Thankful for the Beauty in Ordinary Things

East 50th Street, Manhattan

This past Thursday, the winter of 2018 abruptly ended the autumn of 2018.

Walking down East 50th Street in New York that evening, I saw police tape surrounding the area underneath a favorite tree.

Sadly, here's a last photo of that tree. It was taken down soon afterwards, having been irreparably damaged by heavy snow.

Weeks earlier, autumn had abruptly ended the summer of 2018. Following days of record-breaking warm weather, I found myself on the nearly deserted boardwalk at Seaside Park on a chilly October night.

Mirroring this, in the same time frame, I read two books ("Sharp Objects" and "Looking for Alaska") and listened to an audio performance of the play "Girls & Boys" -- and all had abrupt revelations and plot twists (read my book reviews).

Considering all this -- how suddenly things change -- this coming Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, has special meaning to me.

I thought, at first, that I should post a list of things I'm thankful for -- just like the "things that make life worth living" scene in the movie "Manhattan"... without the Woody Allen creepiness.

My list soon filled with things that would probably look a lot like your list, and everybody else's list. Family. Friends. Individual blessings. It made me think about how connected we really are.

And then I drove to work this morning.

There's a 10-mile stretch of Route 80 through Fairfield, NJ -- heading west past the Route 23 and Willowbrook Mall onramps and offramps, and leading to the split to Route 287 -- where the traffic usually flows freely but with seemingly monotonous scenery as the highway cuts along Great Piece Meadows.

Casino Pier, Seaside Park

Lately, my little Instagram brain has been noticing how beautiful this drive is. With the sun rising behind me, the light reflects in a million ways off the clouds ahead of me -- and sometimes fog rises like smoke from the wooded areas along the side of the highway.

During this part of the journey on this morning's commute, the radio played a favorite song: Paul McCartney's "Maybe I'm Amazed."

I thought, how beautiful the world is and how lucky I am to be here.

Meanwhile, the recent "Saturday Night Live" cameo by actress Jenna Fischer reminded me of the last line in the last episode of "The Office."

It sums up what I'm most thankful for this Thanksgiving Day:

There's a lot of beauty in ordinary things. Isn't that kind of the point?

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PS- In early November, I posted here about my commitment to start a novel during NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and promised an update here. It turns out I don't have the Joycean stream-of-consciousness gene. I need to research and plan things out, and I can show you the hair-raising spreadsheet to prove it!

However, I have been writing every day. Sometimes, like Elton John's "Rocket Man," because it's just my job five days a week. But I'm very excited about this current project and do plan to post an excerpt at year-end, like I did last year. Stay tuned -- and thank you to friends who always support whatever writing I do!

New York, Stylized by Google (2018)

I woke up to find that Google Assistant -- the unseen hand behind the site storing my iPhone photos -- has again automatically "stylized" an image of Manhattan.

Which is ironic. Of all places I frequent, Manhattan is the place least in need of being stylized.

In Times Square last night, a few Yellow Cabs heading south caught the AI's attention.

As noted before, Google seems as smitten by New York as I am, often romantically changing the color scheme to black and white. Here are some recent photos. You can view others in this shared album

I don't blame Google. As the director Milos Forman once said, "I get out of a New York taxi and it's probably the only city which in reality looks better than on postcards."

NaNoWriMo 2018: 'The Third Secret'

The Marys of New Milford, NJ

November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short.

Having made a New Year's resolution here to post more original writing on this blog in 2018, I realize I've fallen short.

So, in a desperate attempt to make up ground, the other day I began my marathon of words, attempting to reach NaNoWriMo's goal of writing 50,000 words within the month.

I got off to a good start the other day, blazing through the first chapter of a book I've had in my head for several years.

When I looked up, I realized I had written about 1,400 words. Then, when I did the math, I realized I'd have to write 1,667 words a day to reach 50,000 by the end of the month.

So I don't know if I can really do this, but in the spirit of this Marathon Weekend in New York, I'm going to give it a try.

What follows is my initial 1,400-word sprint out of the gate. You're not supposed to edit this as you write, so consider this a rough first draft -- and I promise to post an update here in two weeks. Then edit and post a finished version at the end of the year.

I don't know if the center will hold -- and I'm praying to the gods of Charles Dickens and Jules Verne, who were able to serialize novels. But here goes. A first installment.

"The Third Secret" (working title)

“Belief in an afterlife is just wishful thinking” — Stephen Hawking


I don’t believe in ghosts, but I want to.

I want to believe so badly that there’s something more to life than this.

When my wife Emma and I were young, it’s why I agreed to live in an historic old house. Emma fell in love with it, even though we both know I’m the least handy guy in the universe. So I’ve put myself at the mercy of a slew of carpenters and plumbers and electricians in the intervening years.

Besides, I thought the trade-off would be worth it.

We’ve lived here for more than 18 years now, and I’ve only once experienced anything remotely paranormal. Emma insists our house has been haunted by “ghost cats,” but I never heard or saw any evidence of this sort – only random squirrels who managed to burrow behind our walls and small mice who scurried in the darkness. Our living, breathing cat is useless.

No, the only time I thought I saw a ghost was once, when I was getting off the bus after another commute from the city. We live in suburban New Jersey, and part of the charm of an old house was its proximity to the main road through town, and the NJ Transit bus routes.

It was just a few weeks ago, after a long day at work. I managed to catch a glimpse of Emma through the big bay window that used to look out over our backyard (it’s since been replaced by French doors leading to a patio deck and above-ground swimming pool).

I saw her reaching to hang something from the top sill… a flower pot, I thought. Emma is always adding homey touches to our home. I love that about her; it’s as if she were Donna Reed in “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

So I literally ran to the front of the house and through the front door to surprise her at the window.

Instead, to my surprise, I discovered that Emma wasn’t home.

To this day, I don’t know what I saw at the window. When I relayed the story to my young daughter, Beatrice – my Bee -- later that night, she had a surprising response:

“It was Mary,” she said.

“Mary who?”

“Mary, the mother of Jesus,” she replied, without a hint of embarrassment or guile or irony.

———

That’s how it all began.

I don’t know how this will end, but I know that there’s more to this story.

Yesterday afternoon, Emma and I hosted a wedding reception in our backyard. It was a small wedding, for Emma’s brother. His second marriage. Still, we rented a tent, and a dancefloor and a band. Even a bag-piper.

I remember the feeling of pressing my right eye tight against the view finder of my video camera.

Yes, I still use a video camera. I can’t stand new technology. If it works for me, I don’t understand why I have to change just because it’s something new. Don’t even start with me about my cell phone. It’s ancient, I know. Like me. Me and my ancient 50-year-old body, living in my ancient house, with my younger wife, and our only child, our 7-year-old daughter.

I liked the way the rubber padding of my camera fit perfectly over my eye socket. It felt like a suction cup. At one point, a ghoulish image of my eye plucked like a grape from its nerve endings flashed through my mind. But that image quickly dissolved as the camera automatically refocused on what was right in front of me.

It was Beatrice, dancing.

Through my electronic, suburban peephole -- as I stood on a green, freshly mown lawn that smelled faintly of wild onions -- I was astonished by the sight of the woman she was destined to become.

In my viewfinder, she was dressed in pink and skipping across the dance floor in perfect rhythm to a popular song from the mid-90s -- "Shining, Happy People" by REM. She was dragging her friend Cindy by one hand and waved her other arm to and fro above her head in playful abandon, as if the song had been written especially for her.

Or maybe she told Cindy it had been written for her, the way, in pre-school, she told me about the song her class sang to begin every day: "It's a beautiful morning! It's a beautiful morning! Yes, indeed! Yes, indeed!" Bee always sang the last words, "Yes, Cindy! Yes, Cindy!"

Bee wasn’t playing; she was dancing. I can’t dance. Emma and I didn’t do anything except pretend to slow dance, as we desperately clung to each other at our own wedding reception. Yet our daughter was dancing with an abandon that made her look mature and girlish at the same time. I knew that the young boys standing on the sidelines -- with their disinterested white shirts untucked and unbuttoned -- would someday find this irresistible.

Even more beguiling, as the song suddenly shifted temp… slowing down precipitously in the middle… Beatrice kept dancing to her own beat.

———

I’m going to bed now. Tomorrow’s just another working day, and I’ve got to get some rest.

That’s actually the last line of “American Tune,” my favorite Paul Simon song, released 37 years ago, this being the Year of Our Lord 2010. When did I get so old?

I especially like the song’s bridge, a sudden evocative break from the song’s main melody – which is taken from the hymn “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded.” Bach had also stolen the same melody to use in his St. Matthew Passion. The part I like in the Paul Simon song begins, “And I dreamed I was dying…”

Just a little while ago, I was looking at the video of the wedding reception. How wonderful to see everyone dancing. How wonderful to see the easy smiles and laughter, the celebration of life and the remembrance of the dead.

That last part was probably just in my own mind, because I wanted to see everyone who wasn’t there in the faces of everyone who was. I didn’t expect to see ghosts, exactly. I’ve practically given up on that hope. I just wanted evidence that our dead were just … there… somehow, watching over us, looking through our eyes, laughing at our jokes. Protecting us.

At the end of the evening, I hoped that they would guide us to a better home, to something more than this.

At one point, Emma took control of the camera, focusing on me and Bee.

I look very fat, and she looks very happy. I need a haircut too. I always think I need a haircut, but then I don’t ever want it cut short because it only reveals my receding hairline.

Bee, of course, looks beautiful. She always looks beautiful. She was just laughing her heart out with me… at me… for me.

I didn’t understand why at the time, but now I saw what she was doing. In the background, the bag-piper was playing “Amazing Grace” for tips, and in the frame Bee was playfully holding her arm behind my head, giving me devil’s horns.

I try to be good; I really do. Maybe that’s why she thought it was so funny.

But I know the truth of what’s in my heart, and I fear that my sweet, beautiful Bee doesn’t.

No one really knows what’s in my heart; only what I reveal in real life.

In real life, I was distracted by the lampshade on a light stand next to the TV, where I was viewing the video feed. While everyone else was laughing and dancing on screen, I kept being distracted by the angle of the shade. I got up from my easy chair at least a half dozen times in a half hour to readjust the lampshade.

It was never quite right, either. Even though, I know, to someone entering the room the shade would have appeared perfectly balanced.

I was annoyed with myself as I turned off the TV.

“This is what my life has come to,” I said aloud, to no one, before adjusting the shade once more before turning out the light.

I’m in bed now, scribbling away, with Emma snoring beside me. I find that comforting, because I think she’s content. But sometimes I wonder if what I hear is really just the sound of settling. Death Cab for Cutie, right?

So here’s goodnight. I’m going to say a “Hail Mary” before I go to sleep. Just like Fredo in “The Godfather: Part II.”

(To be continued...)

Remembering Dad: Everything Good Is Extraordinary

Official White House Photo by Lawrence Jackson

I woke up abruptly at 5:15 this morning -- and I think I know why.

First cause was the Rev. Clementa Pinckney.

I was intrigued by President Barack Obama's eulogy of him, which I read about recently in "From the Corner of the Oval" a book for which I otherwise had mixed feelings.

In June 2015, Rev. Pinckney and eight others had been gunned down in a church in South Carolina.

"What a good man," President Obama said at the funeral.

"Sometimes," he added. "I think that's the best thing to hope for when you're eulogized. After all the words and recitations and resumes are read, to just say somebody was a good man."

---------

Second cause is the recent revival, during the baseball playoffs and the start of the NFL season, of a June 2017 GMC marketing campaign, "Like a Pro," designed to celebrate "people who passionately life live to a higher standard."

The ad is insane. It asks:

Man, driving a GMC, who won't settle for being a "fine human being"

"How do you want to live? As a decent person? A fine human being? A good father? Friend? Son? Is that it? Good?"

The answer:

"Of course not."

The ad instead says that its target audience aspires to be "one of a kind," "Employee of the Month," "undeniable," and "like a boss." And that "we (the GMC car company) couldn't agree more."

Actually, I couldn't agree less. I think many people share that sentiment.

In introducing the campaign, a GMC marketing executive had proclaimed, "We’ve won the minds of consumers, and this is going to win their hearts."

There's evidence to the contrary. Sales for the GMC Acadia Denali, the model advertised in the most recent TV commercial I saw, fell nearly 50% last quarter.

---------

Driving down Route 287 in New Jersey earlier today, I watched the "distinctive" grille of a $66,000 GMC Yukon Denali bear down on another car in the right lane, change lanes behind me without using a blinker, and speed past. The driver was a seemingly entitled, self-important middle-aged white man, obliviously tailgating others in the passing lane at more than 80 miles per hour.

Undeniable. Like a pro. Like a boss.

Robert J. Varettoni, 1932-2005

It was early in the morning, before dawn. I had awakened with a start at 5:15, and dressed early to go to work.

The third cause of why I woke up precisely then?

Today is the 13th anniversary of my Dad's death.

5:15 was the exact time he used to wake up every morning to provide for his family during a 34-year career with New York Telephone/NYNEX/Verizon.

You can read details of his life in his obituary. These details don't tell you the most important thing about him:

Dad was a good man.

He wasn't like a boss. He was a boss.

If he taught me anything, it's that every good person -- and everything good in life -- is extraordinary.

You Can Call Me Al (Smith Dinner, 2018)

View this post on Instagram

About last night... I was honored to be able to attend the NY Archdiocese’s Al Smith Dinner, a quintessentially New York tradition named for the former NY governor, dubbed “The Happy Warrior,” who made an historic run as the first Catholic nominee for the U.S. presidency in 1928. At this annual politically-charged dinner in October, politicians traditionally poke fun at each other and set aside differences in an event that now raises multiple millions of dollars each year to support charities that serve New York’s neediest children. Outgoing UN Ambassador Nikki Haley, introduced by comedian Jim Gaffigan, poked fun at herself — although both she and Cardinal Dolan seriously addressed the latest scandals making headlines in the Catholic Church. Verizon, where I work, has been a major contributor to many charitable organizations, and the company’s chairman, Lowell McAdam, received this year’s Happy Warrior Award. He had this to say: “My career at one of the world’s leading tech companies has left me feeling, on the whole, very optimistic and confident about what lies ahead.” I feel the same way. #AlSmith #CatholicCharities

A post shared by Bob Varettoni (@bvarphotos) on Oct 19, 2018 at 6:55am PDT

Here are more photos, from my highlighted story on Instagram.

Stalking Mr. Met: A Happy Recap of the 2018 Season

These past few months, I saw the boys of summer in their ruin.

With apologies to Dylan Thomas' famous poem and in contrast to the New York Mets' won/loss record, I found the experience life-affirming and optimistic (thank you, Jacob deGrom).

With the abrupt end of baseball in New York (thank you, Giancarlo Stanton), there's no longer a home team to root for in the middle of this second week in October. So I have time to post this happy recap of the 2018 season.

The Mets went 10-4 in games I saw this summer, thanks to a partial season ticket package I split with my friend Joe. This is us; I'm the one in the orange Mets sunglasses (and Notre Dame hoodie).

I attended most games with my wife Nancy, a lifelong Mets fan who recalls going to games years ago at Shea Stadium (which she still sometimes calls Citi Field) amid an eclectic fan base, including a preponderance of habit-wearing nuns.

Nancy's mom was a baseball fan, and they formed a bond over the Mets the way I had formed a bond with my dad over the Yankees. Dad is no longer with us, and Nancy now helps care for her mom -- so, by extension, a love of baseball is a bond in our marriage.

In recent years, I've rooted for the Mets, in appreciation of the profound truth expressed by Roger Angell: the Yankees' perfection is "admirable but a trifle inhuman" and "there is more Met than Yankee in every one of us." The following stories and images may help to explain why.

March 29, Mets win -- This was the first Opening Day I've ever attended, an emotional game played hours after the news of Rusty Staub's death at age 73. Nancy and I rode the MTA's museum train -- billed as "the train of many colors" -- from Hudson Yards to Citi Field. Train workers snapped photos of its arrival. We sat in one of the 50-year-old trailing "redbird" cars. The PA system played the song "Meet the Mets" when we arrived.

March 31, Mets win -- Here's a photo of me stalking Mr. Met before the game. There's something about this mascot that brings out my inner child. I love Mr. Met. Perhaps a little too much. I've posed for several photos with Mr. Met in recent years -- and I think he's on to me. Soon after I snapped this photo, he ducked into a service elevator with a handler, seemingly as a security precaution to protect him from either me or a lurking Noah Syndergaard, his more imposing nemesis on Twitter.

April 14, Mets lose -- The downfall of the Mets' season can be traced to me. Before this game, the team's won/loss record was 11-1, leading the division by 3 1/2 games. The night before the game I received an email from the Mets inviting me to take the field alongside fellow ticket plan holders on the warning track prior to the National Anthem. I accepted, and excitedly Instagram-ed my little heart out -- but Nancy (see photographic evidence) seemed a little wary. She believes we jinxed the Mets by setting foot on the field. Matt Harvey (remember him?) took the loss that day. But I take the blame.

May 19, Walk-off win -- With the Mets' season now in decline (see above) Devin Mesoraco hit a tying, 2-run homer in the fog in the 8th, and Wilmer Flores hit a walk-off SF for the win. Nancy couldn't accompany me that day, so I asked my good friend Paul, another lifelong Mets fan, to join me. While waiting for him to arrive, I texted Nancy photos of fans dressed in costume -- though none were dressed as nuns. She reminded me it was Star Wars Night, thus explaining the Mr. Met and Chewbacca Bobblehead I received at the gate. It also reminded me of why I loved Nancy. We both loved the original "Star Wars" movie when we were young. And, even geekier, on one of our first dates it seemed she was having car trouble. She told me not to worry, that she just needed to have the engine's dilithium crystal replaced.

June 9, Loss to the Yankees -- I attended this game with Joe and took my favorite photo of the season: an accidental lens flare as the sun set, making Yankees pitcher Domingo German look like the Chosen One. Even more magical: before the game, Joe and I arrived extra early to search for a memorial brick that Nancy had purchased when Citi Field was built. She had it inscribed to honor her sister Eileen, another lifelong Mets fan, who died of breast cancer in 2003. Nancy and I hadn't been able to locate the brick, but Joe searched the ground diligently to find it. It's pictured at the top of this page. Eileen was very smart, very devout and very loving, and she would have appreciated the deeper meaning of Tug McGraw's 1973 rallying cry: "You Gotta Believe!"

June 23, Another loss, with apologies to Jacob deGrom -- By the time Nancy and I returned to Citi Field in late June, the Warning Track Curse was in full effect. The Mets' record by the end of June was 32-48, 14 1/2 games out of first. We even almost poisoned deGrom's almost perfect season. In this our only live view of him, facing Clayton Kershaw of the Dodgers, he pitched 6 innings, allowing 3 runs. It was the only time all season deGrom seemed ill at ease. He kicked the mound after one pitch, jawed at the home plate umpire and flailed his arm after letting another pitch go.

Meanwhile, I took this photo while sitting with Nancy before the game at Mikkeller Brewing NYC on the Citi Field grounds. Soon after, I realized that my wallet was missing. I was a wreck. I had been using a "slim fit" wallet for several months, and this was the second time I had lost it -- and what fun it had been to replace my driver's license at a New Jersey DMV office just a week earlier! I frantically searched the bar and retraced my steps all the way back to the furthest reaches of Parking Lot E. When I got to my car, a man my age called out, waving hello, with my wallet in his hand. "I had a feeling you'd come back for this," the angel said. I offered him reward money, drinks, my tickets -- but he would accept none of it. He said, "Just pay it forward. Do something nice for someone else today." I bro-hugged him. And I now carry a wallet the size of a fanny pack.

July 7, Shut out by Tampa Bay -- Perhaps the low point of the season for me. I once again stalked Mr. Met on the outskirts of "Shea Bridge" before the start of the game. I'm not proud of this.

August 21, Mets win -- The turning point of the season -- for me -- as the Mets beat the Giants, the first of seven consecutive victories I'd witness during the second half of an already-lost season. I enjoyed the view though. Here's a photo I took that night of Manhattan in the distance.

August 25, Mets win, Happy Anniversary, Joe and Cathy! -- We watched this game with Joe and his wife, Cathy, from the Porsche Grille, situated in the left field corner of the Excelsior Level, near our usual seats. Cathy wanted to surprise Joe for their upcoming 25th wedding anniversary, and Zach Wheeler contributed to the celebration by pitching 7 strong innings.

September 8, Mets win, Winter Hat Night -- One of the oddest promotional giveaways of the year, my Mets winter hat came in handy. It was a cool, overcast late summer's night, reminding Nancy of the scene in "Bull Durham" where Susan Sarandon attends the final game of the season in the rain. On Facebook, I posted a photo in the afterglow of the evening's 10-5 pummeling of the Phillies, as well as a pre-game pose with my new hat. Paul commented that it looked like a remnant from the Racoon Lodge in an old episode of "The Honeymooners." In a commercial on SNY, the cable TV home of the Mets, big-headed Mr. Met promoted the giveaway as fitting "most heads." And an electronic billboard outside Citi Field showed Noah Syndergaard modeling the hat. By the end of the game, the billboard had changed, so I missed the chance to post a photo of both me and Noah with the caption, "Who wore it better?"

September 13, Mets win two, Happy Anniversary, Bob and Nancy! -- Due to a rainout, this was a traditional double-header, on the occasion of our 32nd wedding anniversary. The Mets won both ends, ending the first game in dramatic fashion against Miami with back-to-back HRs in the bottom of the 9th.

This was a special night. My friends at Verizon, a Mets corporate sponsor, arranged a scoreboard message for us. I was so excited when I saw it, I only managed this blurry photo. If you squint, you can see the Mets wishing "Happy 32 Anniversary, Bob & Nancy Varretoni." OK, so they spelled our last name wrong. I blame Mr. Met's fat fingers.

Verizon also upgraded our tickets (thank you, Verizon!). We sat close to the Mets' dugout, and at one point former Met and current SNY announcer Keith Hernandez walked right past us. He patiently stopped along the way for photos and autographs. Even though Nancy and I were this close (see photo), she didn't want to approach him. Which was weird.

Have you ever sat in your living room, watching a baseball game on TV, when you look at the person sitting next to you and think, "Oh my god, I'm living with the female version of Keith Hernandez?"

Of course you haven't. Because then you'd be married to Nancy too.

While watching SNY games this summer, Nancy would make a baseball observation, and moments later Keith would make the same observation, using the same words. Nancy and Keith also share the same sarcastic sense of humor. My cat, Pumpkin, is even a bit jealous of Keith's cat, Hadji. It's not about me, I'd tell a therapist; it's just that I worry about my cat.

I told Nancy that I had arranged Keith's drive-by, and the back-to-back HRs, and the two Mets victories, all in honor of our anniversary. Nancy corrected me. She pointed out that the Mets had actually won three games on our anniversary, since the victory the night before had ended after midnight.

September 27, Mets win. Best. Birthday. Ever. -- I had an easy answer for I wanted for my birthday this year: I wanted our family to be together. With two grown daughters, this is a feat that's usually as easy as trying to reunite The Beatles, circa 1973. But by pulling "the birthday card," I managed it -- and here's a photo of me and my daughters to prove it. Before the game, we wandered down to Shea Bridge, and I again encountered Mr. Met. This time he greeted me with an exploding fist bump -- and, later, I discovered he had wished me happy birthday on Twitter. Maybe he doesn't hate me after all.

September 29, Mets win, David Wright Night -- The last game I attended was bittersweet: the only start of the season for Mets captain David Wright, the last start of his storied career. I went with Joe, and I decided, just as I had on Opening Day, to take the 7 Train to the game.

As the subway meandered through Queens (which, charitably or uncharitably, someone I know once called "The New Milford of New York" in reference to my New Jersey hometown), I couldn't help but overhear the guy sitting across from me talking on his cellphone. "That's me on the front page of The New York Post," he was saying.

After consulting my own phone to read the story, I looked up and exclaimed, "You're Chris Sobel? Welcome to New York!"

According to The Post, Chris lives in Arizona and had flown 2,400 miles just to attend this Mets game to say goodbye to The Captain. Wright had befriended Chris' son, Sean, before his death at age 17 from muscular dystrophy.

"David Wright gave me the most enjoyable moment I ever had with my son," Chris said. A Mets fan club, The 7 Line Army, had arranged for a ticket and had contributed to his travel expense. He planned to fly home that very night. Awed, touched and respectful, I chatted with Chris for a while as our train approached Willets Point, then simply shook his hand (no bro-hug, no exploding fist-bump) before meeting up with Joe.

It was Verizon Fireworks Night, so we received no promotional items when entering the stadium. That was fine. Nancy has already filled the top shelf of my grandfather's bookcase in our living room with bobbleheads and giveaways from the 2018 season, including an orange Keith Hernandez alarm clock courtesy of the Brooklyn Cyclones, a Mets minor-league affiliate.

Citi Field was packed that night. No nun was in sight. Electricity filled the air. Then the Mets took Wright out of the lineup in the 5th inning -- in what turned out to be a 13-inning game. Joe and I left the park early, well before the fireworks began. With apologies to T.S. Eliot, we were "The Hollow Men," ending the 2018 baseball season not with a bang, but a whimper.

Just like Giancarlo Stanton.
 😐

A New View of the Great Falls

Today I took a ride in the morning rain to visit the new stone amphitheater in Paterson, the centerpiece of a $3.2 million renovation of the Great Falls National Park's overlook area. It opened yesterday and provides a comfortable, unobstructed view of the 77-foot waterfall.

The "Found in New Jersey" Tumblr has some additional photos, but I wanted to post this here to add it to my list of interesting places found in the Garden State.

My photo above was auto-stylized by Google, and the link in the caption below includes a story, photos and video posted on northjersey.com.

It's an interesting place to visit; easy on and off from Route 80, and plenty of new parking. Yesterday the local politicians were raving about it. According to the Paterson Press:

"This will become a New Jersey destination for anyone coming to our state," said Lt. Gov. Sheila Oliver. Mayor Andre Sayegh, a former history teacher, talked of the Great Falls' past and its future.

He said, "This was where the American dream was launched by an immigrant named Alexander Hamilton," the city's founding father.

Click here to read the Paterson Press story

You Say It's Your Birthday?

Just me, a few years ago.

Today is Bruce Springsteen's 69th birthday.

It's my birthday week too, yeah -- and the turn of another season (despite a friend's uncle, who always bemoans the end of summer at his family's July 4 barbecue).

I'm marking the occasion by listening to E Street Radio on Sirius, where Bruce once again stops singing "Thunder Road" to listen to the audience chant, "Show a little faith, there's magic in the night; you ain't a beauty but, hey, you're alright." He probably hasn't actually sung those words on stage in 20 years.

So happy birthday, Bruce, and thank you for reminding us that some things are forever young.

And thank you, Glenn Gould, the pianist who notably recorded Bach's "Goldberg Variations" early in his career in 1955 (yes, before even I was born). He then recorded the same music in a more soulful way as a mature artist in 1981.

Gould's honing of this performance over the years inspired Steve Jobs, and makes me wonder, too, if time really isn't as powerful a force as we fear.

Not everything corrupts. Some things -- like "Thunder Road" or the poetry of Yeats -- survive time in tact. Other things -- like Gould's "Goldberg Variations" or New York City -- evolve even grander over time.

I know, I know... as Bruce once sang, "Everything dies, baby, that's a fact."

But -- often on my birthday -- I grow in appreciation of a favorite line in the movie "American Beauty":

Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in.

https://thewildandthedarkness.tumblr.com/post/178374811799/bruce-1988-happy-birthday-boss

A Wedding Without Typos

It was wonderful to hear from so many friends and family members these past few days, as Nancy and I celebrated our 32nd wedding anniversary.

Thank you to all. It meant a lot to us.

Nancy taking a photo of me taking a photo of her.

We celebrated in typical style, going to a baseball game. It was a doubleheader due to a rainout, so we saw two of the Mets' three victories on lucky Sept. 13 (with the previous night's game having ended past midnight). Nancy took a photo of me taking a photo of her while we ate a Citi Field restaurant.

I've posted before about our wedding: this lovely column by our former boss, Anne Buckley, who was editor of Catholic New York, the newspaper where Nancy and I worked before our marriage.

I had thought this the only thing in writing about that day.

But then a little while ago I found this: a column Nancy wrote for Catholic New York five months after our wedding.

Part of a bridal advertising section, it details our wedding planning. I had fun reading the column because, honestly, I remember none of this. I only remember asking Nancy to tell me when and where to show up and what to wear.

I found the clip by accident, rifling through old files to find the meaning of the name "Varettoni" for my cousin's school genealogy project. That's still a mystery. I'm beginning to think Varettoni is a made-up name, like Verizon.

Speaking of which, I joined that company a year before our wedding — thinking I'd try the gig for a year or two because otherwise it would be awkward to work so closely beside my fiance during our engagement. More than 33 years later, I'm still at the company, where last week our PR team posted a record number of social media posts, and features and stories on Verizon's Newscenter.

Everything was urgent. Given the flurry of activity related to a technology trade show, hurricane preparations, an investor conference and other corporate announcements, the team did a great job in catching several typos that almost fell through the cracks.

There seemed to be typos everywhere last week. Watching TV to relax after work, I even spotted one among the broadcast listings.

So, Circle of Life, I had to laugh when I read the last few lines of Nancy's story, which I've reprinted below.

Let me know if you find any typos in all this. I'd like to make it perfect. Just like my wedding day.

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Published in Catholic New York, Feb. 5, 1987, by Nancy C. Varettoni:

Some people may remember 1986 as this year when big weddings came back to style. After all, we had Maria and Arnold, Caroline and Ed, and Fergie and Prince Andrew. But my favorite wedding was a rather simple affair that occurred on Sept. 13. That’s when I married Bob Varettoni.

Though didn't have to contend with the pressures of a princess-to-be or the heirs of an American dynasty, planning our wedding presented its own challenges — namely, how much would this cost and how would we find the time to do it.

Since Bob and I had been self-supporting for several years, we agreed to pay for the wedding expenses ourselves. That meant figuring out a budget and sticking to it, or we'd wiped out our savings. We both have jobs that demand a lot of our time end, when we were engaged, we lived about a half hour away from each other. Scheduling wedding-related appointments on week nights would be next to impossible.

With these considerations, we decided that a small wedding – just family and a few close friends – would be best. Besides, neither of us would be comfortable at an elaborate affair.

Those bridal magazines and a book on wedding etiquette are very helpful. They contain guidelines on what to do when, which help you put your priorities in order. Invariably, these publications suggest that you talk to a clergyman before making any other plans.

Our favorite wedding day photo.

My pastor proved to be one of the best sources for wedding information, not only in terms of Church requirements, but the strategies of finding reception hall, florist, photographer, etc. (Consider how many weddings a priest attends each year!)

At our first meeting he asked a series of questions to make sure that Bob and I understood the seriousness of the marriage commitment. Then he explained what documents and other information were needed – baptismal certificates, dates of confirmation, marriage license – as well as the marriage preparation programs that were available to us. He asked about our jobs and where we plan to live, and was delighted to learn that Bob's uncle, Msgr. Julian Varettoni, whom we are asked to officiate at the ceremony, was a classmate of his whom he hadn't seen in a number of years.

He understood the difficulty of finding a reception hall that was available same day as the church. He explained that weddings could only be scheduled at certain times on the weekends and that most of the late time slots were booked to the end of the year because people prefer to get married later in the day. We would have greater flexibility, he said, if we chose an earlier time, and he told us some dates and times when the church would be available.

Up to this point, Bob and I had only talked in general terms about the date of the wedding and type of reception. We decided we would accomplish more if we divided responsibilities. We would do the leg work independently and consult each other before coming to the final decision.

He had no idea where to start with a reception, so he graciously deferred to my judgment in that department. I was just as happy to let him make arrangements for the honeymoon. We would plan the Mass together with his uncle's help. 

We determined how much money we could spend on the entire wedding – reception, flowers, photographer, honeymoon, etc. Next, we decided how much of that amount should go toward the honeymoon and how much for the wedding/reception expenses.

Some people warned us that arguments would begin once the wedding plans were under way, but Bill Griffin, the CNY circulation manager, offered the best advice. He said that the engagement would be like being married since it's the time when couples really start making decisions together. The way they react then will probably be similar to the way they behave once they're married.


Bob and I waited for the big blowup, but none occurred. Perhaps it's because we have similar tastes, or perhaps it's because we discovered early in our relationship that we have different ideas on how to spend money, as, I’m told, many couples do. Rather than argue over every cent, we promised to stick within our individual budgets and to trust the other's judgment. 

This was particularly true when I selected the spot for the reception. Traditional banquet halls seemed very expensive, and I have never been a fan of big, sit-down dinners. At first I thought I could rent a local women's club and have a caterer bring in the food, but most clubs were booked solid to the end of the year. One was available, but it would require a lot of work to get the place into the shape I envisioned. I tentatively reserved the club in case nothing else worked out, but I kept looking. On a whim, I called a hotel-restaurant that I had like since I had dinner there several years ago. It reminded me of an old English Tudor manor house, a perfect setting for reception, I thought.

As luck would have it, they did hold wedding receptions, and there was a date available in September. The specialty was a "stand-up" or cocktail reception. Lots of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres served butler style. Guests could make themselves comfortable in the main sitting room or on the front porch. To the side was the sun room, where the wedding cake and coffee would be served. I could make arrangements for a string ensemble or a piano player through the banquet manager.

It seemed perfect and within my budget, although more expensive than the women's club. And we might have been able to find a banquet hall that would provide a dinner for what this cost. I talked with Bob, and he agreed that since this would be more convenient in the long run, and it seem best suited to our tastes, the money would be well spent.

I called my pastor and booked the church for 11:30 on Saturday morning. The reception would begin at 1 p.m. 

Everything fell into place after this.

Our families offered to help with some expenses. His parents gave us spending money for the honeymoon, my mother paid for the limousine rental, and Bob's sister got a discount on the wedding invitations for a printer she worked with and paid for them as a wedding present.

We cut costs in other ways, too. An associate pastor gave my telephone number to the woman who was getting married immediately after me. We decided to split the cost for the flowers for the church, by doing so were able to afford a few more flowers than we could have if we paid for them alone. The only concession was that we had to stick with white flowers and aisle decorations since our bridal parties were wearing different colors.

I nearly had a heart attack when I discovered how much wedding dresses cost. I had seen one in a magazine that I particularly liked – a tea length gown with a handkerchief hem – but it was out of my price range. By chance, I was walking through a mall around Valentine's Day and noticed a dress shop featuring white, lacy dresses. On the rack – and just my size – was an ivory tea length dress with a handkerchief hemline for about one-fifth of the price of the dress in the magazine. It was essentially the same look: only the neckline and the lace for the bodice and sleeves were different.

I couldn't find a headpiece that I liked, so my mother suggested that I find out whether a hat shop would make one, and one did. I'm not sure whether I saved any money here, but I got lots of compliments on how pretty and unique the veil was.

After our engagement, our weekends became increasingly hectic. That's why we decided to attend an Engaged Encounter weekend. We could have attended sessions that meet once a week for three weeks or attend a daylong session, but we really wanted to get away from planning for the wedding and talk about our marriage.

Essentially, the weekend is a series of communication exercises that helps the couple to exchange their ideas about all aspects of marriage – children, sex, religion, etc. Two married couples and a priest give presentations, and then the engaged couples are asked to give written responses to a series of questions. After an allotted time, the couple exchanges notebooks, and each reads the other's answers and talks about them.

The writing part came pretty easily for Bob and me. What was most satisfying was that our answers – particularly on why we wanted to get married – were remarkably similar, though there were a few surprises.

Our pastor gave us a booklet on the nuptial Mass which contains suggested readings and forms of the vows. We spent a Saturday evening in Bob's uncle's rectory going over the passages and selecting those that were most appropriate.

The music that we chose was a combination of modern and traditional hymns that were favorites of ours, as well as our parents.

To tie it all together, we printed a program listing the order of the Mass, the readings and hymns, and the responses.

Perhaps it wasn't the most traditional of weddings in its planning or execution, but plenty of people have told me that they enjoyed themselves tremendously. Nonetheless, I looked for further proof that Bob and I had pulled off a wedding with no gaffes – major or minor. I discovered it a few months later when I was talking to a wedding guest at another party. In the church, she sat next to CNY's editor, Anne Buckley. Miss Buckley – the woman who once found a misspelled word in an inscription in stone on a monument in West Point – read the program from cover to cover.

"No typos," she pronounced.

No typos. I guess we did OK.