The Evolution of a Poem, Decades Apart

Scenic overlook of Paterson, NJ, from Garret Mountain,
with New York City in the distance.

As I rooted through old boxes to clean out my garage during this pandemic lockdown, Neil Young's song "Vacancy" began to play on Sirius XM.

I lifted my head.

I didn't recognize the song... surely, it was new. Yet something about it seemed different than recent Neil Young songs.

His voice was immediate and clear, and the opening riff and beat seemed straight from the mid-1970s, reminding me of his first famous band, Buffalo Springfield.

"That's extraordinary," I thought, given that Neil is now 74 years old... but not entirely surprising, considering his continued passion. Witness this performance of "Mr. Soul" just nine years ago.

Then the DJ explained that "Vacancy" was a song originally recorded in 1975 but released only last month as part of the "Homegrown" album.

How does aging impact creativity?

I admire the art Paul Cezanne produced toward the end of his life. But his career was rare, almost magical.

In the world of music, Bruce Springsteen's "Thunder Road" is a favorite song of mine and my wife, Nancy (just another reason I love her). I think, and Nancy agrees, it's a song he only could have written when he was young. It's about beginnings, an invitation to a journey that can't be replicated later in life.

Could he write a better song now that he's 70? Perhaps, because Bruce is Bruce. Still, it would be a different song by a different Bruce. And, sigh, "different" is different than "better."

Steve Jobs sometimes compared two versions of Bach's "Goldberg Variations" performed by pianist Glenn Gould early in his career in 1955 and as a mature artist in 1981. Jobs considered the later version more nuanced and soulful.

I wonder.

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Found poem.

Cleaning out my garage has been a revelation: Boxes of old photos (see Saturday night's post) and old papers. I found a folder of writing assignments I had submitted many years ago in classes taught by a Notre Dame literature professor, the talented poet Sonia Gernes.

Reading my poems decades later, my writing voice, like Neil's singing voice, seemed more immediate and clear in college. Clumsy too. Much of my early writing seems creepy and obsessive when I was shooting for "tender and evocative." That probably explains a lot about my past love life too. 🙂

I also, apparently, thought I knew everything. Despite helpful and insightful comments made by Professor Gernes, I never (except once) tried to revise my poems.

I will now.

In fact, I have to: I told friends in a local photo-journaling class I would, and I feel I owe it to my social media friend, journalist Laura M. Holson, who has often written about embracing creativity, especially as we age.

Here's a poem titled "Scenic Overlook," in which I tried to describe the arc of a relationship in terms of someone who exited a highway to admire a panoramic view.

You can see my struggles in the "found poem" photo. I didn't have a panoramic view of life when I was 20. The original read like this:

Scenic Overlook

In the distance, in the

break in the clouds on the horizon,

I can see laughter.

A sunset.

I had forgotten about that.

It's an old story --

separating the forest from the trees.

It seems to me now that there are

a lot better places I can be than

standing here, surveying my past,

when the only thing within my reach

are the cold, damp car keys in my hand.

I have a plan.

Don't get me started on the cliches and sloppy language: "separating the forest from the trees... it seems to me now that there are a lot better places I can be..."

However, I still like the idea behind the setup of the poem. I'm not throwing away my shot.

Here's a re-do, written last night during a heatwave in New Jersey:

Revised in 2020

Scenic Overlook

This is a dangerous place to stand.

 

In the distance,

in the descending dusk on the highway's horizon,

I see a house fly

alight on your thigh.

 

It's 40 years ago, and you are in bed at my side,

languid and nude.

I didn't pull over for this. Despite all signs,

I find it a dizzying view.

 

The fly rubs its hands and plots its next move.

A dismissive twitch of your flesh shoos it in a flash. 

Then you disappear too, just like that,

as cars on Route 80 flee to the west.

 

I look to the east.

Behold this precipice: these wounds, dark and deep.

Alone on this road, alone in my bed,

40 years later,

 

I still watch you while you sleep.

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Finally, trimming a few words, adding a Gatsby reference, and answering the questions, "Why might she be sleeping?" and "How can her lover still watch her if she's disappeared?":

Revised in 2023

Scenic Overlook at Garret Mountain

 

This is a dangerous place to stand:

Cliffside in Paterson, in the descending dusk.

 

Past the highway below,

in the horizon of the city skyline at my feet,

I see a housefly alight on your thigh.

 

It's 40 years ago, and you are languidly napping in our room.

The road signs pointing here didn’t warn me of this.

I find it a dizzying view.

 

The fly rubs its hands, obsessed, plotting its next move,

until shooed in a flash by a dismissive twitch of your flesh.

Decades disappear, just as fast, as cars on Route 80 flee to the west.

 

As if an old gravestone, I face to the east.

Behold this vanished breast of a new world.

I hold my breath on the precipice… these wounds, dark and deep.

 

40 years later,

I still watch you while you sleep.

            -- Bob Varettoni

I caught a double rainbow there in 2021.

Dad in Barcelona, Photos From 1955

On special Saturday nights when I was growing up, Dad would retrieve a heavy green slide projector from the crawl space (our suburban housing development was built over swamp land, so no one had a basement).

He'd lug it upstairs and assemble a viewing screen in the living room. He'd pull the screen down, like a giant window shade, then load a carousel with 35mm slides and attach it to the projector. When he flicked the ON switch, it emitted a loud, constant whir. You could see airborne house dust floating in the funnel of harsh white light between the projector and screen, and every fleck of dust on the lens when the screen was blank.

When the screen wasn't blank, it was magic. It was slide show night.

Dad took hundreds and hundreds of slides, almost all of the family. The four of us (Dad, Mom, my sister and me) all had our favorites. We had many laughs on special Saturday nights, gathered in the living room, as Dad narrated every photo in every carousel.

Or what I thought was every carousel.

Recently, in cleaning out my garage, I found a new stash of Dad's slides -- ones I had never seen before -- from his days traveling the world with the Navy, before he was married.

That's young, blurry Dad in the photo here, channeling a young Hemingway abroad.

So tonight, just another Saturday night in New Jersey, I made a Powerpoint presentation from one set of Dad's slides, a trip to Barcelona.

"Barcelona" is a running joke in my life because several friends have randomly recommended that I visit there over the years. According to the small yellow box of Kodaslide Mounted Color Transparencies, Dad visited there 65 years ago, in 1955.

He wrote descriptions of each slide in meticulous small handwriting, and I voice those captions in the presentation below.

Several photos depict what Dad describes as the Cathedral of the Holy Family, which was then under construction. Of course, he was referring to La Sagrada Familia, the famous church designed by Antoni Gaudi, which has stood unfinished for more than a century... and is still unfinished today.

That tells me all I need to know about Barcelona. I think my friends are right; I should follow in my father's footsteps and visit someday. It sounds enchanting.

Blame Today's Storm on Eileen Vodola

Our Lady of Sorrows in Montclair, NJ

There's a storm brewing on this hot, humid summer afternoon in New Jersey.

I'm just in from the garage, where I'm finally sorting through boxes and boxes of old papers I've saved.

I had intended to post here about "lessons I've learned" in the year since I left my longtime job at Verizon. Last year's post has been the most widely read on this blog, and in it I incidentally mentioned a woman named Eileen Vodola.

Upon further review, all the "lessons" I've jotted down since last July were aphorisms. So I gave up on drafting this post, joined my wife on a visit to Immaculate Cemetery in Montclair, then began sorting the mess in my garage.

The only life lesson I could pass on with any certainty until that point was: "I've got too much stuff!"

And then I found this...

Click here for a PDF version to read/download

This is a true life lesson, dated exactly 35 years ago today: a single-page, single-spaced typewritten copy of my Dad's eulogy for his best friend at work.

I know that Dad gave me this piece of paper 35 years ago precisely because he knew that I would keep it. I am my immigrant family's version of a Griot, the storyteller of an African tribe whose life's purpose is to pass on ancestral history. 

Yikes! That was a loud clap of thunder!

It's Dad telling me to get to the point.

Here's what he said in eulogizing his friend and co-worker, Eileen Ferrari Vodola:

This woman, who will always live in our memory, was indeed unique. As a daughter, as a niece, as 'Big Aunt Eileen,' as a co-worker, as a friend -- every life she touched was enriched by her understanding, by her compassion, and by her generosity.

To those who believe, as I do, that the soul is eternal and that death is merely the passing to a higher plane of existence, Eileen's spirit is here, she is with us now, and she is saying to us: 'Don't grieve for me, because I am free, I am at peace, and I will be waiting to greet you when it is your time to pass through the veil.'

As some of you know, Eileen was a very special friend to me, and we often spoke about the meaning of life and what was really important. And if Eileen's view of the purpose of her earthly existence could be summed up in a single thought, it would be this: to use wisely and well the gifts and talents God has given you, and to fulfill yourself in helping others.

On occasion, after I graduated from college, I shared a drink with Dad and Eileen in one or two midtown New York City bars. I can attest to the fact that they did indeed talk about the meaning of life after a day's work at the New York Telephone Building (now Salesforce Tower), where their offices overlooked Bryant Park.

Eileen was smart and sharply funny. Dad was smart and sloppily sentimental.

Eileen Vodola really was curious and helpful, and she left an indelible mark on many in her circle. I invoke her name here so it leaves an indelible mark on the Internet. I can find no photo of her online (and only one scant reference to her own marriage in 1957). She's not in any of the boxes in my garage, save for Dad's one typewritten page.

But I was in the church that day, 35 years ago. So I can also attest to the fact that Dad publicly professed his belief that the soul is eternal, and that death is merely the passing to a higher plane.

Anne Bunce Cullinane

Coincidentally, one year ago today, another smart and sharply funny woman died: my mother-in-law. My wife and I visited her grave this morning in Montclair. I had written about Anne Bunce Cullinane here last year too.

There's now a violent storm outside. Ominous clouds at 4 in the afternoon, with wind-driven rain and lightning.

It's Dad's spirit. He wants me to post this. He demands that his friend not be forgotten.

OK, Dad. Here goes.

I hope that you... and Eileen... and Anne... really are free and at peace.

I hope that, to honor your names, I will use wisely and well the gifts and talents God has given me, and that I will fulfill myself in helping others.

I hope that someday you will all be waiting to greet me.

Laurel Grove Cemetery, Totowa, April 2020

'Blood' and Family

Want to read an outstanding book by a talented writer?

There's "Blood," by singer-songwriter Allison Moorer.

Want to enhance the experience?

Listen to the Audible version of the book.

"Blood" is a memoir centered on the murder/suicide of the author's parents outside her bedroom window when she was just 14 years old.

In less-capable and thoughtful hands, such a shocking story might be impossible to tell.

Instead, I found the Audible version -- read by the author in a plaintive voice -- both touching and intimate. It inspired me.

On one level, it's inspiring to experience the act of being told a story. It harkens back to Homer and Shakespeare, to the days my parents read stories to me, and to memories of reading stories to my daughters.

On another level, I was inspired by "Blood"'s theme of acceptance, forgiveness and love.

If you want to learn more about Moorer's book, I recommend watching her extraordinary interview with "CBS This Morning" last October.

If you want to know more about her music, watch this clip of Moorer and her sister, Shelby Lynne, performing "Maybe Tomorrow" as part of an Everly Brothers tribute at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2014. (Shelby's the one sticking the gum she'd been chewing on top of Albert Lee's amp.)

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As each post-COVID day fades into the next, I've been searching for inspiration.

At first, I found some comfort from a small book of daily Bible reflections, "Rejoice and Be Glad 2020 (Easter to Pentecost)" by my friend Mary DeTurris Poust. She wrote her reflections many months ago, well before the pandemic, but scripture being what it is, the readings seemed ever-relevant.

After Pentecost Sunday (May 31), I subscribed to FaithND, my alma mater's email of daily Gospel reflections.

We're back in "ordinary time" now, at least according to the Church. The beginning of last Sunday's reading (Matthew 10:37)... the day I finished listening to Moorer's book... was a bit startling:

Jesus said to his disciples, "No one who prefers father or mother to me is worthy of me. No one who prefers son or daughter to me is worthy of me."

I know it's unfair to focus on a lone Bible verse without context, but this one stuck in my head all day.

Meanwhile, late that night, Moorer's whispering voice... her haunting and lyrical words... reflected on her still-undying love for her parents, and her devotion to her sister.

Family is everything, and so today I'm posting this old photo of me and my sister.

Today is her birthday. I will always love her. We share the same blood.

No one is more important in my life than my sister, my wife, my daughters and my mother.

This is why Moorer's stunning book inspired me more than Sunday's Gospel.

I will never be a disciple like Matthew.

I admit it: I am not worthy.

9 Photos, 100 Days

It's the end of longest day of the year, the eve of the holiest day of the year (Father's Day) and 100 days since I began sheltering in place in New Jersey.

Here are 9 photos that tell a bit of that story.

This is Times Square on Friday, the 13th of March, my last working day in the best city in the world:

This the Hackensack River, viewed from my home town in New Milford, NJ, on March 20. I didn't know what to do with myself those first few days, so I often simply walked aimlessly, alone, before dark:

This is the sunset more than a month later, April 28th, in the center of town... which was still deserted at dusk:

This is New York City on Sunday morning, May 17. I had to drive my daughter to the city, and I parked on empty East 51st Street to listen to the church bells ring at St. Patrick's Cathedral. The reflections of the clouds made the surrounding skyscrapers seem to disappear:

This is the Great Falls of Paterson. On May 20, I stopped on my way home after running an errand to help Mom in Totowa. Police tape blocked the parking lots, but I pulled over on a side street and took a photo anyway:

This is from the bridge between New Milford and Oradell. On May 22, it rained, and my camera captured the flare of an accidental rainbow over the water:

This is Clarence W. Brett Park in Teaneck on May 30. I was in a reflective mood and encountered a reflective scene:

This is the Black Lives Matters rally at the gazebo outside New Milford Borough Hall on June 7:

And this is a foggy Thursday night, June 18, on the Seaside Heights boardwalk... our first family trip out of town since the end of Beforetime:

The four of us -- my wife, two daughters and I -- strolled past one of the few open games of chance. An aggressive barker called out to us, "Come on! Have some fun tonight!"

He couldn't see that we were all already smiling under our masks.

Happy Father's Day.

What Inspires You Lately?

June 7 in New Milford, NJ

What has inspired you lately?

In these unique and challenging times, I am often inspired... and challenged to be better... by the good I see in others.

As communications director for the Mother Cabrini Health Foundation, I see the great work being promoted recently on Facebook and Twitter by our grantees throughout New York State:

Restocking food pantries, supporting COVID-19 testing programs and providing additional nursing support are just some of the many initiatives supported by our Foundation. I am inspired by the self-sacrifice, dedication and community spirit I see among the grantees.

Last month, I was inspired when reading about Roman Suarez, a New Yorker who didn't leave the city during lockdown (as The New York Times noted so many residents had). He dedicated himself to picking up medication and groceries for three dozen family members in the Bronx. I posted more here, referencing "The Great Gatsby" to say he was worth the whole bunch of fleeing New Yorkers put together.

This past weekend, in my suburban hometown of New Milford, NJ, I was inspired by the peaceful, earnest resolve of those who organized and attended a Black Lives Matter rally on the grounds in front of our police station and borough hall.

Families with young children and babies in strollers, high school and college students, curious older residents and police officers stood in respectful silence for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. The organizers spoke from a small gazebo (adopted and maintained by Girl Scouts Troop 97527), using a toy karaoke machine plugged to a portable generator in a van parked nearby.

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For further inspiration, I have my old standbys: literature and music and art.

Usually, I re-read "Gatsby" every Memorial Day weekend, but this year I settled for having recently watched the movie instead. I recalled on Twitter how once, driving my daughter back to college in DC, we had listened to the book together...

I can't seem to concentrate enough to read books lately, though. My mind frets and wanders.

Music is always a comfort. I've been enjoying the intimate "concerts" from the homes of some of my favorite musicians. I was also inspired by this story last weekend, again in The Times: "5 Minutes That Will Make You Love the Cello."

The Times asked Yo-Yo Ma, John Williams, Andrew Lloyd Webber and others to pick cello music that moves them. They posted brief commentaries about their selections. While viewing their words online, you could also listen to their choices.

Two of the selections from Bach reminded me of life after college. I lived in Manhattan, sharing a two-bedroom apartment with a concert cellist who loved Bach. On weekends, he would give kids cello lessons in our living room. Recalling those sounds from my bedroom on Saturday mornings -- when anything was possible -- is one of the best, most inspiring memories in my life.

Here's the haunting selection from Bach's Cello Suite No. 5 (choreographer Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker's favorite), as included in The Times.

Finally, about art.

One local painter I admire, Said Elatab from Paterson, NJ, has a tendency to burn his work whenever he is sad or outraged. He posted this on Instagram last week, urging others to share it:

He wrote that this was his way of expressing his feelings until there is justice in America.

I am inspired by Said's passion. Mostly, though, I am inspired by the underlying message of his literal fire. "Nothing is permanent," the artist reminds us. 

We should support each other. We should value people, not things. We should appreciate what is here today.

I am inspired by these beliefs.

In these unique and challenging times, what inspires you?

The Holy Spirit and the Ghost of Memorial Days Past

Memorial Day, 1998

I can't sleep.

This is a privileged lament, when others in this age of COVID-19 are crying, literally and metaphorically, "I can't breathe."

The news today brings into my mind a conversation I had six mornings ago, on Memorial Day, with my college friend Kathy.

She and I used to write long letters to each other, and over the years she's put up with my literary pretensions with the grace of someone who's much smarter and more artistic than I'll ever be.

Since Kathy lives in Minnesota, it thrilled me to talk to her face-to-face, virtually, and also to take part in a Zoom chat that wasn't business-related. And since I can be honest with her, I confided about the undercurrent of sadness I feel lately. As if I were Matthew Arnold surveying the landscape of Dover Beach.

In daylight, I'm fine... healthy, safe. So is my family. I appreciate that we are blessed and lucky. At night, though, when everything should be silent, I hear a distant, melancholy roar.

I can't get to sleep. I worry about everything.

To comfort me, Kathy mentioned "The Lament of Deor" -- which, of course, I had never heard of before -- to put things into perspective.

In this thousand-year-old poem, a man named Deor has been exiled from his life of luxury. He compares his situation to that of figures from Anglo-Saxon folklore who have all suffered an undeserved fate. After mentioning each tragic incident, the poet repeats the same phrase:

"That passed, and so may this... That passed, and so may this... That passed, and so may this."

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Later that Monday, as we would all soon learn, there was an incident of unmasked racism -- a murder -- in Kathy's hometown.

I tried going to bed early to start the work week fresh, but my mind was racing. Around 11 p.m., I realized that Tuesday was the first day of twice weekly, summer garbage pickup in my hometown. I had forgotten to put out the trash cans. I forget to do a lot of things lately.

Hurrying downstairs to put the trash by the curb, I stopped short when I saw a dead rabbit lying near our white picket fence. Not only dead, but brutally torn to shreds... probably by one of the large, menacing crows that have been stalking our yard lately.

I found a shovel and buried the remains of the rabbit.

Facebook post, 2014

Funny thing is, I knew this rabbit -- or its son/daughter, grandson/granddaughter, great-grandson/great-granddaughter. Almost every spring/summer morning for the past several years, a rabbit settles on the same patch of dirt in our front yard and stares at our house, seemingly at my daughter's bedroom window.

In 2014, we even began receiving U.S. mail from State Farm Insurance in care of "Bun Var" at our street address. In a running family joke, we always wave and say hello to the rabbit staring up at our house.

It was nearly midnight on Memorial Day when I returned to bed after burying Bun Var. That's when I finally remembered what had been gnawing at my subconscious.

I had forgotten to call my uncle.

He turned 90 years old a few months ago, and for many years he hosted a Memorial Day family picnic at his home near Hackettstown. When I was a boy, when my grandmother and grandfather lived there, we always called it "the country." So much land surrounds the house that it's the perfect place for an annual family outing.

We'd ride tractors, and play bocce, badminton and touch football (in imitation of the Kennedys). We welcomed pets, and one year there was a brief, almost disastrous, flirtation with lawn darts. My uncle kept ice buckets filled with drinks, and he did all the barbecuing. In the evening, his cousins would play guitars and encourage everyone to sing along ("You Are My Sunshine" was a favorite). Before everyone left, we always gathered for a family photo.

My Mom and uncle on the front porch

My uncle stopped hosting the picnics a few years ago, after attendance dwindled. Still, for the past few Memorial Days, I've traveled with Mom to visit him in the country.

When we pulled up to his driveway last year, we were surprised to find him pushing a lawn mower, as if preparing for another picnic. He has trouble getting around these days, and it turned out he was basically using the mower as his walker.

My uncle still uses his sit-down tractor mower too. It's stored in his garage, where his car used to be. He doesn't drive anymore, although he has loved cars all his life. He knows everything about them. He used to maintain and repair all the family cars until the engines became computerized.

Last Memorial Day, as he and Mom talked on his front porch -- thick as thieves, giggling and telling stories as if they were young -- he turned wistful when he saw a car speed past on Route 46.

The Mars/M&M Car Show -- an annual Rotary Club benefit -- was being held in Hackettstown that afternoon. My uncle had been enjoying watching the old cars drive by, or seeing them carried on trailers.

He gestured toward Route 46. "Did you see that red GTO?" he asked, with the enthusiasm of a teenage boy. He briefly debated with himself what model year the car was, by the sound of its engine.

Right then, I decided to take him to this year's Car Show. I even put it on our family calendar. But I deleted the reminder after the Rotary Club canceled the event in mid-March because of the COVID-19 lockdown.

I didn't give it another thought until a few minutes before midnight on May 25, 2020. Haunted by the Ghost of Memorial Days past, I realized I hadn't even bothered to call my uncle.

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I always try to be a better person. I always fail.

That's a recurring theme among the followers of Jesus in the book I just finished reading: "Daily Reflections for Easter to Pentecost, Rejoice and Be Glad 2020." It was written by another friend, Mary DeTurris Poust, and published by Liturgical Press in Minnesota.

I had bought it months ago, mostly to support Mary. With all my extra time at home in the mornings in the age of COVID-19 (unable to sleep and with no commute), I decided "what the heck" and vowed to read the passages each day. The personal stories Mary included in the reflections delighted me. The Bible stories were familiar and comforting. They reconnected me to my better past, and reading the actual text will prevent me from saying things like, "As the Bible says, 'this too shall pass'."

The Bible doesn't say that. "The Lament of Deor" does.

A few days ago, I exchanged texts with Kathy. There's now looting and rioting near her home each night, and she described the details, noting at first that "we have 400 years of oppression to atone for."

I worry about her. I worry about everything these days.

Next year, I vow, I'll take my uncle to the car show in Hackettstown... if there is another show. Next Memorial Day will be different. Maybe it will be better.

This morning, I read the last pages of Mary's book. It's the day the Holy Spirit gave diverse people the gift to understand and love each other. Pentecost Sunday encourages us to rejoice despite everything because, in mysterious ways, God is always in our midst.

I opened my front door on this beautiful, cool morning in New Jersey, half expecting to see an incarnation of the Holy Spirit settled on a patch of dirt in my lawn.

There was no rabbit there.

I still have faith, though: I no longer see any crows.

Some Good News: New Milford NJ Edition

No, this isn't a Zoom meeting;
it's nine of more than 200 signs of appreciation around town. 

Among things I'm missing this cloudy Memorial Day weekend (besides some more sunshine) is another of John Krasinski's inspiring "Some Good News" reports.

Scrolling through my recent photos, though, I realize I don't need to look online for inspiration. It's been all around these past two and a half months in my own home town.

So now for some good news, New Milford NJ edition:

Let's start things off with this video of Gov. Murphy citing the efforts of a local high school student who sold lawn signs to purchase food this month for workers at local hospitals, the New Milford Volunteer Ambulance Corps, the New Milford Volunteer Fire Department and the CareOne New Milford assisted-living facility.

That's just the start of the good news. There are so many examples of good works around town... from food drives to the heroic efforts of healthcare workers, volunteers and small business owners... that a blog post can't capture all the detail.

Instead, here's a link to a Pinterest board with stories, photos and videos from around New Milford since the lockdown in March. There are more than 50 pins here that celebrate life in New Milford in the age of COVID-19.

https://www.pinterest.com/bvar/new-milford-nj-in-the-age-of-covid-19/

I especially love the photos of all the signs filled with appreciation and hope, the marriage photos, and the great journalism from reporters and photographers at northjersey.com and nj.com. Two examples of those stories this month:

• "Public service runs in the family for New Milford mother and daughter helping during pandemic"
• "Miracle recovery for high-risk teen in hospital for 26 days"

There's also a video of a mayoral proclamation for Mother's Day, read by a collection of local families.

As of this morning, the NJ Department of Health reports 436 confirmed COVID-19 cases in our town of about 16,500.

Behind each case is a neighbor, supported by dozens of first responders and healthcare workers and family members. Also, thousands of prayers.

There were more prayers just this morning in front of Borough Hall, as New Milford observed Memorial Day.

Even without a traditional parade, local heroes were honored. Signs with photos and biographical information for each fallen service member were unveiled on the borough hall lawn. The project is a joint effort of the Historic Preservation Commission and the Public Events Committee in observance of Military Appreciation Month. Signs will be displayed until May 31.

If you are unable to see the display in person, there's a video of it below, and the Historic Preservation Commission will post a profile of a war hero daily until May 31. Additionally, a slide show about New Milford’s military heroes, "The Stories Behind the Stars," can be viewed here on the historic commission's page on the borough's website.

That's all for now. I'm going to go outside. The sun has come out, and the weather... uh... looks pretty good.

Here Is (a Fourth) New York in 2020

St. Patrick's on Sunday morning.
Click here to hear its bells ring on May 17, 2020.

On Saturday, I returned to New York City for the first time following a 9-week Quar time absence. 

The New York Times had just posted this story: "Where New Yorkers Moved to Escape Coronavirus." Statistics showed mail-forwarding trends from people who have fled the city.

Looking south on First Avenue,
Beekman Tower (Ophelia on top) blocking the U.N.

On Saturday, I was heading in the opposite direction -- a quick car trip into Manhattan from my home in New Jersey, to pick up my daughter who needed to be somewhere that evening, returning on Sunday morning.

Most of those who had fled New York had been living in upscale neighborhoods on the Upper East and West Sides of Manhattan. I saw the evidence of this on my drive: no traffic, no tourists.

My route took me past my workplace on the East Side, where everything on my desk is likely just as I left it Friday, the 13th of March. Back then, I expected everything to be back to normal (the commute, the tourists, the office) on Monday morning, March 30. Today, I hope to be back at my desk, and expect everything to be very different, sometime before the end of the year.

E. B. White's "Here in New York" once described people who account for three New Yorks.

First are those who are born there. I can never claim that.

Second are the commuters. That's my ordinary self.

Third are those who were born somewhere else but who come to New York in quest of something. That's who I am when I'm my best self.

Times Square, Sunday morning, May 17, 2020.

In White's words, the third city "accounts for New York’s high-strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements."

E. 50th, the weekend after Irving
Berlin's 132nd birthday (he lived
at the end of the block).

That's why I look forward to coming back to New York to work. That's why I'm so proud my daughter lives there. That's why I stepped out of my car to capture these images.

Of all the people I read about in The New York Times on Saturday, I most admire Roman Suarez, who lives in the Bronx.

Mr. Suarez is a fourth New York. He's worth the whole damn bunch put together.

Here is what The Times wrote about him on Saturday. Here is New York in 2020:

He picks up medication and groceries for about three dozen family members who live nearby. "I just stayed and made myself available for my family," he said.

His neighbors, many of whom work for the city, or in health care, stayed too, he said. His neighborhood, just east of the Bronx Zoo, had fewer than a quarter as many mail-forwarding requests as the Upper East or Upper West Sides.

"My father was a cab driver. My mom was a hairdresser, so I understood service to your community," Mr. Suarez said. He recalled living through other challenging times in the city, from Hurricane Gloria in 1985 to the Sept. 11 terror attacks in 2001. "Whenever New York goes through stuff, the best thing to do is just be there."

My last photo before leaving New York City in March --
Grand Central Terminal.