Lenny Ackerman

Fishing on My Mind

It is nearly the end of April and I am deep into my angler magazines. I’ve also been calling on my fishing friends to find out about their upcoming plans and to reminisce about fishing exploits past. I called my buddy of many years, Dr. Jay, to talk about the early spring trips we took together with a gang of friends, now passed, to Pennsylvania – Big Spring Creek, Allegheny, Susquehanna and Penn’s Creek—for Walleye, Small and Large Mouth Bass, Pike, Muskee, Brown Trout and the occasional Rainbows. I’ve also connected, via zoom, with my friend Paul, in Wales, who has filled me in on the fishing conditions at the River Wye, his local spot. My latest issue of the British magazine, The Field, has the line on fishing throughout the UK, where it started April 1^st. The Brits have easy access to waterways throughout the countryside with endless fishing locations both private and public. I truly enjoy the fishing experience in the UK, as much for the catching as for the environment and the company. The outdoor spaces are exhilarating, walking through the ancient woods to a hidden fishing spot–it is as much fun as setting the fly. And of course, the fellowship, not only with my buddies but with the guides, who make all the travel worthwhile. Characters they are, who harken back to another era, as some have been fishing the same waters for fifty years.

I have my own fishing nest in Maine, and the daily reports still show ice in places on the lake. There are no reports on the beaver ponds since their locations are secret, known only to me and Greg. I will have to see if Greg has had a chance to check on them. I am traveling north in a couple of weeks for a hearing and am planning a side trip to Bangor and from there to camp for an overnight on East Grand Lake. Wheaton Lodge just opened and Sandy is encouraging me to come. “The small mouth bass are plentiful,” she tells me. Maybe a salmon on top of the water for my visit? I am hungry for my guide Andy’s grilled lake-side barbeque chicken and cowboy coffee. The Woodie Wheaton Land Trust recently closed on a large tract of land on the East Grand Lake and St.Croix headwaters. I am anxious to see it –and of course to go out on the lake with Andy. I look forward to the early morning sun on my face and the quiet of the grand canoe gliding through the water. The eagles soaring overhead. No other fishermen in sight. Andy knows I like to keep more or less to myself and rest the mouth and mind. He is respectful of my need for the tranquility. It is where I recharge my batteries for summer in the Hamptons and everything to come, and for as long as life has for me.

A Day at the Gun Range

In West Palm Beach, many local families partake in a leisurely Saturday afternoon activity shooting pistols at Gator Guns and Archery Center on Okeechobee Boulevard. My experience at this huge, indoor firing range and gun shop was limited to a visit last year with my friend Chris who introduced me to the place. Chris is something of an expert with his cache of guns, pistols, and hunting rifles. My grandson Billy was here this weekend and considering my need to keep a 12-year-old busy, I asked Chris to introduce Billy to the basics of gun safety and target shooting at Gators. As anyone who reads or watches television knows, the gun control issue is an urgent matter after the many tragedies in Nashville and elsewhere, with semiautomatic weapons behind the worst of the massacres. As a responsible grandfather I believe a youngster from New York City should know more than what he reads and hears about guns in the news, and indeed a trip to Gator’s gun range was an enlightening experience for Billy. First, he saw the massive and exhaustive collection of armaments on display and for sale there, all legal under Florida law. The pistols Chris taught him to handle were small arms typically used by law enforcement. Billy was very surprised to see entire families there—mothers and fathers, grandparents, and young children –all out target shooting with their weapons. According to the rules at Gator’s, if a child is tall enough to see over the table and is accompanied by a parent, they are permitted to shoot in the range. For many of the participants it was not just a leisurely outing but a practice round to keep their skills honed for safe handling and to burnish their hunting skills. Some were there for the fun of target practice. It was clear that from an early age they are held accountable for the proper use of a gun. It is the duty of parents, especially in a gun-friendly state like Florida, to instruct their children about gun safety and when it is appropriate to use such a deadly weapon. Most people at the range on Saturday owned their guns and kept them in their homes. It makes sense that the children learn how and when to use them. There were instructors also working the range helping the newbies to the sport. Others seemed to be professionals, possibly law enforcement. This is Florida—the wild west where the right to carry a concealed weapon is allowed without a permit. It is a law that invites more gun use and gun education I suspect. Billy left Gators clutching his paper target showing near perfect hand-eye coordination. He came away from his time there with a new skill, and he was excited about wanting to go out target shooting again. More importantly, he learned to respect the power of a gun in the hand and why safety and constraints are necessary for their use.

Before Pesach

It was a little after 9:30pm last Tuesday evening, the night before Pesach, or Passover. Services at the Orthodox Synagogue in West Palm Beach had ended shortly before. A group of men similarly dressed in long black satin coats with beaver hats covering their kepis (Yiddish for “head”) walked down Worth Avenue to the intersection with South Ocean Boulevard and the beach. One of the men, with his long gray beard, was the elder of the group. Several women walked behind the men. They wore long skirts and headscarves over their wigs, symbols of propriety and of marriage. They were Hasidim–members of a strict, Orthodox branch of Judaism. The men and women gathered in front of the Worth Avenue Clock landmark at the crossroad. A streetlamp cast a warm circular light around them. One of the younger men offered his arm to the elder for support as they made their way across to a line of wooden benches along the beachfront. The women continued walking separately and settled onto benches further down, away from the men. The women conversed in hushed voices as the wind from the northeast blew softly against their unmade-up faces. The elder, seated at a bench among the men, hunched over an open book as he read aloud a prayer, his glasses perched on his nose. The other men stood around him and rocked gently on their heels, listening, their movements evocative of the flickering flame of their faith. The Worth Avenue clock chimed ten times. The men looked up and over to the women. The elder was helped to his feet by the outstretched hand of a young man. Supported on both sides, the elder led the men over to where the women were seated. “Good erav Pesach,” he said. The women returned his greeting. “Nu ihr zi grayt mahr Pesach?” he asked. (Are you ready for Pesach?”) It was a question heard many times that evening. The women nodded and smiled. “Velchen shmurah matzah haht ihr gekoift dem yahr?” (What brand of matzah did you buy this year?”) This started a lively conversation about what would be served at the much-anticipated Passover meal. One young man held out his hand to one of the older women, his bubbeh (grandmother), who reached up and gripped it as she stood from her seat. Then everyone stood and pairing off, chatted as they strolled back across South Ocean Boulevard. The full moon shined overhead coloring the line of Hasidim with a bright, golden glow as the group continued on up Worth Avenue and slowly disappeared past the unlit shop windows in the distance.

All the Flags at the Bridge

Back in 2020, when Carl Butz and I first discussed the name of my future column, Carl immediately suggested “Here Back East.” “You live on the East coast,” he said, “–Florida, Long Island and Maine–so it is accurate and general enough that you can write about anything under that heading.” I was fine with it considering I did not fully grasp at the time how much I would enjoy sitting down each week in front of my old Olympia typewriter to tap out the 200 words or so that ultimately become a Messenger column. So here I am in Palm Beach a day after the historic news of the indictment of a former President – right in my backyard. Well not quite my backyard but a few miles south of it, at Mar-a-Lago, the permanent residence of our former President. After tennis yesterday morning, I hung the lanyard with my press pass around my neck and headed out. (Full disclosure – I am scheduled to be interviewed by the Secret Service for entry to the White House press conferences in the spring.)

The midday sun was high over the ocean as I drove past the historic wooden gates at the entrance of Mar-a-Lago. A few secret servicemen carried serious-looking weapons and stood talking amongst themselves as minimal lunch traffic went in and out of the club grounds. There was no former President greeting his club members that I could see. Unable to stop to query the guards about their morning routine now that the former President was preparing to travel north for his arraignment, I proceeded west over the Southern Bridge where Trump supporters routinely gather to catch a glimpse of him and cheer him in his motorcade on the way to his golf club in West Palm Beach, or perhaps to the airport.

Midway over the bridge a Palm Beach policeman idled on his motorcycle. Below him, partly under the bridge, were a group of a dozen or so supporters waving flags- mostly MAGA– so many flags they seemed to outnumber the people. People were milling about, some seated in beach chairs. The mood at the gathering seemed upbeat and the scene brought to mind the football tailgate parties outside of Shea Stadium in the 1970s. Parked beside the bridge was a smart, white BMW convertible with a mix of American and MAGA flags attached to the rear. Still, it appeared to be a weak turnout compared to the bridge rallies in years past, when the headlines drew out the fans. One such occasion was during the last impeachment trial. There were easily ten times the number of people then, barely contained in the permitted areas around the bridge entrance. The indictment of this former President has not seemed to arouse the same ire of his supporters, if the crowd count was any indication of their sentiment. It might have been the time of day—I was there during lunch hour. As the date for the arraignment grows near, I assume more supporters will be drawn to the Southern Bridge location to cheer on the former president. Or perhaps his supporters are awaiting his commands, as they did prior to the January 6 insurrection— the infamous day in history when the Capitol was stormed by American flag-bearing extremists. Here’s to the American flag, a symbol of our collective values and support of the Constitution. Yesterday on the bridge, the flag was made to appear symbolic of less than all we stand for in America.

A Winter Visit

Being in the Hamptons in late March—after a stay in Manhattan and a bit of work-related business –briefly reconnects me to the peace and quiet of our home in eastern Long Island. I wake early and take my new-old Mark II Jag out for a morning drive. Only 100 miles from New York City are vast expanses of farmland and ocean vistas, long secured by the Town from developers. The stress of work notwithstanding, the scenery helps me breathe easier–windows down, temperatures in the mid-40s, the sun reflecting off the polished burlwood. I consider how fortunate we are to have settled in East Hampton some 50 years ago. The population has steadily increased perhaps ten-fold over the years and the prices of real estate even more. Winter months have not changed significantly, still quieter than summer. The residential lanes are fully improved now- no more vacant lots– with a few classic shingle style houses, but modern architecture has crept in as new owners demolish and rebuild their houses, many in the oversized “McMansion” style. The route down Montauk Highway is free of traffic going west. I pass the eastbound “trade parade” backed up at the light in Wainscott and find a parking spot in front of Bridgehampton’s Candy Kitchen diner. Inside, the owner Marcello is at the counter bent over his morning coffee, awaiting the breakfast crowds. He sees me and says, “haven’t seen you in a long while” –the usual greeting after I’ve spent several months in Florida. I take the last booth though the restaurant is empty. This is my usual hang-out. I settle in with the New York Times and a large coffee in a paper cup. Absorbed in yesterday’s news, I savor my caffeine fix. I have my solitude here – no office, clients or fellow lawyers to query me about my time away. Afterward, I take the backroads through Sagaponack. The speedbumps intended to slow down the summer traffic are also a warning to me not to test the old Jag’s suspension. The sun glints off the windshield. I try to turn on the old radio but no luck. One more thing to add to my “fix” list. I return home and park the Jag in its garage space. The house is quiet and I start a fire in the library hearth. I ask Alexa to play WQXR and I settle into my cozy chair with the view out on the open field. The deer are not spooked by my return. They feed away, in their usual routine. They know.

Passing Through

It has been almost six months since I last walked the streets of New York City. I am glad to be back to my old routine: early morning New York Times pick-up, visit Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, haircut and shave at York Barber, and then breakfast at Neil’s Coffee Shop. Except Neil’s is gone, evicted for nonpayment of rent. I read about its demise in The New York Post before I left Florida. Apparently, the longtime owner filed for bankruptcy in 2022 and died in early 2023. Now it is in the hands of the landlord. As Yogi Berra said, “In New York nothing changes but everything.”

I found an old interview with the late proprietor, who said ownership of Neil’s was handed over only once, in 1980, from the original owner to him, and he was determined to keep everything as it was, including the same 1951 cash register and 1954 milkshake blender which “still work just fine.” The upholstery was updated and that was it. Neil’s first opened its doors in 1940, one of the many Greek diners that proliferated in mid-century Manhattan, serving coffee to go in the iconic Grecian-themed blue paper cups–a New York artifact once seen everywhere, but now a rarity since the invasion of Starbucks. The original neon sign hung out front on day one was there for the next 83 years. I went myself to confirm and for once The Post got it right. Neil’s was closed, dark and locked. I peered in the window. Chairs upended on tables. A lone can of spray cleaner on the counter.

I had been going to Neil’s since 1964, when I moved into the city from New Jersey after law school. It was my go-to diner after I got married and we bought an apartment on 71^st Street. Our girls were small when we moved again to 68^th Street—also an easy walking distance to Neil’s. We had countless family breakfasts and father-daughter lunches in those old booths, until we moved out of the city in 1972. I returned to Neil’s periodically over the years since then, while visiting my grandchildren who live on the upper east side. We meet at the Carlyle hotel, where I stay when I’m in town, only a few blocks from our favorite coffee shop. They enjoyed it I like to think because they could see how much it meant to me to take them there. That and the ice cream sundaes.

Rough around the edges, I don’t think Neil’s had an indoor paint job in the 50-plus years I went there. The tables and booths were squeezed into space that should accommodate half the number. The fire code inspector must have been a regular and looked the other way. Visiting the men’s room in the basement was like going down into the subway. But the food was consistent –the oversized omelets and home fries were reliable breakfast comfort food. Nothing like a toasted bagel and cream cheese from Neil’s. Oh, how I miss those early morning wake up meals.

There are other changes in the neighborhood. The CVS on the corner of Third Avenue and 68^th Street has shut its doors. As I write this I see the windows at The Food Emporium across the street are filled with closing signs instead of the usual grocery store displays. Things feel diminished. Except for the New York Hospital workforce crowds coming up from the subway at 68^th and Lexington, the pedestrian traffic seems to have abated. It seems like there are even fewer dogs on the sidewalks. Perhaps it is the weather. It has been colder and people are staying indoors. Could it be spring break time for schools, so everyone is away? Restaurants seem quieter too. Something is happening here in New York City. People are leaving it. Now that office attendance is not mandated, there has been a migration to more affordable places to work remotely. I work in my own office in East Hampton no more than six months out of the year. With Zoom and before that Skype, I connect remotely with my office and have been doing so for 15 years. I met a young woman recently while playing tennis who works for Goldman Sachs. She relocated from New York to work in West Palm Beach. “A better environment,” she said. “More outdoor time and less expensive.” Yes, New York may be shrinking a bit.

I found one busy place on my walk around the neighborhood: the local library on 68^th street. Drawn in by the comfortable seating and a change of scene from an apartment–as well as the fact that it is “free” –people are flocking to libraries, sanctuaries of calm and quiet, no matter what might be going on outside. I belong to one on 79^th Street where I hang out and work when I am in town. The Starbucks across the street is also lively. New York may be slightly less populous, but it will never be totally abandoned. As time passes however, with the loss of places like Neil’s, there may not be enough to keep some of us here in place or coming back.

Moose Lodge at Palm Beach Gardens

I walked into the Moose Lodge on RCA Boulevard feeling out of sorts. The scheduled Celebration of Life for Nanci was due to end in 20 minutes. Otherwise, it had been a usual Sunday for me, with a busy morning—a Garden Tour in Palm Beach with Patti and then lunch with Caroline and Sam. After dropping off Patti at her place I sped north on I-95. I pulled into the parking lot mostly filled with pick-up trucks and a few motorcycles. Outside were gathered a few smokers with beer bottles hanging loosely at their sides. The glances my way made me feel a bit uneasy. I walked through the entrance into a reception area with pictures of past Moose members. I then realized I didn’t really know why I was there. Nanci was one of the regular counter gals at Greens, my local pharmacy and lunch place in Palm Beach. Over the past 20 years I only knew her first name and that was from the nametag she wore. Not one to talk much she was always short on words and did her job—take her order and return to gossip with the other counter ladies. I was never successful in engaging her in a conversation. In fact, I was cautious not to call out my order to her until she was ready and standing at my table with her pen out and a note pad in hand. In hindsight I thought that perhaps by coming to her Celebration I might learn a bit more about her. She always seemed a bit out of place at the counter. She was tall and evidently had once been a “looker.” Who was Nanci and did I miss something or offend her in some way over the years? I never observed her in real conversation with any customer though, so maybe it wasn’t me. She was there to do her job and she did it well. Nanci would not know I was there to pay my respects, but I wanted the other counter ladies to know I do care. That was the point, I guess. I roamed the room, furnished with round tables decorated with printed logos of the Washington Redskins -now called the Commanders. Large photos affixed to the walls showed Nanci in various stages of her life: motherhood, partying in Key West, in a Redskins football jersey, and having fun with her many friends. The music played, country and western. The open bar had a line. There were homemade cookies and brownies. This was not an “eating” party. The beer and desserts must have been what Nanci would want. Someone had made a video of her life over the years and a few of us stood there watching it. The counter women from Greens sat around a table and I went over to say hello. I believe I was the only customer who showed during the Celebration. I felt a bit awkward speaking to them. I sensed they were looking at me and wondering “what is he doing here?” I walked around the room once more and saw a table with condolence cards made out to Nanci’s family. I thought perhaps I should have brought one. I looked for a guestbook to sign, but then I don’t think anyone really cared that I was there. I left as I came in, wondering why I had gone in the first place. I guess sometimes we do things for a reason that only make sense some time after the event. This was one of them. I am glad I went. I cared for Nanci.

My Weekly Fix

Here Back East

By Lenny Ackerman

My Weekly Fix

I had been marinating over the theme of this column, wanting to write about some aspect of newspaper publishing. It took Peggy Noonan of The Wall Street Journal to provide the inspiration with her recent article about The North Shore Leader, a local weekly from Long Island, New York. This small, hometown paper with “students and retirees on its staff” broke national news, exposing the fraud of George Santos, a recently elected representative for the Third Congressional District of New York. It was an explosive David and Goliath story with world-class investigative work behind it. I immediately subscribed to The Leader and, as a longtime reader and supporter of several weekly newspapers, was moved to write a few words in support of them. Toward this end, I decided to do interviews with two publishers of local weeklies: Carl Butz of The Mountain Messenger and Gavin Menu, co-publisher with his wife Kathryn of The Sag Harbor Express. Though on opposite coasts—California and New York—there are similarities: both newspapers have storied histories and have been in print since the mid-19^th century, and both publishers face many of the same business challenges. The purpose of my interviews was to gather some insight into the motivation behind the incredible effort and energies necessary to produce and print a newspaper 52 times a year. I learned that they do it on tight budgets and against constant headwinds: the crushing effect of digital on print media, the spiraling costs of labor, paper, and distribution as well as the declining readership of local papers in general. According to research done by the University of North Carolina’s Hussman School of Journalism and Media, “Since 2004, the United States has lost one-fourth – 2,100 – of its newspapers. This includes more than 70 dailies and more than 2,000 weeklies or nondailies.” Both Carl Butz and Gavin Menu are energetic and enterprising journalist-publishers with singular drive, which is to provide information to their communities with a focus on lifestyle, local news and events, schools and investigative news—and despite the challenges, they are optimistic about the future of their papers.

In addition to The Leader, The Mountain Messenger and The Sag Harbor Express, I also receive the weekly The Houlton-Pioneer Times from Maine, and The East Hampton Star. My dailies are The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times and The Palm Beach Post. I also subscribe digitally to The Washington Post which I tried in print but by the time it was delivered to my mailbox in Palm Beach the news was stale. Interestingly, Gavin informs me that his subscribers prefer the print edition of his paper, as do the majority of The Messenger’s readers. I concur. I actually enjoy having ink on my fingertips after finishing a newspaper, as well as the ability to fold it over and cut out articles for future reference. The Houlton-Pioneer Times is the local paper in northern Aroostook, where my fishing camp is located. This week I learned of the ice fishing conditions and about the closure of several movie theaters in the area. The Sag Harbor Express is watching over the local Zoning Board agenda and The East Hampton Star is keeping tabs on the closing of the Town airport. My view is that the future of some weeklies is in the not-for-profit realm similar to public television and radio. They stand a better chance of survival with support from private foundations and government grants. We all need to be informed of what is happening in our own backyard, whether it is the local politics in The East Hampton Star, the impact of climate change on the oceanfront by The Palm Beach Post, or even the new seasonal restaurant openings in The Sag Harbor Express. And it is always interesting to read the opinions and views of other people in your community. These local and weekly newspapers play an important role in our greater national conversation. Freedom of the press is, now more than ever, a special right and not just a privilege.

Overheard: The Gift of Yourself

At a recent dinner party, I overheard our hostess Chris share an incredible but true story at her end of the table. As she related it, three close, older men–retirees who regularly played golf together in Florida–were gathered at a memorial service for their recently deceased fourth golfing partner. During the event, they were informed by their late friend’s daughter that her father had made a special provision in his will for them: the three buddies were to enjoy a long-planned “bucket list” golfing tour of Scotland at his expense. He left them $100,000 to ensure a leisurely trip of a lifetime, playing all the top courses while staying at the finest hotels and luxury accommodations.

The three friends embarked on their appointed trip, and everything went according to plan. They had a spectacular time and were near the end of a month-long trek through Scotland, when they found themselves having dinner at a pub near St. Andrews. Seated at a nearby table was a young family of four speaking a foreign language amongst themselves. They were focused on one of the children, a boy of about 11, who was translating the menu for them in heavily accented English. At one point the golfers exchanged hellos with the family and initiated a conversation with the English-speaking child, who explained that he learned English in school and his family were refugees from the war in Ukraine. They had only been in Scotland for a few weeks. He described the family’s desperate plight, trying to find a permanent home and future in Scotland.

The golfers returned to their meals and quietly contemplated what they had heard. Before leaving the restaurant, they made a decision: since they hadn’t spent all of the money set aside for the trip, why not share the remainder with this family in need? How much was left? $40,000 – a life-changing amount. What was one more round of golf and another fancy hotel when it was so clear what they should do. So after a toast to their departed friend, it was done. I can only imagine that there was more than a monetary gift. I am certain these Florida golfers with years of experience in life’s ups and downs also offered invaluable advice to this stateless family about starting over in a new land.

Everyone at our dinner table had tuned in to this remarkable story. Afterward, there was some spirited conversation about various methods for giving to those in need, not just money but also personal advice. Subsequently my friend Bill and I had a talk about giving, both monetarily to those less fortunate as well as giving advice to friends and loved ones. We are both professional “advice givers” – I am an attorney, and he is a financial advisor—and both of us often work “pro bono.” I refer to this concept as the “gift of yourself.” If you have the extra money, it is easy to donate it. There is more effort in allocating the energy and time to advise, which requires one to stop, listen, and consider another person’s feelings, issues or desperation– and act in response. Too often I hear “I have no time” or “that is not my problem” as a reaction to someone in need of some basic human empathy. The Florida golfers received a gift and paid it forward when they didn’t have to. By reaching out they also gave of themselves. How many would have done the same? As with the homeless it is easier to walk around than to offer a hand.

The Brightline

          For those who travel along the coastline in eastern Florida a train ride is usually Amtrack, which runs between northeast and southern Florida. I discovered a recent addition to this route: the Brightline, a new, modern short-run train between West Palm and Miami. Many of my friends recommended using this mode of transportation as a more comfortable means of travel than driving I-95, so when I had a business meeting last week in Coconut Grove, I decided to go by rail.
          Settling back into my seat I closed my eyes and thought back to my first train ride with my mother on the New York Central from Rochester to New York City in 1954 to attend my brother’s engagement party. I was 15 years old and mom had brought a picnic basket of food to hold me over during the 8-hour trip. My parents were kosher so there was no thought to ordering anything in the dining car except soda pop. I recall distinctly as the conductor came down the aisle to retrieve our tickets, Mom said to me “Lenny, you slink down and don’t show how tall you are” – my ticket was for ages 12 and under. Dad had warned her not to pay extra for an adult ticket for me. The conductor was none the wiser and I passed for 12 on that trip though I don’t think the charade would have worked for much longer. My father was an experienced train rider having traveled alone in 1918 at age 12 from his shtetl in Russia to Hamburg, Germany, to board a ship to Argentina. He had a singular train experience and it was certainly not a fun one, but that is a story for another column.
         There was no entertainment on the New York Central for a 15-year-old kid like me, but fortunately, I had a library copy of Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” to pass the time. When I tired of reading I ran up and down the aisles of the train cars. I was always a talker and I recall making friends with some of the other adult passengers in the general seating areas. The uniformed ticket collectors were entertained by me and gave me a tour of the various railcars. The kitchen car was the most fun. I watched the cooks in their sparkling white chef’s caps preparing delicious-looking meals of chicken, roast beef, crab salad, and strawberry shortcake–none of which I was allowed to have. The baggage car held an orderly assortment of luggage and boxes for delivery ala FedEx today. There was an open-top observation car that must have been First Class. I spent a lot of time peering out the windows at the miles of farm fields as we passed through central New York and then turned south at Albany towards New York City, finally arriving at the gigantic Grand Central terminal. Seeing the mighty panoramic Kodak “Colorama” in the lobby was thrilling to me. My brother Marty met us in the main concourse and hustled us through the underground tunnels to his parked car. It was my first, unforgettable train adventure to New York City.
          I commuted by train later during my college years, between upstate and Newark, but soon I had a car –a Morris Minor –and drove the New York Thruway and New Jersey Turnpike back and forth to law school. Ultimately train travel ended for me and I like most people, except commuters and train enthusiasts, travel by air. The Brightline trip to Miami brought all these memories back and I thank that someone out there who created such nostalgia for me.