Amazon Review: The Heart of Velletri

The Heart of Velletri spans three generations of a Long Island family, mainly focusing on the most recent as the son and grandson comes to terms with the legacy of his criminal grandfather, whom he never knew, and his father, whom he deeply admired. He eventually learns of his father's experiences in World War II but more importantly engages his father's legacy as a guide to his own complicated life.

The book weaves the generations together in an often painfully honest exploration of the central character's coming to terms with his identity as a man, as a son, as a father, and as a husband. Although the book's focus is almost exclusively on its male characters, it gives a strong and credible sense of troubled growth. - William G. Luhr

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Michael Koenigsmann is a police officer and the son of a World War II veteran. Michael spends his life investigating how his father was wounded in battle, left for dead, and nearly buried alive during the Italian Campaign. His father, Gene, won’t reveal what had happened to him while overseas. Michael is fascinated when he learns that his late grandfather, Alphonse, was a gangster during the Great Depression. Also, Alphonse was a veteran of World War I. Michael’s journey begins with him trying to discover how his father survived the war and came home to lead the life of a devout Catholic, rather than be influenced by the criminal lifestyle of his father. At the end of his life, Gene tells Michael his story. He honors his father by arranging for a congressman to present Gene with his Purple Heart which he never received for nearly dying in the Battle of Velletri. After Gene’s death, he must accept his own shortcomings as a father and as a husband to move on with his life.

Just a Little Hurricane

 Hurricane Henri 2021. We were hit, okay, lightly tapped. Actually, we were waved to by this storm. We lost a twig from one of our trees and our lawn was watered. For this Long Islanders pillaged supermarkets and hardware stores and drained the pumps at gas stations all day yesterday. It doesn’t take much of a threat for polite society to tear at the seams. While I am grateful that this hurricane fizzled, I still worry that the slightest interruption of our daily lives can send law abiding citizens into a stockpiling frenzy.

New Novel! The Heart of Velletri

Read my latest novel, "The Heart of Velletri." Here is the story synopsis:
Michael Koenigsmann is a police officer and the son of a World War II veteran. Michael spends his life investigating how his father was wounded in battle, left for dead, and nearly buried alive during the Italian Campaign. His father, Gene, won’t reveal what had happened to him while overseas. Michael is fascinated when he learns that his late grandfather, Alphonse, was a gangster during the Great Depression. Also, Alphonse was a veteran of World War I. Michael’s journey begins with him trying to discover how his father survived the war and came home to lead the life of a devout Catholic, rather than be influenced by the criminal lifestyle of his father. At the end of his life, Gene tells Michael his story. He honors his father by arranging for a congressman to present Gene with his Purple Heart which he never received for nearly dying in the Battle of Velletri. After Gene’s death, he must accept his own shortcomings as a father and as a husband to move on with his life. The Heart of Velletri is available on Amazon in print and Kindle.

A Ghost in the Dunes

In the second tier at the Nikon Theatre at Jones Beach, I settled into my seat for the big concert. My wife and I took our kids to see My Chemical Romance and Blink 182 for the Tenth Anniversary Honda Civic Tour. Though it was quite a while since I attended a show at this arena, I have a long history at Jones Beach State Park.

My father was a World War II veteran who worked for the Brooklyn Navy Yard for twenty years. Upon his retirement, he got a job with the now-defunct Long Island State Park Commission. He spent his time traveling back and forth between Robert Moses State Park, Captree, and Jones Beach. During summer, he’d take my brothers and sisters and I to any one of the fields at Robert Moses and leave us while he went about his duties. I was the fifth child out of six, and my older sister was well-equipped to keep a careful eye on us younger ones while we splashed around in the waves.

City Boy, Country Man

“So, how was your trip?”

I’ve been hearing that a lot since I returned from my business trip to Nashville, Tennessee. I’d like to think that my co-workers missed my company and were glad to see me back; but, judging from the amount of work on my desk, and from the deluge of telephone calls for administrative support I’ve answered, it appears that I was missed for other reasons. My trip went well, but it was no vacation, and it is great to be home.

Of course, no business trip would be complete without some sight seeing. The hotel and convention center where we stayed is less than one half mile from The Grand Ole Opry. The original site for the Opry was Ryman Auditorium, also located in Nashville. Sometime in the 1970’s the Opry moved to its current location and the show is as popular as ever. My point here is not to talk about the history of the radio program, or the many legendary performers who graced the stages of both the present day Opry House or the Ryman Auditorium. I’d like to make it clear that for one night, for a few blessed hours, I felt truly American.

Country music is alien to many New Yorker’s ears; and, attempts to bring country music to the Big Apple and to Long Island have either failed or been poorly received. There were "fad" cowboy bars in the 1980’s with folks riding mechanical bulls and wearing cowboy hats; but, those venues have fallen by the wayside. My place of birth, my home town, was never a bastion for die-hard country music fans.

Allow me to clarify by saying that you’ll find few people in my neck of the woods to besmirch country music. And, you’d be surprised to discover that Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Waylon Jennings are respected names in many northern households. Yet, most country music stars are not part of the culture, and are not easily recognized by typical Long Islanders.

The Grand Ole Opry show I attended included a performance by a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame. I’m ashamed to admit that I never heard of Little Jimmy Dickens, and I vaguely remember the TV show “Hee Haw” from the 1970’s which he appeared on several times. Another singer, Jean Shepard, sang and told jokes and was well received; yet I couldn’t pick her out of a line-up. Jean Shepard has been singing since the 1950’s and is one of country music’s legendary stars.

How is it that I’ve missed so much in my own country’s culture? As a kid growing up on the south shore of Long Island, much of what I listened to was British music. My generation was weaned on Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Who, The Rolling Stones, Elton John, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Yes, and the list goes on. These bands are so ingrained in the culture of white, suburban kids from my youth and geographical area, that the fact that they are English musicians has long since been erased from the collective zeitgeist of my peers. These rock bands provided music to get drunk by, pick up girls, race cars, and skip school. Jimmy Page inspired generations of kids to become guitar heroes, just like him. Albums produced by our English "cousins" across the pond marked periods of my life when I first discovered girls, got my driver’s license, graduated high school, and fell in love.

The rest of my fellow citizens had different experiences while absorbing native music and sharing an indigenous musical genre. The songs they listened to reflected growing up on this continent, telling a native story, and they nurtured home grown legends. My visit to the Opry proved that to me; and, I felt as though I’d found the key to a vault filled with treasure, and that the key was in my hip pocket all along.

I have no regrets about my love of British rock; and, I wouldn’t trade my childhood for anything. However, I have the time now to listen with an open mind and a new appreciation for my fellow Americans as they sing about life, love, happiness, tragedy, and about America herself. To the Grand Ole Opry, thanks for bringing me home.





Big Apple British rock business trip country music cowboy hats Grand Ole Opry Johnny Cash Long Island Nashville New Yorker Tennessee Waylon Jennings Willie Nelson

Sheltered Harbor

My home town of is located on the south shore of Long Island, New York. The Merrick Indians named the area "Copiague" which literally means “sheltered harbor." Early settlers adopted the name for their village and today Copiague is a hamlet within the town of Babylon. South of Merrick Road, which severs Deauville Estates (where I was raised) from the rest of the town, is the Great South Bay. The homes down there sit along canals which lead to this majestic body of water, which afforded a living to generations of hardy baymen who harvested its depths for clams, crabs, eels, and other sea life. The dwindling bounty culled from the bay still feeds Long Island and New York City; but, that lifestyle is dying. So too are folks like me whose life is inexorably tied to the waters around Long Island

There is a saying: “You know you’re from Long Island when you’ve gone clamming at least once in your life.” That is certainly true for me. Many of my friends owned clam boats. These are long, flat vessels with a mini-cabin and ample space for a person to squeeze into and operate the steering wheel. Long clam rakes are tethered to the deck, and the bay becomes your home for a day. There’s something supernatural about breathing in sea air, sipping a can of Coca-Cola fished from the bottom of an ice-filled, Styrofoam cooler, and enjoying the view of the looming Robert Moses Causeway Bridge. A powerful spell cast by the briny bay water draws one back to its shores during the course of one’s life to relive those quiet memories.

From my childhood home, one can hear the braying of motorboats racing along the coastline during the summer. The salty bay breeze wafts gently into the neighborhood and teases the olfactory nerves of bored school children yearning for the beach. The beaches of Long Island, stretches of sandy Heaven along the south shore, remain burned, like sun on skin, with affection, in my memory. In my formative years, I was accustomed to this existence of carefree days swimming in the surf. My skin was tan, my hair bleach blond, and my muscles tone from swimming for day long stretches amongst the seaweed and horseshoe crabs.

My home now is on the opposite end of the Island’s spectrum. My children are being raised in a rocky, hilly, terrain alien from my oceanic origins on the south side. The Long Island Sound's whisper is too gentle to compel many more than a handful of seafarers to its banks in comparison to the mighty Atlantic; and, its beauty demands a harsher aesthetic adapted to stony ridges and sloping seaboards.

Long Island is, by geological definition, a terminal moraine; leftover scraps from a glacier in the shape of a fish. Topmost is the heavier portion, boulders and sloughed off bits of mountains. What’s left at the bottom is pulverized, softer earth and sand, pushed ahead as if swept by a broom. There is much more to the differences between the north and south shores of Long Island. There’s a class difference unique to the separate and unequal suburban towns on different sides of the Long Island Expressway.

The north is wealthier; the towns rich from higher taxes and a falsely perceived elite class of citizens. My original home on the south shore is composed of mostly blue collar working families; the school systems straining under the weight of too many students and not enough revenue. So many families, with the mother and father both working, have to rent rooms in their homes or create apartments within their dwellings to take on renters to help pay the mortgage and taxes. My roots are there. The return visits I make to my father’s home rile my senses and cause my skin to prickle with the residual anticipation of a return to the shoreline.

My wife grew up as I did. Summers at the seaside with her family provided her with parallel memories to mine. We often share stories driving around the omnipotent water towers both at Robert Moses State Park and Jones Beach, our respective awe at riding over the extended Robert Moses bridge, and the joy of body surfing in the foamy waves with sand in our bathing suits. Our own children are denied such a life. We bring them to the beach and their enjoyment is not the same. It’s as if we took them to an amusement park; its rides being the waves, the games being the sand and sea shells, and they lose luster and allure to abandoned video games and computers back at home.

There is no kinship between my children and the water. The Great South Bay and the sparkling Atlantic have no secrets to tell these outsiders. One has to reside along the edges, the sinewy strips of sand and shells, and listen from birth; there is a promise, a covenant between those who are enchanted and the ocean. It is a code, a lifestyle, and its bond exists forever.





Long Island Great South Bay bayman north shore south shore terminal moraine fish clams clam boat beach Robert Moses Copiague New York

Writing Home: Using One's Home Town for Setting

Creating fiction requires many essentials. One needs characters, a plot, setting, time period, and other factors which narrow the concept down to a point where the author may begin to write. Setting is key; and, as it often is with literature, characters are based on the writer’s persona, and very often, the characters live in where the writer does. How many authors can you name whose works place their protagonist in the very town where they grew up or where they currently live? I’ll give you one: Nelson DeMille has written books set on Long Island where he currently resides, and in New York City where he was born. This is a practice which I have only recently embraced.

My first novel, “The Tin Age,” is set in suburbia, and the main character, Martin Spratt, is a county police officer. I imagined the county based on the one where I reside and added many of the qualities which made this setting attractive to me: Hamlets full of quiet, tree lined streets, wooded areas on the outskirts of towns, and a government structure which allows for a full service, county-wide police department were the factors I needed to make the story work. In retrospect, instead of concocting a name, I should have simply utilized the actual region where I live as it would have been familiar to any potential local audience.

That is an attractive aspect to applying this technique as the residents of the municipality depicted in your story would be more likely to read your work and create buzz for you and your novel. This is a factor not lost on literary agents and publishers; in addition, this type of ingredient in a story works when employed the moment the task of writing the manuscript is begun. In my case with my fictional county, it would take a little effort to change village and street names to match existing locations; but, none of these roads and communities is described accurately in this story and a major re-write would then be in order to achieve authenticity. It is best to plot your location as well as your storyline at the outset as the two are intertwined.

With fiction, writing about genuine locations is useful if one wishes to add color, depth, and breadth to the story. Each locale has a unique and rich history. Customs are inbuilt, and reasonable expectations can be placed on climate, local customs, geography, and the speech of its inhabitants. Using one’s own native state, town, or actual place of birth allows a writer to draw upon their own individual experiences and include them in the narrative, albeit an imagined one.

For example, a writer may draft a scene where two brothers are walking to school. In an imaginary town, more elements may have to be explained to the audience by the author because the reader may not have a clue as the where these school boys are. The reader sees a blank, nondescript boulevard the boys are traveling on, and illustrative gaps need to be filled in by an author with different ideas than his or her audience. Experiences of the reading audience dictate how they perceive your imagined community. The more closely the reader connects with your characters' surroundings, then the more the reader gets from reading your book. If you write about a genuine place, then existing structures and sites can enrich your writing.

You can save yourself some time and set the story in San Francisco, for example, and mostly everyone knows that the roads there are all hilly, and the reader envisions streetcars as well. Write about real cities and towns and you draw the reader in. Use the environs of a region where you reside, and you’re an authority. The knowledge you have of the locale and the facts you provide enhance what you put down on paper.

With my latest novel, “The Daddy Rock,” I used my native Long Island as the backdrop. This allowed me to celebrate the beauty and diversity of the landscape as my protagonist, Roger Price, migrated from the low lying, seaside marinas along south shore to the rocky and elevated north shore. My childhood was spent growing up in a small hamlet by the Great South Bay. My south shore sensibilities are apparent in Roger as he is transplanted to the more affluent north shore hugging the Long Island Sound where I’ve settled and decided to raise my family. Familiarity with my place of birth allows me to effectively guide my characters and blend them seamlessly into a world with a readily available supply of buildings, landmarks, customs, and people where they can interact and play out the drama. Also, it is always easier to write about a place you are passionate about. Frequent readers of this blog are aware of my deep affection for my home, Long Island. That made writing my latest novel more natural.

In summary, when writing fiction, a valuable shortcut to creating a story’s setting may be to place your characters in the very town where you live in order to draw upon your own knowledge of the area, take advantage of a local audience, and to rely on local history, customs, geography, and landmarks to help you tell your tale. On a side note, I am writing a novel about a young man who joins the Russian Army and I may have to relocate to Moscow for a few years. Do they have the internet in Russia?





audience characters drama Great South Bay location Long Island marinas Mr. Grudge north shore novel protagonist readers scenery setting south shore story town village write

The Birthday Boy and the Moon Man

We all know the date and time when the first men landed on the moon, and the name of the first astronaut to set foot there; but very few outside of my family are aware that this event happened on my birthday. That’s not a matter for historians to consider; but to me, it is a big deal. In fact, the moon has had a special place in my heart ever since I was six years old and watched the grainy, black and white footage of Neil Armstrong hopping off a ladder on the side of the lunar module.

That day wasn't a typical birthday scene with my family seated around the dining room table waiting for me to blow out the candles on my birthday cake. I remember having one of those conical, cardboard hats on with a rubber band chinstrap digging into my skin. Yet, there was a distraction in the form of a television broadcast repeating this momentous event for the world to see. The landing was a technological miracle, if you will, and knockout punch to the Russians who led the U.S.A. in the space race up until then. Every American shared a sense of pride in this accomplishment, especially Long Islanders, as the Grumman Corporation made the lunar module. However, I was just a kid; and as much as I wanted to be thrilled about this new world of space travel and astronauts walking on the lunar surface, I was a bit angry at Mr. Armstrong for ruining my party with his spectacular interruption.

I got over my annoyance quickly, however, as the allure of all things related to the cosmos caught up with me during those exciting times when we all watched men in space suits bounce around in the light gravity on our closest heavenly neighbor.

All my life I’ve been a night person. There is a mystery to the evening sky which draws my eye to its inky shores sparkling with celestial jewels. Throughout history the moon, planets, and stars have beguiled both kings and paupers alike. My own life takes a turn now and then, and the moon offers solace; it’s gentle face beckoning in its resolve to always be there.

My friend, this moon which poets and scholars often describe, searches for me whenever I am at my bedroom window during the early hours. Sometimes full, other times partially shrouded, it hides among the clouds when the weather denies us our conversations. My bond with this rocky creature, which can be described as alive if one believes in its power as I do, is unshakable as I look away from time to time only to be cosmically nudged back into its embrace.

Perhaps I was a part of the moon, once. We are all constructed of particles which existed in some form or another over time. I feel echoes of its creation whenever I am driving home and the car radio lulls my ears and allows my eyes to focus ahead on the road glistening with rich, reflected sunlight. That the moon does not radiate its own energy is a myth; the sun merely highlights it. The moon winks at me when I deny I am a follower.

It knows my secrets, and I confide in the sky during my moments of hardship. Those moments of fear, doubt, sorrow, and anxiety; hours and hours of sleeplessness where the window acts like a portal to the only object which has seen it all from the beginning. It knows my faith in God, hears my struggle with mortality, seeks to assuage my guilt for sins, and sins again, for which my fault seems eternal.

Not long ago, a boy was captivated by a bright, orbiting vehicle in the night sky. He was drawn to it, and never will see it up close, not while he remains on this planet, and not while he is alive. On a dark night, maybe a few short decades from now, God willing, there will be a window nearby through which he can peek at his friend and say hello, just before he begins his journey to the surface of the moon.

Dear Readers: My friends JD, author of The Uneasy Supplicant, and fellow Midnight Wanderer, and Bob Johnson, author of Black Holes and Astrostuff, were the inspirations for this post. Thank you, gentleman, for your fine writing and for your blogging friendship. Please visit their blogs and be educated.





astronaut Grumman kings Long Island moon Neil Armstrong paupers Venus

From Dawn until Dancing

In November of 2003, my wife and I took our two children to Disney World in Florida. This vacation was planned well in advance, and my children were allowed to make up the school work they missed while they were away when they returned from our dream vacation. My son was almost five years old and my daughter was eight years of age. The anticipation they felt was almost unbearable, and when we left to drive down to Orlando from Long Island, New York (a drive I will never make again) we felt that something wonderful was going to happen.

My wife is the most organized person I know. She did more research on Walt Disney World than I anyone I ever knew who planned a trip there. There are countless websites on Disney, each with a treasure trove of information from obscure trivia, to where the best places to find the characters hanging around are. With our itinerary in hand, it took us a little over a day to get to the park and check into our hotel, in spite of a tire blow-out we had in Baltimore on the way. Not letting that mishap ruin the mood, we settled into our All Star Movies Resort hotel room and unpacked in a hurry.

The entire week we were there we got to experience all of the rides, meet the characters for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and visit all of the parks and swim in the pools. On the last full day before we were to leave for home the next morning, we decided to toss our plans aside and just do whatever came naturally. That meant no rushing to get to restaurants, or standing on the curb for an hour or more to see a parade, or hopping the monorail to make it to some event by a certain hour. We were free, and very relaxed. By late afternoon, my wife mentioned that we should go to the Liberty Tree Tavern in the Magic Kingdom because her brother told her about it and he thought the food was good. We mentioned it to the kids and they didn’t care, so we went off down Main Street to find the restaurant which is across from the Hall of Presidents.

Inside, it wasn’t crowded, but we still had to wait a short while. Since we were under no time constraints, my wife and I were happy to sit on the benches and chat and look around at the décor. Then, we noticed that our daughter was crying. ‘What’s the matter sweety?” my wife asked.

My daughter continued to cry, not loud, and my wife asked again. “Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” My daughter looked up at her.
“It’s just that tomorrow we’re going to leave, and this is our last day here, and we’re not going to come back for a really long time.” She spoke in that hiccup-like voice kids have when they sob and talk at the same time. At that moment, one of the waiters came over and spoke to her.

“Why are you crying little girl?” he asked. “There’s no crying in the Magic Kingdom. This is the happiest place on Earth.” There’s a reason why Disney calls their employees “cast members.” This guy was doing a great job of acting he and came to our rescue.

“You come with me,” he said “Sit down and have a great, big dinner with your mommy and daddy and your little brother.” Like a scout leader, he turned and led the way as my befuddled daughter and my son trekked behind him obediently to a room off to the side. My wife and I shrugged and followed along. He seated us at a table by a railing which overlooked another dining area a step or two lower than we were, offering a nice vantage point.

“Are you still crying dear? This is the Magic Kingdom, and there is magic everywhere…” he said, and then he sprinkled “magic pixie dust” as he called it all over out table with his hand held high above his head, smiling triumphantly. On our plates and cutlery were hundreds of tiny, multicolored Mickey heads. That gesture got the children laughing. He leaned over to me as my children were playing with the pixie dust and asked me my daughter’s name and for the correct spelling.

Then, he left the table, and moments later he returned with a special certificate for our daughter. “This is an official ‘Magical Moment’ just for you.” he announced as he handed our wide eyed girl the placard. It was the size of college diploma, and printed on heavy, stock paper. “This is a magical moment you keep for the rest of your life.” After the presentation, he smiled and walked away.

The magical man left us for good and in the capable hands of a fellow server who hailed from Long Island where we live. He took excellent care of us, and we were visited by all of the characters. I took so many photos and video, that we ran out of film and my video camera’s batteries were almost spent. After our meal and dessert, one of the characters, Meeko, the raccoon from Pocahontas, escorted us from our table all the way outside and bid us adieu.

Before we left, the waiter pulled me aside gave me two birthday cards, each signed by every character we met that evening: Minnie Mouse, Goofy, Meeko, Chip and Dale, Pluto, and “all of the folks at the Liberty Tree Tavern” and he told me to give them to the kids on their birthdays and tell them that the cards were from them. What a guy. Needless to say, both he and the other “magic” server both received generous tips.

Outside, we could barely contain ourselves and our good fortune. Our daughter not only wasn’t crying, but both she and my son couldn’t stop laughing.

My wife noted that the fireworks display was set to go off in front of Cinderella’s Castle within the next hour or so. We decided just to walk over and hang out until the show. The sun was low in the sky and we sat near the front of the castle with other families who were taking in the scenery and relaxing after a day of running around. Soon, the area was full of hundreds of others vying for a good view of the fireworks. Music was playing over those mysterious, hidden speakers which Disney hides in the shrubbery, and it was cool outside. My wife and I sat back on our hands feeling satisfied.

“Look at them;” she said “they’re so happy.” There they were, our two kids dancing to the music without a care in the world. They laughed and sang, and rocked out to the tunes. I reached for the video camera and my wife took my arm.

“No, no, just watch them.” She said. And, we did. Hand in hand the two of us laughed along with them as the sunlight faded and their shadows grew longer and splayed across the brick sidewalk. There was no need for video. That scene plays out in my head whenever I need to remember what it’s like to be happy. For my wife and I, that was our magical moment.

Happy Holidays from Mr. Grudge & family!



Disney World Cinderella's Castle vacation dancing characters Minnie Mouse Goofy Pluto Meeko Chip and Dale Baltimore Long Island New York All Star Movies Resort

"I'm Not From Lawn-Guy-Land"

There's a list going around the internet which has been compiled by, added to, and passed around by Long Islanders. This list is called (you guessed it) "You Know You're From Long Island When..." One of my favorite items on that list is "You never realize you have an accent until you leave." This has happened to me, numerous times.

Yes, we do speak funny, and it is typically arrogant of us New Yawkers to think we speak like Harvard law professors. In Florida a few years ago, I took my family to Disney World. At Typhoon Lagoon, I was sitting poolside when my then three year old son began to play with the sand. Actually, he was tossing handfulls of it into the air. I told him to knock it off, and the burly man behind me said something that sounded like "Arf nargle eeg offay ay nad." Huh?

Not wanting to be rude, I smiled in much the same way one does when we don't want to aggitate the man holding the bloody meat cleaver. I ordered my son once more to quit throwing sand in the air or I'd bury him in it (or words to that effect).

The big hairy guy with the marbles in his mouth walked over. He was with his family, a wife, two little ones (boy and girl) who were playing peacefully in the sand with buckets and shovels.

"It's alright, mate. he's just being a lad. It's just sand, ya know." he said. Oh, he's from England, I thought. Whew, I though I had to whisk my family away and call the Mouse Police.
"Yeah, thanks," I said "I still don't want him to get sand all over." I offered. Really, It was none of his business what I said to my son, but it was obvious that this guy wanted to talk. So, we did.

His wife sidled over to him and smiled as he introduced "Aubremary", or whatever the hell he said her name is, to me. I searched the pool frantically for my wife and daughter so I would have an excuse to grab my kid by the waistband of his shorts and say "Gotta go, wifey's calling..." and hurry off into the artificial surf with my boy flailing helplessy in my grip. But no, my wife only comes around when I'm relaxing and she has something for me to do.

They talked and gushed about how friendly and lovely Americans are, and that everywhere they went, people are just so friendly and want to talk and talk and talk. Ouch. I continued to grin like an idiot as I realized that they didn't visit New York, or more specifically, Long Island, where I was born, raised, and continue to be miserable.

Friendly people? There's a deli I go to every morning for coffee and a newspaper before I go to work. I've been a regular customer there for about fifteen years and I don't think I've exchanged more then three words with anyone behind the counter, and I'm okay with that. I show you what I want, you get it for me, take my money, and then I leave. End of transaction. I've noticed that outside of the New York, New Jersey, Connecticut region, people change. There's something pathological about all of these nice folks who want to know how you're doing, and tell you to have a nice day. In a way, I was glad that this happy English family landed in "nice country." If they came to Long Island, I'd be appalled.

Anyway, I did my best to look interested and tried hard to decipher their language. They had accents, heavy ones. These were hard working commoners from Manchester who saved up all of their pounds and pence to visit Disney World where families toss around fifty dollar bills with reckless abandon and wind up with nothing to show for it. That morning, they found themsleves in Typhoon Lagoon, talking to me.

At one point, after they told me everything about themsleves, their family, the dream vacation they were on, and how happy they were to be in the United States, they asked about me. They wanted to know if this was our first trip to Disney.
"Well, no. My wife and I came here a long time ago after we were first married. We didn't have kids then."
"Did you fly down, mate?"

"Uh, no. We drove. I have a thing against flying." I don't really, we just thought we'd save money. We're never doing that again.

"How long did it take you to drive down?" Did he say "drive down"? I thought, how would he know where I came from?

"Well, I live on Long Island..." I started to say.

"Long Island?" The wife said. She smiled and looked over at her husband as if she'd won a bet. He had a knowing grin on his face too. "Oh yes, Long Island." he said. "We can tell."
It didn't matter what he told me after that. I felt duped, like they were leading me on in an effort to fulfill their own curiosity.

"That bloke is from New York, don't you think Aubremary?"
"Oh no, Simon, he sounds like he must be from Long Island. Let's talk to him and find out."

There you have it. Even folks who hail from jolly old England have us Long Islanders pegged. Oh, and another thing. We don't say Lawn-Guy-Land. Only people who are trying to make fun of Long Islanders say Lawn-Guy-Land. Thanks for reading. I have to go now and drive my caw to the mawl and get some cawfee. Afta dat, I have ta take da famlee to that restront faw dinnuh.



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The Biggest Event: Part III

With my father's blessing, and at his request, I ventured into new territory as I went about getting his war medals for him. I allowed my computer to remain powered off this time as I figured that the internet would be of little use to me. With my phone book in hand, I dialed up the office of Congressman Tim Bishop from my district for assistance. A gentleman on his staff was eager to help me, but was unable to because while I lived in Rep. Bishop's district, my father did not. He suggested, rather reluctantly, that I call the office of Congressman Peter King who represents the area my dad lives in. This kind gentleman added that he'd be more than willing to help if "for some bizarre reason" as he termed it, Rep. King's office "wouldn't do anything for me." But, he stated that he believed that they would jump at the chance to get my father the recognition he deserved.

When I called Congressman King's office, I was met with the same friendly, enthusiasm as I was when I called Rep. Bishop's office. This time, I was calling the right place. All they needed was a letter from my father authorizing them to act on his behalf with the Dept. of Veteran's Affairs, and a copy of his discharge papers which I finally pried away from dad after nearly a decade of asking for them. The gentleman from Rep. Bishop's office called me back a couple of days later to ask how things were going, a very kind gesture, and I told him of the generous cooperation I was receiving from Congressman King's staff. This man wanted to hear more about my father, his service, and to find out how he was doing in general. This was more than a service call, this man cared. So did everyone in Rep. King's office.

About a month later, the medals arrived in Rep. King's office. All we had to do was select a date when the Congressman wasn't in Washington, and when the entire family could meet together for this wonderful ceremony with Mr. King. Dad was happy, almost relieved it seemed, to finally get this over with. Really, I think this is something he always wanted to do, but only if it would benefit someone else. In this case, his grandchildren and his own kids would get to see a side of him we hardly knew. This was our father, a grandfather, who was a soldier in the United States Army during wartime. With wounds he received in battle which still affect him today, he was finally to be recognized for his service to his country, even though, as he insists on stating, they weren't for "valor." There was someone else he was doing this for, though I wouldn't find out until much later who it was.

On February 3, 2006, members of my family drove through a torrential downpour to the office of Rep. Peter King in Massapequa Park on Long Island in New York. Mom was in a wheelchair by then, and getting her out of our giant Trailblazer and across the parking lot in the teeming rain was a bit of an adventure. However, it was worth getting wet to witness this event which was almost sixty-two years in the making. I couldn't believe that this day arrived. Dad was finally going to get his medals. My wife and I took the kids out of school and sent notes to their excited teachers explaining their absences, and told our kids what this day was all about. It turns out that there was no need for an explanation as my daughter who was ten years old at the time, and my son was six, both had an appreciation of what was going on and were proud of their grandpa.

Clad in our Sunday best, we rode the elevator to the office to anxiously await our turn with the Congressman. A reporter from The Amityville Record was invited to interview my father and write a story. While waiting for Rep. King, the young woman reporter interviewed dad, my kids, and I, and eventually the Congressman who offered a kind quote. Everything was set for this momentous occasion, and a few moments later, Rep. King appeared and welcomed us in.

We took plenty of photos, videotaped everything, and sat and listened to Mr. King as he spent almost an hour with us, telling stories about his meetings with president Bush, his visit to Rome for Pope Benedict XVI's inaugural mass and other stories of a personal nature. This affable gentleman created for our family a wonderful memory which my wife recorded on our video camera for posterity.

Dad was presented with a Purple Heart, WWII Victory Medal, European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal, the Good Conduct Medal and the Honorable Discharge Pin.

Then, I delivered a speech for my father which took me some time to write. This is a piece I had rattling around in my head for over a decade as I envisioned this award ceremony taking place. You can read the full text below:

One of my earliest memories was of a time when we were all at the beach as a family. I was about five or six years old; and I remember Dad watching me as I played at the waters edge. A wave came along and toppled me over and I fell beneath the water. To this day, I can recall the fear which I felt as I rolled about in the surf. At one point, I was on my back, and I was able to see sunlight above me and the distorted shapes of others splashing nearby. And then, from above appeared a giant form of a man; a man I immediately recognized as Dad. His massive hand reached down for me, and he pulled me to safety. Dad was my hero.

The entire incident took place in a time span of about ten seconds, yet the scene plays out in my head like an episode of Superman. My fright lasted the appropriate amount of time until the inevitable moment when my Father came to my rescue. That was the natural course of events according to my young mind. Dad was there to protect us; and he did so with ease. I was proud of my father. He was strong, really tall, and had a commanding, deep voice. My friends were afraid of him, and I got a bit of a thrill from that. Yet, the one attribute about him that added to his aura was that Dad used to be a soldier.

There are two photographs of Daddy stashed in Mom and Dad’s house which show him in his army uniform. Both pictures were taken by Grandma on the roof of their home in Brooklyn. At first glance, one would think they were shot on the same day. Yet, upon closer inspection, one can see that not only were they taken at different times, they also portray Dad in startling different circumstances.

One photo shows a young, eighteen year old teenager dutifully posing for a snapshot to be taken by his mother. No doubt Grandma was equally proud and nervous at the same time. Here was her son, fresh out of basic training in his Army uniform about to fight in the war. His uniform was devoid of patches or unit insignia and there was the slightest hint of a smile peeking out from beneath the serious visage of the soldier that Grandma believed him to be.

The other photo shows Dad on the same roof, yet it was taken about a year and a half or more after the first. Here again we see Dad in his uniform. The giant “T” patch of the Texas 36th Division was on his shoulder and Dad wore the same serious, stone faced expression which he offered the first time. However, there was no hint of adolescent cheer. Looking closely, one almost can feel his pain. We know of his injuries. These are wounds which he’s kept quiet for so long they’ve almost become rumors. Yet, the pain persists.

Dad’s strength kept him alive on the battlefield; and it was his strength too which allowed him to raise and protect his family. His bravery in combat was the right of passage into manhood which gave him the confidence to patrol the waters edge and mind a son who depended upon his big, powerful father to save him from monsters and tidal waves. The silent and dignified manner in which he carried himself through his struggles with his injuries both during and after the war defined his method of handling sick kids and medical bills.

Dad worried about us all, and he did so all the time. But, he did it from behind the stoic veneer of a young man in uniform who came home from the war to raise his family and protect them through times of struggle and hardship unique to our big family.

He is as much a hero today as he was sixty two years ago on the battlefields of Italy, or on a rooftop in Brooklyn.

The medals awarded to him today by an esteemed member of the United States Congress, Congressman King, are as much for his service as a parent as they are for his service to his country. At least to me they are.

Dad, I stand here today wishing that I can be the same valiant figure of a man to my own daughter and son. Because of you, one day my children may share a story with their own kids of how their father picked them up when they fell down, and feel a small amount of pride. And, when they do so, I will be in debt to you, as you taught me about strength and manhood. You are an example to us all Dad, and I am proud of you. You are my father, my hero, and I love you.

After we left, proud, satisfied, and off to a nice lunch at a local restaurant, we later gathered at mom and dad's house in the living room where many years earlier we watched "The Wonderful World of Disney" and then witnessed our father re-connect with his violent and painful memories. Dad sat on the couch, and proceeded to tell us war stories for the first time in his life. Without becoming too graphic, he allowed us into his private world to briefly learn about a very private side of him.

We learned that he was shot in the face and in the right arm, left for dead and was almost buried alive, that he was wounded on June 2nd, 1944 and was discharged from the Army hospital in Rome on September 2, 1944. Mount Vesuvius erupted while he was in the hospital and, as dad put it, "the whole war stopped." He told us that when he was finally discharged, he was left without a uniform and had to wear civilian clothes until his division was re-supplied. His orders were to return home to be discharged by the army; but, he wanted to return to unit and to his buddies who went on to fight in France. His injuries were too extensive, and he was unable to handle a weapon, so he was sent home.

A ship was leaving for the United States, and two GI's took him by Jeep to the pier where they made it as the very last people were boarding. If he had missed that boat, he would have had to go into France with his regiment, civilian clothes and all, and then wait to be flown back to the United States.

In the Mediterranean Sea, a German u boat fired torpedoes at his ship, and a US Navy frigate maneuvered in front of them and took the hits. A Navy blimp spotted the u boat and destroyed it with depth charges. He finally made it back home to New York, and enjoyed two weeks in a resort in upstate Lake Placid. New York State treated its returning veterans to this getaway as a "thank you" for their service.

My father's buddies were all eventually killed in action in France.

Since that time, dad has talked about his experiences in battle in greater detail. And, there were times I thought he was reliving the past. The biggest challenge of his life came long after the war and allowed another question to resurface regarding dad and his medals. On August 30, 2006, our mother, dad's wife of fifty two years, passed away after a long struggle with cancer and Lupus. Her death devastated him. It seemed he would never recover from his grief and his incredible loss. The only woman he ever loved was gone and we rallied behind him as we, his children, became strong for him the way he taught us how. I wouldn't find out until a year later the other motive my father had for getting his medals, and it showed how deep and unselfish and devoted dad really is.

The Biggest Event: Part II

For over ten years as an adult I pestered my father about his experiences in the Army during WWII. My grandmother often spoke of how he left the Army and never “got his medals.” We knew he received his Purple Heart after he was wounded; but, she was referring to his campaign ribbons and the like which he never bothered to pursue. It became my mission to see him get some recognition for his service, and to learn for myself, and for his grandchildren about his wartime experiences as part of our family history.

This was a difficult task as he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. For many years, he refused to say what division he was in, let alone where he fought, when he served, or how long he served for. The only information I had was that he was in North Africa and then in Italy. Dad was wounded in Italy as we found out when we were children, but he wouldn’t budge on any of the other details.

In the late 1990’s I scoured the internet and tried to come up with information about battles the Army fought in Italy. He let it slip that he enlisted in the Army when he was eighteen years old. That meant in 1943 he signed up for the Army. Dad lost his father when he was a young boy, aged thirteen, and he was largely responsible for working and paying some of the bills. He graduated high school and immediately went to the recruitment station, only to be told to come back when he turned eighteen a few weeks later. Joining the Army meant a steady income of roughly thirty six dollars a month; enough to help his mom and his siblings.

On September 2, 2001, dad suffered a massive heart attack. Mom was very sick at the time with Lupus, and my father walked around for three days with chest pains, alerting no one to his condition because he was duty bound to care for his wife. Such was the hardened war veteran, one of the “Greatest Generation,” to stubbornly resist asking for help as he was busy nursing the mother of his children. So instilled him in him was sense of loyalty, honor, and faithfulness to his ailing bride, that he went without medical assistance until the pain was too unbearable for him and he finally got help. He did what any reasonable person wouldn't do: he sneaked over to the neighbor’s house across the street and asked if one of them could give him a ride to the hospital to “get checked out.” Also, he insisted that they use his car so he the neighbor wouldn’t waste his own gas.

My parents had six children, five of them living on Long Island with him, two of them only minutes away. Any one of us could have hopped in a car and been there within a half hour to take him to the hospital. Yet, he didn't want to bother us. He simply told mom that he wasn’t feeling well and went across the street to the neighbors. When I heard this, I thought of him as an eighteen year old teenager, lying in the hot Italian sun, clinging to life with two bullet wounds in his body. Maybe he thought that if he could live through that, he could handle anything.

When he returned home from the hospital days later, he sat on his bed with my then two year old son clinging to his grandpa’s side. I asked him again for his discharge papers because I wanted to get him his medals. His response could be heard around the block as he replied “I didn’t get anything for valor. Those are just because I served.” After that outburst, I decided to wait a bit longer.

About a year later, I saw a program on TV about a project where children and grandchildren of war veterans were using video cameras to record the experiences of the parents and grandparents during the war. World War Two vets are dying at an alarming rate and I wanted to record dad's story as well because it was a part of our families' history. One part of me wanted to simply know where he fought and other particulars such as what unit he was in, etc. However, with the same morbid curiosity that one has when we peek at the scene of an accident as we drive past, I had to find out about the battle in which he was wounded.

I actually brought my video camera to the house one day, but I chickened out. Dad was in a foul mood, and since the second Iraq War began, he was even more reluctant to talk about combat as his heart went out to all of those young men and women suddenly thrust into battle. Once again, I needed to wait. Mom's health was deteriorating, and dad and the rest of us dedicated most of our time tending to her health concerns. It seemed I would never find out what happened to my father over six decades earlier. I had to live with the few scraps of details which were handed down to us from my grandmother and from my mother. It wasn't as if dad poured his heart out to them, but he pacified their curiosity over the years with a few anecdotes from his time in the Army.

One story I enjoyed which I often told my friends involved his experiences in basic training. Since my father was a city boy, raised in Brooklyn, New York, the guys in his platoon who were from the south and other remote regions of the country would often tease him about his inability to build a fire or use a rifle. Dad laughed at them, saying that he "knew something that they didn't know" and soon he would be the one laughing. Many of the men he went through basic training with were shipped to the Pacific Theater; but, the few who remained with my father learned in a very unpleasant way about payback.

As a boy, my grandfather often took my father and my uncles deep sea fishing. That meant that dad developed his "sea legs" long before he showed up to the army camp. It was an eleven day voyage to North Africa where he was first shipped off to. All that time, the guys in his platoon suffered with violent nausea due to sea sickness. At one point, so many men were leaning over one side of the ship, the boat was listing. Dad wasn't sea sick at all. In fact, he used that opportunity to stick it to the guys who teased him about his unfamiliarity with the great outdoors during basic training by eating his meals in front of them and asking if they wanted anything to snack on. According to dad, they all quickly apologized, in between dry heaves.

It was that story, and maybe one or two others which whetted my appetite to learn more. Finally, in 2005, I decided that enough was enough. I badgered my father about his service ribbons and medals saying that he should have them because they are part of his past. This time, dad gave up some crucial information, saying that he wanted the medals "If doing it would make me happy." Quickly, he told me that he was in the Texas 36Th Division, 141st Regiment, Company L. As far as where his discharge papers were, he "didn't know." Armed with more data than I had in my entire life, I booted up my computer and found a ton of information on the Internet. It turns out that was a single, handy resource where I found out nearly everything I needed to know: "The Texas 36Th Division Museum" website. From there and the related links, I pieced together where and when he served and the actions he was involved in.

But, missing in all of this was his personal account of the events. I wanted to hear him tell me about what he saw, where he landed, the people he met. With all of the satisfaction I had reading about his Division's history, I still felt left out. There was nothing else I could do. I resigned myself to the fact that he was never going to come around. In reality, it was none of my business what he experienced "over there." Maybe I was being selfish, probing, and too harsh on him. Obviously, his time overseas was too painful to recall, and a good son would let his father alone to keep his secrets to himself. Yes, they were secrets, those awful memories. I was reminded of something an old time cop I worked with told me when I was a young rookie working up in Harlem in the very late 1980's. He said :"There are things you tell your priest, things you tell your wife, and there are some things that will die with just you and your partner." Man, was he right about that. As I likened my own relatively benign history to my father's, I backed off for good.

In early November of 2005, my wife and I took the kids to my parents house for our usual Friday night visit with my folks. After dinner, my father discussed with me his views on the war in Iraq. In one breath he was talking about how to run an effective military convoy, in the next he began describing landing with his regiment in Salerno in 1944. He rattled off grisly details about being surrounded by Germans and men he fought with being killed as if it happened yesterday. He told me about how he and his buddies spent about two or three days in the home of an extended family in the country side. Being from Brooklyn, he spoke Italian and was able to communicate effectively with them to the amazement of his Italian-American GI buddies. When it came to combat, his retelling was personal, private, and not to be mentioned in this space. Still, he never talked about when he was wounded.

After about an hour, I felt exhausted. Dad stood up, walked into his bedroom, and emerged moments later with his discharge papers. He knew where they were all along. "Here," he said "get me those medals. They're for my grandchildren. Please, for my grand kids, while I'm still here." I took this document, which he denied having for years, and made it my mission to get him those medals.

Islanders

During a recent cruise, my family and I toured St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Our destination was Magen’s Bay whose beaches are as enticing as any postcard. As alluring as the landscape is, I was taken back by the poverty there.

Our bus driver, a gentleman named Steven, drove us to a scenic overlook. Two men approached us carrying turtles and asked for tips while our children posed with them so we can take snapshots. It’s tough to earn a living that way and I felt a tinge of guilt as a sightseer in paradise. Without tourists, these men and their families might starve, I thought. Yet, technically, I was not a foreigner, and we had much in common.

Born and raised on Long Island, my family was not rich. My dad worked two jobs and my mother had a part time position at the library. We didn’t have a lot of money to spend on luxuries, much less a vacation to the Virgin Islands. Yet, like my fellow Americans in St. Thomas, I grew up near the water. The best my parents could do for us during summer was to take us to the beaches at Jones Beach or Robert Moses State Park.

There, I learned to swim, dig for clams with my feet, and to body surf. It was a local paradise where everyone could afford the sunlight and the surf. Rich families could sun themselves inches from our blanket and we would never know. The beach was an equalizer for me.

St. Thomas brought back memories, yet things had changed since my youth. My education took me to a level of affluence my father didn’t have. My children don’t wear hand me down clothes and the holidays are bountiful. Still, my wife and I work hard to maintain our standard of living. Then why did I feel guilty?

Perhaps I misjudged these folks whom I never met before and assumed that they thought like me when I was a boy, gaping at wealthy visitors to the South Shore. I wanted to explain to the driver and the men with the turtles that I was born and raised on an island too, and I lived in a small home with five siblings. My father worked eighty hours a week to support us, and our mom broke her back cooking and cleaning. I may have been a visitor, but I can relate to them.

Steven most likely does not remember me or my family. The men with the turtles may have been the happiest folks in the world. In much the same way I do not want others to look down at me with sympathy for my humble childhood; I should spare the inhabitants of St. Thomas my gratuitous empathy. The world is full of people with similarities and differences which should be celebrated and embraced. I prefer to remember my vacation with a fond fraternity with my fellow islanders.

-Michael J. Kannengieser