A SAD DAY in the USA

This Republic of ours has suffered through tough times – even terrible times - before.  We have always bounced back because of competent captains at the helm and rock solid crews of decent men and women as our citizenry. Those days may well be over.

The image of “politicians” is at its lowest ebb. Even those of us who have been largely disinterested in the back and forth that takes place “within the Beltway” and political circles elsewhere, are now paying attention and expressing alarm.  And we certainly should. Why the wake-up call?  In a word: “Mooch.”

Anthony Scaramucci, nicknamed “The Mooch”, is the recently appointed communications director at the White House and a role model for personal boorishness. He has inflicted damage on one level after another of decency in our government and our society generally. The New York Times, the bastion of ultra-liberalism took a courageous stand by quoting Mooch word for word during his latest rant. My spouse has encouraged me to control my own fury and not repeat those words when writing this column. In telling it like it was, the Times recorded Mooch using expletives not heard aloud since barracks room days long ago.

This man, no gentleman he, opens up every possible avenue to stereotype slander of decent Italian Americans. He is the personification of the gangster hit man in 1930 Hollywood movies.  But this time it's for real. Damage to the office of the President, the White House, the American people is incalculable.

Yes, “the office of the President” is one thing, “President Donald Trump” quite another. Trump is responsible for putting this bad actor in the role. He must pay the fiddler for every tune Mooch sings, whether it be on or off key. In vaudeville or burlesque theaters audiences would hoot “Give him the hook” when a performer was terrible.

Mooch deserves the hook. They are already lining up to give Mr. Trump the same in the next act.

END OF LIFE

Sooner or Later we have to think about the end of the trail, pardner.  Preferably later.  But still it has to be done.

Right now a 50/something lady next door is dying. It is not the idealistic picture one could envision – propped up in fluffy white pillows looking as she did in her prime. Instead this woman is curled up on her sofa in the fetal position, wasting away at about 70 pounds. She knows, but really doesn't want to know. Then too she always had a stubborn streak all the while ignoring what we on the outside would think of as “having made plans.” Especially in having a will.  There is more, including what she would like to have done with the business she owns.

We are different, one from another. Still most of us understand that there are general principles at stake, and we should pay some attention to them.  The Irish are blessed in what we think about Death. We mock him while toasting life. We know that inevitably he will knock on the door and our time will be up. And when he does, The Grim Reaper will appear to have the last laugh. But no, those of us who believe in Heaven will still outfox him.

Perhaps planning for tomorrow may be easier for those of us in our 80s; those who as the late Jimmy Breslin used to say “can hear the gentle flapping of angel wings.” Still for one and all it's just smart money to Be Prepared, as good Boy (and Girl) Scouts always are. Think about our friends who left us far too early.  We never know when it's time to go. That's for sure.

My wife, she whom I mention from time to time in my columns and blogs, is a very caring lady. This is certainly good for me. But she also truly cares for others beyond This Old Leprechaun. She burdens herself mercilessly because she feels that somehow in some way she can make a difference with this younger woman next door who is dying. She can't. And part of this burden that is resting on her fair shoulders does lie with our lady next door who didn't plan at all. Now all the worry, work and the what-should-have-been-dones are left to people who can only guess. And will be forever second-guessing themselves about whether this or that is what the dying lady had wanted.

The message is to tell people what you want done now, before it's too late to do anything about it. 

HOT AND COLD

Some Like It Hot (a great name for a movie.) Some do not. The issue of Hot versus Cold is made more dramatic when you are living in this Paradise called “Florida.”

Our glorious state is at its best during the winter months when frozen citizens of the Northland rush down to the sun, sea and sand to escape the sleet, snow and freezing that makes cold weather an annual curse north of The Mason-Dixon Line.

However, summertime in Florida is an entirely different story. It gives a whole new meaning to “Hot as Hell.” It also places stress on those couples where one likes weather one way, the other another. Even after all these years I still think of my beloved as “hot”. She not only prefers that I do not call her that, but cannot tolerate temperatures that rise above 75. You might say this can put a chill on our relationship. 

We live in a cozy 4-Plex down here, which we like very much.  The problem during hot weather is that our building is an older one where instead of air-conditioning per se, we have giant fans that remind me of the huge wind tunnels where Boeing tests aircraft tolerance. My wife is happy in these cyclones. However, I live a Nanook-of-the-North existence hoping to make it past dinner time when I race for my igloo-like shelter under an array of quits and blankets. There I am safe until the sun rises once again.

Ah, well.  Chances are we both will live long enough to see October and November when the living will be easy again. It's not a perfect life since the endless swarm of snow birds will arrive soon enough bringing crowded roadways, long lines at restaurants and the other challenges.

Still we wouldn't have it any other way. Overall ours is a glorious Life of Reillys. 

YOUR NEWSPAPER VIA TELEVISION

Good evening, good readers.  This is your pen pal and newspaper columnist, Cholly Rollie, broadcasting from Sunny Florida and bringing you the top newspaper stories via television.

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WOMEN

I am a lifelong believer in women.  My mother was one.  My wife is one.  My three daughters are too. My grandmothers were women as well. By now you have my point - Creatures known as “women” run in my family.  In some cases they actually ran the family.

I'll give you one example of this: My paternal grandfather, Thomas F. Reilly, was a wealthy contractor (referred to in one local newspaper as “the tyrannical old Irish land baron”). He may or may not have been as the paper described him. However, when I marched down to see him dressed in my very first long-pants suit, he pulled a “magic” act on me by fishing out dollar bills, or more, from each of my pockets. For a 12 year old kid in the middle of the Great Depression, there was a lot to love about a tyrannical land baron. Notwithstanding this he once crossed verbal swords with my grandmother, the formidable Katherine Soden Reilly, who reminded him “Tom Reilly, I was born at the top of the hill!” So much for the pecking order back in the Emerald Isle.

But after laying this foundation about women, where do we go from here?  Who knows?  Any man who thinks he knows all there is about women should probably go to Washington, D. C. where insanity is so much in vogue.  All I can give you here, dear reader, is the narrow perspective of one man born of woman.  Which simply put is: women are pretty terrific, but not perfect, whereas men are simplicity itself, abounding in shortcomings, but basically happier souls.  When is the game on? Who wants a brew? Are there any chips?

It is probably better that we have both men and women in this world.  Some guys want to become women but the reasoning for this is above my pay grade.  If you are interested in exploring the matter, you can always go to The New York Times and confuse yourself further. The Times devotes an inordinate amount of editorial space to the question(s) of the sexes and spin-offs of same. My view is somewhat cynical on The Times prioritization - they need a break from their drumbeat on the Pope, Vatican and all things Jewish.

In sum, I'm a fan of womanhood.  I've always found their “instincts” to be on the mark.  They are weak when they should be, stronger in times of sadness and most of all, best able to triumph over the “joy of childbirth”.  On the latter point alone they'll always get my vote. 

NEWS

In this world of constant communication, we are probably better off without any kind of quality control. Even the bits and pieces we accidentally overhear tend to make us cringe. We are blessed that we don't have to hang in for entire conversations of idiocy.

Here's an example: Dear Friend and I were having dinner for two in a delightful restaurant. A diner nearby whipped out her cellphone and proceeded to tell whomever was on the other end about everything that was on her plate. She missed no detail, item by item. On and on. For diners all around her, there is precious little news in asparagus.

And news, I suspect, is what most of us are looking for. How that news is communicated varies from time to time and place to place but there is one thing for sure, change is the name of the game. Take a short trip in the time machine back to the earlier days of broadcast network news (You may have to get help from your parents, or your grandparents, for this one.)

There are names from the early days that few remember now. Lowell Thomas, John Cameron Swayze, Douglas Edwards.  The true golden era of scheduled broadcast news featured Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley & David Brinkley. There was John Daly, John Chancellor, Mike Wallace, Barbara Walters and a host of others, including Tom Brokaw, Roger Mudd, Martin Agronsky, Frank Reynolds, Harry Reasoner, Peter Jennings, Bob Shieffer, Howard K. Smith, Dan Rather and Connie Chung.  Today we have Scott Pelley, Lester Holt, David Muir.

During those golden years I was routinely around broadcasting news, mostly in Manhattan. I had opportunities for face to face conversations with the executives who ran the news departments as well as the TV anchors themselves.  All of us have favorites in life and I am no exception.  I liked David Brinkley for his quick wit and lack of pretentiousness.  I can still see him banging on an old typewriter on a small table pushed up against the wall in a bull ring surrounded by other reporters and nameless staff.  Of all the major television anchors, Walter Cronkite was king in my book.  Not just because we shared the same (November 4) birthday, but I admired his print background as a war correspondent for United Press. In those days having worked at newspapers gave news anchors extra credibility.        

The first network news program was broadcast in May of 1942 over WCBS-TV. I should point out that the early history of claims regarding “the first” is cloudy fame. But still the consensus is that this was the time and place.  And who was the “anchorman” for that historic broadcast?  None other than Milo Boulton.  Remember the name.

Milo Boulton.

SUBMARINES

During the 1940s (a decade we older people refer to as “The War Years”) German submarines lurked in the Atlantic Ocean waters just off the east coast of the United States. Today one of them, U -576, lies underseas 35 miles or so off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. When that sub was discovered in 2014 it came as news to many that World War Two was fought so close to our own shores. Not all of us were surprised however. Walking the New Jersey beaches as kids during the 40s we had to use a can of turpentine placed near the bottom step of the boardwalk to remove “tar” from our feet. That black mess had ominously floated ashore from ships torpedoed by enemy submarines.

If you were in grammar or high school during those years you were lucky. Too young for military service yet old enough to take advantage of home front freedom, grassy green though we were. There was an additional benefit to living in New Jersey or right next door in Pennsylvania.

By and large censorship kept the general public in the dark about the war. There were propaganda films and selected film footage shown in weekend “newsreels” at local movie theaters. Most citizens were believers in “a slip of the lip can sink a ship.” Try that one on today where “leaks” are a way of life with the media.

As opposed to earlier generations, youngsters ages 12 to 16 were given previously unknown freedom during the 1940s. It was possible to pile a large gang into an old car – much like the clowns did in the soon-to-be-late Barnum & Bailey Circus – or hitchhike south to the Jersey shore some 65 miles away. Coast Guard sailors patrolled the Jersey sands on lookout for Nazi saboteurs. In fact, German landing parties actually made it to New York and Florida, although they were all apprehended. Rumors of potential enemy presence held a great promise of excitement for youngsters. We hid out in the sand dunes to avoid the Coast Guardsmen (more accurately their dogs.)  

Happily, none of us were ever discovered. No Nazi made it into Somers Point or Ocean City. Plus, we won World War Two.

End of story.