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I awoke this bright, cloudless day in anticipation of the first painting class of the season at the Armory Arts Center in West Palm.  In preparation for it I worked over the weekend drawing the series of dog portraits which will be part of my new collection of watercolors to be shown at the Blueberry Festival in Kennebunk in July.  Since last May I have drawn numerous hunting and fishing landscapes to broaden the subject of my art.  I looked forward to a quiet afternoon with no Apple watch or cell phone to interrupt my studio time.  Once in class, with only a few newbies and the teacher available to help me finish off a number of paintings, I had a relaxing and productive session.  It was one of those days when I felt contented and peaceful, very much like sitting on my dock at camp in Maine, with only the sound of the lake water lapping against the rocks.  Yet times are not peaceful in my home waters.  Upon exiting the studio, I lowered myself into my car and of course reached for my phone.  There were scores of missed calls and emails.  Office business I assumed.  Yet the messages were not the usual legal matters.  Our tiny hamlet of Montauk – population 3,563—had been vandalized the previous evening with swastikas painted on the walls and windows of businesses owned by Jewish merchants.  Many of the messages on my phone were from friends and colleagues calling to offer their support.

  I was stunned and frightened by the news.  I have never been attacked as a Jew like this.  It was personal even though they were not my properties that were vandalized.  Who would do this?  How does an individual have the anger and hatred to paint swastikas on someone’s private property, in public view?  Where does the anger come from?  Why are you threatening Jews therefore me and my family? What is the failure in our society that allows this to happen? The First Amendment doesn’t cover this kind of hate speech.  Where has basic human decency gone?

Over the past year, I have been studying the origins of the Holocaust in connection with research for a book I am writing about my family who, in 1939, were murdered in Ukraine because they were Jewish.  I found that the Holocaust began in the 1800s with the pogroms in Eastern Europe and culminated with the murder of six million Jews during Hitler’s reign.  Yet here it is 2023 in Montauk, New York, and images from the Nazi era are front and center on the main street of a tiny beach town known for surfing and deep-sea fishing. “Jeden Die” –a misspelling of the German “Juden”– was sprayed in bold black letters on a wooden fence, the meaning loud and clear despite the perpetrator’s ignorance.  These are chilling echoes of the past. Must I live in fear now, just like my grandparents did?

 We need to confront the person or persons responsible and ask, “Why do you do this?  Why do you hate me?” 

This was my second time participating in the East Hampton Library’s fundraising event, called “Author’s Night”.  We were all under a large white tent in Herrick Park on a hot and humid Saturday afternoon.  From day trippers to locals to weekenders and fulltime residents, they all came to buy books and meet well-known authors such as Robert Caro, the imminent historian, and Tina Brown, former editor of the New Yorker magazine–and me, a not-yet-famous writer of newspaper columns.  The author table placement was alphabetical so just as I had been assigned to the front row in grammar school, there I was, first in the line, seated behind my stack of books to sell, as the backed-up crowd filed in at 5:00p.m. sharp.  The parade started at my table–and continued past it.  My loyal friends and colleagues, nowhere in sight, were just getting out of their swim trunks at home right about that time.  Many of the early visitors had traveled from “western” towns like Hampton Bays and Southampton.  Some pick up my book and scan a few pages or read the cover flap.  It is of no interest, nor am I, a sweaty, 80-plus-year-old guy with his book “Fishing the Morning.”  Every face seems to have the same question: “Who and what is this guy about?”  A brief chat: “Is this a book about fishing?” “Not really,” I answer.  “It is a collection of my columns that I write for…” and before I can finish, they are off to the next table.  For the next 15 minutes or so I suck on my water bottle and wipe my face from the sweltering humidity and embarrassment that I have not sold a single book.  Next to me is Jim Acosta, the well-known journalist, highly regarded by many who watch CNN.  All the liberals stop to shake his hand.  50-50 buy his book.  And then finally to my rescue they come—a colleague, Amanda, and clients from town who remember a closing or two.  Then local politicians, some who already have my vote and others who will in the future. My stack of books is shrinking.  A few Rochester natives stop by to reminisce and buy books.  Of course, my kids show up with support from their friends and a few more books move off the table.  My neighbor Jim Acosta peers over to see how many I have sold and asks if I would like a beer to cool down.  “Yes, thanks,” I say, and his girlfriend, standing by, goes in search of a couple of cold bottles for us.   We both glance at our watches to gauge how much longer we need to sit there soliciting book buyers.  Jim has had an easier time since he is so well-known from television.  I’m a “minor” celebrity only among my satisfied clients and friends from over 50-plus years of living here.  As the closing bell was about to ring, Patti helped me box up my remaining, unsold books.  It was a good day—17 copies sold, all the proceeds to benefit the East Hampton Library.  As I walked to the long-term parking lot, I thought about next year.  Maybe a book just about my fishing experiences?  I pulled out of my parking space and a book-buying friend across the way shouted out “Hey Lenny!” and gave me a thumbs up. Yup – a good day. 

From time to time my classic car magazines feature so-called “barn finds” – recently discovered vintage cars that have been in storage for decades, sitting in barns and garages in the Midwest or other out of the way places—true automotive treasure trove.  Hemmings magazine reports on these barn finds when a vehicle of special significance is found and offered for sale.  Now I am proud to report on my own barn find right here in Palm Beach.   My friend Chris Kellogg recently told me about two old cars he has had in his garage for decades—a 1956 Bentley and a 1966 Mercedes 230 SL. He recently made the decision to sell them and hopefully he will find a deep-pocketed restoration hero.  The cars’ history makes this barn find all the more interesting.  It begins when Chris’s father, the Honorable Francis Kellogg, served as an Ambassador and Head of the Department of Immigration and Refugees under Nixon, reporting to Henry Kissinger.  While on a trip to New York City, he purchased the Bentley from an English couple returning to London.  The Bentley had been given to them as a wedding gift.  Kellogg brought the car back to D.C. where it logged many miles ferrying visiting dignitaries, including the queen of Thailand. 

On a trip to Europe in 1966, Kellogg purchased the Mercedes at the company factory in Stuttgart, Germany. It was intended as a graduation gift for his son, but he loved the car so much he kept it—and since Chris already had a 1600 Alfa Romeo at the time.   In 1968 Kellogg returned to New York City and for a period of time the two cars were housed at the United Nations on 34^th street. After that they were moved to Kellogg’s farm in Bedford, New York, where, according to Chris, his father took great pleasure in driving the Mercedes through the curves and hills throughout the area.  Eventually the cars were relocated to Palm Beach where they remain at the family compound. The Ambassador passed away in 2008, and the cars were left to Chris. 

Both vintage autos rest peaceably in Palm Beach, dusty and in need of restoration.  Unique in their heritage, both vehicles represent another era of auto history—the Bentley a classic touring car, the 230 Mercedes the early pagoda-style two-seater convertible made famous in the movie “Two for the Road” starring Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney. Treasure indeed.

It is the beginning of May 2023 and the busy winter season is ending here in Palm Beach.  People are off to myriad locations, mostly north, to the Carolinas, the Hamptons and upstate Maine.  A few friends remain here for the summer to enjoy the quiet roads and uncrowded restaurants and beaches. Last night, a few friends gathered to say goodbye.  The mood of the evening was convivial and brought to mind similar dinners from the past. In June of 1958, my senior dinner was held in the Benjamin Franklin High School gym in Rochester, New York.  It was the final gathering of the graduating class, after all the other end-of-high school events had occurred–the Prom, and our class play.  In the following days, we were all gone with the wind–off to various colleges throughout the country, a few to the military, and most, typical of the era, went straight into the workforce at Kodak, Xerox and other New York state companies.  After four years of seeing each other almost daily –though many of us had been friends since elementary school– we were off to pursue our own destinies.  As for my friends last evening in Palm Beach, God willing we will all see each other again in the Fall when the winter season in Florida recommences.  The end of the season 2023 is the farthest thing from the runway takeoff of the summer of 1958.  Back then, only a handful of us returned to live upstate where we were born and raised as children of immigrant parents.  Over the years, a group of us have enjoyed getting together at my Maine camp every year – Jer, Bobbie, Harvey, Arnie and myself—to reminisce and talk about our school days and our careers and sometimes about our backgrounds, like where our families are from and how they have influenced us.  I am particularly interested in my own family history, and I intend to write about it this summer while I am at camp (and do a bit of fishing too of course).  I am starting with my father, who at age 12 traveled alone across Europe, then stowed away on a ship to find his brother in America.  His life journey was an incredible one, and I was fortunate to be on it with him for a time, as it has ultimately led me to where I am today, surrounded by good friends and family, in the places I want to be.  Something about seasons ending makes me especially nostalgic and searching. 

Mornings in Maine I rise very early – much earlier than in Florida or East Hampton.  Summer sun-ups occur around 5:45am so I am up too.  I never sleep with the shades and curtains drawn.  To be awakened by the morning sun is the ideal way to ease into the day.  Once my feet hit the floor however my direction is pointed in one way only:  to the nearest source of hot coffee, which means a stop at Provisions in Kennebunkport, for an extra-large brew and a copy of The New York Times.  Afterward, I head west to Cape Porpoise for my favorite seat on the dock.  The bench is often buried under six-foot-high lobster cages which I move aside as I acclimate to the pungent aroma of fish carcasses left behind by the circling sea gulls.  By 7:00am most of the lobster boats are offshore retrieving the catch of the day.  There are usually a few stragglers doing maintenance on their boats on the dock—the dock with its decade’s old nails protruding, the wood worn down from the tread of so many lobstermen over the years.   

         Today, I sit with my back to the sun, remove the lid from my coffee cup and take my first sip of the day.  I open the Times with the sun over my shoulder and glance at the headlines. I scan the various columns, but my gaze shifts up, over the top of the paper to view a small island in the middle of the bay, now exposed by the receding tide.  A flock of geese land in the few feet of water remaining in the inlet. Soon they will be heading south, to my backyard in East Hampton, for a rest and some sun in Jones Cove. It is a glorious morning coffee break, birds and all, in one of my favorite places to sit and rest the morning lonely.

I mull over other mornings, with friends, and reflect on their favorite places to start the day. Carl Butz, my editor at Mountain Messenger, has his balcony on the second floor of his office in Downieville, California. He and I recently spent time there together during my trip to the High Sierras. I recall Carl, stroking his beard, with a cigarette in one hand and a coffee cup in another, speaking of mornings in that small town on the Yuba River.  Traffic is light on the main road with few shops open early.  The line of old storefronts is not unlike something out of a Hollywood western.  At any moment I expect a herd of cattle to be driven down main street with a couple of cowboys trailing them on the way to the railroad further down the river. This is Carl’s perch from which he watches over his domain.  

              Back in Danforth, Maine, Greg, my caretaker at camp can be found in the early hours of the day on the rock outcropping in front of my camp and Ted’s -my next-door neighbor. Greg rises just before the sun, grabs his ceramic mug with hot coffee and heads down to the water to inspect the rods he secured on the rocks overnight, hoping to hook a salmon.  He scans the horizon with the rising sun on his face, sitting on the big rock protruding into the water, then follows his fly line to the battery-powered glowing plastic bopper now below the surface, which means there is salmon on the line.  Greg reels it in skillfully and is positively giddy about catching another salmon overnight.  One night he saw the neon bopper disappear beneath the waves at 2:00 am and roused his daughter Darcy to go with him in the dark to retrieve his catch. 

 As a young lawyer living and practicing law in New York City, my favorite morning spot was the counter at the coffee shop at 655 Madison Avenue near my office. It opened at 6:30am and coffee with a freshly toasted bagel with cream cheese and lox was my breakfast of choice. I made sure I always had enough time to enjoy the meal and still get to the office before any of the partners.   

I look forward to visiting camp next week, where I will sit on my dock, feet dangling in the water, with my tin coffee cup in hand. No bagel but plenty else to satisfy my hunger for enjoying life.

March 2022

One of my paralegals, Simon, hails from Ukraine. He and his wife Viktoriya, also Ukrainian, have lived in the U.S. for 15 years, and during that time have traveled back and forth to visit their family members in Ukraine, many of whom have also visited here. ! spoke with Simon yesterday about the terrible events unfolding in his home country. He shared with me some of what he has learned from his family who are Jiving through it and how he, and the focal Ukrainian-American community here, are responding to the crisis.

When the war started in Ukraine, all the national television networks agreed to combine their efforts and limit broadcasting to one station at a time. Should one be attacked, it would fall to the next station to continue broadcasting throughout the country. So those with power and a television can still receive independent news and miraculously, the internet is still available, allowing Simon to communicate daily with his parents, who describe the harrowing changes to their formerly peaceful city.

Simon’s parents, residents of Kherson, the capital of the Kherson region in the south, are an elderly couple who have been for the most part trapped in their home, fearful of venturing out due to the presence of the volatile Russian soldiers who roam the streets, apparently under no command. They have neighbors and friends who for now manage to bring them food and other essentials. In Kherson, as in other areas of the country, many of the local residents regularly take to the streets, protesting the occupation despite the constant threat of assault and, when the tension heightens, being shot in cold blood by the occupiers. There is also the ever-present risk of shelling. His parents report that humanitarian aid, both for those remaining and those seeking to escape, has been hampered by the Russians with roadblocks and attacks on people in vehicles. Food and medical deliveries have been delayed or destroyed. Farm equipment has been sabotaged, preventing the village farmers from preparing for spring planting. The mayor of Kherson is still in charge of government affairs, though the occupiers are trying to take over administrative power, including recent attempts to organize a so-called “referendum” to declare the Kherson region an independent republic (much like what happened eight years ago with Donetsk and Lugansk, the two eastern-most regions in Crimea). At the street level, local Ukrainian vigilante groups have formed to deal with many of the occupying Russian soldiers, mostly young men, who have taken to getting drunk and aggressive, harassing and attacking local residents.

Simon and I spoke by zoom, he from our office conference room, I from my home office in Florida. I could see he looked tired, eyes darkened by lack of sleep. Wearing a green, military-style t­shirt, Simon resembled President Zelensky. He spoke seriously and his attitude was quietly steadfast as he described what his family are enduring. Simon has two little girls who he hasn’t seen much of lately, since he has been spending weeknights and weekends shopping for and packing up shelf-stable foods and emergency supplies. He delivers the items to his church where he works with his fellow parishioners packing up and organizing the donations for shipment via air transport from Newark Airport to Poland. His hope is that some of it will reach his family.

A few of Simon’s relatives were able to flee, traveling by bus and train to Slovakia where Simon’s brother, a doctor, is providing housing and support for family members as well as refugees.

At the end of our conversation, Simon and I agreed that it may just be a matter of time before the Russian people see through all the lies and propaganda. Once they realize their government’s grievous actions against their neighbors to the west, they will rise up. The day of reckoning must come.