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!

  

 

The Summer Job

 

Words and photo by F LoBuono

When I was a young boy of 11 or 12, I remember watching a movie that had a great impact on me then and continues to do so to this very day. The strange thing about it is that despite its enormous influence, I don’t remember the film’s title or who the main actors were. But I do recall that it was shot in black and white and the plot involved a race against time to rescue minors who were trapped inside a collapsed tunnel.

One scene had a particular impact on me that I have never forgotten. In an effort to save the tapped men, the owners of the mine bring in an engineering specialist to devise a plan to get to the men. He considers it too dangerous to use heavy earth-moving equipment. So, instead, they must dig by hand. He puts out a call for volunteers to help with the digging, and he makes it clear that only “men accustomed to jobs of a hard physical nature”, i.e. working men, need show up. And the foreman intends to verify this by asking each man who answers the call to show him the palm of their hands. If they were gnarly and calloused, he knew they were right for the job. Those with “soft hands” would be immediately rejected.

After clearing a few men to begin digging, another man steps up to show his palms. When the foreman sees that they lack the signs of having done any heavy work, he starts to raise his voice to remind the man that he said, “working men only!” But when the foreman looks up to see whom he is berating, he notices that the man is a priest. Realizing that the priest only came to help, he begins to apologize and thanks him for trying but also saying that the priest wouldn’t last but a few hours under those conditions.

Even at such a young age, that scene moved me deeply. It reached me from several perspectives that I’ve taken with me my entire life. As represented by the priest, it showed me that caring for our neighbors is THE key to a healthy society. Always be willing to help. But perhaps most importantly, it taught me the real value of working people, i.e., those among us who use their hands in the most physical sense to earn a living for themselves and their families while providing essential services to all of us. These include maids, maintenance workers, miners, steal workers, brick layers, mechanics, day laborers, farmers, ranchers, and a whole host of others who do the tasks that make ALL our lives livable.

With that in mind, one summer while I was still in college, I decided to take a job as a laborer at a large construction site in Tenafly, NJ. Perhaps as an honor student at Rutgers University, I should have sought out something more “academic.” One of my challenges was that I have a high IQ. I always did well in school and with that came certain expectations that weren’t necessarily MINE. It may have made my career path less circuitous if I had stayed in my lane. But that is not my way.

Well, I took the job mainly because I wanted to REALY know what it was like to be a “working man,” i.e. someone who could make a living by taking on a physical, tough job. On the superficial side, I figured I’d get a great tan by working outside and, since I was playing college football, I could keep myself in great shape. I may have been forward-thinking, but I was still just 20 years old!

My task was to help mix the mortar that would be used in lying the massive number of bricks that would comprise most of this office building. Then I would have to carry that mortar and those bricks to the masons who would then lay them in place, brick by brick, floor by floor. Eventually there would be 3 stories of brick and mortar that would be used to create that building. You can imagine how difficult it could be to carry a rack of 8-10 bricks up three flights of scaffolding – under a blazing summer sun. But I can proudly say that I had a hand (literally) in virtually all of it. On the rare occasion my partner Amanda and I drive past, I point to it and say, “I helped make that!”  Besides, I got a great tan, was in fantastic shape, AND had calloused palms!

I suppose that the point from the beginning was to prove to myself that I could do this type of work if I had too. And, more importantly, to emphasize that hard, physical work has value – real value. This is not to denigrate those who work with their minds. No, not at all. I was fortunate to go on to a career mostly as a photojournalist that combined the best of both worlds. It’s rather to acknowledge that on this day, the 250 Anniversary of our Nation’s founding, THESE are the people who have literally built America. And we stand together, hand-in-hand, rough or smooth and say We are Americans.