Saluting Annapolis on World Photography Day

Sailing the Chesapeake Bay

Planning a recent three-day getaway, I considered it my patriotic duty to head in the direction of Baltimore.

When the U.S. President calls a city a "disgusting, rat and rodent infested mess," well... gauntlet thrown. I'm all in to show support.

Yes, parts of Baltimore -- just like parts of my beloved New Jersey and New York -- are grappling with poverty and crime.

But I saw no mess. With tickets to see the Orioles host the Astros, I saw beauty all around me... from the sculpture garden, to the children playing in Kids' Corner, to the shops and vendors along Eutaw Street. Here, for example, is a photo of the Camden Yards field, no filter, taken with my iPhone:

After opening more than 27 years ago, this baseball park still rivals anything in the major leagues. The fans are friendly, and quirky... enthusiastically emphasizing the "O" in "O, say can you see" during the national anthem (penned by Francis Scott Key in Baltimore during the War of 1812) and happily signing along to "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" during the 7th inning stretch.

Chickens in the street

Leaving Baltimore, my wife and I headed for Annapolis, which was also a little quirky. I counted nine, large decorative chickens on the streets near where we stayed -- remnants of a public art project hatched in 2012, when legislation was passed allowing local residents to have up to six chickens in their backyard for fresh eggs.

Despite unnerving flashbacks to the epic chicken fights in old episodes of "Family Guy," I greatly enjoyed Annapolis. There's plenty of food and drink and music in town, and sailing on Chesapeake Bay, beautiful historical architecture... and, best of all, the U.S. Naval Academy, where future officers are educated and trained.

I took the 90-minute walking tour, which is highly recommended. It's inspirational -- and it again brought back memories of my Dad, a former Naval reserve captain. More than that, visiting "The Yard," as the grounds of the academy are called, is a true patriotic duty.

As described on the tour's informational website, "professional, certified guides provide commentary on major attractions, including Bancroft Hall (midshipmen dormitory), Memorial Hall, Statue of Tecumseh, Herndon Monument (famous for Herndon Climb), Main Chapel and Crypt of John Paul Jones, Revolutionary War naval hero." You also learn about the admissions process and the education and training of midshipmen.

The commitment to honor and tradition, to self-sacrifice and to excellence, is palpable while touring campus. And, at several points along the way, the tour guide or someone else in passing invoked the name of John McCain with fondness and reverence.

Sometimes, there are no words. So let me show you a few more photos instead. It is, after all, #WorldPhotographyDay.

Here, for starters, is the inside of the campus chapel. The flowers mark a pew where no one ever sits. It's reserved in memory of all reported as MIA or being held as prisoners of war:

Here's the rotunda leading to Memorial Hall, where the walls are engraved with the names of 2,660 Naval Academy alumni who have died in military operations. The banner at the top of the stairway,  "Don't Give Up the Ship," recalls the dying command of James Lawrence aboard U.S.S Chesapeake, also during the War of 1812.

The rotunda is also the centerpiece of Bancroft Hall, a contiguous set of dormitories named after a former U.S. Secretary of the Navy. The dorms are home to the brigade of more than 4,000 midshipmen on campus. The entire brigade marches into Bancroft Hall (but never through the center doors!) during Noon Meal Formation, an elaborate daily ceremony.

Finally, here's Dahlgren Hall, a wonderful Beaux Arts building designed by architect Ernest Flagg and completed in 1903. It has served as an armory, indoor drill area, a Weapons Department laboratory and the site of graduation ceremonies at the academy through 1957.

John McCain, who is buried in Annapolis, graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1958. The former senator died of brain cancer at age 81 nearly a year ago today, Aug. 25, 2018.

As the Washington Post described his burial, "Hundreds of midshipmen packed the academy chapel and lined an avenue for a long procession. Defense Secretary Jim Mattis walked ahead of McCain's flag-draped casket on a caisson pulled by a team of horses from the Army's Old Guard. Four fighter jets from the Blue Angels squadron roared overhead after the ceremony in a tight wedge. One F-18 broke away and climbed skyward in the 'missing man' formation to honor the memory of McCain, a former Naval aviator."

The U.S. President did not attend that burial. Which is just as well.

I'll close this "photography post" -- and once more invoke patriotism -- with a few lines from McCain's address to the Brigade of Midshipmen at the U.S. Naval Academy in late October 2017. He thanked recruits for accepting the sacrifices of military service, and said this:

How did we end up here? Why do many Americans ignore our moral and historical knowledge and seek escape from the world we've led so successfully? 

There are many wise answers to those questions. My own is: we are asleep to the necessity of our leadership, and to the opportunities and real dangers of this world. We are asleep in our echo chambers, where our views are always affirmed and information that contradicts them is always fake... 

It's time to wake up. 

I believe in Americans. We're capable of better. I've seen it. We're hopeful, compassionate people. And we still have leaders who will uphold the values that made America great, and a beacon to the oppressed. 

But I don't take that for granted. We have to fight. We have to fight against propaganda and crackpot conspiracy theories. We have to fight isolationism, protectionism, and nativism. We have to defeat those who would worsen our divisions. We have to remind our sons and daughters that we became the most powerful nation on earth by tearing down walls, not building them."

About the Varettoni in the Hall of Fame

Today is National Baseball Card Day.

So, of course, I’ve posted a baseball card photo of myself from one of the exhibits at the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, on Facebook and Twitter.

This only reminds me that, in real life, there’s a real Varettoni in a baseball Hall of Fame.

Bob “Chick” Varettoni was inducted into the Passaic Semi-Pro Baseball Hall of Fame on Friday, May 3, 1996, at the Knights of Columbus Regina Mundi Hall in Clifton, NJ.

That’s my Dad.

He was pitching semi-pro ball at the age of 13, featuring a nasty sinker he once tried to teach his son, with disastrous results. When Dad was 20, he twice pitched against New York Yankee great Whitey Ford when Passaic’s DeMuro Comets faced the Fort Monmouth Army team, during Ford’s military service.

Dad’s the second from the left in this photo from that night in Clifton. The kneeling man is Ted Lublanecki, a legend in NJ semi-pro baseball and a scout for the Philadelphia Phillies back in the day:

Here’s the text of the resolution entered into the Congressional record by Rep. William J. Martini of New Jersey on May 1, 1996. It details Dad’s accomplishments (click on the photo for a clearer image):

And here are the box scores of the games Dad pitched against Whitey Ford in 1952:

Here’s my ticket stub from that great night in 1996, along with Ted’s business card, in case you know of any good prospects:

Finally, here’s a team photo of the 1952 Passaic City Recreation Baseball League champions, the immortal DeMuro Comets:

Harold Burson, All the Way to Memphis

Meeting the legendary Harold Burson, July 8 in New York.

The center of the PR universe shifted nearly a thousand miles southwest this past week.

On July 23, Harold Burson, age 98, left his adopted home of New York City to return to his boyhood home in Memphis.

Burson is "The Godfather of PR," according to this "Daily Memphian" profile. He's also the B in the global communications agency BCW (Burson Cohn & Wolfe).

Back in Memphis, he is still working, although "enjoying a pace that's just a little bit slower than that of Manhattan," as he said in a statement.

Luckily for us in New York, just days before he left, The Museum of Public Relations invited local PR students to spend time with him in connection with the opening of its Harold Burson exhibit.

About 100 students, interns and professionals heard Burson's insights gained from his handling of historic PR cases. We also heard anecdotes from his life as a journalist, including his American Forces Network coverage of the Nuremberg Trials after World War II.

And -- thanks to Shelley and Barry Spector, founder and co-founder of the Museum -- these resources are available online. The Museum's Facebook page features a live-stream of the entire July 8 event and an edited, downloadable repost with better audio.

In addition, here are great recaps of the event and more background information about the Museum and Burson exhibit on O'Dwyer's (which also calls him "The Godfather of PR") and PRWeek (including a touching thank-you tribute by Kevin McCauley).

I've posted my own photos of the event in a Google Photos folder, and I want to thank Kathy Rennie who accompanied her PR class at New Jersey City University, for the photo posted here.

Goodbye, Mr. Burson. New York already misses you.

A Death in the Family

Anne, about 19 years old, at a New Jersey Telephone Co. Christmas display.

Anne Bunce Cullinane returned home before dawn on July 6, 2019.

Anne was my mother-in-law, and the location of her home is a mystery, depending on your perspective, her faith and the transcendent power of baseball.

Home was definitely not the place Anne died: Marian Manor, a Dominican Sisters-sponsored residence in Caldwell, NJ.

Having lived almost all her 91 years in Nutley, Anne had spent years as an applicant for an apartment at the residence, where a never-dwindling waiting list made it seem as if Marian Manor was a magical place where everyone lived forever.

Still, she persisted. She settled into an apartment there more than three years ago, but her health failed soon afterward and her memory began to decline.

With 24-hour care from an aide and daily visits from her surviving children – including my wife Nancy – Anne was well-cared-for and comfortable.

That is, until these last weeks, when she could not be comforted.

Instead, she was restless. She was constantly telling her children that she wanted to go home.

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Otsego Lake pier in Cooperstown, reminding me of a cross.

On the surface, you’d think “home” would mean Nutley. But the Cullinane family home had been sold with Anne’s move to Marian Manor, and she seemed to understand that.

Perhaps, I thought, home was “heaven.”

Anne had a deep Roman Catholic faith. It sustained her when her husband, a Newark fireman, died of cancer at a young age, leaving her to care for six children. She simply learned how to do things for herself – drive a stick shift, type and operate a key punch, and eventually work as a tax accountant (she was always especially good with numbers) – in order to provide for her family.

Later, after her retirement at age 72, Anne’s faith sustained her when both her oldest daughter and oldest son died prematurely, also from cancer.

Still later, her faith sustained her during the long days at the end of her life when she could no longer do things for herself.

If only she could go “home.”

In the end, I sometimes accompanied Nancy as she visited with her mom, eavesdropping on their familiar, intimate and sometimes repetitive conversations.

In the very last days of Anne’s life, she and her daughter talked about baseball.

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Anne was a lifelong fan.

She used to follow the New York Giants, and as young teens she and her girlfriends would often take the bus from Nutley to the Polo Grounds to attend games. When the Giants left town, she became a Mets fan.

Just as fathers form bonds with their sons over baseball, Nancy became a Mets fan as a girl as she bonded with her mother.

Nancy still recalls with some bitterness that she was too young to attend a Mets game with her older sisters at the Polo Grounds before Shea Stadium opened in 1964. After the death of her oldest sister Eileen, Nancy bought one of Citi Field’s first commemorative bricks for her. Its inscription is the rallying cry when the Mets won the 1973 pennant: “You Gotta Believe!”

During the last few weeks of Anne’s life, she entered hospice care – and Nancy made a daily journey to Caldwell to visit her mother. After I ended a 34-year career at Verizon at the end of June, friends urged us to take a celebratory trip – but I could not take Nancy far from her mom.

Instead, we went the next day, a Saturday, to attend a Mets game at Citi Field, where they celebrated the remaining members of the 1969 team that won the World Series. Nancy had remarked that, with their dad sick and Anne struggling to raise young children, that the time before 1969 had been particularly hard for the Cullinane family.

“The 1969 World Series was one of the first, best, good things to happen in our lives,” she explained to me before we drove to Citi Field on June 29. “This celebration is the one Mets game I really wanted to attend this year.”

The next day, Nancy agreed to drive up to Cooperstown with me – our one night away from home – where we visited the Baseball Hall of Fame.

But the day after that, Nancy was back at her mother’s side in Caldwell, showing her cell phone photos of the reunion ceremony and our brief road trip.

Her mother brightened when Nancy showed her a photo of Mel Ott’s plaque at the Hall of Fame. Anne recognized her favorite baseball player right away.

Anne also fondly remembered Tom Seaver. When Nancy asked if she remembered the name of the beagle who had been the Mets mascot at the Polo Grounds before Mr. Met arrived on the scene in 1964, Anne said, “Of course, his name was Homer.”

And when Nancy showed her photos from the 1969 celebration, Anne recognized the part-time player Rod Gaspar – now gray-haired and 73 years old – from his jersey number.

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As Nancy and her siblings work to settle Anne’s affairs, my wife thought of one last, appropriate gift for her mom, harkening back to the one for her sister Eileen.

“I want to buy a memorial brick for her at Citi Field,” Nancy said.

I think this is a wonderful idea, but I have no intention of telling her how to inscribe it.

Anne raised a strong-willed, smart, independent and loving daughter. One in her own image.

I cannot, ever, tell Nancy what to do – just as I cannot, ever, tell our two daughters what to do. Through her mother’s influence, Nancy has also raised our daughters to be strong-willed, smart, independent and loving.

Anne lives on through all of them.

Still, I’ll let you know what I think an appropriate inscription would be for the memorial brick. It speaks to the things that attracted Anne to baseball: its rituals and numbers and drama and escape. Its one ultimate goal.

The brick would be from her entire family, and it would state simply this:

“To Anne Bunce Cullinane, Welcome home.”

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Goodbye, Verizon: Remember Our Names

My ghost

Here are three thoughts today as I leave Verizon (formerly Bell Atlantic, formerly NYNEX) after 34 years to begin a new chapter in my life.

1.  No one is truly gone until their name is no longer mentioned.

This is a universal truth, expressed in different ways in different cultures over many centuries by artists and poets and philosophers.

To put it another way, it's our duty to remember those who came before us.

Here are five names of coworkers who have died, and who still have a special place in my heart.

First, from NYNEX, is Tony Pappas. He is and has always been the soul of Verizon's media relations department.

Tony Pappas

Tony was one of my first bosses. He was a legendary New York City PR executive who was a trusted confidante of journalists like Jimmy Breslin, Steve Dunleavy (who coincidentally died just this week), Pete Hamill, Larry Sutton and Verizon's own Steve Marcus. Tony cannot be described in a few words. If you're a movie aficionado, as Tony was, think Peter O'Toole in "My Favorite Year."

Tony lived a long and happy life. He passed away a few months ago, and I attended services surrounded by his family at a graveside in Rutherford, NJ, where he's buried near the poet William Carlos Williams.

This is just to say how appropriate that is.

On a more tragic and somber note, I want to mention the names of contemporaries who all died much too young.

Robin Flowers

Robin Flowers was my great friend at NYNEX. I lost track of him when he became a vice president at AT&T, then heard the sad news that he had died of multiple sclerosis in 2012.

A big man with a booming laugh, we did our share of drinking together when we were very young. But, fortunately, we also had colleagues who made up for all the brain cells we may have destroyed.

One was Jamie DePeau, an incredible spirit who died of cancer in 2016. She was the smartest of us all.

Jamie DePeau

Jamie's wildly successful post-NYNEX second act – as a senior marketing VP for TIAA-CREF and then as CMO for Lincoln Financial – inspires me today as I embark on my own new journey.

At Jamie's memorial service, I marveled at the outpouring of love and affection among family, friends and coworkers that overflowed a church that morning in Ridgewood, NJ.

The fourth name, from Bell Atlantic, is Jeff Gluck. He died of ALS in 2012, leaving behind a wonderful family, including still-young children.

Jeff was my tech guru. We shared a love of software applications and gadgets. My fondest memory of him is one morning in the early 1990s, after he installed one of the first browsers to view sites on something called the World Wide Web.

Jeff Gluck

A group of us huddled around Jeff at offices at 1095 Ave. of the Americas in New York, as he taught us about the Internet. "Where would you like to go?" Jeff asked excitedly. "I can take you anywhere in the world from this keyboard."

Our colleague Carol Fessler said, "I'd like to go to The Louvre!"

So Jeff typed a few keystrokes – and as the page loaded we realized unexpectedly, embarrassingly, that we were arriving at a site selling pornography. That truly was an appropriate introduction to our brave new world.

The fifth name, from Verizon, is Joellen Brown.

Joellen Brown

We all mourned her sudden, accidental death earlier this year. Joellen was a kind and thoughtful editor, and she wrote speeches for CEOs Ray Smith, Chuck Lee, Ivan Seidenberg and Lowell McAdam, retiring before the Hans Vestberg era began.

This past April, at another memorial service in another town, I again witnessed a room overflowing with love and affection for a life well-lived. Current and former Verizon colleagues traveled from all over the country – from Texas and West Virginia and Florida – to pay their respects and celebrate Joellen's life.

The most meaningful personal tribute I've received in my career was written in a card a dear friend gave me before the going-away party for a group of us last night. She wrote that Joellen told her when they first started working together that "if you can't find me, go find Varettoni..."

I hope I never let you down, Joellen.

2. I will never forget the Verizon PR team, and I will always mention their names with respect and love.

I'm awed by how talented, hard-working and creative the Verizon PR team is.

Here's our secret: we know that as important as the work itself is, how the work gets done is just as important. The team has always been at its best when we've shown up for each other, and when we've known we could depend on each other.

The work itself? Verizon is a company that connects people and helps them communicate. It deploys and enables new and life-changing technologies and applications.

I truly believe that Verizon is building a better future for those who will come after us.

As a company spokesperson for most of my career, that belief has made my job very easy. All the journalists I've worked with know that everyone they talk to has an agenda.

My agenda has been transparent: to be an effective advocate for all the people who make up the heart and soul of Verizon.

To all the Verizon customer service representatives, field technicians and engineers; all the Verizon Wireless store employees, executive assistants and office managers, and sales and support people; all the IT, technology and finance professionals: I admire your talents and I appreciate how difficult your jobs are.

Mine was a privileged position. I hope I always honored those I represented. Whenever I spoke on behalf of Verizon, I always knew I was standing on the shoulders of giants.

Speaking of which...

3. Here's to Robert J. Varettoni.

Robert J. Varettoni

My Dad, who died in 2005, also worked for Verizon for 34 years.

He started in sales at New York Telephone and eventually became a customer service director at NYNEX, then Verizon. He got his job at "the phone company" in 1956 through the influence of his buddy on the U.S.S. Midway and in the Navy Reserve, John A. Coleman, whose own father had been chairman of the NYSE.

Dad claimed he had no influence in getting me a job here in 1985. I find that hard to believe.

Also hard to believe (and including the few years our careers overlapped): tomorrow morning, for the first time in 63 years, there will be no "Bob Varettoni" working at Verizon.

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Finally, here's something we all can believe in, no matter where we work. It's something Dad discovered through his colleagues Vinnie Merrill, Eileen Vodola and Ed Small:

There are people working beside you today who you will love and revere for your entire life.

So ask yourself: How are you showing up for them?

Our time together is really very short and unpredictable and precious.

How will people remember your name?

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About the top photo: Dad's office used to be at 1095 Ave. of the Americas, where Verizon currently has its NYC headquarters. I have fond memories of visiting Dad there when I was a boy, so I worked from "1095" one day this week. This is a reflection of myself waiting for the elevator home.

Enjoying Every Sandwich in an Instagram World

On the waterfront

"Enjoy every sandwich," advised the late, great Warren Zevon.

No one takes this motto to heart more than I do lately.

I'm about to leave Verizon, where I have worked (if you count predecessor companies NYNEX and Bell Atlantic) for more than 34 years.

This past week, I've been savoring every routine moment of the work day: waving to the guards at the entrance gate, listening to the chatter of my colleagues in our open office, responding to reporters and sparring with a curmudgeonly editor, using the Thrive app to order my daily chicken sandwich and then running into so many well-wishers on my way to and from the Verizon Basking Ridge Cafe. Heck, even my last dry-cleaning pickup was free this week (thank you, Willow French Cleaners!).

I also took many photos: using my dash cam to capture the campus as it appears when emerging from the bridge over North Maple Avenue, recording a last log-on at the Verizon gym, trying for an Instagrammable second-story view of the new basketball court from the new parking garage.

In 2019, this is the way I enjoy -- and remember -- life: Taking cell phone photos.

In this way, I am very different than my wife of less than 33 years.

Nancy's view is that people these days don't really appreciate life's moments because we are viewing them through our cell phones. We then edit our lives and package the images for social media.

At the gym

Guilty. Just look at my Instagram feed.

Last night on the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, Nancy went on a sunset cruise around Manhattan with my sisters-in-law.

Take photos, I asked, before she left.

She obliged. She sent me one photo... of the three of them toasting their voyage.

No Instagrammable New York City skyline for me.

Instead, Nancy focused on the sunset last night, while those around her were losing their heads to their cell phones and cameras. She savored the moment with her own eyes, in her own way.

This lesson is not lost on me. This morning, before dawn, I rose to watch the sun rise. I didn't take my cell phone with me.

It was beautiful, and I enjoyed it.

Oh, I'll still be taking my share of photos. To each his own, right? And maybe I could have used just a little more sleep on this beautiful first Saturday of summer.

Still, as Warren Zevon also once sang:

I'll sleep when I'm dead.

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PS - One sister-in-law stayed over last night, and this morning I asked if she took any photos. She said no, they were busy catching up and enjoying the view. Besides, she said, noting that they've done this annual outing for several years now, "How many bad photos of the Statue of Liberty do I need to take in my life?"

Photos of Dad

16 photos in remembrance of Dad on Father's Day 2019.

And here are a few life lessons from these rare photos.

You can also view these at this Google Photos album.

'Everyone Knows That Place Is Haunted'

Annie's Road in Totowa

According to local legend, there are at least two haunted roads in Passaic County, NJ.

One is Annie's Road in Totowa, where I grew up.

"Annie" is supposedly the ghost, dressed in white, of a teenager killed by a pickup truck as she tried to find her way to safety along unlit Riverview Drive. The story goes that she fled her boyfriend's car after an argument on Prom Night.

All the locals call this stretch of Riverview Drive "Annie's Road," and roadside memorials keep her legend alive. A Halloween tradition is to spill red paint on the blacktop and guard rails so that drivers will think they see Annie's blood.

Annie's Road snakes behind a cemetery and bypasses an alcove of small homes called, with no pretense of political correctness, "Midget Village." All this is not too far from what every teenage boy calls "Doo-fus Road" -- Duffus Avenue -- behind The Bethwood, a popular hall for wedding receptions and school reunions.

It's easy to find one online post after another after another filled with stories about Annie sightings.

It's harder to find if there's any truth behind these stories. In Totowa, everyone knows someone who knew Annie... but there's no obituary or news story or even a last name to verify her identity.

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The second haunted highway -- Clinton Road -- is the setting of a movie by the same name that premieres this Friday, June 14, on premium video and in nine cities (none in New Jersey).

It stars Ice-T and Vincent Pastore, and tells yet a few more tales about the nearly 10-mile stretch of road that cuts through a thick forest in former iron-mining country in West Milford, in the less-populated part of the county.

Ghost stories abound about Clinton Road, and you've no doubt heard a few yourself if you grew up in the Garden State. As a character states in the movie trailer embed below, "Everyone knows that place is haunted!"

But is it?

A story a few weeks ago in the North Jersey Record is a little more skeptical. Reporter David Zimmer does a great job in detailing the backstory.

Is the truth really out there about either of these haunted roads?

Does anyone know what corroborating evidence exists?

I'm curious. I don't want to spoil the fun of a good ghost story, but I truly want to know, the next time I drive down Riverview Drive, if I'm guilty of whistling past the graveyard.

Fatima in The Ironbound, A Love Story

Every time I tried to take a photo of Our Lady of Fatima Church a few weeks ago, someone would be standing in prayer in front of the statue above the main entrance.

Our Lady of Fatima on Jefferson Street

The church is on a side street in The Ironbound, a largely Portuguese neighborhood in Newark.

The statue is of the Virgin Mary, who appeared to three children in Fatima, Portugal, on the 13th of each month from May through October 1917. They saw what they believed to be the Mother of God hovering above an oak tree where they had been herding sheep.

Still today, it's a devoutly held belief among many people -- as I saw for myself in Newark -- that if you pray to Our Lady of Fatima, she will intercede with God on your behalf.

What do I believe?

I believe every picture tells a story.

For more than a year, I've been taking photos of churches in New Jersey to post on Instagram every Sunday:

• Churches in Paterson and Jersey City that keep their doors unlocked to provide shelter for the homeless.
• Awe-inspiring beauty inside the church where my parents were married.
• A distant rural church with a gravel parking lot, where the pastor shooed me away and the sign on the front door read, "All Are Welcome."

In general, I think churches tell love stories.

Churches are monuments to the better angels in all of us. They challenge us, frustrate us, inspire us.

Even if you don't believe any of that, it's self-evident that they surround us. The iconography of faith is everywhere... even in suburban New Jersey.

On this gorgeous late-spring Sunday afternoon, I took a long walk around my home town. From front lawns and gardens on almost every street, I saw little statues of the Virgin Mary patiently waiting for our mighty prayers.

The Marys of New Milford, NJ