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Your Turn

Your Turn: Experiencing the Greyhound bus from Kansas City to New York City

by Beverly C. Tyler - July 22, 2023

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IMG_2298 (800x533) — In the Fort Pitt Tunnel. in Pittsburgh. Photo by Beverly Tyler

By Beverly C. Tyler

John Broven’s article on his Amtrak trip to and from Pittsburgh [Our turn: “In praise of Amtrak, LIRR not so much,” TBR News Media website, June 5] inspired me to write about my 31-hour bus trip from Kansas City, Missouri, to New York City in 2018. This took longer than our trip from Setauket to Sidney, Australia in 2002.

I attended the American Association for State and Local History Annual Meeting in Kansas City at the end of September. I flew out and to do something I’ve never done before — I took the Greyhound bus home.

The scheduled departure was 10:25 p.m., however the bus was behind schedule. I discovered the seats here and at every bus terminal were uncomfortable, metal and ribbed, so sitting on them was painful. I met fellow traveler Don in the terminal and we talked about history and architecture. The staff here were not sure of how the bus was doing until about 15 minutes before the bus arrived. We finally left Kansas City a little more than two hours late.

Just after sunrise between St. Louis and Indianapolis. Photo by Beverly C. Tyler

The seats on the bus were very uncomfortable with little legroom, no place for my travel mug and no overhead reading light in any seat. In the rear of the bus people talked constantly and loudly. I was about in the middle. The bus was very noisy, rough riding and included a disturbing high-pitched squeal that became higher as we increased speed.

We had a rest stop in Columbia, Missouri, a nice clean place with good food and drink choices. We arrived in St. Louis at 4:45 a.m. and expected to be there about two hours. The small hot food place (pizza etc.) was not open, just snack food, water and sodas available, no juices.

We changed buses and left St. Louis at 6:28 a.m. I got a much better seat with good legroom in the escape window aisle. There were no snack tables on any of the buses. I know I shouldn’t expect them, but they are normal on buses in Europe. No overhead individual lights and no Wi-Fi on this bus. The only electrical outlets that worked were on the right side of the bus, but otherwise this was a better bus. The last one had trouble with shocks, according to the driver who almost left the road at one point due to hitting a bad spot in the road. The new driver really laid down the law with respect to noise, cellphones, bathroom, courtesy, etc. He even said that we had to keep our shoes on, in case of emergencies. First time I heard that. We had a beautiful sunrise with fog across the open fields as we left St. Louis, very picturesque. My seatmate was on the phone for at least an hour after we departed.

We arrived in Indianapolis, Indiana, just before noon. It was Sunday, and the crowds were already coming into the Colts stadium next door. The weather was gorgeous We had just 20 minutes to get something for lunch or breakfast although the schedule called for 55 minutes. The only place close by was a White Castle across the road with a long line. The waiting room and restrooms were dark and dreary, not sparkling and scrubbed as they were in Columbia. We lined up to get back on our bus and were told to get our carry-ons from the bus and get on a new bus.

Homeward bound

We left Indianapolis at 12:42 p.m. This bus was not well maintained. Most of the seats were threadbare and cracked which gave rough edges. Just like the first two buses, we felt every bump in the roadway. We paused in Dayton and Springfield, Ohio, to pick up local passengers and stopped for 45 minutes in Columbus, Ohio. There was nothing in the bus terminal except a few snack-and-drink machines. I hoped to get a meal in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I talked to a lady who embarked at Indianapolis and had to work this night in Pittsburgh. She said Greyhound was delayed in both directions and the worst part was that no one could tell her when the bus would arrive — they kept saying “15 minutes.”

We arrived in Pittsburgh about 8 p.m. We are told only 20 minutes here. The restaurant in the bus terminal was closed, so the only choice for supper was a pop tart and an iced tea from one of the machines. Just as we were leaving, they opened up again — too late. We thought they were closed for the night.

When we got back on the bus, we found out there were two wheelchair passengers to load so seats had to be removed. As a consequence, we had to move our stuff to a seat in front or at the rear. We hustled to get it done. I ended up sitting with a woman on her way to Philadelphia. We started a conversation just before the new passengers came onboard, including one couple who insisted on sitting together, but there were only single seats available. The woman insisted that they had assigned seats, which nobody gets. The agent said they would have to take available seats or leave.

Unfortunately, both the couple and the agent were yelling loudly, insistent and unmoving. Before it got to the point of throwing the couple off the bus, my seatmate whispered to me that she would move if I did. We got up and offered the couple our seats. Everything calmed down. Like so many of the people I met on this trip, my brief seatmate was a pleasure to talk to. The people I met, including the new bus driver we had from Pittsburgh to New York City, were the best part of the trip.

We left Pittsburgh an hour behind our new scheduled time. None of us on the bus from Indianapolis had any supper, but no one really complained. Sitting in the front for the first time the road ahead was mesmerizing.

At 10:35 p.m., we stopped at the Sideling Hill rest stop in Pennsylvania. Some of us got off the bus to use the restrooms and were surprised that the shop there was open with all kinds of drinks and sandwiches that we could microwave. It was a real treat and our driver gave us up to 45 minutes even though we were scheduled for 30. I treated myself to a green chili fajita and a pumpkin spice latte. We all hurried up as fast as we could and were back on the bus and on our way by 11:10 p.m.

We arrived in Philadelphia just after 3 a.m. I finally got some sleep on the way to Philly. I stayed on the bus so I didn’t have to go through the regular process of getting a return note or tag and wait until we were summoned to get back on the bus. This happened at every bus terminal stop. Interestingly, the two best rest stops we stopped at were along the PA Turnpike an hour and fifteen minutes out of the Pittsburgh bus station and Columbia. Neither is a bus terminal, but they are the cleanest places with the best choices of food.

We left Philadelphia for New York about 3:30 a.m. and I was able to sleep. We arrived at Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City at 5:15 a.m. I couldn’t believe how fast the trip was from Philadelphia.

I walked to Penn Station and made the 5:47 to Stony Brook. We had to change at Huntington, and I was glad to have my walking stick as we had to walk up and over the footbridge to get the train to Port Jeff. The walking stick really helped on the climb and descent. Barbara picked me up at the Stony Brook station at about 7:45 a.m. I was glad to be home at last..

Beverly C. Tyler is a Three Village Historical Society historian and author of books available from the society at 93 North Country Road, Setauket. For more information, call 631-751-3730.

Your Turn: Protection is needed for horseshoe crabs and other bottom feeding sea creatures from fishermen at West Meadow Beach

by TBR Staff - July 21, 2023

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By Patricia Paladines

West Meadow Beach is one of four locations in New York State where horseshoe crabs are protected from capture for the biomedical and bait fishing industries throughout the year. It is a beach where during full moons of May and June we can witness an annual event that has been occurring for thousands of years in this part of the world; the migration of horseshoe crabs from the depths of the Long Island Sound to mate and deposit eggs on the shore at high tide. The beach’s sand bars are literally where single males and females “hook-up.”

Horseshoe crabs (Limulus polyphemus) have roamed the seas for over 400 million years. Long Island’s north shore, having existed for just around 20,000 years, is a relatively new site for the romantic rendezvous.

I’ve led walks for the Four Harbors Audubon Society at West Meadow Beach where we’ve counted hundreds of horseshoe crabs on the stretch of beach between the parking lot and the jetty on the southern end. On a recent solo walk, I came upon a fisherman who had reeled in a horseshoe crab. He was about to use a knife to tear the baited hook out of the horseshoe crab’s mouth. I stopped him and showed him how easy it was to remove the hook by hand. He said he had been told the crabs were dangerous and that the tail could hurt you. After informing him that was incorrect, I took the crab and placed it back in the water while letting him know these animals are protected on this beach.

I may have come upon the scene just in time to save that horseshoe crab, but the beach was littered with the shells of other crabs that appeared to have been purposely killed. On the same walk I found a large female who had been smashed by a piercing object. A few weeks ago, a couple of friends found a horseshoe crab that appeared to have been burned. There is evidence of many overnight bonfires on the dunes, some very near the piping plover nest barricades.

Dead horseshoe crabs were not the only bottom feeding sea creatures strewn along the beach. Sun dried sea robins and a few skates also littered the high tide line.

It was late afternoon and the beach was filling up with fisher folks, both men and women. That meant there would be a lot of bait attracting bottom feeding animals, AKA scavengers, fish and crabs that stroll the sea floor feeding on whatever they can find. Fisherman’s bait is easy pickings, but not the safest, especially if you are not a species preferred on that fisherman’s plate.

I spotted two fishermen who had just reeled in two sea robins. I went over to ask them what they were going to do with them. They told me they were going to throw them back, but then I noticed a live sea robin on the sand just behind them. I picked it up and threw it back in the water hoping they would do the same with the ones they had on their hooks. I continued my walk near the line of fisher people and found more live sea robins on the sand and threw them all back in the Sound. One woman told me the fish just wash up on the beach with the waves. No, that doesn’t happen.

I came out for a walk to find peace in the natural beauty this beach offers Brookhaven residents; instead, what I found was upsetting. I talked to a few of the fishermen and learned that some are coming from Nassau County and Queens. Do these people have permits to fish on Brookhaven Town beaches?

When granted a fishing permit, does the person receive educational material about our local sea creatures and respectful beach use etiquette? The beach is littered not only with dead animals, but also fishing-related garbage — hooks, lines, plastic bags advertising tackle. Educational material should be in various languages. I’m a native Spanish speaker so was able to speak to the Spanish and English-speaking fisher people in the language they were most comfortable with. My experience as an environmental educator on Long Island has informed me that there are speakers of many languages who enjoy catching their meals from our waters; Czech, Polish, and Chinese are some of the other languages I’m aware of.

Education and patrolling are needed on our beaches. Additionally, West Meadow Beach should be closed to fishing during the horseshoe crab breeding season; allowing fishing during this time is counterproductive to efforts in place to protect a species whose numbers continue to decline along the Atlantic Coast.

Patricia Paladines is an Adjunct Instructor at Stony Brook University’s School of Marine and Atmospheric Sciences and Co-President of Four Harbors Audubon Society.

Your turn: The importance of good role models

by TBR Staff - June 24, 2023

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Screen Shot 2023-06-22 at 2.43.40 PM — Pixabay photo

By Charles J. Napoli

One winter day, I was on my way to deliver The Brooklyn Eagle. It was the early 1950s, when I lived in Brooklyn.

I was riding my homemade bike. It was only a green frame and tires. It had no chain guard, no fenders, no kickstand and no rubber hand grips. It had only one pedal. It was all that I could afford. I remember my grandmother gave me a shot of homemade dandelion wine to keep me warm.

When I reached the corner of my block with my canvas bag tied to my handlebars, I saw Zeke with his friends. He was the chief of the Indian motorcycle gang. They were headed my way.

So I yelled out, “Hi, Zeke,” and his friends burst out laughing. Zeke then came over to me, put his arm around me and said, “This is my good friend, and anyone who messes with him messes with me.” I was in my glory.

Zeke was my idol. He was a born leader, a philosopher-king, a warrior-poet and chose his battles wisely. He always wore jeans, a jean jacket, a garrison belt and motorcycle boots. Zeke was bold, wise, honest, kind and humble. He had the right swagger and governed with humility.

When I was a bit older — in the late 1950s — I was able to buy myself a Benelli motorcycle with money I had saved up. I wore jeans, a jean jacket, a garrison belt and motorcycle boots.

I don’t know what happened to Zeke, but he was special. I bet he was one of the best Ringolevio players in all of Brooklyn (“The game of life you play for keeps.”).

Whenever I’m in a jam and don’t know what to do, I ask myself: “What would Zeke have done?” He was my true friend and mentor.

The writer is a resident of Stony Brook.

Your Turn: Philanthropists among us

by TBR Staff - May 24, 2023

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By Thomas Manuel

From the ancient Greeks to Ben Franklin, Andrew Carnegie, George Clooney, Bill Gates, and countless individuals in between, philanthropy, a love for humanity and a desire to see it thrive, has been a common thread. It has been said that effective philanthropy requires a lot of time and creativity; the same kind of focus and skills that building a business requires. Miriam Beard once pointed out, “The results of philanthropy are always beyond calculation.”

Philanthropic giving is not just a phenomenon found in certain parts of the world, rather it is a spirit of giving back which is global. Former Prime Minister Tony Blair of Great Britain in speaking about philanthropy expanded that the best philanthropy is not just about giving money but giving leadership. The best philanthropists bring the gifts that made them successful — the drive, the determination, the refusal to accept that something can’t be done. These are the characteristics they invest into their philanthropy.

There are many reasons that drive and motivate philanthropy and not all are fueled by great passion for causes or humility. For every person that seeks anonymity there is another who desires their name be etched in stone. Regardless the motivation, our society at large has been beneficiary to philanthropic giving since the dawn of time.

Those of us in the arts tend to be especially in tune with the concept of patronage. Our forefathers such as Beethoven and Bach thrived upon such support and although terminology has evolved since their time, most artists would agree that it is a healthy combination of donors, grants, sponsors, and our regular concert going patrons who collectively produce our living.

Finding the correct way to properly thank a donor is about as easy as sneaking an elephant out of a circus tent! I recall inquiring once with a very special person, one who without his support so much of what both The Jazz Loft and my career has become would not have been possible, why he didn’t come to more events. He responded, “Do you really want to know why I don’t come to anything?” To which I replied, “Yes, I do!” To this he quickly quipped, “Because every time I show up you thank me!”

Over the years I’ve found joy in getting to know every individual that supports The Jazz Loft. I’ve truly enjoyed figuring out and discovering who finds appreciation in a letter, who welcomes a phone call, or who enjoys an annual summer lunch get together for a lobster sandwich and a beer. It’s actually one of my favorite parts of running a not-for-profit — getting to know amazing people, building real and genuine relationships, and forging what I know will be some lifetime friendships.

I was inspired to write this op-ed out of the desire to find a way to capture in words the gratitude I feel towards the philanthropists among us. Our community was literally designed and built by a philanthropist, Ward Melville. When I think of the names of those who have continued that bold tradition of giving and support, I resist sharing specific names, but suffice it to say you all know who they are even if you don’t know them personally.

Chances are you bought your house from them, or perhaps they’ve managed your retirement through the years. You might get your morning coffee from them or chat with them when you’re picking up your kid from school. They might volunteer or help run one of our many outstanding museums, art galleries, community institutions or preservation organizations. Maybe they fixed your car recently or you’ve bumped into them about town, at an outdoor concert, or in your favorite park. They’re quite often invisible, or as we say in Jazz, “tippin’ on the QT.”

What I do know is that no matter how little or how much in the spotlight or foreground they choose to be, these individuals are an incredible part of the fabric of who we are as a community. They are an invaluable resource, beyond definition, and without question an incredible gift to us all.

I consider it an honor and a privilege to serve our community in the positions and places I’ve been blessed to be and I’m inspired by those who are the philanthropists among us. To all of you out there, and you know who you are, THANK YOU!

Author Thomas Manuel, DMA is a Jazz historian, Artist in Residence at Stony Brook University, trumpet player and President and Founder of The Jazz Loft, 275 Christian Ave., Stony Brook. For more information, visit www.thejazzloft.org.

Your Turn: A thirty-something’s senior moment

by Stephanie Giunta - February 18, 2023

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By Stephanie Giunta

I was invited to join my grandmother, Josephine Eichner, at her Seniors Club at Rose Caracappa Senior Center in Mount Sinai on February 7, her 90th birthday. I am 32 and got laid off a few months ago, and although I lacked the eligibility due to my age, I attended as an honorary guest. After hearing about the Tuesday club for 20+ years, I was grateful to have the free time to attend, albeit plagued with the nagging reason as to why I was available.

I held her hand as we walked up the ramp into the building, kneeing the automatic handicap button to open the door. I walked into a sea full of people, whose wrinkles told the stories of their lives. They scattered about prepping the coffee stations, collecting dollars for the 50/50 raffle, and decorating the tables. Our table, #2, was adorned with a vase of flowers and balloons in honor of Grandma’s big day. My first impression: feeling so touched that her friends had thought of her.

Amused is putting it lightly. I was more so in awe. These men and women had made it. They had long marriages, bore children, and had grand and even great grandchildren. They survived successes, failures, peaks, and valleys. They frequented doctor’s offices, and had battled health problems. They kissed their friends and spouses goodbye as they were given eternal life. They had survived all of their worst days to date, and yet here they were — still living.

When the meeting started and they sang “God Bless America,” I could have fallen off of my chair if I was sitting down. It brought tears to my eyes, and I was riddled with such pure joy and admiration. “Cute” isn’t the right word to describe it, since many refer to anything an older person does as “cute.” I think it was more of a genuine appreciation of these people, and knowing they knew what was important: camaraderie, love of self, and love of country. Appreciation for the small, yet impactful things in life. I can’t quite put the feeling into words, but it was something that struck me, and I’ll never forget it.

Josephine Eichner with her granddaughter and guest columnist Stephanie Giunta at the event. Photo by Stephanie Giunta

I got to meet Liz, the woman whose chain emails I have been receiving for decades. I always opened them up because I didn’t want bad luck for 10 years. Sharon, who was lovingly referred to as “Grumpy” because she’s always so happy. She makes cookies for my daughter, although we had never met. Marie and Bob, who I’ve heard stories about for quite some time. They used to accompany my grandparents on double dates to The Heritage Diner. And Jutta. She doesn’t know it, but her name has been used quite a bit in some of our family’s games.

They walked a little slower, but laughed a little louder. Some were nervous that there weren’t enough slices of cake to go around. Others complained that tea service wasn’t put out. Me — I just sat in silence at points and soaked it all in. I found it fascinating that they were worried about tea and cake, something so simplistic, whereas I was worried about the fate of my career. We were just in completely different phases of life and it was refreshing to gain a contrasting perspective.

The most rewarding part of the day was seeing my grandmother in action. It is truly beautiful to see someone you deeply admire in a social setting, when you’ve never really witnessed it outside of family functions. She was a shining light who worked the room. Conversations were filled with “Happy birthdays” and “You’re not 90!s” and just simply checking in on each other. Her snowy hair and pink lips bounced from table to table, bearing hugs and cashing in on inside jokes. The woman is 57 years my senior and I think she has a better social life than I do!

And as we capped out the day with BINGO, among covert mumblings about health insurance, next week’s entertainment, and the weather, I was so grateful to be where I was — spending the day with one of the people I love most in this world. Relishing on the roast beef sandwich on rye that she packed for me as if it were a NY strip steak; cutting into the Tiramisu that her friends presented her with; enjoying something so bubblegum, and feeling a bit sad when it had come to an end. I was also disappointed that Harriet won three games and I won zero.

I wish I could look at my life through a senior’s eyes and know that there are plenty of happy and sad times to come, but that they will make me who I am. That each laugh line and wrinkle I collect will signify a pit stop on my journey. That life is a gift and living is a privilege, and at the end of the day, being a good person is all that matters. Age is but a number and friendship has no timetable.

And as I held Grandma’s hand on the way out, I whispered, “I can’t wait to come back.”

Your Turn: Saying goodbye to Park the Christmas Angel

by Barbara Anne Kirshner - December 23, 2022

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By Barbara Anne Kirshner

I begin with a heartfelt thank you to all who have joined Park and me on our life’s journey through the pages of TBR News Media. Readers with whom I had the privilege to meet have shared how they enjoyed our stories, how they sympathized and even empathized with our bond.

It pains me to tell you that this is our final chapter.

Park crossed the Rainbow Bridge on Oct. 26, at 16 years and almost 4 months. He valiantly fought for the past year and a half to stay with me even as his aged body was breaking. He fought against the paralysis that took over his hind legs last year keeping him down for four months.

But the resilient little man miraculously bounced back. At the point when I broached the subject of having a wheelchair made to fit Park, he started to push his hind legs up, to arch, then to straighten those legs and to my amazement, the day came when he walked on all fours again!

Life was beautiful with my Prince Charming Park by my side — until Aug. 28. Park put his head down and when he raised it up again, he was blind. This blindness was proceeded by two weeks of noticeable head tremors which I reported to the vet who felt that at his advanced age, anything could happen.

We went to an ophthalmic dog specialist at VMCLI who, after giving Park a thorough examination, diagnosed that his blindness was not due to cataracts, but probably to a tumor pushing against his eyes. An MRI would corroborate this diagnosis, but I was cautioned of the danger of putting a dog of his advanced age under anesthetic. They could not guarantee he would survive the procedure. There was a very real chance that he might die on the operating table or have a negative reaction shortly after. The doctors at VMCLI were caring and understanding. Their advice was to hold Park close for whatever time we have left, but to put him through procedures that might reveal a tumor and then to follow that up with radiation was really too much for my little senior man.

I followed their advice. We went home and I held Park tight, praying for more time.

BUT that was not to be. He started stroking out, falling into a coma. The first time it happened, I revived him with an eyedropper of water, prying it into his mouth through clenched teeth. As he revived, I tried giving him a spoonful of canned dog food, but he turned away from it which was alarming given the never satiated appetite of a dachshund. That’s when I thought of his favorite treat, McNulty’s vanilla ice cream. It worked like a charm!! He sniffed the plate, then licked it clean. That restored enough energy so he could sit up on his own.

I laughed thinking McNulty’s needs to advertise “Our ice cream is not only scrumptious but it saves lives too!!”

This wasn’t the last of the strokes though. A few weeks later, another took him down and he fell into a coma again. Once again, through his clenched teeth I pushed water into his mouth with the eyedropper. When he started to come around, once again, he needed several scoops of vanilla ice cream to revive, but this time he remained extremely weak, unable to hold himself up with his front legs, the legs that had remained strong even when his hind legs were paralyzed. This episode proved so debilitating that his frail body couldn’t go on.

Park crossed the Rainbow Bridge as I kissed his sweet forehead and held him, talking him from this world into the next.

I am empty without my sweet boy, my loyal companion, my protector, my travel buddy, my everything.

I try to take solace in Brandon McMillan’s quote, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

I smile when I think of my boy which is every minute of every day — about our shared trips to Park’s Bench in Stony Brook Village, about all of our journeys, our fun, his antics done deliberately to make me smile and make me give him extra attention like his penchant to stand in the rain until sopping wet knowing full well that when he sauntered into the house I would be there to towel all that long, luxurious fur.

I smile to recall how Park, the Christmas Puppy, pranced into my life ignoring my concerns that three dogs were maybe three too many and I will feel blessed for the rest of my days that Park, the Angel Puppy, chose to share his life with me.

A resident of Miller Place, Barbara Anne Kirshner writes theater reviews for TBR News Media and is a freelance journalist, playwright and author of “Madison Weatherbee — The Different Dachshund.”

Your Turn: The privilege and responsibility of freedom

by TBR Staff - September 22, 2022

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By Rabbi Paul Sidlofsky

Though Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, the High Holy Days, are late in our secular calendar, they will soon once again be upon us. I am honored to have been asked to bring words of greeting at this important time from my family, from Temple Isaiah and from my own heart.

One message contained in the High Holy Day liturgy is that at this time of year, our destinies are determined. On Rosh Hashana it is written, and on Yom Kippur it is sealed, who will live and who will die, and what will become of us in the year ahead.

To be honest, this is not a statement that many of us believe literally. We may not think that our destiny is pre-determined. But the message still is significant. We realize that there are times in our lives that do determine what happens to us. Even the liturgy we read states that our actions can help alter the outcome of what is to be.

Whether or not we are participating in the Jewish holy days, let us all. as human beings, realize the awesome nature of our ability to affect our own lives and the lives of those around us. This can happen in many ways, and is different for each of us. Yet one privilege we all share is exercising our freedom to vote.

Rabbi Joel Mosbacher of Temple Shaarey Tefila in New York City wrote the following during a previous election year: “In our traditional morning blessings which we call Nisim B’Chol Yom, ‘Daily Miracles,’ we offer gratitude for being free. As American Jews, we do not take for granted the tremendous gift that we have in being free and enjoying the freedoms that every American has. This is a freedom that Jews have not always been afforded. What a gift we have to be Jews living in America today, with the right to express our opinions and raise our voices through voting.”

With the gift of freedom comes responsibility. This message applies to all Americans and indeed to all free people. In this spirit, I want to encourage our exercising one of our fundamental rights and privileges. Here are some easy steps to follow:

Register to vote: Check to see if you are registered to vote and if you are not, register online today.

Mark your calendars to vote: on Tuesday, November 8.

Make a plan to vote: Finding your polling place by visiting nyc.pollsitelocator.com or vote.org.

We give thanks for our freedom, and for being gifted with the privilege of voting. May we all make good use of this precious gift, this year and in years to come.

Best wishes to the Jewish community, and to entire community, for a shana tova u m’tuka, a good and sweet year; one of joy, health and freedom.

L’shalom.

Rabbi Paul Sidlofsky is a rabbi at Temple Isaiah in Stony Brook.

Your Turn: A tale of two trophies

by TBR Staff - September 18, 2022

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Both-T's-web — Trophies from previous Port Jefferson Hill Climbs. Photo from Robert Laravie

By Robert Laravie

One always wonders if it a good idea to open an email from a name you do not recognize. In early April of this year one came in from Caroline Carless. I almost thought it was an email version of the robocalls I receive about extended auto service coverage — you know something like “Don’t be left carless…extend your car warranty.” In a weak moment I decided to open it.

It turned out Caroline was from SW England in Dorset and she must have found my contact information from the promotion of the 2021 Port Jefferson Hill Climb. She stated that her companion, Colin Burnett, collected three handled cups and she had two trophy cups from the 1911 Port Jefferson Hill Climb. They were acquired over 20 years ago at a Lawrences auction in England. She felt it would be best if they were returned to Port Jefferson.

A photo of W. J. Fallon driving in the 1911 Hill Climb from a 1911 trade journal The Horseless Age. Photo from Robert Laravie

Together with Chris Ryon, the Port Jefferson Village Historian, we researched the event numbers on the cups. One was No. 14. It appears event No. 14 was won by W.J. Fallon. Fallon was in real estate and one of the organizers of the hill climb and drove in a few events. He posted fastest times in the two amateur classes he entered, one for cars from $1200 to $2000 he won in a Corbin, in 34.56 seconds. The other for cars $2001 and over he won in a National in 25.30 seconds. Don Herr, in a National was overall fasted of the day in an event called the Free- For- All at 21.31 seconds, just beating out a Knox driven by F. W. Belcher at 21.57.

The event number 15 trophy has engraved on it “Presented by Mrs. C. B. Zabriskie.” A little more research in the Port Jefferson archives and on line revealed that Mr. C. B. Zabriskie was an executive with the Borax Company. He lived, when not managing the mining operation in Death Valley, in New York City and in his summer house in Belle Terre on Woodland Road. Zabriskie Point in Death Valley is named after him as well as a Michelangelo Antonioni movie of the same name, but that’s another story.

Thanks to the generosity of Caroline Carless and the collecting passion of Colin Burnett, the Port Jefferson Conservancy will have the trophies back in Port Jefferson and will have them on display at the Port Jefferson Village Center at 101-A East Broadway during the annual 1910 Hill Climb on Saturday, Sept. 24 from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m.

A resident of Port Jefferson, Robert Laravie has been a member of the Port Jefferson Harbor Education & Arts Conservancy for the last seven years.

Your Turn: Park the Dachshund at Sweet 16

by Barbara Anne Kirshner - September 2, 2022

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20220705_134626 — Park sitting at his favorite bench in Stony Brook Village. Photo by Barbara Anne Kirshner

By Barbara Anne Kirshner

SWEET 16! A milestone in the life of a teenager-a threshold into exciting adventures on the horizon whether it be college, military service, work, Sweet 16 ushers in all of life’s expectations with parents right there to rejoice and take pride in accomplishments awaiting their child.

BUT what if the Sweet 16 is your precious dog? In that case, 16 becomes a dreaded number foreshadowing the impending end. You look at your little charge and instead of being filled with joys for the future, you are reduced to the dread of that haunting overriding question “WHEN?” When will your companion suffer the ravages of old age? When will our time together run out? When will you experience your last day together and be forced to whisper “goodbye”?

All these thoughts fill me with dread. Park has been the BEST boy, my special little man. I’ve written about how we met; how I was hesitant to take on another dog with two at home already; how he became Park The Christmas Puppy having joined our family on Christmas 2006; how he became my traveling buddy; how strangers marveled at how good he was in his stroller as we toured local stores; and how, on numerous occasions, cars stopped, and people called out, “That is the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen!”

Park sitting at his favorite bench in Stony Brook Village.
Photo by Barbara Anne Kirshner

Then the day came when my editor asked me to write an article on the 2014 motorcycle exhibit at the Ward Melville Heritage Organization’s Educational and Cultural Center in Stony Brook Village. The curator asked me to come down on July 3, Park’s birthday. I couldn’t bear to leave my boy on his special day, so I asked if he could join and thankfully, Park was welcomed. They were impressed with how good he was as we toured the exhibit and how he let me work just as long as I was in his eyesight.

The curator suggested that Park and I stop off at the Village Green, a lush park-like section fronting quaint shops at the Stony Brook Village Center. Park and I were delighted with this picturesque spot and we rested for the first time on what was to become “Park’s Bench.” That was the first of our annual visits to this special bench overlooking Stony Brook Harbor. Every year since then, no matter what we have planned for his birthday celebration, we pause at his bench — two friends sitting and enjoying a few quiet moments together before the rest of his birthday festivities begin.

Last year Park was paralyzed, having gone down May 15, 2021, through the summer including his birthday. Then miraculously, through constant visits to the vet for treatments, he regained the use of his hind legs in late September 2021.

Now, at 16, his face shows signs of age though amazingly, he hasn’t grayed, but his eyes now lack that playful sparkle once so prevalent and that constant energy is gone. He has a decided tremor that seems to be more apparent with each passing day and lately he’s faltering again when he walks.

Yet I am blessed to have my little man at Sweet 16, to still be able to pet him and look into those loving eyes. But TIME and the BIG question “WHEN” loom large.

When Park decides he has had enough of this world, it will be one of the greatest hits in my life as there is no consolation for the loss of a loved one. The only solace for me comes from an adage from Brandon McMillan of the original Lucky Dog series:

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

Your Turn: Zach, at a crossroads

by TBR Staff - June 12, 2022

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By Warren Strugatch

My late wife Cindy and I made the jazz scene at Harmony Vineyards in the mid-2010s. The venue was marvelous, the music superb. We really dug young Zach, the man-bun styled bassist who held forth from Harmony’s tiny proscenium most weekends.

Zach — first name, Keenan — stood out as both musician and band leader. Still in his 20s, his solid time evoking the legendary Ray Brown, Zach’s star was clearly on the rise. We’d walk in from the cold and listening from outside the room we’d know, from just a few notes, that Zach was on bass.

The Harmony series ended, alas, but we kept running into this bass-playing prodigy around the North Shore. Tom Manuel, artistic director and Jazz Loft founder, entrusted him with the Loft’s Wednesday Night jam sessions. Week after week, Zach organized walk-on musicians into tight, expectation-defying ensembles. Under his direction, the guys on stage sounded like they work together all the time. On any given Wednesday night, you’d hear some of the finest jazz on Long Island. In fact, you still can.

Back in those pre-Covid days we attended delightful concerts put on by the Three Village Chamber Players. Here again was Zach playing Bach, Handel, and Teleman alongside oboes, harpsichords, and theremins.

Soon thereafter, we attended an outdoor concert by Taylor Ackley and the Deep Roots Ensemble, playing Taylor’s unique hybrid brand of prairie swing. Once more, it was Zach on bass.

By now, the man-bun was history.

Between sets, Zach mentioned he’d enrolled at Stony Brook University’s doctoral program in music performance. He said his studies were weaning him from his long-time need for audience approval; he felt now he could more readily play from what he called his authentic self and feel the music was going over with audiences. Clearly, his performances continued to blossom.

As for getting a doctorate, he felt that would help hone his performances in all genres, while expanding his career options.

As Graduation Day approached, Zach reflected that his enrollment was a wise choice, having raised his appreciation for the nuances of chamber music even as it’s propelled him forward as a jazzman.

“It’s all music,” he explained in a recent conversation. “I love jazz and I love chamber music. At this point in life and musical progress, I don’t feel there is all that much difference between musical styles. It’s not like jazz is pure improvisation and classical music is entirely written out. There’s substantial structure in jazz and much room for improvisation in chamber music.

He continued, “In fact, jazz really is a kind of chamber music. Musicians listen to each other and improvise together, whether it’s a jam session or a chamber recital.”

At age 34, the Miller Place native finds himself at a musical and personal crossroads.

“I really am at a precipice,” he says. “I face so many transitions. I ask myself: What comes next? Do I move further west and compete for more gigs and opportunities in jazz? Do I get more involved in classical bass playing? Do I pursue a faculty position at a university and maybe relocate to a rural area?”

The self-questioning brings him back to a comment he’s heard at SBU more than once from Ray Anderson, the jazz trombonist, teacher, and philosopher: “Let’s play, let’s have fun and maybe, just maybe, we’ll learn something.”

Zach smiles. “That’s the essence of jazz. Right there.”

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