Reflections – Page 2 – Here Back East

Typewriter

This year July 4th fell on a Tuesday, so the office was closed today, Monday. Most people look forward to the extra holiday time off, but I am accustomed to a structured schedule during the week. My days are consumed mostly with work and the occasional social event, so the open-ended time leaves me feeling a bit adrift. Like other mornings, it began with the newspapers, coffee, and a few pages from one of the many books I am reading. Predictably there were a few emails from old friends who, like me, were also unoccupied, and looking for some casual conversation. But by then I was already onto a cleaning project instead: my vintage 1940s Smith Corona typewriter — a gift from my kids on Father’s Day, purchased “fresh” from someone’s attic in Maine through Ebay. Though it had a new ribbon, the machine was otherwise in need of a thorough Lenny cleaning. With tools in hand, including several brushes, mineral oil, a clean rag and cotton Q-tips, I started the process slowly. The case was musty from years of storage and disuse. I ran my finger across it and picked up a film of brown dust. I did not want to ruin the patina on the metal exterior or be too aggressive with the inner workings as I could mess up something that has been working for the past 70 years. I cleaned the keys just enough so they didn’t stick. I can only imagine the essays and perhaps novels written on this old Smith Corona. Like a later-model Smith Corona purchased during my high school days in 1955, I am certain it was used by a student in the 1940s.

This Corona is going to camp to replace the old Hermes 1940s vintage typewriter that has been my accomplice in writing since 2017, when I started visiting camp during the summer months and wrote letters and journal entries, then my weekly column. Unfortunately, the tab button broke during my last stay at camp. My kids found me a replacement for it instead of lugging the heavy machine back to New York for a visit to the typewriter doctor. Eventually I will get it fixed.

I’ve had a long-term fascination with typewriters, from the first one I received in the 1950s to my current collection–an Olympia, two Smith Coronas and an Hermes. I am motivated to write when I am seated in front of one of these machines. The touch of the keys, the sharp clicks of the letter bars striking the rubber barrel (unlike the hushed, smoothed-over tapping sound of a laptop keyboard) and then rolling out a finished column—that is satisfaction. Sometimes I wear an old hat while I am typing. It is the way I imagine writers of the past worked when they were at a keyboard.

Now that I have cleaned my new typewriter, I am content to have accomplished something that was important to me. Lunch will be ready soon. If the rain stops, maybe Patti and I can bat a few tennis balls, or even better, I will wash the old Jag and ready it for a ride to the beach.

What’s So Special About the Hamptons?

The New York Times has published yet another article about how much the Hamptons have “changed”. The press has long been fascinated with this bucolic cluster of small hamlets at the easternmost tip of Long Island, 100 miles from New York City. The white sand beaches, the brilliant natural light, the lush landscapes–and the dancing all night at Shagwong bar in Montauk –all have attracted the throngs for decades. I made East Hampton my home permanently in 1972, when I moved my young family out of New York City. My late wife and I lived the dream. Despite the articles proclaiming the demise of that Hamptons dream, I find that today the Hamptons are not really that different than they were in 1968, when we first found a weekend home on Egypt Lane. Certainly, there are more cars on the road, generated by the tenfold increase in new houses and resulting population explosion. Yet the character of the place has not changed. There is still a vibrant community of “locals” who enjoy a small town neighborliness. Maybe the fact that many of the mom-n-pop shops on Main Street have been replaced by national brand retailers is disappointing to some. There is no longer Marleys Stationery or Whites drugstore. Yet the traffic cop is most likely a local kid, and most of the staff in the shops, the schoolteachers, firemen and many of the doctors, lawyers and other professionals are all fulltime residents here. Like me, they would rather be out here than in New York City. So what makes the Hamptons appear to be so different now? It has to be more than the retail establishment and the population increase. Perhaps the push and pull between the locals who want things to be as it was before the onslaught of development versus the newbies who want pickleball and more bedrooms added on to their already sizeable homes. Nevertheless, the Hamptons remain special because of the vast open spaces and beaches that are protected in perpetuity. Back in the 1970’s large swaths of land were set aside by people who understood what was happening and a moratorium stopped all development. A not so local new Supervisor, Judith Hope, sought and succeeded in slowing down uncontrolled home building. Thousands of acres of vacant land were set aside and the rules governing future expansion were tightened. Today we all benefit from these rules. Sure, there is more traffic as one drives the roads and lanes in the Hamptons. And yes you need a reservation now at The Grill, but there is still room at Main Beach and one can get a lobster roll at Lunch on the highway and if you’re lucky the local traffic kid will give you a pass for overstaying the time limit parked on Main Street.

The birds were chirping away this morning. The walkers and runners were on Further Lane at sunup. Coffee was ready at Poxabogue at 6:30am, and where breakfast is served all day. It is the weekend and I plan to go on a swim, wash my car, take a ride to Northwest Harbor in the morning and then a barbeque at my daughter’s home. The only thing changed for me is my age.

Shake it Off

Why do some dogs “shake it off”? Patti’s dog Wally is a Havanese breed and, as with most dogs, he periodically gives himself a good shake. Usually it is after a dog event, like when he is finished barking at the FedEx delivery man at the front door, or when he is done rolling around to relieve an itch. Dogs apparently use the “shake it off” behavior to end a sentence or finish a task. So here I am wondering why us humans don’t “shake it off” sometimes instead of mouthing off. After a bad spell at the office, just shake it off instead of going off the deep end. Managing our differences requires a good night’s sleep and some self-control, and they may be in short supply. So instead of confronting, just shake it off. Too much energy and time is spent on the back and forth. We don’t always have to have the last word. I suggest, to minimize conflict we simply, figuratively, “shake it off”. Even Wally knows that barking will only get him so far, so he shakes it off and waits patiently by his bowl to be fed or at the door to be let out. We humans can learn something from our pets.

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.

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.

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.