It is that special time of year when we sit as a family around the dining room table and hold hands to give thanks for the bounty before us: a 20-pound turkey, homemade pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce cooked early this morning, and those delicious, filling sweet potatoes that make you realize when you have finally overdone it. This holiday however, more than ever, I feel gratitude for my life and what I have, and distress for those to whom this warm Thanksgiving scene is a mere fantasy. I dread the headlines when I unfold the New York Times, with the columns of print describing so much destruction and human suffering going on in the world, from Gaza and Ukraine to a Native American reservation in Texas. The news, whether on television, social media, or in our daily newspapers, is replete with these stories, some as close to me as West Palm Beach. Just a mile over the north bridge, in Currie Park, there is a homeless encampment with dozens of lost souls—the mentally ill, the abjectly poor, the addicted—living in squalor. It is a microcosm of what is going on across the country in almost every city. How is it that we, the wealthiest nation in the world, cannot look after the poorest and weakest among us? I know we say we care, yet the suffering goes on. This Thanksgiving I commit to do more than lament the tragedy. I will offer support to local organizations, such as The Lord’s Place and The Salvation Army, as well as the food pantries that are the lifelines for so many. I am not asking others to join me in doing this, but if your Thanksgiving is something like the scene I described above, and you find there is much to be grateful for, maybe there is a way you too can bring a bit of joy and uplift to some downtrodden spirits this Thanksgiving.
Category: Politics
Lunch with My Rabbi
I have been lunching regularly with my local Rabbi here in Florida since 2017 when I joined his synagogue. I enjoy his company and find him a particularly good sounding board for personal issues, but today’s lunch was not about me. I was curious to hear his thoughts on the events of October 7th, when Hamas terrorists drove into Israel to murder 1400 people before taking over 200 hostages. The Rabbi said his temple congregants had responded by providing assistance to Israel –some had donated ambulances to replace the ones hijacked by Hamas after killing the drivers who were rushing to aid the victims of the attack. He talked about of the resilience of the Israeli people and how we in the United States must overcome the feelings of inadequacy in seeing such a horrific attack from afar, and that we must resist the tendency to compare what happened in Israel to the Holocaust of World War II. He spoke of a recent ceremony at his temple during which scrolls hidden from the Nazis were brought out in a celebration of truth, having survived the war. I asked him about the resurgence of anti-Semitism. His response was that, in his view, social media has been a principal culprit in pushing the rhetoric forward and giving “permission” to the obvious agitators. “People will say things on social media that they will not say to your face.” I said I was troubled for the future of my children and grandchildren, but the Rabbi was optimistic. “I don’t see current anti-Semitism as comparable to Germany during the 1930s and 1940s. It is bad, but not as bad as some think.” His words were calming and left me feeling less anxious about the disturbing current events. We talked about news propaganda coming out of Gaza perpetrated by Hamas showing Israel bombing hospitals. My prayers are with the families devastated in Israel, yet I cannot help but feel empathy for the one and a half million children in Gaza. Like the rest of the world, I await proof that Hamas in fact hides under hospitals.
I Need a Break
Since the horrendous October 7 attack on Israel, I have suffered nightmares and had thoughts of myself in the position of those border kibbutzim fending off the Hamas attackers. My emotional reaction is nothing compared to what the families of those lost and taken hostage are experiencing, yet I continue to be haunted by the horror of what happened there. I called many of my friends both Jewish and gentile to talk through my feelings. I read many news analyses and opinion pieces in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal. I visited a nondenominational house of worship. And finally, I made a call to my local rabbi for a lunch date. Yet these attempts to allay my fears were not sufficient to calm the waters. So, I resorted to what I have relied upon over the last 35 years for relaxation and repose: I went fishing. Captain Charlie out of Jupiter Point inlet was available midweek and I booked an early meet at his marina. I looked forward to a morning on the Loxahatchee River in an open boat, the sun rising from the marshland of western central Florida. The wind was from the northwest as we pushed through the Intercoastal to the river. We awaited the bridge rising after a Brightline train crossed, traveling south from Orlando. Our bird companions –osprey and an occasional eagle –trailed us as we sped west; the cloud cover creating shadows along the river route. There was an occasional tarpon rolling close to the mangroves, but they eluded my bait. I was intent on catching snook, who were sunning themselves on the surface of the 78-degree water. The morning was all fishing and no catching. Captain Charlie, intending to soften the blow that I was not connecting with any fish and would likely be going home emptyhanded said, “Fish have heads and tails—nothing in between.” I guess he meant they were brainless. Nevertheless, I was calm and, for a while, the tense thoughts had receded. As we waited at the bridge on our return a train sped by and I sensed I was back to reality. My thoughts turned to planning another break– a trip to Bray’s Island in South Carolina for redfish.
October 7th
For the last several years my pal Max and I have organized a monthly lunch meet at Swifty’s in Palm Beach. We invite an assortment of friends and guests representing the arts, finance, medicine, government service and retirees settled in south Florida. This week’s lunch was our first of the ’23-’24 season. Only half the usual gang showed – the others are still making their way back to Palm Beach from their summer or permanent homes up north. The conversation centered mostly on our recent travels – fishing in Idaho, visiting abroad. After the brief travelogue, our talk turned to the events in Israel following the Hamas attack on October 7th. We discussed the humanitarian crisis as well as the strategic avenues available to Israel in dealing with Hamas and the potential invasion of Gaza. Clearly October 7th stood out as a date of remembrance of the terrorist attack on Israel and the murder and mutilation of innocent Israelis. The suffering of the children on both sides of the conflict was a particular concern now that Israel is firing on Gaza in retaliation. My friends around the lunch table all commented on the post-attack media focusing on the children in peril and the disturbing images of bloodstained children’s beds. After the worst terrorist attack on American soil– the destruction of the World Trade Center twin towers –the videos and photojournalism did not show the child victims of the attack, as there were no images to capture.
There is no simple, one-sentence solution to freeing hostages, or ending Hamas’ reign of terror, or saving innocent Palestinian children’s lives. Yet 9/11 teaches us not to act out of passion and anger and vengeance. The aftermath of 9/11 with the military incursion in Afghanistan and Iraq left many Americans unsupportive of our government’s anti-terrorism policy. President Biden has personally expressed to Israeli leaders the lessons learned. For Israel it is a difficult and troublesome path forward.
A Change of Scene
Next week is my last scheduled trip north to camp. A planned visit with my high school friends, less one, is something I have looked forward to each year since 2020, when we all first ventured as a group to camp for a sleepaway. This year it is guys only. No plans for Wheaton fishing guides. Only local fishing with Greg, exploring around the lake in my 1950s motorboat, steak, and lobster on the grill and plenty of catching up. I am planning a walk to Sucker Lake and a picnic on the island. Bob likes to fish from the dock. Arnie enjoys the evening campfire. Harv always serves us the best of wines. And I just enjoy hosting my buddies. This year our friend Jer decided to rest his back, avoiding the long drive from Wellesley, Mass. We will miss him.
There is much to look forward to, however when I think about the usually pleasant drive north to camp from Bangor airport, I feel some trepidation. According to the Houlton Pioneer Times, our local weekly newspaper and a reliable source, a neo-Nazi training ground is being built in Springfield, a small community a mere 30 minutes south of Danforth, my camp home. This news is alarming. Springfield, population 400, is known for its local Labor Day Fairgrounds. It is a typical rural Maine town along Route 169 with a gas station, a roadside pizza stand and, aside from the fairgrounds, not much more. Now it appears to be the setting for extremists to indoctrinate their followers in weapon use and hateful ideology. It is a disturbing development, yet the state of Maine has no laws prohibiting paramilitary training activities—an invitation to these groups to form their camps there. According to the Houlton article, local legislators are moving to enact appropriate state laws to prohibit such activities. As I drive through Springfield next week, I will be conscious of the extremism taking root in my neck of the woods. Will Nazi flags become part of the scenery? Will the last 30 picturesque miles to camp be blighted by symbols of anti-Semitism? Who would’ve thought! Once again it was a small weekly paper, published in the heart of the wilderness, that brought important news to my attention. Local reporting is best at sorting out the good and bad in our beautiful Maine.
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.
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.
What Would Mark Twain Say?
For the past several months I have been intrigued by author Mark Twain’s time out west. I came upon a book entitled Mark Twain in California by Nigey Lennon, which gave me insight into Twain’s early journalistic years on the Nevada-California border, and then in San Francisco where he wrote for the Morning Call. Prior to starting my research, I only knew Twain as the author of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and its sequel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
His career as a frontier journalist began following a stint as a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi River. Samuel Clemens was his name by birth, but it was on the water that he gained his pen name, from the shouts in riverboat jargon for two fathoms –“mark twain!”– i.e. the safe water depth for steamboats. He headed west after the start of the Civil War and, failing at mining the Comstock Lode, took up writing for the local papers. This part of his life was of special interest to me because rumors have been circulating for years that Twain wrote for “The Mountain Messenger”– an assertion long disputed by Twain biographers and scholars, who allege that what appeared in the Messenger at that time under a pen name was only the reprint of an “unremarkable” piece he wrote for a San Francisco newspaper while “hungover.” Journalism at the time barely resembled the rigorous, present-day “All the News That’s Fit to Print” style of The New York Times. In fact, Twain wrote under multiple pseudonyms, including “Thomas Jefferson Snodgrass” and simply “Josh,” among others, and his journalistic focus tended to be on barroom “squabbles the night before…usually between Irish and Irish or Chinese and Chinese, with now and then a squabble between the two races for a change.”
Notwithstanding the historical facts -or fiction-I thought it would be interesting to imagine, based on Twain’s own words, his view of current events if he were writing for the Messenger today. So, what would be Josh’s take on the current political climate? Today everyone is squabbling, especially between political parties as well as politicians of the same stripe fighting amongst themselves. Twain’s quip, “I breakfasted every morning with the governor, dined with the principal clergymen and slept in the station house,” might apply to Trump’s rapid decline in popularity among his own supporters after hosting controversial dinner guests at Mar-a-Lago. On other issues, Twain’s habit of speculation with mining stocks led to an observation which might apply to the crypto-fraud debacle of today: “The wreck was complete. The bubble scarcely left a microscopic moisture behind it. I was an early beggar, and a thorough one.”
Twain was a frontier humorist who dealt on corrupt politicians. He finished his California journalistic career in San Francisco writing humor, philosophizing and moralizing. Twain would have found plenty to write about in the past year in America. We could use a bit more of his ethics – and humor– these days.
A Letter to Ukraine
My Dear Beloved Mother and Father,
As I write to you from my well-lighted and warm home in America, I see images on the nightly news of our hometown, Kherson, being brutalized and bombed by the Russians. In February, when the invasion of our country started, you made the decision to wait out the war, but by April it was no longer safe to drive the streets of Kherson with the Russian soldiers terrorizing the residents who were trying to survive, simply looking for food and shelter. When you made the journey west to Lviv to find safe harbor I knew it would be dangerous but you made the right choice to go. Though it is under Martial Law, at least Lviv is not occupied by the aggressors.
We know how fortunate we are to be here in the U.S. and think of you constantly. When I look back on it, winning the green card lottery to emigrate to the United States in 2007 was a miracle. I remember telling you both that Viktoryia and I were moving to America. You were gracious and did not guilt us for leaving our home and country even though it was heartbreaking for you and us. I know Vasyl leaving in 2019 to practice medicine in Slovakia was another blow to our nuclear family but you supported his decision as well. Our lives outside of Ukraine are bright and promising. I am attending law school to build on my education in Ukraine and hopefully someday I will be a practicing lawyer in New York. My daughters were born here. How fortunate we are here. We can only be so happy though, knowing you are still suffering through this war with its many atrocities which you have described to me over the last several months—so much worse than what we see here in the U.S. news. We do everything we can from here, focusing on raising monies through our non-profit organization, Help UA Inc., for purchasing, packing and shipping clothing, medical supplies, uniforms, safety equipment, hygiene products and other essentials to Ukraine.
We pray for your safety and health in your temporary home in Lviv and we look forward to the day when we can all be together again in a peaceful world.
Your loving son,
Simon
Simon Andriychuk is a 39-year-old Ukrainian American who has lived in the U.S. since 2007 with his wife and children. An attorney in Ukraine, Simon has worked at my law firm since 2016 as a paralegal and is now studying for the New York Bar. His extended family remain in Ukraine. This letter was edited.
Dinner at Mar-a-Lago
Driving out of Mar-a-Lago was a bit disorienting in the dark. The Secret Service agent, dressed in black, directed us past several government vans through an exit onto Ocean Road, leading to Southern Bridge. I soon realized we were using the private driveway of the former President as it was far off the main road where most of the traffic went in and out of the Mar-a-Lago compound–otherwise known as the “Southern White House” when Trump was in office. Patti and I had been invited to a gala event there as guests of the Major of the local Salvation Army, to celebrate the 100th Anniversary of the organization. The Salvation Army is a faith-based charitable foundation which Patti and I support through their scholarship program.
When I first received the invitation, I was uncertain whether we should attend. It had only been two weeks since Trump broke bread with the white nationalist Nick Fuentes and the rap artist Ye, both notorious antisemites. That was on the heels of the subpoena raid by the FBI in August searching for government documents which Trump allegedly illegally removed from the White House. Then an article in the Palm Beach Post reinforced how Trump sympathizers use Mar-a-Lago as a venue to curry favor with him. All of this made me uncomfortable about attending the event. But my friend Bill, who is head of the Board of Trustees at Salvation Army, assured me that the Salvation Army gala would not turn into a political affair. The landlord would not be there to promote his recently announced candidacy.
Mar-a-Lago, as most readers may know, was originally the estate of the late Marjorie Merriweather Post, built in 1927. The exterior architecture is in the style of a Mediterranean villa, while the extravagant interiors could be described as Trump’s version of Versailles. The Salvation Army event was men in white tie and women in long ball gowns. It felt like something from a bygone era. I found myself standing aside most of the evening observing the grandiose furnishings and architecture. I kept looking for signs of the owner, but the only evidence were secret service agents milling about, identifiable by their earpieces and the official-looking badges hanging from their belts. I must presume if Trump intended to make a surprise appearance the metal scanners would have been present, no cell phones would have been allowed and the women’s purses would have been searched. The only telltale signs of Trump in the house was his name on the wifi and a single framed award at the entrance to the women’s bathroom, honoring his restoration of Mar-a-Lago. I never made it into the men’s room, but having been to his golf club in the past, the walls there are filled with his pictures and awards.
My takeaway is that Mar-a-Lago will return to its historical significance as Marjorie Merriweather Post’s once magnificent home and not Trump’s preferred venue for favor seekers, once his political career ends. Going by the comments overhead around the pool before dinner, the Salvation Army event was the beginning of the end of Mar-a-Lago as a club to “meet and greet” Trump. Notwithstanding the fact that this was a Florida crowd, the attention to Trump will fade and membership to the club will not be Trump driven. In my view, if Trump had shown that night, there would have been a “fire drill” – some would have headed over to shake his hand, but most would’ve headed for the door. But he didn’t show up fortunately, and Patti and I got a few dances in before we left.
Here Back East 