THE SOULMAN

TUXEDO HOE

To my way of thinking we all have one. In fact, I believe that every sentient being does. Of course, I am talking about the soul. There are many ways and words to describe it. Essence, spirit, nature, life-force, energy, and psyche are just some of the more well known. And virtually all the world’s religions believe in something within us that exists beyond the physical realities of living day to day in a real world and that continues after our natural end.

I get it.

The thought of a finite existence is terrifying to most human beings. I know it can be for me, especially as I get older. The very idea that our existence here is finite gives me a sincere appreciation for the power and privilege of simply being alive. So, I do my best to live fully day by day. However, I also realize that I will not know until I do. And I am in no particular hurry to find out.

What I am more interested in exploring with this offering is how the soul is synonymous with the nature of a living being. I have deliberately used the broader term “living being” rather than “human being” because I believe ALL living creatures posses it. Think of the terms “good natured” or “of a gentle nature.”  Of course, there are the negative ones too like “mean spirited” or “ornery.” Yes, as whole human beings, we have a bit of all these traits. But I’m thinking of the more dominant characteristics that, once again, ALL sentient beings have. In other words, it’s how do we present ourselves to the world. And it’s often intuitive. It’s just how we ARE.

This notion is constantly being reinforced in my reactions not only with other people but particularly when I deal with my pets and the other animals I encounter. I think anyone (like me) who owns and has been around animals their entire lives know exactly what I am talking about. We recall each and every one of them AND what made them unique in their own way. However, there are some of such nature, i.e. with that deep soul, that they become so very special. It makes it a pleasure simply to be around them. You connect. Understanding is on a level beyond words. THAT’s soul. And that’s what makes the bond so special. And it is expressed through a being’s nature. Perhaps that’s what makes it so, well, soulful.

I have had this relationship with both cats and dogs in the past, and the tradition continues with my latest charge, my cat Tuxedo Joe. Joe came to me about 5 years ago when I answered a Facebook plea to provide a home for a “special cat” (the ads italics, not mine). The ad basically said that this little tuxedo cat (about 9 months old at the time) had jumped into a delivery truck in Spring Valley, NY and wouldn’t leave. The driver brought him home to give to the friendly “cat lady” at his apartment complex. She took him in but couldn’t keep him as she already had her limit. She explained in the post that he had some minor health issues that needed addressing but he had this way about him (that’s right soul) and if someone gave him a chance, he would be a great friend.

Well, I decided to take the chance.

In the beginning, it was a real challenge. Even though he was young, he was feral and not used to being kept inside. Plus, he was supposed to have been neutered but he was not. He also had the aftereffects of a neurological disorder that left him walking a little like a drunken sailor.  And he was destroying my apartment. But there WAS something special about him – in every sense of the word. Despite his impediments, he refused to let life defeat him. I mean you could FEEL his life force, i.e. his soul. He takes life at ITS pace and makes it work for HIM. And he was/is so loving. Again, despite his wild and feral beginnings (BTW, he still stays outside about 90% of the time in nice weather) he is most gentle being. He NEVER hunts or kills ANYTHING! It’s simply not in his nature, i.e. soul. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

Some call them angels or bodhisattvas, i.e. envoys from a higher power sent to show us the way to enlightenment. I am not so convinced of that. However, what I am more confident in is that these beings, in whatever form they happen to take, are of a nature to teach us by their very act of being to accept who we are and why we are here.

Needless to say, Joe and I are bonded. And, why not? A deep soul is a deep soul no matter where it is found. They live among us and in many forms. I hope that I may have the same effect on others as Tuxedo Joe has had on me and I’ll also have earned the title SOULMAN.

 

 

FURRIES

F. LoBuono

The accusations are so bizarre that they defy credibility, especially since they were presented without ANY supporting evidence whatsoever. AND they were made by a sitting US Senator.

During a recent press conference, Senator Tommy Tuberville (R – Alabama) claimed that the US aviation industry was being infiltrated by so-called “Furries.” For the uninitiated, “Furry Society” is a subculture of individuals who find satisfaction in wearing costumes and mimicking the behavior of their favorite animals. Although often associated with sexual fetishes, it is much broader than that with practioners often meeting in costume to commune and share in comradery. Of course, it is considered strange by many but also harmless by most. Think of it as to each, their own – no matter how odd.

Photo: The American River Current

Well, Senator Tuberville decided to try and make a federal case out of these accusations – literally. Without presenting any substantial evidence besides a recording of 2 pilots making animals noises to one another (without context) and a cryptic link to an “Aviation Furry Hookup” at a convention, he stated, “an ALARMING number of these DERANGED individuals are working in the airline industry.” Tuberville went on to ask, “would you be comfortable with a MENTALLY ILL FURRY being your pilot?”

REALLY?

With the United States facing daily challenges created by an Administration that appears tone deaf to the needs of its people, a US Senator from the great State of Alabama choose to focus his attention on fixing something that ain’t broken! With an unpopular, ill-planned, poorly executed war causing gas prices to soar to nearly $5/gal. and the resulting fall-out, Senator Tuberville chooses to fight “Furries.” Inflation is resulting in families struggling to feed themselves. Healthcare is out of control. ICE agents are shooting innocent people in the streets. There is almost a daily assault on our 1^st and 5^th Amendment rights. Yet, the good Senator has decided to “die on a ‘Furry’ hill.”

But this is typical of our current Administration and the idiocy it lavishes in. From RFK, to Hegseth, Patel, Miller, and The Big Guy himself, President Donald J. Trump, our government is rife with unqualified grifters whose only true skills lie in bilking the American people.

Unlike Senator Tuberville’s unsubstantiated accusations, the entire Trump family and virtually every one of the sycophants that surround him can be shown to have enriched themselves at the expense of the American people.

Furries my ass.

The really deranged people are the ones who continue to support a regime that revels in fleecing them. Yes, Mr. Trump’s popularity numbers are plummeting. But we will not be done until they are ZERO. Then, we can be rid of him and his entire entourage, including Mr. Tuberville.

 

 

Making The Sacrifice

All words and photos by F LoBuono

With the approaching 25^th anniversary of the 911 attacks, there is no shortage of videos showing the heroic efforts that were made to find potential survivors and then to recover the victims lost on that awful day.

It is right and just to honor these men and women who worked tirelessly, day after day on that dreadful pile. And they did so, not knowing the terrible consequences doing so might have on their own health. In the years following 911, more have died from the illness associated with working at Ground Zero in the days that followed than on that dreadful day itself. Yet, I feel even knowing the risks, they still would have done their duty as they were called to do. It is one of the remarkable lessons we can take from such a tragic event.

With that in mind, I would ask you to honor one more group of people who risked everything to do THEIR jobs at Ground Zero. And they are the hundreds of journalists, photographers, producers, engineers, and technicians who spent 24 hours/day documenting everything that was happening in lower Manhattan. How do you think you saw the incredible video of the destruction at Ground Zero and the heroes working tirelessly on that toxic pile, making every effort to salvage anything they possibly could? It was through the efforts of a legion of news people who have also dedicated their lives to a higher cause, i.e. bringing people the truth, no matter what the cost.

So, when you see heroic footage (or hear/read a description) of soldiers and first responders running into harm’s way, realize that there is another human being risking everything to make sure the world knows the sacrifice being made at that time. It is often a thankless job. But we do it because we are compelled to do so.

Epilog: the author spent 8 days (9/12-20) at Ground Zero working as a photographer for CBS News

 

 

TRAVELING TO MOTTA D'AFFERMO, SICILY

All photos by F LoBuono
Motta D'Affermo, Sicily

When I was a young man in college I read Paul Bowel's seminal novel, "The Sheltering Sky." Published in 1949, the novel explores the themes of alienation and despair as seen through the eyes of a restless and adventurous married couple, Kit and Port Moresby. Without getting into the intricate details of what is a complex and compelling narrative, the notion raised of the difference between a tourist and traveler struck me like the proverbial bolt of lightening!

First, being a "tourist" in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it suits most people quite well. Most of us want to enjoy ourselves through the fine art of total relaxation and there is certainly good reason for that. We've earned it.

However, in order to achieve this, we must sacrifice some important things along the way. This is where the theme of being a traveler rather that a tourist takes on its significance.

When we go as a tourist we often trade adventure and all the traits associated with it for  familiarity and safety. Of course, everyone needs to feel safe when they are away from their homes. But, at the same time, the experience becomes more staged. In other words, we only see what our hosts allow us to. Travelers immerse themselves in the world around them, taking all the time necessary to see, smell, and feel a place. And in most cases, this means a certain surrender to the time, history, language, culture, and people you are visiting. In my mind, this means allowing the place to come to US instead of vice-versa.

This was completely applicable for my most recent trip to my ancestral home, Sicilia, i.e. Sicily. Now, this is not my first time. In fact, that I've gotten to the point to be able to use the adjective, consistently. And in an effort towards total transparency, the first few times I actually went as a tourist, i.e. with a guided tour group. I will also not apologize for it because those first few trips served their purpose by paving the wave for the adventure I now make of my journeys there. In a sense, it gave me road map of where I did and did not want to return to.

In a sense, to complete my connection to the island, my stepson, Jeremiah, and I decided to enter into a partnership and purchase a home in Sicily a little over 3 years ago. Although not connected by ancestry, Jeremiah fell in love with the place on his very first journey there. What it made so much more feasible was the fact that he is a much a traveler as I am. Plus, he did ALL the research and found us a spectacular, ancient town, high above the Aeolian Sea on the islands North/Central coast. Without going into a plethora of details it's a splendid home: 4 stories, 3 bedrooms, two full baths with bidets, 4 balconies with views of the town, mountains, and sea. It's solid concrete, marble, and iron railing construction, too. And even more mind-boggling is the fact that the former in habitants left ALL of the necessary furniture, kitchen supplies including pots and pans, original art work, beds AND linens, too. EVERYTHING. And since they are Sicilian, everything is immaculate.

The name of the town is Motta D'Affermo. It can date it's origins to the ancient and at one time very important, 4th Century B.C.E. settlement of Haleasa. It appears to have been abandoned at some point and then resettled again in the 5th Century AD before declining again. Much of the current village architecture can be traced to the 14th and 15th Centuries when it was once more restored. So, in other words, it's OLD and HISTORIC. The current full-time resident population is between 500 and 600. It's about a 2 hour ride from the airport in Palermo.

After a winding, snake-like road that takes you from the coastal super highway below to high above the sea, you arrive at one of the many piazzas that dot the village and one of the few level spots in the whole place. Depending on the time of day (like midday), you'll notice how incredibly quiet it is. If you're a New Yorker like me, it can be daunting. You'll feel the power of a blazing sun in an azure sky completed unrestricted by a single cloud. And you'll be awed by the spectacular views from virtually every corner of the village. People should also take notice that there are NO tourists here, only travelers. This place is so far off the beaten path, unless you have some familial connection, I can't possible imagine ANY tourist making it a deliberate destination. If you use Chat GPT I'm sure that Motta will not make the suggested list of places to visit in Sicily. And that's what makes it special. It just took me a little while to discover that.

Another thing you'll notice is that there are not a lot of amenities in the village. There is a small post office and pharmacy, 2 small bars that serve only light food, and 2 grocery stores that we in NY would call bodegas. There really is no true shopping. So, if you're looking to find gifts for loved ones at home, you might have to travel to larger, bigger towns like Santo Stefano or Mistretta (15-30 minutes away). Also, if you haven't prepared yourself for an evening meal, you may find yourself going hungry - even in a place famous for its fresh food!

But this is how tourists act, particularly American ones. We are used to what we want, how and when WE want it. Well, it doesn't work that way in Sicily, especially in the villages that time has virtually forgotten. Places like Motta D'Affermo. The mantra here is: Piano, piano, that is step by step. Go slowly. Life has it's own pace, follow it.

When I first visited and stayed there I found myself resistant of just such a notion. After all, what I had heard was that the town was dying and needed and influx of new people and fresh ideas. And I saw myself in that role. I knew best. Wasn't I coming from one of the most impactful, happening place of the planet, i.e. The NY-Metro area? Sure, the ideas that I (and others) have for Motta are still valid and important to implement at some point. However, I now understand my approach was complete wrong and that's why I wasn't making the progress I thought we should be. Instead of attempting to impose my will on how things SHOULD be, I began to see AND feel how they actually were. In other words I allowed Sicily to come to me.

Motta Sunset

Even though I had traveled to Motta on a number of occasions over the years, this was the first time I had the opportunity to go there completely alone. There were a few reasons why but are of no ultimate importance at this time. Suffice it to say it would not only allow me to attend to some business matters associated with the house, it would also give me the ability to immerse myself without ANY distraction into the people, the customs, and the pace of Motta D'Affermo. With the exception of swimming in the sea and visiting a few friends in a nearby village, I had no other plan but to roam the village, speak as much Italian as I could handle, and make as many photos of the place as humanly possible. It was also festival season throughout Sicily and Motta is no exception. Hundreds of former residents all come back to the village to celebrate their ancient traditions with those Mottesians left behind. It was an honor to witness and in some ways, be a part of it.

I also had the good fortune to be taken under the care of an intrepid fellow traveler who cut ties with her native South Africa to reside fulltime in Motta. Two years ago, Ilze Porter and her Belgian Malinois,  Max, moved there to live as Mottesians and have never looked back. She taught me the rhythms of the place like how, when and where to shop, when to have coffee, when to assert myself and also to back off. And perhaps, most importantly, to let time work for me instead of vice versa. When I did, I began to realize that Motta was becoming part of me, and me it. This was manifested by the amount of people who took the time to greet me as one of their own and express their joy in my photographs of the village. They were truly appreciative of my presence there and in my efforts to become one of their own.

Motta Village Officials

And I started to understand things on a level I had not before. I once thought of the siesta as a ridiculous waste of time, literally. As you may know, siesta is a ritual practiced by all Sicilians and most of Southern Europe. During the heat of the afternoon, from noon until about 4, virtually EVERYTHING is closed all over the island. Everything. But when you realize that it's not about doing "nothing" but rather doing the things that matter most like having lunch with your family and a nice nap when it's too damned hot to do much of anything, it becomes a most civilized invention.

I spent countless hours walking in, through and around the ancient streets of the village all the time while connecting with the hundreds of spirits who had done so for so many centuries before. It was a humbling and grounding experience. Motta D'Affermo will never be Cefalu' or Taormina. It doesn't have to OR want to be! But if you want to be a traveler rather than a mere tourist, it is the place for you. It certainly is for me now.

Motta D'Affermo at night.

Today's MOSTLY TRUE SHORT STORY: Cotton Candy.

It was the summer of '70. I had just completed my freshman year at Fort Lee High School. Going from a parochial grammar school to a public high school didn't prove to be a major hurdle for me. I came from a tight-knit neighborhood, so I had a good nucleus of friends to be with. Besides, I'm not exactly shy and tend to make friends easily. I was also a good athlete and managed to be captain of both my freshman football and baseball team. So, I was coming off a good year.

My family was not one of means so my brother, sister, and I all grew up with a powerful work ethic. If we wanted something, our parents instilled in us the drive and independence to work hard and GET it. It's a lesson I have never forgotten and carry it with me to this very day. No matter how successful I may have been in my career, I have never lost that ethos.

With that in mind, I took a summer job at one of the largest employers in the area - Palisades Amusement Park. Perhaps you remember it; the bright lights of carnival-like entertainment perched high above the Palisades just south of the George Washington Bridge and on the border of the boroughs of Fort Lee and Cliffside Park, NJ. On weekends, massive crowds of New Yorkers traveled across the bridge clogging every major road in their effort to get to the park. It became part of the rhythm of life in the borough.

So, of course it was a natural place for me to find work. Besides, I had a connection. One of my best friend's fathers owned a few concession stands at the park and would introduce me to someone I could work for. It turned out that he knew someone who owned two COTTON CANDY stands in the park and was looking for a young person to run them. That young person was me.

I had just turned 15 at the end of April.

My boss was an older gentleman with a gruff personality. But he was willing to train me how to make the cotton candy, balance the register, and open and close the stands. For this he would offer me virtually unlimited hours at $1 per hour. That's right, a buck. But since the park was open for extended hours, it allowed me to work quite a bit, often 10-12 hours a day. I would walk from my house (about 2 miles away) in the morning, work all day, and then walk back, often late at night (note: in those days it was still safe to do that). One week I actually worked 51 hours and the prince of a boss of mine paid me $56, claiming "the extra $5 was for working so many hours." Really.

And the strangest part is that I don't like cotton candy. Never did. I don't have a sweet tooth at all and the idea of eating spun sugar off a paper cone didn't appeal to me at all! And if that wasn't bad enough, I already had hairy arms (I am Sicilian after all) so on very hot days - and there were many - the sugar would stick to the hair on my arms until I could wash it off at the end of the day. One of the stands was in front of the park's large stage so one bonus was that I got to see some great performances from my little box. The other was under the roller coaster, and I think is one of the reasons I may be a little hard of hearing today.

So, why would someone consider putting oneself though such misery for $1/hour? Well, one reason was that as a park employee, I could go on ANY ride in the park for free - if and when I had the time. That, my friends, is strong incentive for a 15 year old boy. But my real motivation lied with my desire to play sports on a competitive level. As I mentioned previously, I was a good athlete but more importantly, I loved it. It was what I wanted to do. I had had a very successful freshman football season and thought that if I played my cards right, I just might get some varsity playing time as a sophomore.

At the end of my freshman year, I was invited to join the team at a preseason, private camp, just for the incoming football players. It would last a week and was located somewhere in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. I just HAD to be there! But there was a catch: the school couldn't/wouldn't pay for it. And, as it turned out, neither would my parents. But they didn't say I couldn't go either. As was their way, they said, "if you can earn the money, you can do whatever you want with it (within limits, of course)." So, that provided incentive #2.

There was one more.

My favorite football player was #30 of the NY Giants, Ron Johnson. And Johnson was the only play in the league at that time who was wearing BLUE, Puma brand cleats. I thought they were the coolest things ever. And I found a place that sold them - not blue but black, and still Pumas. That place was Cosby's Sporting Goods Store at the base of Madison Square Garden. I saw them in the window one day. I HAD to go in to find out if I could actually get them.

Yes, they had them in stock. Yes, they had them in my size. And, yes, they were $50. I was shocked. $50 for a 15 year old kid is a lot of money, even today. But, in those days it was a mountain, especially for a pair of shoes you were supposed only wear once a week for a few months! My folks thought I was crazy but once again stressed, "you buy what YOU want with YOUR money."

So, at the end of a long, hot summer, I spent MY money on the things that were important to ME at the time. I went to the camp AND I bought the shoes.

Life was good.

Epilogue: I went on to have a good sophomore year and football career at FLHS, even being co-caption my senior year. As for the shoes? I actually never got to wear them. The night I bought them I polished them to a high sheen and then placed them in our basement closet and closed the door - or at least I thought that I did. We had a puppy at the time and found a gap in the door. And what teething puppy could resist chewing on fresh leather? So, he ate the heels off both shoes. A shoemaker tried repairing them, but they were too far gone. Like the park, they are only a memory know. Palisades Amusement Park would last just one more summer, closing in September of 1971.

Graphic by: Davies Adele

 

THE SILENT GENERATION

Words and Photo by F LoBuono

To beat the oppressive heat we've experienced this summer, I try to get out of the house as early as possible to complete my exercise routine. It's a combination of a lot of walking, some calisthenics, and work with resistance bands. It's certainly not the heavy training that I did as I young man, but it keeps a 71-year-old body in reasonably good health and shape. I usually head for the park at the head of The Esposito Trail in South Nyack. It’s a few blocks from my house, so I get in some of my walking first. There is also a small exercise area where I can then complete the rest of my workout – about 20 minutes’ worth.

Some might wonder, “why not just join a gym?” Well, I have been a gym member and may be again. But I like being outside in the elements, feeling the heat, hearing the birds, and seeing what others might be doing in the park at the same time. So, in a sense, I’m doing something for my body AND my mind.

This morning was mostly typical. The heat was making its presence known even at that early hour. But people were still in the park. Some were walking their dogs, others jogging. I noticed a middle-aged gentleman simply resting and observing from a nearby bench. A woman whom I have seen before was once again practicing her serve on the adjacent tennis courts. I had just finished a set of pushups and was resting before I did another set when I noticed a young couple walking together towards a picnic table near to where I was working out. They were kids really, maybe 15 or 16, a boy and a girl. Both were dressed like most of the teenagers I have seen today: dark, baggy clothes with overstuffed backpacks. Another thing that I took notice of was that even though they were walking together, they hardly noticed one another. Their faces were buried in their phones. There was no communication at all. They continued this way and sat at the picnic table.

I finished my workout (another 10-12 minutes) while also observing the kids. During that time, I never saw them exchange a single word. Not one. In fact, they never even looked up from their phones. Not once. When I left the park, they were in the exact same position.

Without judging them, I thought, “how sad?” This generation has SO many impressive communication tools at their fingertips but at the same time have lost the most basic and important one, i.e. the ability to communicate face to face with one another. The Internet gives us the ability to reach out to others in any corner of the globe. Cell phones connect us in ways that we barely dreamed of a generation ago. Yet, if we lose our ability to literally speak to one another, we will have lost something that makes us truly human.

Even though I generally find labels counterproductive, sometimes they serve a purpose by coalescing an idea around a particular era. Good examples of this are “The Greatest Generation” and “Baby Boomers.” Then of course, there’s Gen Z, X, and so forth. Well, I think that I may have come up with one for current: The Silent Generation. This is so because, despite the fact they have SO many tools to communicate with, they have lost the one that is the most essential.

This is not to say that this necessarily makes this generation “bad” or “lazy.” As a teacher for 11 years at Fordham University, I can attest to a plethora of talented, ambitious, resolute young people. But I am concerned about what they may be losing.

Sometimes people refer to “the good old times” with a warped sense of nostalgia. I say so because often upon further analysis, the good times weren’t so good. However, even with that said, it’s important to preserve some worthwhile traditions. Certainly, our ability to speak to one another, face to face, is one worth revising.

 

 

 

 

JUST $1

Words and Photo F LoBuono

Raising money for charity is not easy. It never really has been and under the current economic conditions it is only getting more difficult. Trying to convince people who may be struggling themselves to give to others who are actually even worse off can be counterintuitive. Still, they have to try. And in an effort to encourage people to give, non-profits suggest amounts to be donated but are also willing to accept anything people feel comfortable with. Sometimes, when things get really desperate, organizations even suggest donors "give until it hurts." This is generally reserved for those who are in positions of power and wealth.

I get it. We ALL benefit when we give charitably. Not only does the recipient gain but the giver does too. There is an inner satisfaction that comes with helping people in some way. In serving others, we are also serving ourselves.

However, I sometimes find fault in the messaging about giving. Certainly, the more one can afford to donate to a charity, the more one should actually give. However, by demanding that we rely on others to carry most of the burden we release ourselves from our own responsibility. People of means should be expected to give more - if they CHOOSE to. But I think we might do much better in the long run by changing the "message." Instead of encouraging a few give a lot, why not promote a lot give a little?

Here's a practical example. At today's Nyack Street Fair, as is my custom, I stopped at the both managed by The Soup Angels, a charitable organization that provides free food on a weekly basis to those in need in my hometown of Nyack, NY. As befitting their name, the volunteers hold large soup pots to collect $ from passersby at the fair. I always give them $1 - with an explanation (I'm sure they think I'm crazy or at least eccentric): "Here's $1. It's not a lot. But if EVERYONE who passed by your tent and gave you just $1, how much money would you have?" The crowd was estimated about 20,000. Do the math.

Could I afford to give more? Of course, I could and often do in other situations. However, I want to actively make the point I wrote about in an earlier paragraph: if everyone gave a little, in the end, we'd all get a lot.

I am not a religious scholar and certainly not a Jewish one. But there is a passage in the Torah (I believe - someone can help he out here) that says (paraphrasing): "It's not your JOB to save the world. That's a little above your pay grade. But neither are you relieved of your duties to do what you can to make the world a better place."

Just do your part. It's not so hard.

 

A FATHER'S TOUCH

Joseph LoBuono

It was the end of my first true love. We must have been all of about 15 years old. And, yes, we were precocious. She was the first girl I ever had sexual relations with. But it had ended as I suppose it inevitably had to. We were simply just too young to understand all the complexities involved with being in love. Still, it was VERY real at the time, and I was devastated that it had ended.

Somehow, I wound up collapsing in a fetal position on my parents' bed. Despite my feeble and confused mental state I suddenly sensed my father's presence in the room. He walked over and sat at the edge of the bed. Then I felt his hand gently rubbing my back. After a few seconds of that soothing touch, he spoke: "Frankie, I wish that I could take this away from you, but I can't." He didn't say anything else but kept rubbing my back for a few more seconds. Then he got up and left, leaving me to my thoughts.

The whole thing couldn't have lasted more than a minute or so but it's impact has stayed with me for over 50 years. First, it captures the spirit of a man whose love for his children was unbounded. And he showed it often and in many ways. This was just another. He was a master communicator and always seemed to know the right thing to say at just the right time. This was one of the best examples.

Lost in my misery, I may not have known it then, but it was EXACTLY what I needed to hear at that moment. However, over the years I've come to understand his message that life is full of ups and downs that we must experience within ourselves to be truly ALIVE. And, most importantly, it is important that we let ourselves FEEL those emotions. They are not "right" or "wrong." They as much as a part of us as laughter and joy.

And, of course, he was right. I have lived 71 years now and that scenario has repeated itself on more than one occasion.  I was going to say "unfortunately" but that would be contrary to the spirit of what my father was ultimately saying. Yes, we experience loss many times in our lives. They are painful, so much so that we would like to just crawl up in a fetal position in our parent's bed and cry. Even when we can't physically do that, we all retreat into our misery in one way or another. And that's OK. We NEED to feel - all things! It makes for a full life, one that is well-lived.

I get it. But it's time like this that I wish I could feel my father's gentle touch just one more time. And then I realized it's still there. It never left. And it will be with me until they die that I die.

EACH STONE - GRACE EPISCOPAL CHURCH

Words and Photos by F LoBuono

Whenever I need a little extra dose of peace and quiet, I usually find myself at Grace Episcopal Church in Nyack, NY. Despite my Catholic grammar school upbringing, I am not particularly religious. In fact, I consider myself iconoclastic when it comes to most formal spirituality. So, I rarely actually go INTO the church. Still, I find something very comforting just by being on the grounds. So, on a soft summer day, I made my way there.

Incorporated in October of 1861 and consecrated in May of 1882, Grace Episcopal has been a place of peace of solace for thousands of Nyackers for over 160 years. I particularly enjoy their memorial garden, a small, square, green space lined with a low brick wall bearing the names of notable Nyackers who have passed. One of the plaques bears the name of the legendary "Man in The Red Bandana", Welles Crowther, a young Nyack firefighter who gave his own life while saving many others on 911. If you tarry in silence, you can feel the spirits. I am ALWAYS moved.

I also often find myself simply standing in front of the church itself and staring at it as if we are greeting one another. It's a massive, Gothic stone structure with a huge stained glass circular window crowning the massive wooden door entrance. As with the garden, I generally stand in silence and then let the spirits come as they may.

Well, while I looked up at this magnificent edifice, I noticed something VERY telling that I had never noticed before. The church is composed of thousands of hand-cut stones. I'm assuming they are granite. It's a remarkable feat of skill and engineering in and of itself. But then I noticed something even more remarkable: I looked and looked but in ALL of those stones making up the church, I could not find a single match. Not one. Thousands of blocks, all different sizes, were laid together to create a single, magnificent structure.

The more I thought about it, the more I grasped the metaphor. I started to realize that the serenity I felt at this place was no accident. It all fit together, each stone, different and unique creating a single, imposing structure, i.e. a place that has withstood the test of time and stands as a testament to the power of love and acceptance - each stone, no matter the size, has its place. 

Beautiful. 

 

The American Storm

Words and photo by F LoBuono

 So much has already been said and written about America's 250 years of relative freedom (the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly) that I wondered what I could possibly contribute to mark this auspicious occasion. Well, I'd like to offer a simpler alternative to all the "hoopla" that marked that special day.

My partner Amanda and I had the great pleasure of attending a party at a friend's apartment in Nyack that had a really nice view of the fireworks over the Hudson being staged by the Village. That was on the 3rd (for reasons that are not important here). Since the weather for the 4th called for a continuation of the oppressive heatwave we had been experiencing and since we had already seen a fine display over the river, we decided to take a quiet day at home for the actual holiday. Besides, as a retired photographer for CBS News, I had the good fortune of covering the Macy's display over NYC on a number of occasions. As spectacular as they are, I had seen them enough. Staying home, especially at our delicate ages, seemed the right move.

As forecast, the weather was oppressively hot and humid on the 4th with a heat index approaching 110 degrees. In other words, the thought of standing anywhere outside even to experience a bit of the celebration seemed absurd. Besides, we are fortunate to have a TV and central AC. We could be comfortably cool AND watch the festivities taking place all day and all over the Country. The forecasters had also predicted severe thunderstorms were possible and just in time for the fireworks. We obviously had made the right choice to stay home.

As forecasted, just before the start of the firework displays in NYC and the surrounding areas at 9 pm, huge thunderstorms started to roll in. I cannot resist a good thunderstorm. In fact, the first thing I ever published was a poem about a summer thunderstorm. So, just as the wind started to howl, I fixed myself a bourbon and headed to my little perch just outside our rear door. It's really just a small landing with a few steps leading up from the back yard. But it has a small overhang, so when it rains, I pull up a small, bright red stool that I have and watch the show.

And, on this evening what a formidable show it was to behold! First, the wind roared in like a scene from "The Wizard of Oz." Then came the driving rain, so intense it was blinding. Of course, with those came the lightning and thunder. Every :30 seconds or so the sky lit up with a flash so intense to pale any man-made firework! The booming, almost deafening thunder followed closely behind. And if that wasn't enough, as if to challenge Mother Nature, people were still setting off fireworks! I could hear them coming from different neighborhoods all over our village of Nyack. I sat there for a good half-hour or so, sipping my bourbon and marveling at the spectacle playing out right in right of me - a lightning flash here, a firecracker boom there. I was smiling from ear to ear. I couldn't help but think I was so privileged to simply BE there. Eventually, I made my way back inside to contemplate what I had witnessed.

It may have been a metaphor for America itself. Perhaps it was nature's way of telling us that we as a people have weathered many storms to be where and who we are. And, there are many more storms to go. It seems to be the American way. We create our own tempests and then find ways to overcome them. May we always find our way through the storm and find the light that America was created to be.

HAPPY 250 AMERICA!