one out four times a year – St. Patrick’s Day, Independence Day, Labor 

Day and Christmas. Each list is ever growing and the “kids” love it. 

Each contains alum information. Events such as engagements, weddings, employment, 

residence, activities and the like. I keep them up on my activities such as poetry readings, 

play productions and invited them to special events in my life. So too, do they invite me 

to their special events as weddings, graduations, baptisms, and the like. 

JOCKBUSTERS 

In September, 2004, I received a phone call from Bert Tobia, Essex Catholic, 63, and 

chairman of the closed school’s Foundation. He called to offer me the first ever “lifetime 

achievement award.” I had spurned induction into the Essex Catholic High School Hall of 

Fame on a regular basis. To me, the annual Hall of Fame dinner was a “jock affair” for 

the most part. I felt that if the Alumni Assn. wanted to induct me, they should have done 

so nearly a quarter of a century earlier, especially in light of my many contributions I 

made to the cultural life of the school in the 1960’s. Essex Catholic was put on the 

cultural “map” of New Jersey because of endeavors of my students and myself. I made 

that point clear to Bert. Also, it was I who suggested to Brother Bill Dennehy, the 

principal of Essex Catholic in 1967 that an Alumni Association be formed and that Tom 

Tobin be its Director. When Tom left Essex in 1968, I took over as Director for a oneyear 

period. The man who replaced me was a Christian Brother, Tony Naclerio. In 

response to Bert’s invitation, I said yes, and would join co-recipient, Tony Naclerio, a 

former brother, field coach and staff member at the school for many years, in accepting 

the special award at the 24 th annual Essex Catholic Alumni Association dinner on Friday, 

November 19, 2004. It was to mark my first time attendance at such an event. 

I suggested that the unique award be named after my friend and founding principal of 

Essex Catholic High School, Brother Francis I. Offer, CFC.

Concurrently, I nominated Marc Verzatt, class of ’66, for the Hall of Fame. Marc had 

gone from dancing with the Metropolitan Opera Ballet – Essex Catholic’s own Billy 

Elliot – to becoming an international opera director and stage manager. Marc’s 

nomination was approved by the committee and he was informed of his selection while 

directing an opera in Buenos Aires. In addition, the Stamford, Conn. resident teaches 

dance at Yale and maintains an acting studio in New York City’s theatre district. Marc 

agreed to join me for his induction into the Hall of Fame at the November event. I 

couldn’t have been happier. Finally, I had broken down the walls of the “Kingdom of 

Jockdom” at Essex Catholic High School’s Hall of Fame. My role as an iconoclast 

prevailed. Four other Essexmen, all sports-related, were inducted that night as well. 

On the afternoon of Friday, November 19, I drove to my former hometown of North 

Arlington where I stopped into Queen of Peace Church, said a prayer, and had a Mass 

said for Delia. She would have been very proud of her son who was about to receive the 

“lifetime achievement award” that evening. I then proceeded with my trip down memory 

lane to my old homestead, the Riverview Gardens where I lived most of my years while 

teaching at Essex Catholic. It was fortuitous that Mrs. Coulton, the former and now 

retired manager of the development was heading for her apartment when we spotted each 

other. We had a brief conversation to catch up on the thirty years since I last saw her. 

Then it was down the Belleville Turnpike, across the Passaic River and on to the 

Chandelier Restaurant on Franklin Avenue in Belleville for the evening’s festivities. 

I arrived early in order to set up several triptych-type displays and to do a final check of 

my large “prompter” index cards. I would be at the podium three times. The first was to 

introduce my nominee for the Hall of Fame, Marc Verzatt. The second was to present 

Bert Tobia with a copy of the “Eagle’s Eyrie,” a compilation of some twenty columns 

that I wrote between 1966-1968 for the weekly, Newark Record, on the history and 

doings of Essex Catholic High School. The third time was after dinner for the “lifetime 

achievement award in education.” 

The program opened with an invocation delivered by my grammar, high school, and 

college classmate, Deacon John Kelly. John and his wife, Joan, as well as Ed and 

Catherine D’Ascoli; Marc Verzatt and his partner, Danny; Ed Delaney, ’64; Bob 

Tortoriello, ’68; and Michael Witsch, ’65, who would introduce me later that evening, 

were all seated at my table. A second “TC Table” included a Mater Dei High School 

delegation that included former Vice Principal, Frank Outwater; Maureen Lynk and Ron 

Lonergan, the grown children of former Mater Dei principal, John Lonergan; Diana 

Jauregui and fiance, Ken Kringdon; and collegians Angela and Victoria Pepe-Lage and 

Tom Whitley. Tom’s father attended Essex Catholic (’76), while his mother went to 

Mater Dei High School (’76). These were my very special family and friends.

Introducing Marc, I made sure to welcome his life partner, Daniel Beckwith, the 

conductor of the New York City Opera Orchestra, just as I would have done in the case 

of a heterosexual couple. Marc’s response was considered to be the best of the evening in 

the opinion of the many alums with whom I spoke. During the dinner he was deluged by 

well-wishers. Yes, times have changed for the better since the days Marc ascended the 

hallowed stairs of Essex Catholic and fellow-students threw pennies at him. 

Michael J. Witsch, class of ’65, a good friend, former student and colleague, introduced 

me after dinner. He wore with pride a triangular, rainbow-colored badge on his lapel that 

proclaimed: With liberty and justice for all. He spoke for all of five minutes, even 

recalling a corny “noel” joke that I told to his class when he was a student more than 

forty years earlier. Then it was my turn to respond and I did, all of five minutes. (I 

proposed Mike for the Hall of Fame in 2005 and he was inducted at the 2005 dinner.) 

Certainly, the highlight of the evening insofar as I was concerned, was seeing so many of 

my former students, some for the first time in forty-two years; some sexagenarians, grayhaired 

and grand-fathered. 

It was about 11:30 p.m. when I left. As I no longer drive at night, Ron Lonergan drove 

my car back to Red Bank while I rode down the shore with his sister, Maureen. 

I placed the award on my Essex Catholic shelf and thanked God for a wonderful evening 

and a bountiful career at the Newark school. Also I thought to myself that on the evening 

of November 19, 2004, the cultural barrier that had been present at the Essex Catholic 

Hall of Fame dinners over the past twenty-four years had been broken. The “Jockbusters” 

had achieved their goal. 

SENIOR PASTIMES 

The obvious ones: cinema, travel, walking and reading and writing. Enough said already! 

I do like going to a play or musical occasionally. However, the extravaganza shows like 

The Lion King do not turn me on while the exorbitant Broadway prices turn me off. 

Personally, I would much rather be playing the role of Brother Christopher in Oh 

Brother! 

I’m not much of a television person, translation: “couch potato.” In the morning, I usually 

turn on the radio and put on a news program while I’m having breakfast – which is 

usually about 7:30 a.m. After breakfast, I will reinforce the news and go on line, picking 

up the electronic version of the New York Times and C.N.N. Also, I check my e-mail at 

that time. I try to catch the noonday news, as well as the evening news and will rotate 

between CBS, Fox, NBC, and ABC. Sometimes, I might watch a ball game or a game 

show. I love Jeopardy and watch it at times because it conflicts with my favorite news 

program, the McNeil News Hour.

I have basic cable and that suits me fine. While I might miss a good program on HBO or 

SHO or even CNN, it is not necessary. 

I pick up three PBS stations: two from New York City and one from New Jersey. They 

are great and suit my entertainment and news needs perfectly. I love the McNeil News 

Hour and its regular commentators including Mark Shields. Where but on PBS can one 

get the periodic Mark Russell Musical Comedy Show? I grew up with “Buffalo” Mark at 

the Shoreham during my early Washington years. 

And on the weekends I turn to PBS for their BBC comedies: Keeping Up Appearances, 

Are You Being Served? and As Time Goes Bye. I watch their reruns time after time, after 

time. I’ve built up a VHS collection of many of these shows. 

Most of my writing is done in the morning. However, I am writing this vignette during 

the evening. I have done some pro bono free-lance writing and that’s fine with me. 

READING FOR PLEASURE, A BELATED DISCOVERY 

I’m not a voracious reader. If a book piques my interest, I will stay at it. An example was 

At Swim, Two Boys, by Jamie O’Neill. It related the life of two adolescent Dublin boys 

just prior to the Easter Rebellion of 1916. I read the 572-page book in five days. It was a 

great literary journey. 

For fast-moving action, I opted to read Don Brown’s, the DaVinci Code. I was familiar 

with so many of the sites referenced in the novel from the galleries of the Louvre to the 

Chuch of St. Sulpice in Paris to Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey in London. The 

book’s illustrated edition captured the sites with excellent images. I did the read in three 

days and couldn’t wait to finish it. Recently, while in NYC, I viewed the national 

headquarters of Opus Dei, on 34 th Street and Lexington Ave. 

I have read all of Brown’s books, and today you will see novelists with names like David 

Baldacci, Steve Berry, and John Grisham interspersed among my bookshelves. So add 

reading for pleasure to the list of my senior pastimes. 

CINEPHILE STILL, BUT THOSE HIGH SENIOR CITIZEN PRICES AND 

DAMN PRE-MOVIE COMMERCIALS 

Need I say more!!!

LIFE IS A PUZZLE 

I am a “couch potato” when it comes to playing with the puzzle in the New York Times 

Sunday Magazine. I will pay “top dollar” for the newspaper rather that subscribe to the 

on-line version of the puzzle. Reading the Sunday New York Times is a ritual with me and 

I usually read the paper on a comfortable dining chair, sometime clipping articles as I 

read. Any puzzle master will tell you that the Sunday’s NYT puzzle is not the week’s 

most difficult. Newspapers usually start off with an easy puzzle on Monday and then it 

gets more difficult with each progressive day. Saturday’s puzzle is the most difficult in 

the NYT and other major newspapers. 

Have you ever wondered how many squares or tiles in a NYT Sunday Magazine 

crossword? 363 squares, as in the address of my old homestead on West 57 Street. 

Being no Eugene Maleska or Will Shortz, I begin the puzzle on a Sunday afternoon and 

try to stretch the process out throughout the following week. Yes, I have finished it off 

the same day but then what I am to do the rest of the week? Based on squares, I usually 

get one to three wrong. On occasions, I have had a perfect score. 

There are many week that I am unable to complete the puzzle. However, if I sent my 

brain into “high gear,” usually I will complete the task. Trying to figure out the theme, at 

times, is quite a task – everything from quips and quotes to double or triple usage of 

letters in one square. The theme title is listed on the top of the puzzle. Beware the “?” 

In the December 5, 2004 edition of the New York Times Sunday Magazine, the crossword 

puzzle was entitled “From the Presidential Record Books.” Bill Clinton, Mr. Will Shortz 

advised, is an avid NYT crossword solver and maintained that the former president was 

pre-tested on the December 5 crossword and completed it in less than an hour. I took me 

five days off and on the couch and when corrected the following Sunday, I didn’t do too 

badly. I just wonder how President George W. would fare in this same exercise? 

My alma mater, Iona College, is used frequently with clues as: “New Rochelle college” 

or “Home of the Gaels.” 

I always do the puzzle in pencil. Being human, I do make mistakes. If I complete a 

puzzle, then I will go over it in pen, after all, you don’t want me to cheat, do you? 

Like a true teacher, I correct it in red on the following Sunday. 

Seniors, working at crosswords and other types of puzzles is stimulating for the brain. 

Sometimes I have to push myself to the limit in trying to finish the challenge but it’s 

worth it. 

During the week, I’ll “attack” the two puzzles in the daily edition of the Newark Star- 

Ledger – on the couch, of course.

It was my friend, Tom Tobin, who got me started on “enigmas” some fifteen or so years 

ago. Early into my apprenticeship in the world of puzzles, I met Meg Doherty in 

“O’Lunney’s Country Music City” on the East Side in New York City. Meg, the author 

of the Dell Crossword Dictionary, encouraged me to stay the course and it would give me 

great satisfaction. I did. Thank you, Meg. 

COMMON COURTESY, A FORGOTTEN VIRTUE 

I don’t want to sound like Andy Rooney on “Sixty Minutes,” but if there’s one thing that 

annoys me, it is the lack of common courtesy. It was engrained in me from my earliest 

years by my mother, Delia, and has not been forgotten. Today, it seems to be a forgotten 

virtue. 

What ever happened to the words “please” and “thank you?” 

How often have you held a door from someone and waited for the person to pass through 

– and no response? I don’t mean in a fast-moving situation but rather an obvious effort to 

extend a courtesy on your part. In such cases, I invariably respond, You’re welcome! In 

most cases, the person says, Thank you! I do even do this for an “extended hold” in the 

NYC subway system. 

Accepted rules of the road are often forgotten by careless drivers including the use of turn 

signals and keeping on one’s bright lights at all times. Pedestrians are at risk when they 

cross the street at the crosswalk or zebra-stripe and lo the poor senior citizen. Re-read 

your Driver’s Manual you careless driver behind those tons of steel! 

The lack of not returning phone calls annoys me. Depending on the circumstance, I will 

usually not phone back a second time. The misuse of cell (mobile) phones seems to be 

getting worse and worse. I really don’t want to hear other people’s phone calls. 

THE RETURN OF POWER 

Despite the best efforts of Guidance Counselor, Rich Coppolino, and others, Power 

Memorial Academy shut its door forever. Rich did go on to perpetuate Power’s name by 

coordinating an annual reunion that carries on to this day. However, Power did not have a 

formal alumni association.

I had heard that a classmate of mine, Terry McAdams, was trying to get a group of alums 

together to march in the 2003 St. Patrick’s Day parade. I was a surprised to learn that 

Terry, a resident of Bay Shore, Long Island, would be attending my 69 th birthday Mass 

and luncheon on December 28, 2002, here in the shore area. It was at dinner later that day 

I told Terry that I would be happy to help him with publicity for the parade. He agreed 

and I did the PR for the group. We had a feature story in Newsday, as well as blurbs in 

many other newspapers. Tommy Smyth, parade anchor from WNBC television, gave 

Power about one minute of air time as the contingent passed by. That’s pretty good! 

Working the door at the post parade party at the Harp Pub was a lot of fun and gave me 

the opportunity to meeting many former “Panthers.” 

Terry McAdams is a few months younger that I, but unlike myself, he still works. He is 

head of a training school for transporters of hazardous materials. He lost his wife, 

Barbara, a few years earlier but this did not deter him from moving his company forward. 

Terry is a spirited, tenacious and generous man who was determined to move the Power 

alumni forward just as he had done with his company. 

He formed a steering committee of fourteen members including two members of the 

Congregation of Christian Brothers, a number of active business people that included a 

corporate vice president, a lawyer, and five retirees.We wrote our by-laws, applied for 

501c (3) status, and set out the objectives of the embryonic Power alumni association. 

The Power Memorial Academy Alumni Association (PMAAA) was born on September 

8, 2003 in the common room of the “Alfred” condominium, now occupying the site of 

the old Power building. I moved that Terry be elected president of the association. He 

declined. I went on to move the name of Art Kenney, ’65, for president and accordingly, 

it was seconded and voted on. A basketball star of USA Today’s high school “team of the 

century,” Art would shepherd the PMAAA during its formative years. 

Classmate, Terry McAdams, works from behind the scenes and has generously 

contributed to several endeavors of the association. My other classmate, Vic Kaplan, 

served as our historian and edited the PMAAA annual yearbook. Vic later confided to me 

that it was he who wrote the graffiti about letting go of the principal’s neck above the 

boys urinal back in 1952. Tsk! Tsk! 

Other officers were elected and permanent committees were created. I was elected to 

chair two committees, the Public Relations and the Remembrance.

As chair of the Remembrance Committee I coordinated the first annual Mass of 

remembrance that was held in my old parish, the Church of St. Paul the Apostle on 

Saturday, March 13, 2004. I was a little apprehensive about attendance, hoping for fifty 

people – a small crowd in a large church. Msgr. Jerry Walsh, ’59, pastor of St. 

Elizabeth’s Church in Washington Heights, was to be principal celebrant but took ill. 

Father Sean Foley, ’58, filled the spot, delivering a beautiful homily at the Mass. There 

were five other concelebrants on the altar with Fr. Foley and my classmate, John Kelly, 

who did the necrology at the end of the liturgy. Joe DeFazio, ’71, was the cantor and 

Cathal Cunningham helped with the musical selection and delivered a moving “Prayer of 

the Faithful.” Over two hundred people were in attendance including two of my Power 

students from the class of ’80, Dr. Stephan Chevalier and Congressman Joe Crowley. The 

first liturgy was a huge success. 

For the second year in a row, I worked the door at the post parade party on St. Patrick’s 

Day held at the Mercantile Grill in the Wall Street area of New York. It was a sleeting 

day, so I took the train to Newark and then the PATH train to the World Trade Center. 

The train passed right by “ground zero” as it slowly headed into the last stop on its route. 

It was an eerie sight to behold – the ramp leading down to the bottom of the pit. I said a 

silent prayer for all those who lost their lives on the tragedy of 9/11. The next day, thanks 

to a gracious benefactor from Essex Catholic High School, I took Amtrak’s “Silver Star” 

to Florida for a week of rest in the sun…and no airport hassles. 

The second annual Mass of Remembrance was even more resplendent. Msgr. Jerry Walsh 

was elevated as a new Auxiliary Bishop of the Archdiocese of New York and was the 

principal celebrant and homilist at the March 12, 2005 liturgy. There were seven 

concelebrants and a Knights of Columbus Honor Guard. Frank Feeley, class of ’57 and 

also of St. Paul’s Grammar School, played “Amazing Grace” as I read the necrology. 

Congressman Joe Crowley once more led the list of dignitaries at the liturgy. A reception 

followed at the Paulist Center. 

Bobby Batz was probably saying from his celestial mansion: There you go again, TC, 

turning what was supposed to be a low-keyed liturgy into a pontifical event. 

In spite of the narrow-mindedness of Parade Chairman, George Dunleavy, I made a 

decision to march in the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade in NYC in 2006. Having taught 

at Power, albeit briefly, I opted to march with faculty behind the colors of the United 

States, Ireland and the purple and gold of Power Memorial. Joining me in the line of 

march was Board member, Brother Larry Killelea, who was born in the old school 

building when it was a maternity hospital, attended Power as a student, and returned as a 

Christian Brother of Ireland to become its principal. Also joining the faculty were 

Brothers Anthony D’Adamo and Michael O’Donnell. Only Brother Killelea and myself 

completed the exhilarating march on this clear, brisk March afternoon. I could help but 

think of marching up the grand dame of avenues, blowing my double B flat bass (tuba), 

as a student at power more than fifty years ago.

The 2006 post-parade party was held in Cathedral High School on the east side. A former 

student from my United States History (Regents) class (1979-80) was among the 

attendees. Jim Carroll was now a member of the Community of Christian Brothers 

(CFC). I recognized him right away and at our own private table, we carried on a 

dialogue that lasted nearly an hour. Jim told me that he enjoyed my class in history and 

went on to major in history in college .He holds a PhD in History from Notre Dame, and 

will take over a chair of the History Dept. at Iona College in June, replacing another 

former student of mine, Brother Joe Morgan, who was the president of the Social Science 

Federation of Essex Catholic High School and recipient of the Dr. Charles Malik Citation 

in June 1971. That was a “feel good” moment for me, knowing that I influenced these 

two young department chairs to a love of history. Arrangements are being made for me to 

meet with them at Iona in the spring. 

Due to health issues, the demands of my writing schedule here in New Jersey, and the 

micromanagement of the PMAAA by its president, Art Kenney, I opted not to take a 

second term in June of 2005. 

THIS FORMER BELLHOP, KEYNOTE SPEAKER AT THE HARVARD CLUB 

In the spring of 2005, I sent a copy Chapter IX, “Hopping at the Harvard Club,” to the 

Program Committee of the Harvard Club of New York City. After phoning me several 

times, the Committee extended an invitation to be their opening speaker on the evening 

of Monday, October 31 for their weeklong 140 th anniversary festivities. As a former 

bellhop who worked my way through college at this prestigious institution from 1954-58, 

I was awestruck at the honor that the Club was bestowing on me – the most significant of 

my retirement years. To my surprise, they offered to house me overnight at the Club. I 

was euphoric and couldn’t wait for the event to transpire. 

After many hours of preparation, I took the train to NYC on Halloween afternoon and 

then a cab to the Club. I checked in at the new annex at 25 West 44 St. and when I 

offered my credit card for incidental expenses, the friendly desk clerk advised me that my 

expenses were to be paid by the Club’s Program Committee. Loved it! 

I requested that a bellhop, or bellman as they say today, show me to my room. Room 432 

was like nothing I had seen at the Club over half a century ago. It was commodious and 

plush, befitting a five star hotel. I gave my “alter ego” a five dollar tip, thinking that I 

would have wanted the same generosity should I have been in his shoes. After getting 

settled in my room, I went downstairs to explore the Club, both old and new, and even 

had a cup of tea in the Grill Room.

My presentation was in Harvard Hall, the largest hall of its kind in America, and 

proceeded to set up a memorabilia display next to the speaker’s podium. I met my 

sponsor, the innovative playwright, Spence Porter about 6 PM. As might be expected, the 

attendance was sparse, perhaps some twenty-five attendees. Friends, John Kelly, Terry 

McAdams, Ed O’Keefe and Mike Witsch, were on hand to give me moral support. My 

special guests were Bernard Leo Minnax, Jr., and his wife Jeanne, who flew up from 

Tampa for the event, as well as Bernard Leo Minnax III. They were the son and grandson 

of Mr. Minnax, the supportive night manager of the Club while I was working there a 

half century earlier. 

The one-hour presentation was dedicated to the memory of HC members, Dr. Charles 

Malik, George S. Montgomery Jr., Joseph J. Murphy, and Night Manager, Bernard L. 

Minnax. The address was upbeat, replete with anecdotes, and included profiles of several 

movers and shakers in America at the time including United Nations pioneer, Dr. Charles 

Malik, New York Times theatre critic, Brooks Atkinson, and Joseph N. Welch, the lawyer 

for the Army who destroyed Senator, Joseph R. McCarthy with his “sense of humanity” 

retort. A week earlier I had seen George Clooney’s film about Edward R. Murrow’s 

March 2, 1954 television broadacast, Good Night, and Good Luck, and incorporated it 

into my McCarthy segment. A Q/A period followed the address and several members 

complimented me on the presentation. 

I, along with Mike Witsch, was dinner guest of Spence Porter in the gigantic dining room 

of the Club and was glad to know that their signature popovers are still being served. 

After an overnighter at the Club, I chatted with Howard Fairweather at breakfast. Like 

myself, Howard was a bellhop at the HC during the summer of 1956. Thanks to Mr. 

Minnax, Howard took my place for the summer so that I could be a counselor at my 

beloved Camp Adrian. He then entered Harvard in the fall and graduated from the 

Business School in 1970 and became a director of State Street Global Markets in Boston. 

Needless to say, it was quite a surprise seeing him after nearly five decades and recalling 

memories of the Club in the “good old days.” 

An after-breakfast walk up Fifth Avenue was in order after breakfast. A visit to St. 

Patrick’s Cathedral for a prayer of thanks and then across the street to Rockefeller Center 

and back to the Club. At noon, it was luncheon with Dr. Judy Minton, a psychologist, and 

chair of the Program Committee. After lunch, I made a presentation of some of my 

Harvard Club archives to the Club, including several signed books and a framed copy of 

an envelope addressed to me by Col. Arthur F. Cosby, a member of Teddy Roosevelt’s 

“Rough Riders.” Later, I was told that the Club’s archivist has decided to place Col. 

Cosby’s letter in the bar, along with other Teddy Roosevelt memorabilia. So ended 

twenty-four hours in the life of this retiree and the most prestigious honor given to me in 

my “twilight” years.

On March 28, 2006, I returned to the Club to present my archives of the late Dr. Charles 

Malik the former Lebanese Foreign Minister and UN General Assembly president, to his 

son, Habib, who was staying at the Club. The archives contained a scrapbook, photos, the 

Iona College convocation in 1959, and some twelve letters. At the informal presentation, 

Habib informed me that some of my materials might be included in his father’s papers at 

the National Library of Congress in Washington, DC. 

For whatever reason, Habib, also a PhD from Harvard like his dad, was three hours late 

for his appointment with me. I meandered into the bar and was pleasantly surprised to see 

my “Rough Rider” framed envelope, replete with a narrow brass strip noting this former 

bellhop’s archival donation. When I was about to leave the Club for dinner at 

O’Lunney’s Times Square Pub, John Gonzalez, my counterpart some fifty years later, 

arranged for me to have dinner in the Grill Room. This magnanimous gesture on the part 

of John and his co-workers made my evening. 

BACK TO HELL’S KITCHEN 

With the “Return of Power,” came my return to my native Manhattan. Producing my 

play, Oh Brother! at St. Paul’s in the fall of 2006 reinforced that “return.” 

There were times during the 1980s’ and 1990’s that I visited the city of my birth very 

infrequently, sometimes staying away for a year or more. 

The old homestead, 363 West 57 Street, is still there. I’m sure the rent for my old 

apartment in this one hundred year old plus building is at least $1,500 per month – heat, 

hot water and cockroaches included. Some of the other landmark buildings on my street 

are still there including the pre-War Westmore and the elegant Parc Vendome. During 

these “in-between” years, I often visited my friend from the Harvard Club, Joe Murphy at 

the Parc Vendome. Sam Miller, the former Director of the Newark Museum and a former 

colleague from the defunct Newark Bicentennial Commission, lives in a huge Vendome 

suite. Kennedy’s Pub, across the street, has caught my fancy and, as of late, I have often 

quaffed and dined there. 

East of the Parc Vendome is redeveloped. The Blackfriars Theatre, once located at 316 

West 57 St., is many years gone. Founded in 1940 by two Dominican friars, it closed its 

door in 1972. It holds the record as the longest continuously operating off-Broadway 

theater in American stage history. The six-story Hearst Building now uses its original 

structure as a base, atop which stands as “erector set” tower. Ugh!

Upon my return to New York, one of the first things I did was to take a walk in Central 

Park on a crisp September afternoon. It evoked many of my childhood memories despite 

the shadow cast over its southwestern end by the giant of the Time-Warner building, the 

site of the old coliseum. The skyline of Central Park South remains pretty much intact 

with the Hampshire House, where Delia worked for many years, as well as the Essex 

House and the New York Athletic Club, reigning supremely over the park. 

Being a member of the Power Memorial Academy Alumni Association’s Board of 

Directors afforded me the opportunity to traverse my old neighborhood during my many 

trips to the city during the last few years. Being the Chair of its Remembrance Committee 

and Coordinator of the annual Mass of Remembrance, has allowed my to know once 

more, the Paulist Fathers, and the church of my youth and early sacraments – St. Paul the 

Apostle. I feel recharged whenever I set foot on Manhattan’s soil. The beat comes back! 

Albeit, I am now a senior citizen, my Manhattan walk, somewhat slower, comes back! 

Columbus Circle has recently undergone yet another facelift to complement the mega 

Time Warner building. I have visited the atrium section of the new building where one 

can get a commanding view of the Circle and Central Park South. One can browse 

Borders while sipping latte or shop in its huge basement supermarket. Its restaurants are 

extremely pricey as are the apartments. A penthouse of the seventy-sixth floor recently 

went for $40,000,000. Of course, it has a southerly exposure. 

Alvin Ailey’s name appears on a street sign on the corner of 61 st St. and Amsterdam Ave. 

on what was once the site of Power Memorial Academy. The old Town Theatre and later 

the CBS television studio has been replaced by the Alvin Ailey Dance Studio. 

Yes, so many things have changed. Change is a part of life. Indeed, change is life. 

I’m glad that I have been seeing much more of the “greatest city in the world” – the 

things that have changed and the things that remain the same. 

They say that Manhattan will always remain a part of you even though you may be many 

miles away. How true that is. It will always remain part of me, for after all, I’m just a kid 

from Hell’s Kitchen.

Just a Kid from Hell's Kitchen - In Remembrance of TC Murray

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