"Please Make It Two Weeks From Now"

1.
"Please make it two weeks from now."
I used to summon that up like some type of chant when I was younger. Looking up to the heavens, I would silently plead with whoever might be looking back down to take me away from this terrible moment, transport me no less than two weeks into the future where everything would be alright again. Terrible moments at that age came with far less consequences. It would take much longer than that to get over the events of 9/11. For those of us lucky enough to survive that catastrophic day, it will literally take a lifetime.
I'm not a survivor, at least not in the truest sense of the word. My story would not have made the headlines or the television news. I worked in Manhattan that day as I do everyday in an office some fifty to sixty blocks north of where the unthinkable had taken place.
"It was a beautiful September morn," Reception Mary, a retiring Mary Poppins like character began, telling her story to the camera for a video that I would wind up editing months later. Mary's simple words faultlessly described the beginning of what should have been nothing more than a perfectly normal late summer workday.
Seven years have elapsed since that day. It had taken me five of those years to launch this site, to return to the joy of writing, a passion dating back to my childhood. Return to Innocence; my first entry here, celebrated a simpler age, a tale of teenage love and a first kiss. I've often pined for the simplicity of those days. Now I would settle for just a return to complacency, a time where as a society we often viewed the tragic horrors of events in faraway lands with a detached interest before returning to our otherwise carefree lives. There is not an evening that goes past when descending into New York City's Penn Station for the short commute home I idly wonder, is tonight the night? We are supposed to go on with our lives, enjoy the freedom that living here has to offer, never let the terrorists take that away, but one cannot help but to wonder, what next.
When?
The Psyche of America changed on that dark day. The horrors of overseas had inexplicably transcended the great distance, right to our own doorstep.
Courage, bravado, denial.
It can't happen here.
It did!
And it changed us forever.
Six days later, I returned to work, far more cognizant of my immediate surroundings, paying particular attention to the location of emergency exits within the tunnel my bus drove through every morning, as it passed underneath the East River from Queens to Manhattan. New York City seemed strange to me on September 17th. It was quieter. The incessant honking of horns, now absent, the rushing click clack of shoes on the pavement, now in no apparent hurry, the typical buzz of Monday morning, post-weekend conversations seemed muted, careful, somber. The pulse of the greatest city in the world had changed, slowed. People nodded to one another in silent understanding, grimly offering a mutual hello as if this was something that should always have been a part of the everyday. It was the beginning of a new workweek, a new era. Only six days had passed, less than a week, yet now a lifetime ago.
On September 13th, my wife; a fifth grade school teacher returned to work. I insisted on driving her the few short miles, adamant that she stay away from any form of public transportation. Smoke continued to rise from Ground Zero, traveling Northeast over the nearby boroughs, drifting past the movie theater where only three days earlier while returning to the car we paused to admire the sun’s descent as it silhouetted the Manhattan skyline.
"Look, you can see the World Trade Center from here," I had said offhandedly.
Only three days.
Now, a lifetime.
Neither spoke as we crested a rise in the highway not far from that same multiplex, 1010 WINS, the all-news station playing on the radio. We rarely listened to AM radio. Now the need for information, answers, something to make sense of the madness far outweighed that of any need for music or entertainment.
I turned around and headed for home after safely depositing my wife, unable to imagine what her day might hold in store, having to deal with students who were even more confused than we were. It was another perfect September day, the type of day that I would normally have spent outdoors lazily reading for a couple of hours. That thought had never entered my mind. Something as simple as reading seemed selfish. Manhattan was still a scene of chaos, and I was too fearful of even considering a trip there. Buses, subways, bridges, tunnels, all things we had taken for granted now seemed to be a threat. I turned on the television and watched the unending news coverage, knowing that I was not the only one who felt cowardice. Staten Island; a borough of New York City was in a temporary lock down, all bridges closed as authorities moved on leads to terrorists that may still be in the area. It was mayhem. Scared and confused, alone in our bedroom, I turned on the computer, sat down and began to compose an e-mail. I had no idea at that moment to whom I was writing it, but the idea had seemed right at the time. Let me get this down in writing, the horror, the memory, all of it while it was fresh in my mind. Let me tell my story, everyone's story, the story I’d come to think of as that of the average New Yorker. It wasn't egocentric, it was therapeutic. In doing so, I was returning to the safety of something I had once been so passionate about and had neglected for so long. I was returning to a place of comfort, somewhere deep within my roots. I began to write. What follows is a recounting of the darkest day in our lives as seen through the eyes of someone watching it unfold on television, while the unimaginable was unfolding not around the world or across the country, but close enough to have been across the street.
2.
My earliest recollections of the World Trade Center date back to grade school, and a drive into Manhattan. In the distance lay the twin towers, under construction, defiantly rising high above its downtown counterparts. Several years later, 1976; I distinctly remember the return of King Kong to the Big Apple in the Dino De Laurentis remake, the movie posters showing the giant ape straddling the two towers, a scene that I was disappointed to find out never actually materialized in the film. 1987 marked the year that I had finally gotten around to visiting the site. Living on nearby Long Island, the New York City skyline was all too easy for me to take for granted. As a seasoned commuter in 2001, I rarely lifted my head from whatever book I was reading as our bus approached Manhattan morning after morning. September 11th proved no differently, starting out as just another non-descript workday in a career I had begun nearly ten years earlier. Robert Doherty’s Area 51 had been entertaining enough that I hadn’t realized we were nearing our destination until the interior lights of the Midtown Tunnel were racing past my window creating a strobe-like effect. I had become so used to it, that like the majestic Manhattan skyline it was wholly unnoticeable. It’s ironic now looking back, that on that very morning I was in a sense returning to innocence, having just re-connected with a long lost acquaintance I had met over twenty-five years earlier. I was thrilled to have found her name on the classmates.com database the day before, and ecstatic at discovering her response in my inbox just twenty-four hours later. I had wasted no time in vigorously typing a long-winded e-mail, trying in vain to catch up on over a quarter of a century. The summer weather continued to hold strong and I showed no remorse whatsoever in temporarily shirking the day’s responsibilities, making my personal endeavors the top priority. An intercom message from an upstairs co-worker quickly ended my jubilant mood.
“Did you guys hear anything about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center,” she asked.
“What,” I answered, my curiosity instantly aroused?
“Yeah, supposedly a plane hit the towers. Maybe two planes. Is the TV on?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Check it out and call me back.”
I hastily completed my e-mail and moved to the front room.
“Phyllis just called and said something about a plane crashing into the trade center,” I informed another co-worker, hurriedly moving across the room to turn on the television.
Our building, not wired for cable or satellite forced us to watch TV the old-fashioned way. The little reception we could get was with a vintage pair of “rabbit ears.” My initial thought like that of everyone else hearing the report for the first time was that it must have been a small propeller craft. My curiosity quickly turned to uneasiness when NBC; a network we usually received a decent signal from showed nothing but snow. I switched up to ABC with the same result before advancing the channel selector further to check in on two of the local stations, neither of which was broadcasting.
What the hell, my mind now raced?
Descending down towards the lower channels, I was finally able to get a picture on CBS. We were stunned into silence looking at the image of the gaping holes in both buildings, the angry black smoke rising above. I had barely registered the message I’d received just a few seconds earlier about the possibility of two planes, until the station replayed the recent footage of the second aircraft careening into the tower. I could feel my heart pounding, trying to catch up with the number of beats it had missed in the short instant that it had stopped beating! People began filing into the office, to get a look at what was happening, nameless faces from other offices on the floor. The news anchors were now talking of terrorism. It was a word, which up until that morning didn’t hold much weight here. The station continually cut back to another view, a long distance angle taken from somewhere further uptown, the Empire State Building prominently displayed in the foreground.
Please, I thought, don’t let me see a plane hit that as well.
When the news broke shortly after 9:30 of the crash at the Pentagon, I could feel the beginnings of a slow panic rising in me.
THE PENTAGON!
How was that possible?
I was scared, but rational. Looking around at the others, their eyes still glued on the television, I quietly exited and headed downstairs to the ATM. I couldn’t fathom what I may need money for, but at that very moment it seemed the most logical thing to do. I returned to the office telling the others they would be wise to do the same, my idea dismissed with both indifference and a slight amount of ridicule. We watched in disbelief when the south tower crumbled to the ground just a few minutes later, barely able to comprehend the magnitude of what was impossibly becoming worse. I looked out our second story window at the street below, listening. It had taken nearly a minute for the dull rumble of the downtown collapse to reach our twenty-seventh street location. The erratic state with which the broadcasters were both receiving and airing information had only added to the pandemonium following the collapse of the north tower and the crash of Flight 93 in Pennsylvania. An innumerable amount of planes remained airborne and unaccounted for. Getting out of the city was not an option at this point, but I could no longer sit idle. Finally acting on my earlier advice, several people went downstairs to the bank, now forced to wait on impossibly long lines. Instinctively I took a video camera and headed out to the street where there was now an endless migration of people heading north on foot. I briefly caught sight of a girl I had done some editing for only a week earlier, creating a photo and video montage for the upcoming wedding of her sister.
The world had been so normal then.
Our eyes met for only a second. Fear could barely describe what we were feeling. The look on her face was something I would never forget. Turning in the opposite direction towards the wall of thick grey and black smoke, I had a hard time remembering whether I had ever been able to see the Twin Towers from that particular vantage point. With the bridges and tunnels now reopened to outgoing traffic only, I apprehensively made the decision to get out. The city was obviously an unsafe place to be, but the thought of me herding on to a crowded underground subway was paralyzing.
What wasn’t a target, I worried?
I joined the dour parade and began walking uptown, still unsure of what route I would take to reach what I'd hoped would be the safety of the outer boroughs. The 59th Street Bridge while not the most direct route, would at least keep my head above water. If I continued along my present trajectory, I would pass by Grand Central Station, a major commuter hub and possible target. Veering to the west would take me through Times Square, to the east, the United Nations. Which path would prove to be the safest? Was anywhere safe?
Three fighter jets roared past, abruptly shattering the eerie silence of the grim exodus. I quickly turned watching them disappear beyond the grey clouds of destruction behind us, realizing now, that this wasn’t happening on television or a movie screen. This was the real thing!
“Free rides through the Midtown tunnel,” a civilian yelled from a nearby street corner, quoting the handwritten text from the sign displayed in front of him. Opting for the fastest way home, I hesitantly turned east, heading towards the very same tunnel I had indifferently passed through not more than six hours earlier. Traffic police stopped cars with empty seats at the tunnel entrance, instructing drivers to take passengers through. I climbed into the back of an SUV with three others. No one spoke much, each of us nervously waiting for that first glimpse of the literal light at the end of the tunnel. Reaching the other side safely, we went our separate ways. I could hear the sound of my footsteps as I crossed what would normally have been a traffic-congested roadway at that time. Towering above me stood an immense video screen. Generally, it would show ads or commercials to a captive commuting audience. That afternoon it displayed a single word.
Peace.
I was still wary of taking any form of public transportation, but it was only a few steps to the Long Island Railroad. Thankfully, it would remain above ground for the short ride to my hometown. A near empty train awaited on the equally vacant platform, the diesel engine at the front purring quietly.
“Making all stops,” the conductor resignedly said, waving me inside.
I sat alone, away from the scant few, staring out the window, nervously contemplating the safety factor as the car slowly filled around me. Commuting is not for the weak of heart or claustrophobic, something I had never been concerned about, yet as the coach was quickly nearing standing room only capacity, my unease began to grow. The arrival of two men, whom I had assumed were contractors or construction workers, broke the bleak silence pervading the crowded car. Squeezing into the middle of the aisle, they reached inside a plastic bag loaded with cold beers and popped open the first of what was obviously just the beginning.
“Here’s to revenge,” they toasted.
Anger, I considered. The range of emotions I had seen displayed on the multitude of faces that day had yet to include anger.
It added to my growing uneasiness.
The closing doors sealed my fate.
“Local stops, this train is making all local stops,” the conductor’s voice emanated from the loudspeakers.
Please don’t let those be the last words I ever hear, I silently pleaded, my heart pounding.
With every minute, every passing mile, I could feel my apprehension beginning to ease a bit. Finally stepping off the train a few minutes later, I followed the lead of the two construction types, and started for a nearby drinking establishment before heading home to my wife. The crowded, noisy room provided a brief respite from the long day of stunned quiet, though the multiple televisions often reserved for sporting events, displayed the smoldering wreckage in the city I had left behind, a sad reminder that any hint of normalcy ended there. I ordered the largest beer I could, and moved away from the bar, making room for the next lucky individual to have survived the day.
“My dentist was in the World Trade Center,” an older woman standing next to me lamented. “They were on the concourse level,” she continued. “Downstairs, where all the shops were? I hope they got out okay. They have an answering machine. If they could just leave a message so we knew…”
I was incredulous at first, before realizing it was either her state of mind, or the alcohol talking. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there was no answering machine.
There was nothing.
A second beer and a shot of Jack Daniels later, I turned on my walkman to catch any news updates and began the mile long trek towards home. Within mere minutes of leaving the bar, other news began to filter in. There were reports of bombing in the Middle East. My heart froze. I had lost count of how many times it had stopped beating that day.
Retaliation already?
Can we do this?
I ducked into a small bar, now only a few blocks from home, to see what was unfolding. The local crowd inside was riled up, making it nearly impossible to hear the television coverage.
”Take that,” one reveler screamed!
The bartender, a quiet Irish girl who always smiled, had tears streaming down her face. I couldn’t think of anything to say that might comfort her, and felt a pang of guilt walking out to leave her with these people, but my wife was home waiting. My phone call from a pay phone more than hour earlier had come as a big relief to her, knowing that I had made it safely out of Manhattan. She would be well past the state of worry if I didn’t materialize at our front door soon. It was the second time I had experienced anger that day, her wrath towards me well deserved. We spent several hours afterwards watching the unending news coverage, awaiting word from the president. Exhausted, with little hope of falling asleep at anytime soon, we retired to the bedroom, turning off the lights and the relentelss assault of the ongoing television coverage, silently worrying what kind of world we would be waking up to come morning.
3.
American psyche changed on that dark day. Similar to my initial reaction with the ATM, I had insisted that we maintain a full tank of gas in the car at all times. The following day we drove out to a Long Island beach. I still had the video camera and wanted footage of the battleships approaching New York Harbor to safeguard the city from any further acts of violence. Walking across the dunes, I could hear the seagulls and smell the ocean, a peaceful moment interrupted seconds later by the imposing sight of the charcoal colored smoke still rising several miles to the west. Later that evening, in the backyard I had grown up in as a child we sat at a table with relatives and friends, sharing our collective experiences. The silent sky, devoid of air traffic in what was an often heavily used flight path on the approach to New York’s Kennedy International Airport added an eerie element to the forced conversation. By Saturday, the 16th, planes were flying again in a limited capacity. Now, sitting outside our Queens apartment, I tried in vain to return to the world of Robert Doherty’s Area 51, my concentration continually broken by the sound of low flying aircraft on the approach to nearby LaGuardia Airport, a sound I had become mostly oblivious to that now held an air of menace. A month later, in October, on a brief overnight trip to the Jersey Shore, I held my breath driving over the Verrazano Bridge, a two-mile span connecting Brooklyn and Staten Island.
Here we are, Seven years later, on the eve of another dismal anniversary.
I still wonder, when?
It’s a different world now.
We had harbored some serious doubts before bringing a child into a world where the value of human life meant so little. He'll have his moments of reckoning, his days of consequences, be them great or small. I can only hope that he’ll never have to look up to the sky and plead with whoever might be looking down,
“Please make it two weeks from now. "

Boom! It was over

I miss the days when life used to move in slow motion. In a desperate effort to make the most out of what was unbelievably the last day of summer, my son and I got an earlier start than usual in getting out of the house. Walking alongside, watching him pedal a bike he is quickly outgrowing, we spent our leisurely journey happily rehashing some of the finer moments of a summer season that has gone by entirely too quickly. His rapid-fire reminiscing fades a bit, while I temporarily, albeit involuntarily, tune him out and forlornly take notice of the faded remnants of a Yard Sale announcement stubbornly stuck to a lamppost, fighting to stem the tide of the inevitable in much the same way that we are doing. I can't say that I still relish the arrival of summer in much the same way I had when I was younger, but I do hate to see it reach its conclusion in much the same way I'm sure kid's do when they're facing that long dreaded first day of school. At what point did life begin passing in a blur, lending some credence to the old saying, flash before my eyes? I still recall a long ago conversation with a co-worker during my tenure at Hofstra University. I had idly commented on how quickly the summer seemed to have passed. She forewarned me that as you get older, time moves at a far more rapid pace. I offhandedly dismissed that, thinking to myself, no way! These are the best years of my life right now. This will last forever. It doesn't.
I have this habit now of attaching a theme to each summer, in an effort to keep them all straight in my mind. Last year, for instance was The Summer of Potter. J.K Rowling's final chapter of the beloved Harry Potter series was certainly the media event of the season, if not the year. You could not walk anywhere through everyday life without seeing someone reading The Deathly Hallows. 2008 will always be remembered as the Summer of Dorsey, though I didn't see anyone else with his or her head buried in a Dorsey book. Tim Dorsey is an author who makes his living in the genre of Florida fiction. With the exception of Laurence Shames, another author of the same ilk, I usually don't follow this type of work. The outlandishly over the top characters and situations can get tiresome. Shames, at least keeps this in check somewhat. The appealing thing about the Dorsey novels is his penchant for Florida history, which he seamlessly weaves into every storyline. I've always dreamed of escaping to Key West, and living the Parrothead lifestyle. I generally prefer to take my literary Florida excursions during the winter months, but as I was desperately in search of a theme to catalog the Summer of 'o8 for future reference, July seemed as good a time as any. Here we are in September, five Dorsey's later and in great need of a break. With the unofficial end of summer, comes my unofficial end of Dorsey, at least until the New Year.
Cabin Fever is an ailment that usually strikes my wife and me shortly into the onset of winter. Entertaining a five year old who will quickly be bored with his recent cache of new Christmas gifts is no easy task. With the prospect of little snowfall in our area, he starts longing for the warmer weather shortly after the holidays. The weather has yet to show a hint of changing yet and he’s already asking me when we will make our next pilgrimage to Pennsylvania. This year, by unanimous decision, we returned to the land of the Amish. He fondly remembers last year's ride in a horse and buggy and the exciting journey aboard a genuine steam train, yet he talks mostly about swimming in the motel pool and playing in the playground in his pajamas.
I guess it really is the little things.
This time around I had wanted to try something different, with the hope of making a memory for him that would last forever. Rather than a motel, we had chosen to stay in a log cabin on the property of the Mill Bridge Camping Resort. A built in pool, playground, canoeing, and the opportunity to sit outside by a campfire seemed a great way to take his Pennsylvania mindset to another level. It was sleeping in a loft that he will remember most about his return trip to the Pennsylvania farmland. My wife is not really into the whole great outdoors thing. Bugs and the lingering smell of charred wood on both clothing and person kept her from joining the two of us around the fire, where we stayed one night until well past his bedtime. I never would have thought it possible to actively converse with such a young mind for such an extended period. Two days later as we were pulling out, I watched his pensive face in the rear view mirror, feeling a bit of his sadness at the prospect of returning home, while wondering at the same time whether my dad and I may have shared a similar bonding experience when I was that age. Should my little guy ever take the time stop by here and read about his dad one day, I hope that he will remember that night with as much warmth and fondness as I do. I always worry about his teen years, and how that will inevitably affect the bond we share now. He started Kindergarten this morning. His infant and toddler years have gone by in the same blur that this summer has. Long before he had come into our lives, my wife and I just beginning a relationship that would span a lifetime, country music radio was alive and well in New York. Summer seemed to last just a little longer back then, though I no longer harbored the illusion that this will last forever. It was during that time when country artist Robert Ellis Orrall had scored a minor hit, that as cliche' as it may sound, sums up this long winded (yes, another one) entry perfectly.

Like stepping off the corner on a busy street,
Like a pretty girl can knock you off your feet,
Like a change in the weather, or the drop of a hat,
BOOM! It was over, just like that.

I Hate the U.S. Open

Tennis enthusiasts, don't take offense, I'm not a tennis fan. I know very little about the game over all. I know that points are scored as Love. Had I known it was that easy, I would have picked up Tennis years ago. What a boost to my delicate teen ego it would have been, even if I had scored just a little love! I wrote a story about Tennis once, wa-a-y-y back when I was in the tenth grade. The title was "Lost Love." I'll spare you the gory details. Saying that I hate the U.S. Open is like saying that I hate the Good Year blimp, or any corporate sponsored dirigible for that matter. Blimp's play a large part in my life. It may seem minuscule, but to me a blimp represents a goal, not in the sports sense however, but in the life sense.
It was a summer's day in 1974 when Lisa and I had met. In truth, we had actually met several years earlier at a far younger age. Our mom's had attended High School together, managing to do what a significant amount of the general public could not...Keep in touch. Lisa's family resided roughly thirty miles east of the small hamlet I called home on a street whose name I shall never forget; Bread and Cheese Hollow Road. Imagine trying to fit all of that on the front of a small white envelope. Her address was longer than the subject matter of the letters I would stuff inside those envelopes. Had there always been some undercurrent of romance dating back to our youngest years, I wondered? It was at a church picnic where we had wasted no time getting reacquainted. Young and temporarily in love, we were glued to the waist, walking proudly through the park, our arms around each other so tightly that I can still feel the bruised ribs today. We held hands, we rode the carousel, and reveled in that special type of magic reserved only for the innocence of youth. The only other memory my addled brain, with its talent of remembering some of the most inane details had retained, was her account of a family trip to Florida and a flight in a blimp. I was jealous. We had never ventured to such far off and exotic places. I had yet to travel by air, on either a plane or a zeppelin! That special day reaching its inevitable end, we were separated once again, relegated to future communication via the postal service or the occasional phone call. Ultimately, we failed to accomplish what our parents had for so many years and eventually lost touch. She did remain in my thoughts, having often played the role of the heroine in one or two of the short stories I had crafted in my Junior High and High School years. She was not the love interest in the aforementioned tennis tale, however. That leading role was played by a girl I had met camping some years later. I'll ruin the ending by telling you that she dies in that story.
By 1985, my writing in conjunction with my brief stab at higher education had long been abandoned. I was in a great mood one warm July afternoon, cruising through life in a dead end job with no future, no game plan, and no clue. It was a happy time, similar to what a Prozac moment might feel like. Stepping out for lunch, I looked to sky above where I could hear the unmistakable droning of a large propeller driven craft. I always love the site of a blimp lazily lumbering along. The unwanted memory crashed in with the angry force of rushing water.
"I'll never do that," I thought sullenly, recalling Lisa's age-old tale of flight. "I'll never get to Florida either. What the hell am I doing? What am I going to do with my life?!"
There was nothing surreal about it. That in-body experience was a crystal clear moment of clarity, a shocking wake-up call that depressingly set the tone for the remainder of the day. Eventually I found the power within to return to my fairy tale world, though its landscape had changed somewhat. I unconvincingly told myself that life would get better one day.
It did.
Florida happened for me two years later, the curse that I had brought upon myself finally lifted. It was in the early spring of the new millennium that the unimaginable happened. Called upon by the powers that be, in a job I had turned into a career, I was asked to attend a technology trade show in Sin City. I got on the web to do a little recreational research and found myself staring at the screen in total disbelief. Vegas.com on the launch of their new website was offering passenger's the once in a lifetime thrill to hop aboard their newly christened aerial billboard; the blimp. I had felt only the slightest degree of guilt, opting not to attend the tradeshow on the afternoon I had planned the flight. My timing could not have been any better as there were no other passengers scheduled. Due to contractual obligations, the vessel was required to be airborne regardless. My paltry fee for flight was an added bonus. It’s not a white-knuckle experience and can barely be compared to any type of extreme sport. With an arm hanging out the open side, the feeling is more like driving in a car on a newly paved road. Holding tightly to the attached ropes, a small group of people gently maneuvers the blimp, pointing it in the proper direction for takeoff. Once clear, the propellers roar and almost instantaneously the view of the horizon changes radically as we begin our steep ascent. It was an unexpectedly painful experience for me when without warning, a heavy piece of equipment fell forward, scraping and bruising my right shin. Apologizing profusely and inwardly hoping we wouldn’t be seeing me in court anytime soon, the harried pilot hastily shoved the unit back into position while I rubbed my battered bone and wondered how quickly or at what rate of speed we would be returning to earth. Apparently, the oversized electronics did not play an integral part in the function of flight. Later, in the vaunted pilot’s chair, I was instructed in the basics of operating the craft.
It was the least he could do.
Two wheels positioned on each side of the chair are used for flight control. Spin them forward and the vessel descends, backward and it points skyward. The top rate of achievable speed was no more than 45 M.P.H. Returning to our proper seats he demonstrated this by bringing the engines up to full speed and aiming us at the ground, which was in no rush to come up and meet us. Heading upwards again, the speed never changed. I wondered what the people below were thinking as they watched our erratic flight pattern. I had gotten well more than my money’s worth. With no passengers waiting at the airstrip for what would have been the next scheduled departure, we stayed in the air for over an hour, veering from the normal flight path so I could see my hotel from above. The view of the famous Vegas strip from that vantage point could only have been more magical had I taken the opportunity to see it at night. A fleeting thought of Lisa must have entered my mind at one point that afternoon. While I had not thought about her in years, she was inadvertently responsible for my being there and making it a priority to achieve a goal that I had long come to consider as insurmountable.
There are a lot of blimp sightings when the Open is in town.
Why do I hate the U.S. Open?
It simply signifies the end of summer.

Blogging: Small Fish in the World's Largest Pond

WOW!
There's hope for us small town blogger's after all.
Recently I had the great pleasure of reading a feature article in Long Island's Newsday relating the tale of a local blogger. longislanddailyphoto.blogspot.com opens a small window allowing the rest of the world to come inside and experience a piece of everyday life, one photo at a time, as seen through the eyes of an average long islander. She was inspired by a similar blog highlighting the sights of Paris in much the same way. I've always maintained that the simplest ideas are most often the best ones, and applaud all of the daily photo blogger's for allowing us a brief moment to step into their shoes and take a brief look around. As I tend to be a little long winded at times, this type of daily blogging would never work for me, so I've decided to treat this particular entry more like a book report; something I haven't done since the days of my youth. Feel free to comment or simply grade me from "A" through "F." Hopefully no one has screwed up the Bell Curve.

My Neighborhood, by Morty.
Yes, the above link would be considered blatant plagiarism, so consider it footnoted. In an effort to stem my longwindedness, I figured I would send you there first. Now, on to business.
I was born and bred roughly eight miles east Forest Hills in nearby Nassau County on Long Island proper. The borough of Queens, while physically a part of Long Island is considered more often than not, by its residents as part of New York City. My earliest impressions of Queens echoed that of the locals. It's a far cry from the more relaxed, spread out, greener pastures (in the literal sense) of Long Island. A major percentage of the Five Boro's consists of pavement, high rise apartment buildings, major thoroughfares, gridlock, noise, parking meters, and a lack of parking spaces. Add to that, Alternate Side of the Street Parking. Twice a week on alternating days, drivers are forced to find suitable parking elsewhere as one side of the street is off limits to make room for the street sweeping trucks. My non-expert opinion as a casual, often frustrated bystander is that these trucks do nothing more than throw up dust while moving the dirt around.

My son gets a kick out of them though.
I had a rather large number of stipulations when it came to moving from the peace and quiet of the suburbs, a realtor's real nightmare. I wanted an apartment in a private house as opposed to high rise, and did not want to live on any street named with a number.
That's a tall order!
During the late summer of 1993, My significant other found said apartment without the help of anyone in the Real Estate industry. The only thing I'd known of Forest Hills was that it was one of the more sought after areas in this borough to lay down some roots, be them temporary or permanent. There's also a certain stigma attached to it that raises some eyebrows. Whenever I'm working with clients and the availability for small talk arises, the second I mention Forest Hills, their immediate reaction is,
"Wow, you must be doing really well."
"No, no," I correct them. "I walk through that neighborhood to get to mine."
The Gardens is one of the premiere exclusive neighborhoods in the borough of Queens. Its cobblestone streets and Tudor style homes give it a real European flair, at least the way I picture Europe based on what I've seen in say, James Bond and Pink Panther movies. I love to meander through the quiet tree lined streets, where parking is abundant and the noise of typical general traffic mayhem is considerably muted. There are actually plenty of buses, subways, and commuter rails that pass straight through the heart of town, which unbelievably is not more than a few blocks from this tranquil neighborhood, making for a short, trouble free commute to Manhattan. The main line of the Long Island Railroad slices through it's center. The dividing line it creates provides clear indication of the contradiction that is Forest Hills. Immediately south is the aforementioned upper income community of The Garden's. To the north lies Austin Street, the hub of Forest Hills, both for transportation and shopping. Beyond that lies Queens Boulevard, probably the busiest thoroughfare in the borough, followed by a high concentration of apartment buildings; essentially the more conventional Queens.
Pulling in or out of the Forest Hills train station, one cannot help but notice the hint of grandeur that once was. Mere steps to the south, the Forest Hills Tennis Stadium; the original home of the U.S. Open still stands. It's place in the music world is equally impressive, hosting such greats as The Beatles, Frank Sinatra, The Who, and Diana Ross. If memory serves, Hall and Oates may have passed through there as well. Majestic from a distance, it's crumbling facade upon closer inspection is sad. The last event that I can remember taking place there was a Phish concert in the mid-nineties. I may be speaking out of turn here as this is only based on my observations walking home at the end of a long work week, but the mildly unruly crowd wandering the streets with open beer containers, loudly complaining about the lack of parking most likely proved too much for the locals whom I am sure had some kind of hand in putting an end to such events. I for one would love to see this landmark put to use again. I'm sure that if I were to do a bit more research I'd find some type of preservation committee standing firm on leaving this iconic structure intact. In the meantime, it just seems to be a waste of some prime real estate.
Meandering further south on the quest to reach my neighborhood, the landscape begins to change. Nearly as drastic as the Long Island Railroad dividing line, is the razor sharp property line that signals the change from exclusivity to everyday. The middle income homes here are textbook old school Queens! Take a look at the opening sequences of television's King of Queens, or the classic All in the Family and you can see first hand exactly what I'm talking about. In fact, the exterior shot of the Archie Bunker home is literally just across the Forest Hills border, residing in the town of Glendale. Just a few blocks shy of this border is the area that I call home. The Long Island Railroad plays an important part here as well, both in its history and in the beautiful almost country-like serenity left in its wake. This was the major selling point in my relocating from suburb to borough. The former Rockaway Beach Branch; discontinued in the early 1960's now provides a beautiful buffer zone separating this neighborhood from the traffic and congestion on nearby Woodhaven Boulevard; another major thoroughfare. Our first order of business after settling in was to take a walk on those long abandoned tracks to explore a piece of Queens history that not a lot of people get to see, or may even know exists for that matter. Here we see the rusted remains of a set of stairs that at one time must have led to a long gone station platform.
The view from the rear of our home is idyllic. In the early days, my wife and I could often be found sitting outside at night, sipping wine as we listened to the rustling of the trees, looking to the night sky at the twinkling lights of stars while planes silently soared high overhead. In the morning, we would enjoy coffee back there, or spend some quality reading time together. The freshly fallen snow from the occasional winter storm would almost provide a Norman Rockwell like scene.
Recently, we acquired a new neighbor in the house next door who has put to good use the land behind his home, making for the perfect summer getaway without actually going anywhere. I hear there is talk these days of turning this area in to parkland, creating a Greenway here for biking, jogging, walking, or simply enjoying nature.

One of my closest companions in High School was a girl who had two great loves in her early life; horseback riding, and country music, one of the two which has rubbed off on me. I owe my love of country music primarily to my father who during our teen years always had 1050 WHN-AM on the car radio, making the unlikely pairing of Lisa and I as friends not so unlikely at all. I fondly remember coming to the end of the winter months when she would begin the countdown of days leading to her getting back in the saddle again (no pun intended). She would often try to coerce me into joining her, but there was something about the unfamiliarity of climbing on an animal many times my size and putting my trust in it's comfort with having me there. I was far more comfortable in the seat of a roller coaster, no matter what the size! Horseback riding probably would never have crossed my mind again, yet herein for me lies the greatest contradiction that is Forest Hills. This is such a far cry from the Union Turnpike that I remember as a kid, and that was at its eastern end in Nassau County Long Island! I've always had the dream of one day living in the country, waking up to the peaceful sounds of nature, living life at a pace that is somewhat slower than the frenetic one that New York City and it's outlying boroughs are known for. Pictured here is the entrance to Forest Park. There's a beautifully quaint playground here that abuts the entrance to the bridle path, and a working line of the Long Island Railroad most often used for freight trains. My son and I enjoy walking along the fence, each with our own nature supplied walking sticks, reminding him of a past trip to Vermont, while allowing me to lose myself in the dream of living in the country. If the quiet piece of land that borders the rear of our dwelling wasn't enough, the scene of horses trotting in and out of the park while a freight train lazily lumbers past is pure country paradise!

Development is important to the growth and well being of any community, a bland statement, I know. While paradise is often not more than a few steps away, there were certainly a few blemishes to mar this otherwise near perfect picture. The long unused, dilapidated buildings that once bordered the nearby intersection of Woodhaven Boulevard and Metropolitan Avenue are now thriving businesses. The recent additions of Staples, Sports Authority, Home Depot, and Trader Joe's are encouraging. I'm sure it's caused a bit of consternation for the long established small guy who 0nce dominated these parts, but sadly, this is the downside of progress. Another downside here is traffic! While I'm all for progress and development, the recent influx of shoppers has turned this place into a congestion nightmare. I don't know who plans the traffic studies to see how it may affect the community, but the individuals in charge of this one have failed miserably. Talk about screwing up the Bell Curve! Further development continues in this area on a piece of property that was truly a long decaying wasteland, overgrown with weeds and grass. This however is progress of the most positive kind! I can only guess at what it may do to the traffic patterns here, but the opportunity to have my son attend school in a brand new building, only a couple of blocks from home would make it worth the aggravation.

So, long story short?

In the eyes of my five year old son, there's magic here. Every community has its share of problems. I've very lightly touched on the rare few that really irk me, but this community, while not perfect is the place that I call home. I've seen a lot of changes since the day I gave up my suburban roots, most of them positive. I would love to hear and learn more about the Forest Hills that was, but not from a book (remember those?) or the Internet. I openly invite anyone to comment here or contact me. I'm a great listener. Besides, a few more visitors on this site would also be considered progress of the most positive kind, with the hope that one day I may be a slightly larger fish in this enormous pond.

AWRY (pronounced "orrie")?

I consider myself a decent wordsmith when it comes to the English language, something I can attribute to my voracious appetite for reading. I'm not reading Faulkner or Hemingway mind you, but I seem to get by fairly well. Admittedly, I am a bit on the lazy side when it comes to words I'm unsure of, so rather than puzzle over their meaning or pronunciation, I just kind of skip over it and move on. I never would have dreamed that this lazy little habit would one day bring to the forefront of my life a simple SAT like vocabulary word that just by its mere site or utterance could instantaneously transport me back in time to an era of untroubled days and a relatively carefree existence.
"Imagine if the world ended today and the only two people left alive to carry on the future of the human race would be them," my friend Scott strangely contemplated, gesturing towards our two unlikely traveling companions?
“That would be like completely…” he paused, looking for just the right word. “Orrie?”
Laughing, I could see the word in my mind and knew exactly what he was trying to convey.
“How do you say it?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “A-W-R-Y, I’ve read it a million times.”
It was July of 1987; the two of us lounging poolside at the South Shore Resort Inn, Virginia Beach, reveling in that special time of life where spontaneity and impracticality were the primary rules we lived by. Having recently endured a horrific four hundred miles on the road, we reaped our well-deserved reward that afternoon in sun and beer. Fran and Robbie, of whom I was only casually friendly with at the time, rounded out our crew. There was not much more to the lure of the Virginia coast for me other than fact that I had never been there before. The only sights I’d planned on seeing were the beach, the boardwalk and the nightlife. Scott on the other hand had chosen this little piece of paradise with the distinct pleasure of visiting the world headquarters of the Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.).
At least one of us would get a little culture.
The plan to leave the New York area sometime during the pre-dawn hours had been an ambitious one. As it was Scott’s turn to take the wheel this time around, I had opted for a night spent partying at our favorite watering hole where they would pick me up later. My jubilation mounted in direct correlation with the several Budweiser’s I had consumed before switching to Coca-Cola to keep the blood flowing. I had planned to stay awake at least until we reached Jersey. I retrieved my bag from the trunk of a friend’s car barely noticing the scent of overheated engine odor wafting from the direction of the late 70’s era red Dodge Dart that was unmistakably Scott’s. The not so tough looking crew I had already come to consider as our small band of highway rebels looked none too confident as I approached.
“The trip’s off,” Scott disconsolately proclaimed.
I could just make out the last wisps of rising steam, colored amber by the overhead streetlamp behind him.
Looking to the others who nodded resolutely, I put on a concerned face while trying to mask my obvious disappointment. Barely listening to Scott’s very non-technical diagnosis, I became momentarily distracted as a light southerly breeze kicked up, taking with it the cloying scent of burning anti-freeze and leaving in its wake a strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee. I looked over his shoulder at the lights of the 7-Eleven next door. The decision was immediate.
Several months earlier, I had made my first real car purchase, opting for a same decade 1987 Dodge Charger. There was no doubt in my mind in the car’s ability to make the journey. My only trepidation was that no one else in the group was capable of handling a four speed standard transmission. I bought myself an extra large coffee and a box of caffeine pills, which I hastily ingested during the laborious process of switching vehicles. It was four a.m. by the time we hit the road, the car packed with luggage and the prerequisite cooler of breakfast beers.
They were asleep before Brooklyn and stayed that way until roughly five hours later at the Maryland border, where I required some assistance in plotting a new course to correct the faux pas I had made earlier, having missed an important exit several miles back in Delaware. The best bet at that late juncture called for continuing South to Route 50 where we would veer east towards the shore. It looked sound enough on paper until we grudgingly realized that a large percentage of the state’s population had decided to hit the beach as well. We were deadlocked in the worst traffic jam that I had ever known. The only plus to this course deviation were the road signs touting Ocean City; a name I had stored in my subconscious for future vacation consideration, and the opportunity to drive over one of the most extreme bridges I had ever seen. At some point we would arrive at one of the nations more impressive transportation marvels; the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, which had become something of a Holy Grail in our quest to reach Virginia. It was our crossing at The Bay Bridge however, that will resonate in my mind forever. Sleep-deprived and moving at barely a crawl across its span, I luxuriated in the pleasantly disconnected feeling of floating in midair, high above the gently undulating water’s below. By the time we had touched down on solid ground, I was in a state of euphoria and felt the need to celebrate. I pulled over, opened the rear hatch and retrieved a number of long awaited (now well past) breakfast beers. Clandestinely handing the frosty contraband to my companions still seated inside, I very openly took a long pull from my own right there on the pavement, smiling and waving at the astonished onlookers as they drove past, some of them looking decidedly parched. I laughed, umworried at the prospect of anyone calling a cop.
Cell phones hadn’t been invented yet.
A couple of hours later, we had finally reconnected with our original route only to find ourselves shocked, dismayed and forlorn at the irrefutable fact that we still faced a minimum of four hours traveling time. Maybe it was the caffeine or the momentary beer buzz wearing off, but I was privately and inconsolably distraught. Not even the excitement of reaching the world’s largest Duck Decoy Factory, whose proud signs we had been passing for several miles could lift my spirits. Irritable and agitated, our long awaited arrival at the famed Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel came with little fanfare. The sparse recollections I have were of a gift shop located mid-span, the gulls that seemed to inhabit every lamp post, and the actual pavement with its constant rises and dips that seemingly created the nauseating sensation of seasickness.
Twelve hours after our early morning departure from Long Island, we had finally arrived, greeting the Virginia shore with a tired indifference, although Scott had perked up for a second as we drove past the sacred home of the Association for Research and Enlightenment.
Talk about your Holy Grail!
My one glimmer of hope appeared in the form of a lone parachute soaring above the ocean. Parasailing, a safe, sane version of skydiving had long been a dream of mine, which would soon come to fruition.
It is no wonder that in my exhausted state, I would lose track of some of the routine aspects of our impromptu getaway. There must have been some degree of excitement upon checking into our temporary residence. There was most certainly some degree of celebratory beer consumption once we hit the pool. Following dinner in the hotel restaurant a short time later, we finally ventured out to explore the beach and boardwalk where I clearly remember witnessing a number of minor altercations, which were most likely alcohol fueled. Scott’s concerns echoed my own in that there appeared to be an under-current of racial tension, luckily short lived, at least during the time of our stay.
Later that night we visited a club inside a high rose hotel across the street chosen for only two reasons; location and a live band. Still shell shocked from the drive, the night was wholly uneventful and would have gone unmentioned here had it not been for this bizarre ability I have of retaining some of the most mundane, unimportant little tidbits of information. The band was forgettable, yet to this day, I remember them only because they performed an obscure Inxs tune from the Listen Like Thieves LP, “Same Direction”.
The next morning, we dropped by the dock to reserve parasailing time. With nearly two hours to kill before our scheduled departure, it was back to the pool for some mid-morning brunch beers, this time at Scott’s behest.
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I never drink before flying.”
“You don’t have to do anything but hold on,” he chided!
Sated from grog, we gaily meandered back to the dock, trying to stifle any errant laughter that might give away our near state of inebriation.
What happens if I have to pee up there," I secretly worried?

The boat ride out to the ocean was both relaxing and insightful, providing us with an unimpeded view of the Virginia Beach shoreline. It was also the first time I had ever witnessed something called a Banana Boat, wherein riders towed behind a speedboat atop a banana shaped raft slalom in and out of the waves, soaring momentarily skyward, before jarringly returning to the unforgiving sea. Shortly thereafter, several of the happily dazed passengers would be found floating in the water like shipwreck survivors awaiting rescue.
We passed on it.
My parasailing experience was invigorating at first as the anticipation began to build. Holding tight to two vertical poles on the boat’s rear platform, there was the momentary thrill of resistance as the chute fanned out behind me and I was suddenly airborne, amazed not only that I was actually flying, but that there was absolutely no sensation of movement. Soaring quickly higher, the droning of the powerful motors beneath me dissipated, leaving nothing but the light ruffling of the wind blown fabric above. It’s not an extreme sport by any means. Those eight minutes were among the most peaceful moments of the entire vacation. I’ve parasailed many times since then and would recommend it to anyone without a fear of heights, water, sharks…

I was always on the hunt for a girlfriend in those days. While other males on a four-day getaway would be on the hunt for something else, I simply yearned for a significant other. Tina was the poolside server who brought us a continual stream of beers and daiquiri’s. She was sweet, easy to talk to and we tipped her well. Had it not been for a single photo we had somehow coaxed her into posing for, she would long ago have faded into obscurity. Thinking about her kept a smile on my face during those few days while my mind pleasantly contemplated the what if factor. Alas, while romance was not in the cards, we had become pen pals for a short while.
Fran and Robbie; the other half of our unit were in no way romantically linked, yet they fought and sniped at each other like married people would. Their constant bickering had me practically begging Scott to take me with him on his afternoon sojourn to the A.R.E.! Choosing to ignore those pleas, he left, in search of something I would never understand. Met with a small degree of apathy by the others upon his return several hours later, Scott’s tales of crystals, negative ion’s, and atmospheric calm held my rapt attention long enough to usher him upstairs and begin a marathon of late afternoon snack beer consumption. I really believe that we acted mature enough for our age, choosing not to behave like rock stars hell bent on launching televisions from upper floor balconies, and as a result had never been evicted from any premises nor asked not to return. The letter we received from management as a gentle reminder to leave all of the furniture inside the room seemed a bit extreme. Any furniture removal was only in good fun. Coorsman; our own personal super hero came to life that afternoon. I don’t know what he was fighting for or how many people might remember the iconic character standing on our balcony smugly waving at the crowd below like a proud dignitary riding upon a parade float, but he lived in our hearts long thereafter.
Twenty-one years have gone by since the utterance of that unremarkable, trite little word. Scott relocated to the west coast in the early nineties, resulting in the inevitable waning of our kinship. He recently popped into town for the first time in nearly half a decade, allowing us the brief opportunity to get together one Sunday afternoon to do a little catch-up beer consumption. It’s always a bit awkward for me trying to reconnect with someone after a long period, but with Scott, we seem to have a knack for picking up right where we left off. It’s a special bond that while broken by time and distance on the outside still holds strong on the inside. It was during that short reunion, the two of us sitting at a lakeside bar in New York City’s Central Park, lazily rehashing the old days, when the magic word floated from my mouth, releasing this flood of memories.
“Where was that from,” Scott asked me with a look of confusion on his face?
I was dismayed to learn that the word didn’t hold as much significance with him.
“Virginia Beach, Fran and Robbie,” I prodded.
Laughing upon immediate remembrance, he looked at me and said,
“Man, you have a great memory!”
I do.
For certain things.
I call it selective retention.
His statement is the very catalyst, not just for this story, but also for the entire reason that this site exists. The photo albums I’ve kept from those years are helpful in triggering recollections, but pictures just barely tell the tale. I know there’s plenty that I’ve forgotten.
The remainder of our brief adventure has faded from my memory, although I must have connected with Robbie on some level. Ignoring common sense and the refusal to learn my lesson, the two of us spent our last night in some bar or club, while Scott and Fran had opted for sleep instead. The drive home went smoothly, clocking in at somewhere around six hours. The route was easy enough to remember, and would be followed again when we would make a return trip for the upcoming Labor Day Weekend with a larger cast of characters. I’ll leave the exploits of our Virginia Beach homecoming for another time. Should I ever decide to revisit that weekend in literary form, I think I’ll title it with one other unremarkably trite little word…
“Twice!”